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When All Things Girl first came on the scene there were a lot of mixed reviews. People said things like "it is terrible; it seems homemade" to "the best book EVER for young Catholic girls." Of course, once those books went out of production (there are new ones now in print), everyone clamored for them. I suppose that's how it always goes, right? We don't know what we have until it is gone.

We are now excited to say that the newest All Things Girl book is out! In the 2014 release of Truth for Teens you are going to find the same great open and honest talk that girls love but with fresh, new, relevant voices!

Peggy Bowes (best-selling author of The Rosary Workout and popular speaker) writes about health and fitness. Heather Renshaw, mother of 5 youngsters, somehow found the time to write about vocations in general and motherhood in particular. Kayla Brandon, a journalism major with time in at Fox and other really cool places addresses the "Me" in social media. All women speak from a place of passion and experience.

It is awesome and since the ones that are out of print now sell for a couple of hundred dollars (who knew! LOL!), this 2014 All Things Girl: Truth for Teens is a steal at less than $20!

Why We Still Love Lucy

I’ve always watched I Love Lucy. Lately, though, I notice that there is something about it that speaks to me in a very personal way. It sort of tugs at me. I can’t say that the show takes me back to anything in particular because it isn’t from a time in my personal life; but, rather, it seems to address a desire for simplicity that lives at the center of my heart.

Despite the fact that in real life the marriage of Lucille Ball and Desi Arnaz did not survive, I have found in talking with friends that the show really taps into something that exists at the core of many women.

We love the quaint Ricardo apartment. There isn’t a lot of furniture or tons of space. It is as neat as a pin and we can totally imagine living in that space. When Lucy and Ricky host a card game they need to move the couch out of the way to bring in the folding table and chairs. And yet the card games are always fun despite the tight space. The sparse kitchen is behind a swinging door and, upon close inspection, we see it has very little cupboard or countertop space and yet Lucy and Ethel were able to make hundreds of jars of homemade salad dressing in the confines of that small area. We just knew they managed!

Over and over again we watch the antics taking place in the Ricardo apartment and there is a little spot inside of us that desires that easier, simpler life. The small sofa and the easy way Ricky lounges while he reads the paper just seem so inviting. We want to be right there. Even if we aren’t a “keeping up with the Jones’” type of person, there is still a simplicity in all the scenes that draws us to Lucy’s life.

The gang’s move to the country was no exception. The place was a bit larger but still the simplicity of life emanated from the wood panels and the view of the yard. Consider when they began raising chickens or growing tulips. We can see ourselves trying to do those exact same things and can feel the satisfaction—even when none of it works out—for our efforts. Simplicity in life does that—it brings a sweetness that settles our chaotic mind and restless spirit.

I’ve read numerous articles on how Lucille Ball’s follow-up shows were never quite as successful as I Love Lucy. No one seems to be able to put a finger on it and they say such things as “viewers no longer wanted to watch her antics” but I think they have sorely missed the point. I know why none of her following shows ever achieved the success and endurance of I Love Lucy: they didn’t capture the essence of what pervaded that original show—and why we still love Lucy, maybe now more than ever.

I Love Lucy, with Lucy doing housework in a dress and heels, touches our hearts because we all long for a simpler time. Maybe that time never existed in the “real” world but that doesn’t remove the desire we all have for it in our daily lives. I see it as placed there by God. We don’t quite understand—we cannot grasp or maybe we just don’t want to believe—that simplicity can be so rewarding. But there it is, sitting deep down inside each of us—that longing for a simpler life—and it is why we still love Lucy.
Cheryl Dickow
www.BezalelBooks.com

Going to Sleep Before Going to Italy

There have always been two places I wanted to travel to in my lifetime: Israel and Italy.

 Italy became a reality after years of saving; it was our 25th wedding anniversary destination.

Even though I have been travelling since I was eight and put on board a plane to cross the country to visit my father for the summer, I’m really not much of a traveler. I don’t travel well. In fact what I’ve discovered about myself is that I’m a great “signer-upper” but when the actual time comes for the thing, I’m not near as excited about it as I was when I signed up.

Recognizing this about myself, I made sure to keep my foibles in check as our trip of a lifetime neared. One way I was going to combat my idiosyncrasies was to quiz as many people as I could and gather information about international travel. This was going to be the adventure of a lifetime and I was going to enjoy every part of it even if it killed me.

One of my biggest concerns was in regards to sleeping on the plane. I’m not a great sleeper as it is—never have been—so this was a hurdle I was determined to jump with the ease of an Olympian. I gathered information and tips like a squirrel gathering nuts for winter. I kept reminding myself that millions of people sleep on planes. It couldn’t be that difficult, right?

Needless to say, in the back of my mind the pressure to be able to sleep on the plane kept increasing. I knew that the thing about international travel is such that you have to sleep on the plane because when you land you are off for the first day of you trip—the trip that cost you your life savings.

The pressure was mounting and the trip was two months out.

Sometimes panic would seize me in the middle of the day and I would just breathe deep and let it pass.

I would say things to my grown sons like “Remember that your brothers should always be important to you,” and “Make sure that you will always see each other at Christmas time,” and “Marry wives who will welcome your brothers in their homes,” and “Please divide my jewelry fairly among yourselves.”

At one point my husband reprimanded me and said, “Cheryl! We’re going to Italy! You haven’t been given a death sentence!”

Oh yeah.

I’m not sure why but in my heart and mind there wasn’t much of a difference as the day quickly approached. I fondly remembered when I had signed up for this trip and it was just a vision, something I could talk about in the abstract. Now it was here and so I frantically compiled my list of tips:

1. Take a Tylenol P.M. when you get to the airport (nope; I’m allergic to Tylenol)

2. Drink a glass of wine when you get to the airport (again, allergies)

3. Make sure to have some sort of shawl—preferably a pashmina (finally something I could do—bought it)

4. Have a small pillow to sleep on (check)

5. Use ear plugs to block out the sound (check)

6. Use an eye mask to keep out the light (check again—I’m on a roll)

7. Use a mild and relaxing scent to help calm your nerves since you can’t take Tylenol or drink wine (this was my own brilliant idea)

8. Don’t even get your meager sleep the night before so that your body will give in to exhaustion (another brilliant idea that I came up with)

So it was that the day arrived and with my “peace and calming” essential oil, small head pillow, ear plugs, eye mask and red-wool pashmina shawl in tow I boarded the plane departing from Michigan to Italy having not slept, at that point, for about 20 hours.

Here’s how it is supposed to work: You get served your meal right away once in the air so that you can eat and get to sleep. Even the airlines understand this whole need for sleep and I was grateful they were on my side.

About an hour after being on board, and still sitting on the runway, we were begrudgingly told by the pilot that there were problems with the lavatories on the plane. There were airline maintenance personnel coming on and getting off the plane as if it were a subway system. They were taping areas off and we were told to stay seated (did I mention that someone tipped me off to possible blood clots from sitting on a plane too long so at this point my legs were in constant motion—toes pointed out, toes pointed in, toes pointed out, toes pointed in).

My husband kept glancing at me as I’m sure 25 years into this whole marriage thing he knew that my panic was just barely being held below the surface.

Finally, after three hours on the runway, we were told that we would be able to take off. The only problem (right after the blood clots…) was that they weren’t able to fix the two broken lavs which left only two for us travelers trapped in the blood-clot forming section. To make matters worse, we weren’t allowed to use the perfectly fine lavs in first class so most of the 3,000 people on board would have to use the working one which was—you guessed it—3 seats away from me.

Seriously?

But by all appearances I remained calm.

So we eat and I am now ready to get to sleep. I’m buoyed by all the paraphernalia which will surely induce a relaxing somber and rejuvenate my well-being. My husband is instructed by me to wrangle the bag out of the overhead compartment so I can retrieve said paraphernalia.

I’ve been given a light blanket by the attendant and now am in a quandary about the need for my pashmina so it goes in and out of the bag (and overhead compartment) approximately three times. I finally settle on needing it but wonder why my husband won’t take his seat. Apparently he is tired of the up and down and rearranging and has opted to wait until my ritual is completed and I am sound asleep—or dead from blood clots—until he will sit down again.

I arrive at my solution and pull the pashmina around my shoulders and lay the blanket across my lap.

I sprinkle a few drops of “peace and calming” essential oil on my small head pillow and ignore my husband’s growl of “What the hell is that smell?!” to which I say through gritted teeth, “It is peace and calming oil!”

I make an attempt to push the foam ear plugs into my ears, not knowing that you need to sort of twist them and let them open up in your ears.

I cover my eyes with the mask and fasten the Velcro and prepare for a deep sleep as I lay my head back on the pillow.

No more than five seconds later, the silky, elastic eye mask starts creeping up to the top of my head and flings off while the foam ear plugs fly out and sweat breaks out on my forehead from the heat of all the coverings. I’m a bit nauseous from the smell of the oil and my pillow, as it is cupped in a non-removable pillow on the head piece of the seat, is pushing my head forward in an unnatural awkward way—unless I do throw up and then it is a perfect position.

And my husband, God bless him, is still standing in the aisle amidst the 3,000 people who are now in line for the restroom. He is waiting, patiently, for me to ask for the bag back from the overhead bin so that he can finally get to sleep.

Garbage Cans and Purgatory

Our kitchen garbage can is actually 24 years old. I bought it when I was pregnant with my oldest son, Jared. And it really is in good condition, considering its age. As my dear step-father would say, it doesn't owe me anything.

The only problem with it is that the lid's opening is in front, versus on the top. So to throw trash away, you have to use your hand -- or the actual trash -- to push the flap in and then you can throw your garbage away by opening your hand and letting it drop. Sometimes it is best to just lift the lid off and throw things away -- this is particularly true with coffee grounds.

Anyhow, it all works perfectly fine for my husband and I but the boys inevitably get the lid covered with food and I am washing the flap of the lid at least 3 times a week.

I recently saw a really nice shiny, new garbage can that had an automatic lid. It is an actual motion sensor so whenever you wave your trash near the lid it opens up -- from the top -- and you can drop your trash in without getting it everywhere. It is battery-powered. I bought it.

When my husband John walked in from work the other day, he looked at the box, read the words "Automatic Lid!" and remained quiet, God bless him.

Then, on the weekend, he patiently opened the box and put the trash can together with its batteries in the lid. Barely speaking a word as he worked, I knew he was going to support me in my quest for a kitchen garbage can that required less clean up. Or at least that’s the story I choose to believe.

Once the can was put together and turned “on,” John lovingly smiled at me (I’m pretty sure it was a smile of love) -- his job was done -- and then he walked past the garbage can and towards the living room.

John's movement was detected by the lid and the lid dutifully opened. Hmmm....we wondered how far the motion detector worked on the thing and soon discovered that the only way to avoid activating the lid was to hug the wall opposite the can, or belly crawl, as we passed.

And still not a word from John as he read through the instructions to see if the lid would work without batteries. Nope.

As I went to get the packaging so we could return the can, I was laughing so hard I could barely breathe.

My Aunt Polly always says that John is going straight to Heaven. "No Purgatory time for this man," is what she says.

I finally agree.