Sunday Talk

Last Sunday, our bishop caught me in the hall and asked me to prepare a talk for today about overcoming challenges. This is what I came up with. Enjoy!

When I was in the first grade, my teacher, Mrs. Nelson, brought an incubator into class. Inside, she placed six chicken eggs, telling us children that in a few weeks, we would be able to watch the chicks hatch. Every morning, we crowded around the incubator, jostling elbows and treading toes in our excitement. We stared at the silent eggs under the heat lamps and speculated on arrival dates, gender, and - most importantly - the names of the chicks, while willing time to fly faster. Finally, in the middle of learning that four plus four did, in fact, equal eight, a startled shriek of "It's hatching! It's hatching!" interrupted the lesson. Chairs squealed as twenty four children pushed away from their desks and mobbed the incubator. A ragged hole marred the smooth surface of the egg, a small beak barely visible.
"It's done," a classmate said. "Let's get it out."
Amid a chorus of assent, small helpful hands reached for the egg, but Mrs. Nelson quickly intervened.
"The chick must do it by himself," she said. Then, anticipating the next question, added, "If the chicken can overcome this first challenge, then he will be strong enough to survive."
"What if it CAN'T?!"
Mrs. Nelson shrugged with previously unseen callousness. "Then he will die."
Gasps of horror filled the room as we contemplated the death of our baby chick, perhaps in a fiery explosion of feathers and eggshell. Eventually, Mrs. Nelson convinced us that it would be best for us to only observe and hope VERY hard that the chick could break out of its shell. After twenty minutes of whispered encouragement, the chick flopped out, wet and exhausted, but very much alive.
The class erupted in cheers, each of us inordinately proud of the baby chick's first triumph and secure in the knowledge that the chick would be fine.
After returning to our seats, Mrs. Nelson again impressed upon us the importance of allowing the chicks to hatch unaided.
"Remember, strength comes from adversity," she said, before turning back to simple addition.
Goliath was a large man. Being a champion of the Philistines, he cowed King Saul and his Israelite army, towering over normal men by three and a half feet. With is head-to-toe armor, super-sized spear, and personal shield carrier, he presented enough of a challenge to keep the Israelites hiding behind rocks, trees, scrub-brush, and whatever other cover they could find.
In First Samuel 17:8-9, Goliath shouted to the Israelites, "Choose you a man for you, and let him come down unto me. If he be able to fight with me, and to kill me, then will we be your servants: but if I kill him, then shall ye be our servants, and serve use."
Instead of emboldening King Saul and his army, they were dismayed and greatly afraid.
How does one bring down the biggest challenge in the immediate area, knowing that it must be a one-on-one fight and that if you lose, you will lose your life and your family and friends will lose their freedom?
As it turns out, all you need is a sling, a couple of smooth stones, and a boy to wield it - a boy named David who knew without a shadow of a doubt that Heavenly Father not only supported him, but would lend him the strength to overcome the mighty Goliath.
In First Samuel 17: 45 & 47, "Then said David to [Goliath] the Philistine, Thou comest to me with a sword, and with a spear, and with a shield: but I come to thee in the name of the Lord of hosts, the God of the armies of Israel, whom thou has defied . . . And all this assembly shall know that the Lord saveth not with the sword and spear: for the battle is the Lord's, and he will give you into our hands."
And then David accomplished with only a sling, one stone, and a powerful faith in God what no man in the Israelite Army with their shields and swords could overcome; He slew Goliath and won victory for King Saul.
Could David have defeated Goliath without the Lord's help? Unlikely. David was neither naive nor foolhardy enough to believe he could overcome this monstrous challenge on his own. He had faith that the Lord would not abandon him - that God would strengthen his arm and guide the stone to its target.
It may seem to some that the Lord allowed the Israelites to win the hard way. Why not have God take care of Goliath and the Philistine army himself? After all, it would be easy enough for the skies to darken, rain to fall, and a bolt of lightening to zero in on all of Goliath's metal accessories and light him up like the Fourth of July. God could then shout down from the heavens something along the lines of how all the Philistines need to leave right now and that, by the way, David would be Mr. Popular from now on.
However, just as God cannot make our choices for us, he cannot remove our challenges from us. Our challenges, whether they be physical or emotional, large or small, are placed in our way to help us grow. This does not necessarily mean that if you do not overcome the challenge, win the race, or pass the test that your growth stops. We learn from our challenges - both the ones we overcome and the ones to which we succumb. Confidence and skills increase with success while humility and wisdom increase with failure. It is important to know that the Lord will stand by us and support us despite the final outcome.
Challenges are wildly diverse and specific to each individual and situation. They may be as complex as an illness, poverty, a failed or unhappy marriage, wayward children, war, natural disasters, or persecution. They may be as simple as getting to work on time, speaking kindly to siblings, doing homework, avoiding inappropriate media, walking the dog, a broken fingernail, or giving a talk on Sunday. Through it all, the Lord is available and willing to lend his support. Our challenges, big or small, win or lose, are only as much as we can handle. As it says in Mosiah 4:2 ". . . it is not requisite that a man should run faster than he has strength . . ." The Lord will never give us a challenge that we cannot endure and overcome with his help.
During the winter of 1777, outnumbered, under-supplied, and discouraged, General George Washington led his ragged Revolutionary army to Valley Forge. There, camped in the cold snow, enduring hunger and illness, they waited for the tide of war to either turn to their advantage, or completely destroy their revolutionary ideals. If the revolution proved to be successful, they would be hailed as heroes. If it failed, every Revolutionary would be hung as traitors to the crown. With this huge responsibility on his shoulders, General Washington knew that only Heavenly Father could help them wind independence from an unjust king.
Following is an account related to Reverend Snowden by a Mr. Potts: He [Mr. Potts] said, ". . . I never believed that America c'd proceed against Great Britain whose fleets and armies covered the land and ocean, but something very extraordinary converted me to the Good Faith!" "What was that?" I [Rev. Snowden] inquired. "Do you see that woods, and that plain. It was about a quarter of a mile off from the place we were riding, as it happened. There," said he [Mr. Potts], "laid the army of Washington. It was a most distressing time of ye war, and all were for giving up the Ship but that great and good man. In that woods pointing to a close in view, I heard a plaintive sound as, of a man at prayer. I tied my horse to a sapling and went quietly into the woods and to my astonishment I saw the great George Washington on his knees alone, with his sword on one side and his cocked hat on the other. He was at Prayer to the God of the Armies, beseeching to interpose with his Divine aid, as it was ye Crisis, and the cause of the country, of humanity and of the world.
"Such a prayer I never heard from the lips of man. I left him alone praying.
"I went home and told my wife. I saw a sight and heard today what I never saw or heard before, and just related to her what I had seen and heard and observed. We never thought a man c'd be a soldier and a Christian, but if there is one in the world, it is Washington. She was also astonished. We thought it was the cause of God, and America could prevail." (from www.revolutionary-war-and-beyond.com/prayer-at-valley-forge.html)
The Lord answered General Washington's prayer. The following spring brought the arrival of Baron von Steuben to train the troops and new allies from France, both of which helped the newly formed United States of America win freedom.
I would like to read the verses to hymn number 120, Lean on My Ample Arm:
1. Lean on my ample arm, O thou depressed!
And I will bid the storm Cease in thy breast.
Whate’er thy lot may be On life’s complaining sea,
If thou wilt come to me, Thou shalt have rest.
If thou wilt come to me, Thou shalt have rest.
2. Lift up thy tearful eyes, Sad heart, to me;
I am the sacrifice Offered for thee.
In me thy pain shall cease, In me is thy release,
In me thou shalt have peace Eternally.
In me thou shalt have peace Eternally.
Text: Theodore E. Curtis, 1872–1957
Music: Evan Stephens, 1854–1930
Our Heavenly Father is there, ready and willing to aid us with any and all challenges that we may come across. Though we may not personally experience challenges that will affect the fate of an entire nation, such as those faced by David and George Washington, we need to know that the Lord will love and support us so that, like the baby chick, we can break out of our shell - piece by piece - and emerge strong, faithful, and able to overcome new challenges. I say these things in the name of Jesus Christ, Amen.

A Very Hairy Story

Poochie got her hair cut yesterday. As always, it was a traumatic experience, but (in my opinion, and more importantly, in Mom's opinion) worth it. I take her to Paw City Grooming in the CAL Ranch store on 7800 south and they do a wonderful job. It also helps that they only charge $45 to bathe and shave a dog of Poochie's size.
When I mentioned to Person A that I took my dog in to get her hair cut, they asked in that morally-superior, penny-pinching tone, "Why don't you do it yourself? You'd save a lot of money that way."
To which I replied, "Have you ever tried to put a band-aid on a dog's butt?"
Needless to say, that stopped the conversation right there.
The fact is, I used to shave Poochie down myself. I would go to Walmart, buy a clipper set for $20, and spend the next four and a half hours on the back patio covered in dog fur. Most of the time, her fur came out different lengths, but always quite a bit shorter than she had started out with. Then I'd wait a couple months for the fur to grow out, then go to Walmart and buy another set.
Poochie's fur wrecks havoc on clippers. She has a thick, wiry top coat and a soft, downy-smooth under coat. The wiry fur dulls the blades faster than a saw on concrete and the soft fur works its way into the clipper and jams the motor, causing the clippers to overheat. This necessitated that I purchase a new clipper set every time.
The last time I shaved her myself, I caused so much mental anguish, I didn't think she'd ever recover.
I had her almost finished - nothing left but the backs of her hind legs and around the base of her tail. I had long ago divested the clippers of the guide comb and used the bare blade. NEVER use a bare blade. Never, ever, ever. She ended up with razor rash on the underside of her tail and the backs of her thighs (a.k.a. her bum). I didn't actually know she had the rash until about 1:00 a.m. that night when I woke up to the glurp-glurp sounds of her licking. She didn't just lick it once or twice, it was a constant slurping sound that Did Not Stop. It went on for hours. I finally got up around 5:00 a.m. and covered her in band-aids. Band-aids do not stick well on furry bums. So, I got a clean strip of cloth, slathered it in Neosporin, and sort of wrapped it around her tail and legs like a diaper.
The next morning, it had fallen off and Poochie hid under the kitchen table, giving me wounded-eyed stares and tucking her tail firmly between her legs when she wasn't licking. She was impervious to my apologies, my bribes, and any comments along the lines of "But, you're much cooler now, right? Not so hot? Do you want an otter pop?"
So, yes, Poochie gets her hair cut professionally. She may balk a little bit, but I think it's all for show. After all, she remembers that razor rashes hurt and I remember that band-aids are not designed for the rear-ends of dogs.

Where There's Smoke, There's Fire

I went to the dentist today . . . I know, it made me cringe, too.
A couple months ago, I had my first root canal. My very first root canal and my very first anxiety attack. Other than a few cavities, my teeth are healthy. I didn't bother to get yearly checkups, reasoning that I'd go when I felt pain. Well, when I felt the first twinge of pain, I called Dr. C's office.
"Hmmm," he said, staring at the x-ray of my mouth. "It could be a large cavity or a root canal."
"What?" I said, and tried to twist my head off my shoulders so I could see the glowing illuminated x-ray conveniently placed behind me.
He jabbed at the x-ray. "This one, right here. Number 19. I won't know until I get in there and find out."
Yup, that was it. The tooth that had bothered me while snarfing down ice cream. Second molar from the back on my bottom left side. Please, oh, please let it be just a large cavity! I thought as my stomach tried to curl in on itself.
One week later, I lay in the dentist chair staring at the glowing eyeball of a lamp above me and trying not to panic. They started out pretending it was a cavity - two shots of anesthetic and a small drill. I winced and Dr. C stopped.
"You can feel that?"
I nodded. "Uh huh."
More anesthetic. Two minutes later, I winced again.
"You felt that?"
I nodded.
He gave his assistant a look and sighed. "Looks like a root canal."
He ended up giving me two more shots of anesthetic - five total. By the time I remembered to tell him that I was strangely resistant to anesthetic (I remember waking up during my tonsil removal and punching and kicking the doctor and nurses, screaming for my mother; they had to give me three times as much anesthetic as a regular five-year-old. When I had my wisdom teeth removed, the doctor said that they had to keep turning up the gas for an hour until I finally went out.), my face was too numb for me to do anything but drool and mumble incoherently.
I remained relatively calm as they wedged my mouth open and jammed a blue rubber sheet around my tooth. The grind of the drill did nothing but make me want to grind my teeth. True panic set in as I saw smoke - actual smoke, ladies and gentlemen - rising from my mouth in a twisting, laughing dance. The scent of my own tooth burning filled my nose. I clenched the arm rests and grunted, trying to convey with my eyes that my mouth was on fire and they needed to put it out now!
At my pathetic attempts of communication, Dr. C paused for a moment and glanced down at me.
"Smells bad, doesn't it?" he said and then ignored my squawks.
After a moment, I calmed down, concluding that if the smoke was a problem, the doctor would fix it. However, I was a bit perturbed that there wasn't a liability waiver to sign, alerting potential patients that their teeth may catch fire during the procedure and that the Dentist Office would not be liable for any a) melted teeth, b) charred hair, or c) anything that the patient chooses to wear or bring that may be flammable.
So when I went in today to get my temporary crown put on, I was prepared for anything. Nothing could be worse than a melted tooth.
Except, perhaps, no tooth!
They pinned me down with that big, square bib, forced my mouth open, and proceeded to chip away at my tooth. No explanation, no conciliatory apologies, just total destruction of my tooth. Okay, it was pretty much dead, anyways, but I would have liked the chance to say goodbye, perhaps relive fond memories, and share one last piece of English Almond Toffee before they ground it down to a sad, sorry little stump.
When I was released, I jumped to my feet and faced Dr. C's assistant. "Okay, what's next?" I asked, wiping crumbs of who-knows-what off my cheek.
She gave me a look. "The permanent crown." The "Duh" was unspoken.
I sucked some spit before it passed my lips into drooling territory. "And what happens with the permanent? Needles? Fire? What?"
"We didn't give you the gas, right?" she asked, looking worried.
I shook my head. "The permanent crown?" I prompted, refusing to be distracted.
"We just pop off the old one and glue on the new one," she said. "It takes about 15 minutes."
"Good," I replied. "'Cause I'm never doing this again."
She laughed because she thought I was joking.
I'm not.

Wet Socks, Cold Toes, and Other Reasons To Wear Boots in the Snow

I had barely cleared the neighbor's mailbox before snow had made its way into my sneakers. I sighed, lifted my head to the blowing wind, and pulled on the hood to my coat. Poochie wanted a walk. Now. In the snow. And I had told her that if she quit barking, we could go. I tugged her away from the mailbox post she was enthusiastically sniffing and stomped down the sidewalk.
We reached the corner and she dropped to her stomach, turning her paws, and gnawing at the clump of snow wedged between her toes. Because of her fine fur, snow often gets trapped between the soft pads of her feet, forming an ice-ball and making it painful to walk. I used to bend down and get the snow out of her paws myself, but she can do it much quicker with her teeth. So I stood there, stomping my feet. She chewed on the ice-ball for a moment, then spit it out.
We trudged on.
As we turned the corner, the wind shifted, blowing directly into my hood. I ducked my head and squinted at my feet. Poochie knew the way around the block, so I followed her footsteps. She kept a steady, if meandering pace, and stopped at every bush, post, fence, and tree to sniff and leave her mark. Every yard or so, I'd glance up, just to make sure we hadn't wandered into the road. The snow melted in my shoes, instantly attacking my toes.
"Come on," I whined to Poochie, jiggling the leash. "You've seen that tree before. The quicker we get home, the quicker my feet will dry."
She sniffed, pawed at the snow, and dropped to her stomach to gnaw on her paws. She got the ice-ball out and then remained on her stomach, staring at a passing car.
"Come on!" I said again, pulling her to her feet. "Let's run home!"
There is an inch of snow on the ground. And I just told my dog to run through it. Ever obedient, she took off, wrenching my shoulder in the process.
I followed, head down, in a loping stride, watching the placement of my feet. The last thing I wanted to do was fall.
Then I did.
Poochie suddenly dropped to her stomach, nose buried in her paws. I slammed to a stop, balancing on my toes, inches away from stepping on her bum. My arms pinwheeled, trying to correct my balance.
"Gaaaah!" I squealed as my toes lost their grip on the snowy pavement and flew behind me.
I let go of the leash, put my arms out, and dropped.
I landed in the classic push-up position, with a hand on either side of Poochie, my nose inches from her back.
"Wait, wait wait," I ordered as her muscles shifted under her fur in preparation to get to her feet.
She didn't listen. She heaved herself free and I remained at push-up number one with no plans to try for two.
A car honked and I turned my head.
"You okay?" the lady called out of her window. "I saw you fall!"
"I'm fine!" I called back, and to prove it rolled to my side and jumped to my feet. "Thanks!"
She waved and drove on.
I brushed the snow off my pants, coat, and stuck my wet, gloved hands in my pocket.
"You know," I told Poochie, "they make snow-shoes for dogs, so this kind of thing doesn't happen."
Poochie stared at me for a moment, then continued down the block.
I chased after her to grab the trailing leash.
"Warn me next time, will ya?" I muttered.
Poochie sneezed and shook her head.

Attack of the Crazies

Did you know there is a day specifically put aside for crazy people to jump out of the woodwork and accost people? I didn't either. Apparently, my special day is November 5. I have it circled in red on the calendar.
Luckily for me, my Crazy People Day started just a little bit after noon. I drove to Wal-Mart to buy some blue painter's tape. I know this Wal-Mart. I have probably been to this specific Wal-Mart more than two hundred times. I know almost exactly where everything is. If not exactly, at least the general area. Thus, I confidently strode through the automatic sliding doors, nodded to the greeter, and turned left past the leftover Halloween candy. (Incidentally, the candy was on sale and I . . . Did . . . Not . . . Buy . . . Any. Feel free to applaud now.) I held my cell phone pressed to my ear, jabbing with my friend Mr. Million. I wove through shoppers, sidestepped a run-away bouncy ball, and headed to the paint desk. Just as I was about to turn down the tape/caulk aisle, a woman jumped out in front of me, forcing me to halt.
"Do you need any help in the Hardware section today?" she asked, her voice surprisingly chipper for a Wal-Mart employee.
I held the phone away from my ear and eyed this apparition. She had her long gray hair pulled back in a high pony tail on top of her head. Long, sparkly earrings dangled almost down to her shoulders. A camouflage hunter's jacket hung over a gray T-shirt that was in turn tucked into high-waisted, green khaki pants. She had completed the look with heavy, itchy-looking socks and thick-soled sandals. As a connoisseur of badly mismatched clothing (I was famous in elementary school for my lime green socks, purple corduroy pants, and glow-in-the-dark orange shirt combo) I had absolutely nothing to say to her ensemble. Whatever makes you comfortable, right? However, I did begin to suspect that she was not employed by Wal-Mart.
"I'm, uh, looking for painter's tape," I replied, gesturing with my free hand.
"Oh!" It appeared as though she barely restrained clapping her hands. "I know right where that is. Follow me." She hurried down the aisle, coming to a stop halfway down.
"Just a minute," I told Mr. Million on the phone and followed her because, well, she did seem to know where it was and I had to get there anyway.
"Here it is!" she crowed, then held her hands out about six inches apart and moved down the aisle, framing each product with her hands. "Here's the blue tape, and here's the gray tape, and here's pink tape, and here's green tape, and here's yellow tape, and-"
"Great!" I interrupted and randomly grabbed a blue roll. "This will work fine."
"Okay!" she sang. "Light bulbs are two aisles down!"
And then she skipped - I kid you not, she literally skipped - away and became lost among the vacuum cleaners.
I returned to my conversation, writing her off as an enthusiastic Wal-Mart customer who became giddy at the thought of aiding a fellow customer.
And yet, things always happen in threes.
I will say nothing of the second incident, save that it involved Be-Dazzled clothing, a stuffed mountain lion, and a forty-eight year old man watching me like I had hidden the secret of eternal youth somewhere about my person.
(And, no, I do not know the secret to eternal youth, but I do know the secret to eternal immaturity. Contact me with any questions.)
The third alternatively sane person confronted me as I walked to my car at around 4:30 p.m. I held a paint-stained plastic stool in one hand and my keys in the other. This gentleman shuffled toward me, cradling a large 7-Eleven soda in the crook of his right arm, his head tilted to the right as he sucked on the straw. He had slightly better taste in clothing than the Wal-Mart character; wearing a red jacket, a baseball hat, jeans, and a button-up shirt.
I saw that we were about to cross paths, and offered a tentative smile.
He scowled at me. "'Bout time you got to work," he growled. The words came out somewhat slurred, as he refused to take the straw out of his mouth to talk.
I chuckled, having been on the receiving end of this joke before. "Ha ha, I know, it's kinda late to be just starting out."
He hustled by me, dark eyebrows drawn low over his eyes, mouth forced into a warped frown around the straw. "You're really late," he snarled. "They've been waiting for you for a long time."
My mouth dropped open at the open hostility. "Uh . . ." I offered, as my rapier wit had become somewhat dulled in the past couple hours.
"So, so, late," he snapped and continued walking.
All on the same day. What are the odds?
So, my plan for next year's November 5 is to hide in my basement and hope all the crazies pass me by.

Corn Stalker

I threw my little sister in front of a chainsaw-wielding madman yesterday. I heard the rev of the motor somewhere off to my right and saw the wave-like rustle of the corn as he ran towards us. Without hesitation, I snatched Lil' Sis' arm and tossed her closer to the edge of the path while shrieking my lungs out. I closed my eyes, waiting to hear the sound of chain blade meeting flesh.
After a moment, I opened an eye.
Lil' Sis laughed, her shoulders shaking, her face pale and slightly menacing in the moonlight. "Hoo, boy, Hannah," she chuckled. She might have wiped a tear from her eye. "Let's keep going."
She grabbed my elbow and steered me down the path.
I did my level best to stay in the exact middle. I wanted as much room between me and the crazies as I could get. I heard the chain saw moving further away and breathed a sigh of relief.
"I didn't know it was going to be a haunted corn maze," I murmured, softly so as to prevent that guy with the clown mask from getting a lock on our position.
Lil' Sis beamed, her canines lengthening. I blinked rapidly, and her teeth were back to normal.
"Neither did I," she replied, a little too loudly for my sense of security.
I scowled. "I mean, when someone says, 'Let's go to a corn maze', this is not what I--"
BANG!
I screamed and jumped away from the sound. A tall, menacing person in black and an unidentifiable mask loomed out of the darkness. He held a short stick in one hand and banged it against the barrel again. I twitched and Lil' Sis snickered.
"Keep going," she encouraged, her hands pressing into my back. "You have to be in front."
"--why anyone would want to bang on metal barrels is beyond me," I muttered when I remembered how to breathe.
The rest of the haunted portion followed its precedent. A person dressed in frightening apparel would lunge out or bang a barrel or invade my personal space and I would scream while Lil' Sis would laugh. Rinse. Repeat. We made it to the end without losing any body parts, major or otherwise.
"I just come to watch you freak out," Lil' Sis said at one point - which is why I felt fully justified in using her as a human shield.
Too bad she makes such a small one.

If You Hear Me Singing, Just Ignore It

My car is not working (again). Something to do with the fuel pump and cylinders 3 and 4. And so, for those around-the-town errands, I borrow Lil' Sis' car. Not that I miss my car, as one set of wheels is pretty much the same as another, but I fiercely pine for a radio, a cd player, an iPod, or any music-making device that would fend off embarrassment.
I have a habit of singing to myself, often at the top of my lungs, when I am bored, when I wake up in the morning, and when I am sitting in a music-free vehicle. My repertoire includes a vast array of Disney songs, several church hymns, every Christmas carol known to man, and either the chorus or half of more than a few alternative rock songs. Usually, this innocuous habit exhibits itself in front of family or close friends. On rare occasions, it manifests itself in public.
Case in point: It was a warm day, and Lil' Sis' car has no air conditioning. Driving to the store, I had the window down, enjoying the cool air that poured in. I was in a good mood. I had an unexpected day off from work and the time to do whatever I wanted. (That I spent some of that time grocery shopping proves that had I been a hunter-gatherer in prehistoric times, I would put the welfare of my tribe above other activities, such as re-watching Lord of the Rings.) I meandered through Smith's Food and Drug, humming softly. I filled my cart - the one with the squeaky wheel that has my name written all over it - and headed to the checkout. I whistled "Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Da" as I loaded the groceries into the back seat of the car. The whistling morphed into sort of half humming, half singing as I slid into the front seat. I clipped my seat belt, rolled down the window, and belted out the chorus.

"Zip-a-dee-doo-da! Zip-a-dee-ay! My, oh, my, what a wonderful day!" I backed out of the parking space and shifted into drive. "Plenty of sunshine, going my way! It's a jolly holiday with Mary!"

I shifted from Song of the South to Mary Poppins as smoothly as the car. I pulled out onto the street, swaying slightly from side to side, catching a glimpse of my face in the rear-view mirror. I looked happy and I'm sure I sounded happier.

I pulled to a stop at the red light and continued singing. "When the day is gray and ordinary, Mary makes the sun shine bright! Oooohhh! It's a jolly holiday with Mary! No wonder that it's Mary that we . . ."

I trailed off as I became aware of slow, exaggerated clapping. I glanced to my left and froze like my jolly holiday had been cut short by a shark attack.

A man in a blue Ford Explorer grinned openly. He cupped his hands around his mouth. "Sing it, baby! Sing it loud!"

I know I blushed because I felt like I had been plunged face-first into a steam bath.

"Sing it!" He kept shouting. "Sing it like you love it!"

"I do love it," I muttered and rolled up the window.
I pretended to fiddle with the radio. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the man continue to clap. I faced forward, determined to ignore unappreciative audiences everywhere, and continued singing.
The windows of a geo metro are not soundproof. I discovered this as a piercing whistle all but fractured the glass. I glanced sideways as Mr. Ford Explorer let loose another wolf-whistle. I sort of scrunched down in my seat, glaring at the traffic light, willing the red light to switch to green.
"I love Mary Poppins!" the guy shouted.
I cranked down the window. "So do I!" I yelled.
Unfortunately, the light changed and screaming at the back of someone's car doesn't have quite the same effect. The car behind me leaned on the horn and I pressed on the gas pedal, mood ruined. I muttered for about half a block before Walt Disney found me again - this time in the form of The Lion King.
"Oh, I just can't wait to be king!" I crowed, deciding to not care if the pedestrians objected.
We're getting a radio put in this weekend.