Regardless of what you may have heard about Betsy Randolph in the past, I'd like to take a moment and level with you about something that's been weighing on me fairly hard the last few days. This isn't easy for me, so please, give me a second...
I'll try to explain why I occasionally say things I don't mean and never seem to bring myself to say the things I truly do. You may be like me, if so...I hope it helps when I reveal this part of me that I've tried to hide for decades. I've worn this smothering mask for so long that sometimes I don't know where the fanciful facade ends and the Betsy I know I am, begins.
It's easier for me if I explain it like this...."I have a friend...who...
Laughs the loudest when she's hurting the most...
Cries when she's happy...
Trips walking UPstairs...and downstairs...and on flat, even surfaces...
Sings off-key...loudly...and often...
Is stingy...
Can't spell...or use big words correctly...and sometimes even small words, correctly...
Is vain...vulgar...and vicious!"
I suppose what I'm getting at is, I'm human. Prone to err in every possible way.
Now I can picture you sitting there with your eyebrows scrunched together wondering why I'm stating the obvious, if you know me at all you know all these things about me already. I'm usually the first one laughing at me so why write about it now?
Here's why...this last week has been filled with people pointing guilty fingers at others for costly mistakes or life altering events; too ashamed of the truth or afraid of its consequences. Sure, I'm often tempted to take the coward's way out of my self-induced predicaments by doing the same or similar. UNTIL I see someone else do it...
That's when I realize that I don't want to mimic those pathetic, immature people who hide from everyone, especially themselves. THIS IS WHO I AM. I make mistakes all day, every day. Try it on for size, speaking the truth is liberating...
Saturday, March 3, 2012
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
What's on your mind?
I'm sitting behind my desk leaning forward at the waist because my long sleeve uniform shirt rubs on my jaw line. With every movement of my head the sun screen that I applied liberally to my face and neck coats the collar of my shirt. So to compensate, I lean forward in my chair, but in so doing I'm cutting off the blood flow to my feet because of my unforgiving gun belt and too-snug trousers.
Sure, I could lose ten pounds and save myself all this discomfort, but since I can't do it overnight, I will likely permanently lose all the feeling in my feet. It's no big deal, plenty of people get along every day with no feeling in their feet or no feet for that matter.
(Sigh!)
I've been sitting here staring at this computer screen with both kickstands, otherwise known as elbows, holding my head up off the desk all day and all I can think about is...stretchy pants...
(Big sigh!)
Guess I'll go work out...
Sure, I could lose ten pounds and save myself all this discomfort, but since I can't do it overnight, I will likely permanently lose all the feeling in my feet. It's no big deal, plenty of people get along every day with no feeling in their feet or no feet for that matter.
(Sigh!)
I've been sitting here staring at this computer screen with both kickstands, otherwise known as elbows, holding my head up off the desk all day and all I can think about is...stretchy pants...
(Big sigh!)
Guess I'll go work out...
Monday, February 13, 2012
Who's your boss?
Some days I just want to scream, "Enough!"
You've been there too if you've ever cared too much, felt too deeply or given more than your peers without sufficient appreciation from the boss. I keep asking myself why I continue to do it knowing no one will notice or acknowlege my efforts.
Just when I feel my eyes starting to burn with self doubt and my lip quiver with self pity, it hits me...
It all boils down to obedience.
Jesus said that everything we do we should do it as if we were doing it for/to Him. Wow! That's pretty simple. I serve THE King!
My boss formed the firmament. He willed the world. He breathed all breath of life and He knows me. When my hard head remembers that, I pause. Only then do I bow my head, my heart, my will to His.
You've been there too if you've ever cared too much, felt too deeply or given more than your peers without sufficient appreciation from the boss. I keep asking myself why I continue to do it knowing no one will notice or acknowlege my efforts.
Just when I feel my eyes starting to burn with self doubt and my lip quiver with self pity, it hits me...
It all boils down to obedience.
Jesus said that everything we do we should do it as if we were doing it for/to Him. Wow! That's pretty simple. I serve THE King!
My boss formed the firmament. He willed the world. He breathed all breath of life and He knows me. When my hard head remembers that, I pause. Only then do I bow my head, my heart, my will to His.
Thursday, February 2, 2012
It's Time
You may have heard that crimes against law enforcement officers have increased in recent years. While this fact may disturb you, it makes me physically hurt. When I see a guy or gal in uniform, I pause to think of all the people that would be broken-hearted should something happen to them. That's the part that hurts me.
Those of us in law enforcement don't spend too much time thinking about losing our lives in the course of our duties. We are adrenaline junkies. We love to drive cars fast, shoot loud weapons and wrestle alligators for fun. Okay, the last part was a bit much, but you get the gist. We love the excitement our job offers.
We enjoy not knowing what's going to happen next. We jump on our partners calls if things are slow in our area so that we can stay in on the action the whole time we are on duty. Universally, we all have a fascination with the obscure, the morbid, the gross. We love puppies, the outdoors and we despise people that hurt children or the elderly. We cry, sometimes sob, when we notify next-of-kin out of a fatality car crash.
You'll see us laugh like goons at stupid jokes or at terrible accident scenes - because that's how we cope. We fight amongst ourselves like hateful siblings, but won't hesitate to rush to the aide of a partner, no matter the uniform or the personal threat of harm.
We want what you want. Peace, harmony, love and days off when the weather is nice. So maybe the next time you see a man or woman in a law enforcement uniform, you'll say hello. You don't have to thank us. We love our job, we don't do it for recognition. We do it because we are called to the occupation and because we can't imagine doing anything else. We may not know when "our time" is, but we know we all have one. We know the dangers are out there. We know there is a small element of society that wishes us dead, but we are confident in our Protector to see us safely home at the end of each shift until He says, "It's time."
Those of us in law enforcement don't spend too much time thinking about losing our lives in the course of our duties. We are adrenaline junkies. We love to drive cars fast, shoot loud weapons and wrestle alligators for fun. Okay, the last part was a bit much, but you get the gist. We love the excitement our job offers.
We enjoy not knowing what's going to happen next. We jump on our partners calls if things are slow in our area so that we can stay in on the action the whole time we are on duty. Universally, we all have a fascination with the obscure, the morbid, the gross. We love puppies, the outdoors and we despise people that hurt children or the elderly. We cry, sometimes sob, when we notify next-of-kin out of a fatality car crash.
You'll see us laugh like goons at stupid jokes or at terrible accident scenes - because that's how we cope. We fight amongst ourselves like hateful siblings, but won't hesitate to rush to the aide of a partner, no matter the uniform or the personal threat of harm.
We want what you want. Peace, harmony, love and days off when the weather is nice. So maybe the next time you see a man or woman in a law enforcement uniform, you'll say hello. You don't have to thank us. We love our job, we don't do it for recognition. We do it because we are called to the occupation and because we can't imagine doing anything else. We may not know when "our time" is, but we know we all have one. We know the dangers are out there. We know there is a small element of society that wishes us dead, but we are confident in our Protector to see us safely home at the end of each shift until He says, "It's time."
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
Reasons?
Have you ever stopped to wonder why God created such tiny helpless adorable creatures?
I think it's because God wants us to be happy. Maybe He wants us to know the joy of loving something that can do nothing for us in return, except love us back.
At the end of a difficult day or the beginning of a fantastic one, these little faces will always remind me of a timeless universal truth...God loves us. AND no one likes to potty outside when it's cold! No one!
Sunday, January 8, 2012
Take Your Medicine...
Curing what seasonally ails me requires botanical intervention, so I check myself into the homeopathic garden clinic and nod to the head nurse who today resembles a frumpy Foster’s holly.
A light wind teases at my hair as I lean over to inspect Dutch iris foliage peeking through the semi-moist soil. All week the temperatures flirted like a marauding March or antagonistic April, making my soul yearn for sweet-lipped hyacinths and shimmering-gold forsythia. This tiny shred of iris greenery reaching out for acknowledgement soothes my impatience. Spring is an elusive fritillary, slightly flittering just out of grasp each New Year. The head nurse motions for me to come closer then barks orders for me to follow.
“Double check the moisture level in those raised planters,” she says, pointing with her red-berried chin. She’s busy checking our supplies of pesticides and posting labels for proper mixture rates for quick reference. “Did you treat the young pines for tip borers in November?” she asks. Her waxy green face puckers in a near frown.
Casting a quick glance downward toward my feet, I stammer out the truth. “I meant to, but I got busy.” Her stare chills me even with the sun’s rays tiptoeing upon my slumping shoulders.
“You have to do it before March. You know that!” she huffs. “I bet you forgot about controlling overwintering insects as well!” she accuses me as she pauses from inspecting gardening tools. She’s been sharpening, painting and repairing the mowers, edgers and sprayers.
“No, I remembered.” I answer her, shaking my head at her question. “I remembered to spray dormant neem oil on the deciduous trees and shrubs,” I say tilting my head back and crossing my arms over my chest. Before she can ask anything else I stop her with a raised hand that I push toward her - palm first with a warning. “Don’t insult me!”
Then I lower my hand to my hip sharply, my eyes narrow with agitation. “You know good and well I didn’t put any dormant oil on the evergreen trees or shrubs because it would likely kill them.”
She dismisses me with a smirk, leaving me to my duties. Inspecting my lawn irrigation system, I replace worn or broken parts. Lastly, I spray glyphosate, (Roundup, Rodeo or Pondmaster) plus a post-emergent broadleaf herbicide on the winter weeds coming up in the Bermuda. Having regained my mental well-being by performing gardening tasks, I take a last look around my January garden. Exiting the botanical treatment facility I curtsey to Holly, who discharges me with a prickly farewell.
A light wind teases at my hair as I lean over to inspect Dutch iris foliage peeking through the semi-moist soil. All week the temperatures flirted like a marauding March or antagonistic April, making my soul yearn for sweet-lipped hyacinths and shimmering-gold forsythia. This tiny shred of iris greenery reaching out for acknowledgement soothes my impatience. Spring is an elusive fritillary, slightly flittering just out of grasp each New Year. The head nurse motions for me to come closer then barks orders for me to follow.
“Double check the moisture level in those raised planters,” she says, pointing with her red-berried chin. She’s busy checking our supplies of pesticides and posting labels for proper mixture rates for quick reference. “Did you treat the young pines for tip borers in November?” she asks. Her waxy green face puckers in a near frown.
Casting a quick glance downward toward my feet, I stammer out the truth. “I meant to, but I got busy.” Her stare chills me even with the sun’s rays tiptoeing upon my slumping shoulders.
“You have to do it before March. You know that!” she huffs. “I bet you forgot about controlling overwintering insects as well!” she accuses me as she pauses from inspecting gardening tools. She’s been sharpening, painting and repairing the mowers, edgers and sprayers.
“No, I remembered.” I answer her, shaking my head at her question. “I remembered to spray dormant neem oil on the deciduous trees and shrubs,” I say tilting my head back and crossing my arms over my chest. Before she can ask anything else I stop her with a raised hand that I push toward her - palm first with a warning. “Don’t insult me!”
Then I lower my hand to my hip sharply, my eyes narrow with agitation. “You know good and well I didn’t put any dormant oil on the evergreen trees or shrubs because it would likely kill them.”
She dismisses me with a smirk, leaving me to my duties. Inspecting my lawn irrigation system, I replace worn or broken parts. Lastly, I spray glyphosate, (Roundup, Rodeo or Pondmaster) plus a post-emergent broadleaf herbicide on the winter weeds coming up in the Bermuda. Having regained my mental well-being by performing gardening tasks, I take a last look around my January garden. Exiting the botanical treatment facility I curtsey to Holly, who discharges me with a prickly farewell.
Sunday, January 1, 2012
Function without a critic? Not I.
"Don't cry." I heard a girl's tiny voice whisper harshly. She was behind the curtain of a department store dressing room that I was passing by. Entering the neighboring booth, I drew the curtain and leaned my ear to the thin wall that separated us. I could hear muffled sobs, a choking cough and sniffling. Quickly I undressed and slipped on the expensive jeans who's clever marketing ad promised a tush rejuvenation. The crying in the next booth subsided, but my heart sank as I scrutinized my reflection in the mirror. Where had all this flab come from? I jiggled the "muffin top" that lazily lay over the lip of the fancy stitched jeans.Who was this tired-looking, old woman trying to kid? These were jeans for young women who still had something to prove. Buying them made as much sense as wearing high-heeled shoes to Six Flags. As I sat on the cold cushionless bench to peel the hopelessness off my legs, the quiet crying next door resumed. This time the girl's voice wasn't a whisper, but a condescending, hateful near-punch in the mouth. "Get your fat butt out of here and don't come back till you lose some weight!" She demanded. There was so much venom in her voice I expected to hear balking, bellows or bawling, but I heard nothing. Intrigued, I exited the dressing room, but hovered around the entrance, circling a rack of permanent press polyester slacks. Gingerly I fingered a light blue pair, wondering how long it would be before I would hang these on my dismal frame while pouting Hush Puppied feet. Just then a well-rounded woman with a youngish plump face darted out of the dressing room empty handed. Her cranberry cheeks and red-rimmed eyes said she was my cryer, but where was her tormentor? As she waddled away, I realized her demoralizing critic was just a little more vocal than my own.
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