I learned that song when I was 8...the one and only year I was a Brownie.
Back then, it was nothing more than something we sang at the end of each meeting.
Today, I'd classify that verse as words to live by.
I'm proud to say that I still talk to my very first best friend. Deanna and I met thirty-three years ago in preschool...when we were 3. I've known her longer than I've known my own sister, who wasn't born until a year later.
Deanna's in almost every one of my 'best' childhood memories. Our friendship has never been plagued by pettiness, jealousy, or drama. And although we lost touch for a while after high school, when we did finally connect with each other again, our conversation was as friendly and comfortable as if we'd never been apart. She lives in the mid-west now and we have to squeeze in short visits when she comes back to Maryland to visit her family. But I know that if I ever want or need to talk to her, all I have to do is pick up the phone.
Girl 'friends' are a funny, confusing bunch. I often find myself wondering why friends--particularly the female ones--tend to drop in and out of our lives as often as the weather changes. One day they're there, the next, they're gone. Then, if you ever see them again, they hand you one of the two most overused excuses in the book, 'Oh, I've just had a lot of stuff going on'. Or, my favorite, 'I'm going through some changes and trying to find 'me' agian'.
Well, that's interesting. *she says sarcastically*
Now we're supposed to ignore or dump our friends in our times of need instead of leaning on them for support? Funny way to make yourself feel better. And the same goes for when we're feeling lost. If I suddenly felt like I had to go in search of myself, and the 'me' I found was someone who'd dumped good friends along the way, I'd sit myself down and give me a good tongue-lashing for the way I'd treated people...and hope they could find it in their heart to forgive my insensitivity.
Has friendship lost it's formerly priceless value? Or have we simply forgotten that in order to HAVE a friend, we have to BE a friend?
Visit me at www.LaurenSharman.com
Friday, June 27, 2008
Friday, June 20, 2008
I do...or maybe I don't...I don't know.
Weddings.
You either love them or hate them.
If you're anything like me, you occasionally cringe when you open your mailbox and pull out an oversized envelope with big heart stamps and decorative calligraphy on the front, because you know what it is...a wedding invitation.
Don't get me wrong. I have nothing against the institute of marriage. I'm a happily married woman and would remarry the same man again in a heartbeat. And, unless I have a prior commitment, I do attend every wedding I'm invited to. My problem with said institute is that people will spend tens of thousands of dollars to enter it.
Apparently, I was absent the day they taught that bigger was better, since I'm still of the mindset that you exchange vows with your significant other for the simple fact you love them, and want to spend the rest of your life with them.
Interested in a few of the thoughts that went through my head when a close friend asked me to help plan her wedding? Here they are:
Yes, that dress is exquisite, but the price tag has as many zeros as my monthly house payment! Flowers cost what? Yes, they are pretty, but they're going to shrivel up and DIE...quickly! You want to spend how much on a block of ice carved into a swan? What are you trying to do, repay all the artist's culinary school student loans in one shot???
The whole process eventually got to the point where I'd just nod my head and give her the opinions--and the answers--she was looking for. And since I know you're wondering, YES, the wedding went off without a hitch. And YES, after 11 years, the couple is still married...a fact I would've lost my aforementioned house on if I'd been a betting woman back then.
But what about the other couples? The ones who, according to statistics, equal HALF the amount of people who enter marriage today...the divorced folks who spent nearly everything they ever earned to pay for their wedding? I always wonder if they regret getting caught up in the moment and spending too much. If they're gritting their teeth thinking about how much more well spent the cash would've been if they'd used it to invest in a house, stocks, or retirement fund. Or, maybe, I'm way off base. Maybe they sit around in those uncomfortable chairs at other people's weddings and say things to themselves like, "I may be divorced, but my wedding is still one of the best, most treasured memories."
Back in the sixties, my grandparents gave both my mom and her sister a choice: Have a small wedding, and we'll give you the money we would've spend on a big one so you can have a head-start in life. Or, you can have a big wedding, and the only thing you'll have to fall back on is that squeaky, old, full size bed you've had since junior high school...the one you and your husband are going to be forced to try and squeeze yourselves into because you don't have enough money to buy a new one.
My aunt chose the big wedding and was divorced by the time she was about 35. My mom chose the small wedding that came with lots of the green stuff. She and my dad used a chunk of the money my grandparents gave them to buy some household items, including a nice, durable furniture set...which they still have today, 39 years later.
Luck? An omen? Who knows. I'm sure there are plenty of people who had big, expensive weddings that are still together. Although, every time I think about it, Prince Charles' and Princess Di's wedding comes to mind, and we all know how that turned out. But on the flipside, there are plenty of couples who have had small, modest weddings and gotten divorced.
My husband and I said our 'I-do's' in Las Vegas with just a few close relatives in attendance. I wasn't one of those girls who'd been reading Modern Bride Magazine and planning my wedding since I was 8, and didn't need to be the star of any show. We both simply knew that we loved each other, wanted to be together for the rest of our lives, and didn't feel as though we had to go head over heels in debt to prove it. Almost ten years later, we still feel we made the right decision.
My point? If putting on a show that your great-great grandchildren will still be talking about long after you're gone is your goal, then by all means, go for it. Hopefully, you'll be married long enough to begin the process that will give you those great-great grandchildren. Hopefully, you hired a photographer smart enough to use the kind of photo paper that won't turn everyone in the picture green after twenty years.
Hopefully, at some point, you'll take a moment to step away from the hype and chaos, take a deep breath, and remember the reason for planning a wedding in the first place.
What was that The Beatles said...All you need is love.
You either love them or hate them.
If you're anything like me, you occasionally cringe when you open your mailbox and pull out an oversized envelope with big heart stamps and decorative calligraphy on the front, because you know what it is...a wedding invitation.
Don't get me wrong. I have nothing against the institute of marriage. I'm a happily married woman and would remarry the same man again in a heartbeat. And, unless I have a prior commitment, I do attend every wedding I'm invited to. My problem with said institute is that people will spend tens of thousands of dollars to enter it.
Apparently, I was absent the day they taught that bigger was better, since I'm still of the mindset that you exchange vows with your significant other for the simple fact you love them, and want to spend the rest of your life with them.
Interested in a few of the thoughts that went through my head when a close friend asked me to help plan her wedding? Here they are:
Yes, that dress is exquisite, but the price tag has as many zeros as my monthly house payment! Flowers cost what? Yes, they are pretty, but they're going to shrivel up and DIE...quickly! You want to spend how much on a block of ice carved into a swan? What are you trying to do, repay all the artist's culinary school student loans in one shot???
The whole process eventually got to the point where I'd just nod my head and give her the opinions--and the answers--she was looking for. And since I know you're wondering, YES, the wedding went off without a hitch. And YES, after 11 years, the couple is still married...a fact I would've lost my aforementioned house on if I'd been a betting woman back then.
But what about the other couples? The ones who, according to statistics, equal HALF the amount of people who enter marriage today...the divorced folks who spent nearly everything they ever earned to pay for their wedding? I always wonder if they regret getting caught up in the moment and spending too much. If they're gritting their teeth thinking about how much more well spent the cash would've been if they'd used it to invest in a house, stocks, or retirement fund. Or, maybe, I'm way off base. Maybe they sit around in those uncomfortable chairs at other people's weddings and say things to themselves like, "I may be divorced, but my wedding is still one of the best, most treasured memories."
Back in the sixties, my grandparents gave both my mom and her sister a choice: Have a small wedding, and we'll give you the money we would've spend on a big one so you can have a head-start in life. Or, you can have a big wedding, and the only thing you'll have to fall back on is that squeaky, old, full size bed you've had since junior high school...the one you and your husband are going to be forced to try and squeeze yourselves into because you don't have enough money to buy a new one.
My aunt chose the big wedding and was divorced by the time she was about 35. My mom chose the small wedding that came with lots of the green stuff. She and my dad used a chunk of the money my grandparents gave them to buy some household items, including a nice, durable furniture set...which they still have today, 39 years later.
Luck? An omen? Who knows. I'm sure there are plenty of people who had big, expensive weddings that are still together. Although, every time I think about it, Prince Charles' and Princess Di's wedding comes to mind, and we all know how that turned out. But on the flipside, there are plenty of couples who have had small, modest weddings and gotten divorced.
My husband and I said our 'I-do's' in Las Vegas with just a few close relatives in attendance. I wasn't one of those girls who'd been reading Modern Bride Magazine and planning my wedding since I was 8, and didn't need to be the star of any show. We both simply knew that we loved each other, wanted to be together for the rest of our lives, and didn't feel as though we had to go head over heels in debt to prove it. Almost ten years later, we still feel we made the right decision.
My point? If putting on a show that your great-great grandchildren will still be talking about long after you're gone is your goal, then by all means, go for it. Hopefully, you'll be married long enough to begin the process that will give you those great-great grandchildren. Hopefully, you hired a photographer smart enough to use the kind of photo paper that won't turn everyone in the picture green after twenty years.
Hopefully, at some point, you'll take a moment to step away from the hype and chaos, take a deep breath, and remember the reason for planning a wedding in the first place.
What was that The Beatles said...All you need is love.
Monday, June 16, 2008
What color is your collar???
Let's talk collars.
Growing up, my dad's occupation alone qualified mine as white. At times, the people my parents knew, the places they went, and things they did changed the color from simply white to something that looked as though it had been soaked in bleach...twice.
As much as I respect and appreciate both of my parents for the life they gave me, I have to admit that I never quite fit into the image that they had created for our family. While they were oohing and aahing over luxury cars and fancy restaurants, I was drooling over the local boys in our small town who drove down the road in big, loud pickup trucks. Of course, the longer their hair the better because, it was, after all, the 80's. Throw in a cigarette dangling from their lips and a tattoo or two, and he may as well have had, 'Lauren's Prince Charming' stamped on his forehead. Actually, I say, 'farhead', but that's a story for another blog.
My parents have always been completely confused as to how one of their offspring could be so different from them. My sister looks more like my mom every time I see her, but I don't look much like either one of them...so I guess there is a possibility that I could've been switched at birth. Someone else could've accidentally taken home Baby Girl Buckner. Who knows, maybe there's a family out there in Kentucky with a daughter who refuses to hunt with the gun her parents bought her because it doesn't have a 14-carat gold trigger. Don't laugh...it's remotely possible.
It wasn't until I was out on my own and married that I realized the differences white and blue collar. My first husband was a truck driver. I got more of an education during the eight months we spent on the road together, then I got between Kindergarten and my college graduation.
Why?
Because the education I got out on the road was in LIFE. How did I learn that people looked at truck drivers as if they were no cleaner or more respectible than a common criminal? One of the customers my ex-husband was delivering furniture to actually put their foot in the door and refused to let me in their house to use their bathroom because I had arrived at their home in an 18-wheeler. I felt like saying, "Before you show your prejudice against people in professions you wouldn't choose for yourself, perhaps you ought to think about the fact that if you wear it, eat it, drive it, live in it, dry your hair with it, write with it, on it, or in it, chances are that IT was delivered by a truck driver!"
But, of course, ignorant people don't think like that. They just assume that the construction foreman clicked his heels together three times and all the necessary materials needed to build their house just magically appeared on the empty lot. They think their Manolo Blahniks and Jimmy Chu's were born in Bergdorf's, and that the cups they sip their Starbuck's coffee from were actually picked up at the coffee cup factory by Mr. or Mrs. Starbuck themselves.
Wrong. It wasn't a pencil pusher or rocket scientist who delivered all those goods to where they needed to go...it was a truck driver. And if not for that trucker, those people would be homeless, barefoot, and drinking coffee out of the palm of their hand.
And while we're on the subject of hands, allow me to mention one who works with them...
I married one almost ten years ago. And you know what? Our home is filled with furniture that he crafted with his own two hands. We go downstairs and shoot pool in the basement he turned into a pub--complete with a handmade bar. When we want to go out for a cruise, we get into the '69 SS Chevelle that he restored from the ground up, bolt by bolt. Soon, I'll be putting my dishes away in the kitchen cabinets he's been building out in our barn.
Over the years, I've learned the only thing that really matters is whether or not you're happy. I'm happy with who I am. And I'm proud of what I am. This is me...warts and all. It doesn't matter whether or not my family approves of my lifestyle, because they probably don't understand it. That's okay, though, because truthfully, sometimes I don't understand them, either.
I won't lie and say that I don't enjoy dining out at nice restaurants, because I do. But that can't touch the tranquility of spending a quiet evening out back by the fire. Expensive cars might look pretty, but while you waste your money hiring someone to haul away the trash that doesn't fit into the trunk of your Jaguar or BMW, I can simply toss it into the eight-foot bed in my pickup truck and easily haul it away myself.
My place was forever solidified in the blue collar world a long time ago.
All I have to say about that is, home sweet home.
http://www.LaurenSharman.com
Growing up, my dad's occupation alone qualified mine as white. At times, the people my parents knew, the places they went, and things they did changed the color from simply white to something that looked as though it had been soaked in bleach...twice.
As much as I respect and appreciate both of my parents for the life they gave me, I have to admit that I never quite fit into the image that they had created for our family. While they were oohing and aahing over luxury cars and fancy restaurants, I was drooling over the local boys in our small town who drove down the road in big, loud pickup trucks. Of course, the longer their hair the better because, it was, after all, the 80's. Throw in a cigarette dangling from their lips and a tattoo or two, and he may as well have had, 'Lauren's Prince Charming' stamped on his forehead. Actually, I say, 'farhead', but that's a story for another blog.
My parents have always been completely confused as to how one of their offspring could be so different from them. My sister looks more like my mom every time I see her, but I don't look much like either one of them...so I guess there is a possibility that I could've been switched at birth. Someone else could've accidentally taken home Baby Girl Buckner. Who knows, maybe there's a family out there in Kentucky with a daughter who refuses to hunt with the gun her parents bought her because it doesn't have a 14-carat gold trigger. Don't laugh...it's remotely possible.
It wasn't until I was out on my own and married that I realized the differences white and blue collar. My first husband was a truck driver. I got more of an education during the eight months we spent on the road together, then I got between Kindergarten and my college graduation.
Why?
Because the education I got out on the road was in LIFE. How did I learn that people looked at truck drivers as if they were no cleaner or more respectible than a common criminal? One of the customers my ex-husband was delivering furniture to actually put their foot in the door and refused to let me in their house to use their bathroom because I had arrived at their home in an 18-wheeler. I felt like saying, "Before you show your prejudice against people in professions you wouldn't choose for yourself, perhaps you ought to think about the fact that if you wear it, eat it, drive it, live in it, dry your hair with it, write with it, on it, or in it, chances are that IT was delivered by a truck driver!"
But, of course, ignorant people don't think like that. They just assume that the construction foreman clicked his heels together three times and all the necessary materials needed to build their house just magically appeared on the empty lot. They think their Manolo Blahniks and Jimmy Chu's were born in Bergdorf's, and that the cups they sip their Starbuck's coffee from were actually picked up at the coffee cup factory by Mr. or Mrs. Starbuck themselves.
Wrong. It wasn't a pencil pusher or rocket scientist who delivered all those goods to where they needed to go...it was a truck driver. And if not for that trucker, those people would be homeless, barefoot, and drinking coffee out of the palm of their hand.
And while we're on the subject of hands, allow me to mention one who works with them...
I married one almost ten years ago. And you know what? Our home is filled with furniture that he crafted with his own two hands. We go downstairs and shoot pool in the basement he turned into a pub--complete with a handmade bar. When we want to go out for a cruise, we get into the '69 SS Chevelle that he restored from the ground up, bolt by bolt. Soon, I'll be putting my dishes away in the kitchen cabinets he's been building out in our barn.
Over the years, I've learned the only thing that really matters is whether or not you're happy. I'm happy with who I am. And I'm proud of what I am. This is me...warts and all. It doesn't matter whether or not my family approves of my lifestyle, because they probably don't understand it. That's okay, though, because truthfully, sometimes I don't understand them, either.
I won't lie and say that I don't enjoy dining out at nice restaurants, because I do. But that can't touch the tranquility of spending a quiet evening out back by the fire. Expensive cars might look pretty, but while you waste your money hiring someone to haul away the trash that doesn't fit into the trunk of your Jaguar or BMW, I can simply toss it into the eight-foot bed in my pickup truck and easily haul it away myself.
My place was forever solidified in the blue collar world a long time ago.
All I have to say about that is, home sweet home.
http://www.LaurenSharman.com
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