Found 11 Articles by Rhonda Rhea
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When I was a kid, I always wondered why anyone would ever choose Frankenberry over Count Chocula.
Because . . . chocolate. That was my entire reason.
Of course, even though I was only a kid, I never put the Count on a pedestal or anything. I still instinctively knew that cereal chocolate didn’t really count as true chocolate. It was actually the first bite of Cocoa Krispies that tipped me off. It was more like: snap, crackle, I don’t think so.
I’m sorry, but I’ve just never been all that cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs. They just don’t smell right, like a cross between moldy baby-oiled aluminum and sweetened pest strips. Spoiled, oiled, or foiled—who knows?
Calling cereal chocolate real chocolate would be like calling cereal marshmallows real marshmallows. I know it’s supposed to be to a breakfast cereal’s credit when it stays crunch...
How about we all do this together: let's simultaneously go to the pantry for a snack and stare at a box of instant potatoes for three minutes. Last time I stared too long; even the packet of Shake 'N Bake started to look good. And I think I've had it since the '70s.
Decisions can be tough in any decade. We make a lot of difficult choices every day. That's why I try not to judge people according to their snack choices. Even when they don't choose chocolate. I try not to judge, but let's face it, I don't get them at all. You say potato, I say Butterfinger.
As ministers' wives, however, some decisions aren't exactly ours to make. If we could decide the number of eyeballs focused on our lives, I wonder how many we would choose. Living life in a fishbowl is one of the chief complaints among pastors' wives.
I know it can be daunting to go about your everyday life and ministry with an audience. I don't always ...
I'm so glad I never make stupid mistakes. I'm a pastor's wife, you know. We're not allowed to be stupid.
…Wow. You should be really proud of me. I typed that with a straight face. I'm laughing uproariously at myself now though. The truth is, I have fluff-brained moments all the time. I'm pretty sure I set my brain on top of my car the other day and then drove off with it still up there. Since then it's been all mad at me and giving me the silent treatment.
I wonder how many things I've left on top of the car over the years. I lose more coffee that way. I call it "road-spill." I'm thinking of putting a cup holder up there. Go ahead. Compliment me on the cool vinyl top on my car. We all know it's not vinyl. It's aged and weathered cappuccino. I may put this on Pinterest.
Coffee isn't the only thing flying off car roofs. So many cell phones dying so young. My husband gave his the double whammy. He didn't even need the car roof. He put his phone in...
We played Monopoly a lot when I was a kid. Of course, in the earliest years, playing Monopoly usually meant using the little iron to get the pretend wrinkles out of Barbie’s clothes or pretending to sew with that itsy-bitsy thimble. Or sometimes it meant putting all the money in my dad’s tackle box so we could play store.
By the time we were ready to play the actual game, most of the money and at least half the tokens were missing. But then we just combined what was left of the game with a few parts from Clue and Mouse Trap and we were good to go. Okay, so we did have to change a few rules. I’m pretty sure I remember a time when my brother won because he drew a cheese card and Colonel Mustard took a ride on the Reading Railroad. Though now that I think about it, my brother always seemed to win anytime he was the banker. What are the odds?
I think my favorite way to play Monopoly was when we used Cheetos for replacement parts. The game was over whenever we finished eating it. The board was a messy orange, I won’t lie, but it was about the most delici...
Chatting with a friend who was fretting over the stress of Christmas, I said, “At least we have those big family get-togethers to look forward to.” She told me that that’s what she was fretting about! She started popping Tums as she told me about her uncle.
Her Uncle Bob makes every family gathering a strenuous exercise. She rolled her eyes telling me of his bad jokes. She gritted her teeth relating how he laughs mercilessly while recounting every stupid thing she did growing up. She mentioned some pretty felonious thoughts about last year, like wanting to set fire to his barn. I reminded her no one wants a Christmas get-together that ends with a jail sentence!
We all tend to have an Uncle-Bob-type person in our lives who could use a remedial people skills class or two and who seems to be, shall we say, a few nuts over the fruitcake maximum. Maybe he’s bigger than life, storming into the room with noogies—with your name on them, even though you’re over thirty. Or worse, when you flip over...
I don’t care what anyone says, I never laugh in the face of danger. But sometimes, when danger isn’t looking, I point and make faces and call it a big stupidhead. Of course, then if danger looks over, I look down and pretend I’ve been picking lint off my jacket the whole time.
I decided early in life it might be wise to give a respectable deference to danger and fear, at least to their faces. I guess it’s partly because when I was a kid, Bozo the Clown used to sit in a dark corner of my room every night and brood creepishly. It was always in the same corner. Then in the morning he’d be gone and there would be a floor lamp there instead. Eerie.
Since I obviously know my way around the fear topic, here’s my helpful tip of the day: If you’re panicking, try taking deep breaths. Unless you’re panicking because you’re drowning. Because then you’re definitely going to need a whole different tack.
On the more serious side, though, isn’t it glorious that as we breathe in the...
Wouldn't it be nice if people came with dashboard lights? First thing in the morning, my "low coffee level" indicator button would no doubt light up. By noon another light would probably flash telling me I'm about a quart low.
My best definition of coffee: hot consciousness with cream and sugar. And I've noticed there are hardly any mornings when consciousness doesn't come in really handy.
I've also noticed that my poor husband misses his on Sundays. His consciousness, that is. There are several things people don't tell you about being a pastor's wife. I can't believe, for instance, that no one ever told me about PTSS. That's how we refer to it around my house anyway. It's "post-traumatic sermon syndrome" and it hits every Sunday soon after my husband finishes preaching the last of our three Sunday morning services. He sort of glazes over. There's no indicator light but the whole family knows it. And I know what you're thinking, but there's simply ...