(Or... The Son of Two Coffee Addicts Speaks)
Miles is home sick today. And tonight is the big preschool Christmas pageant in which he, Tejas and Joon Yung are to be Wise Men.
I'm all unnerved, worried that the kid's going to vomit or spike a high fever and thereby miss his big chance to don the musty robes, hold the spray-painted paper towel roll scepter and participate in the time-honored procession of a pint-sized Nativity complete with blue-eyed Baby Jesus doll. (Ahhh, tradition! :) )
So I'm loading him down with children's Tylenol, vitamin C and fluids. Since he's burned out on juice, I just gave him some iced tea, and he said: "But I cannot have Dr. Pepper. I know. That's OK, even though the morether the caffiene, the gooder a drink is!"
"What?!" I ask. "Why do you think that?" Yep, I feigned innocence -- surprise, even -- completely denying our closet cola drinking out of coffee mugs when he was younger, and the many, many trips to Starbucks during which he has learned that "latte" is one of mommy's favorite words.
He just giggled. And THEN he said, "Yep! But the gooder it is, the badder it is for your body! That's pretty funny, huh? The GOODER, the really BADDER!" Tee, hee, hee, hee, hee.....
From the mouths of babes, my friends. From the very sweet-tea-stained lips....
Just a girl, asking for grace, to survive her happily-ever-after.
12.14.2006
12.13.2006
Yep, I really love them.... Does it show much?
A bit of dialogue from a recent wintery evening, when the 3 of us snuggled in bed to work on puzzles and build pillow forts (adults then former and child the latter):
"So, Miles, do you like it better when Mommy tickles you or when Daddy tickles you?
Because Mommy tickles kinda softly, like this (indicating that I should provide example)...
... (pause for sound of small giggle)... but I tickle harder, like THIS!" (Pause for complete disruption of cozy snuggling posture and machine-gun bursts of laughter as child is tickled/ bounced/ buried under a pillow-mound of his own making.)
...The flailing and guffawing stop and the boy gasps for air.
"(Heave, sigh...) I like it better when you do it, Daddy."
"Oh, really? (Perhaps I detected a bit of a superior tone... perhaps not.) Why is that?"
"Because I get to laugh morether."
"So, Miles, do you like it better when Mommy tickles you or when Daddy tickles you?
Because Mommy tickles kinda softly, like this (indicating that I should provide example)...
... (pause for sound of small giggle)... but I tickle harder, like THIS!" (Pause for complete disruption of cozy snuggling posture and machine-gun bursts of laughter as child is tickled/ bounced/ buried under a pillow-mound of his own making.)
...The flailing and guffawing stop and the boy gasps for air.
"(Heave, sigh...) I like it better when you do it, Daddy."
"Oh, really? (Perhaps I detected a bit of a superior tone... perhaps not.) Why is that?"
"Because I get to laugh morether."
12.12.2006
Gettin' Though It
So my church's senior pastor is leaving. In just a few weeks. Amidst an environment of dissention and strife the likes of which I have never witnessed.
Living through it, as we might say around these parts, is gonna be a whippin.'
It's a hard place for any church to be in, facing a new year down one minister. (We are a big enough body that he is not the only minister... but he is the senior minister.) It isn't easy, no matter how strong and stoic we try to be, feeling a bit adrift and anxious about the long process hunkering in front of stability.
But finding ourselves in this place, in this church, seems harder still because of all the ugliness. I hope not to exaggerate or inflame in my reporting, just to come clean: We are a house divided, and our problems certainly aren't over because the lightning rod removed himself from the situation.
I have been slow to react to the news of the senior minister's departure, and I wonder if I've really reacted yet. It's possible I've felt nothing yet...
I do know, though -- it's gonna be a while before anything is remotely "normal" in my church family again. If normal is ever to be found.
I've come up with these self-imposed House Rules I'm gonna try to live by during the storm:
I hope the rules will help. Maybe I should make them public and create a place where more of us can post -- where we can ALL work on gettin' through it. But this place is mostly just personal, anyway. I keep it around in the belief that the written record will remind me, later, how God was in motion through every detail of my life way back when. :)
I believe He's here, ya' know. In every contentious corner. He's got all our backs. He safeguards my soul and He will not turn me free from the church universal just because the church in particular has turned into a battleground. My soul is fine. It's my heart, I'm afraid, that's about to be broken.
Living through it, as we might say around these parts, is gonna be a whippin.'
It's a hard place for any church to be in, facing a new year down one minister. (We are a big enough body that he is not the only minister... but he is the senior minister.) It isn't easy, no matter how strong and stoic we try to be, feeling a bit adrift and anxious about the long process hunkering in front of stability.
But finding ourselves in this place, in this church, seems harder still because of all the ugliness. I hope not to exaggerate or inflame in my reporting, just to come clean: We are a house divided, and our problems certainly aren't over because the lightning rod removed himself from the situation.
I have been slow to react to the news of the senior minister's departure, and I wonder if I've really reacted yet. It's possible I've felt nothing yet...
I do know, though -- it's gonna be a while before anything is remotely "normal" in my church family again. If normal is ever to be found.
I've come up with these self-imposed House Rules I'm gonna try to live by during the storm:
- No PERSONAL maligning. (But accurate descriptions of actions taken seem to be fair game. It ain't slander if it's true.)
- No speaking out or writing (even to friends) in moments of absolute rage or indignation.
- A mandatory re-read for all emails BEFORE they're sent -- at about 24 hours after they're composed, with deletion the only option for posts that shame the Spirit so few hours later.
- ...And pretty much any emotion I feel is fair game. No berating myself while I feel it. This is a real spiritual fight I feel myself up against. And I'm not sure just how, today, but I know I've gotta get through it.
I hope the rules will help. Maybe I should make them public and create a place where more of us can post -- where we can ALL work on gettin' through it. But this place is mostly just personal, anyway. I keep it around in the belief that the written record will remind me, later, how God was in motion through every detail of my life way back when. :)
I believe He's here, ya' know. In every contentious corner. He's got all our backs. He safeguards my soul and He will not turn me free from the church universal just because the church in particular has turned into a battleground. My soul is fine. It's my heart, I'm afraid, that's about to be broken.
12.05.2006
Something You Do Not Want to Hear Your 4-Year-Old Say....
"I know what color electricity is when it comes out of the wall."
Yeah, see, that's not good. And, knowing my kid, I had to half believe he was knew what he was talking about, even before I investigated.
"Is it yellow?" I ask. A VERY SERIOUS FACE is my response.
"Oh, no. It's blue. The sun is yellow. But -- somepin' kinda funny about that -- since the sun is yellow and orange, I don't think it runs on electricity at all. (Then, mumbling to himself) I think it must be lava. Fire rocks and hot lava."
Oh. My.
Where to start?
"Son: How do you know this about electricity?"
"Cause, when you plug in my fan, if you only plug it in halfway, the electricity comes out in a little line and you can watch it."
Oh. My.
BIG SAFETY LECTURE ensues. SERIOUS FACE takes it well. (It isn't all his fault. Something really is weird about that outlet. It doesn't hold plugs in as tightly as it should.)
I stop, breathe deeply, and ask the series of questions hard experience has taught me to ask: "So... you heard me just now, right? ...Did you understand? ...And, do you know what Mama needs you to do next time you need to plug in your fan? ...And, if you understand, I need to HEAR you say, 'Yes, Mam.' So we're both clear that you will not touch the electricity plug any more.... RIGHT?!"
Then I felt free to praise the mind in action. "And, actually, you're on the right track about the sun. That's some pretty good thinkin,' young man. "
Yeah, see, that's not good. And, knowing my kid, I had to half believe he was knew what he was talking about, even before I investigated.
"Is it yellow?" I ask. A VERY SERIOUS FACE is my response.
"Oh, no. It's blue. The sun is yellow. But -- somepin' kinda funny about that -- since the sun is yellow and orange, I don't think it runs on electricity at all. (Then, mumbling to himself) I think it must be lava. Fire rocks and hot lava."
Oh. My.
Where to start?
"Son: How do you know this about electricity?"
"Cause, when you plug in my fan, if you only plug it in halfway, the electricity comes out in a little line and you can watch it."
Oh. My.
BIG SAFETY LECTURE ensues. SERIOUS FACE takes it well. (It isn't all his fault. Something really is weird about that outlet. It doesn't hold plugs in as tightly as it should.)
I stop, breathe deeply, and ask the series of questions hard experience has taught me to ask: "So... you heard me just now, right? ...Did you understand? ...And, do you know what Mama needs you to do next time you need to plug in your fan? ...And, if you understand, I need to HEAR you say, 'Yes, Mam.' So we're both clear that you will not touch the electricity plug any more.... RIGHT?!"
Then I felt free to praise the mind in action. "And, actually, you're on the right track about the sun. That's some pretty good thinkin,' young man. "
12.01.2006
Keyboard Ponderings
I've rubbed away part of the upper curve of the "S" on my computer keyboard. It really bothers me.
I bet it's not that uncommon, to wear away the letter decals with heavy use or over time. I got this keyboard in Dec. '04, and since then I guess I've tended to hit that second row left-hand corner too hard -- I do sort of thud my way through the day, unable to click daintily like anyone who was ever trained in typing.
It's understandable. Still.... I am bothered by that small, missing piece of S. It leaps out at me every time I type.
Oh, and the bottom half of the left side of the A -- you know, the little part under the horizontal line? -- it's missing, too. That one doesn't bother me so much, because my pinky often rests on top of it. Plus, the A just sort of fades away at the bottom. The S has a clear gap in it... a bit of jarring non-congruity in its serpentine curve.
I think all the best people are like letters in heavy use. We have missing edges and little gaps life has worn into our shapes. Sometimes, our wear marks are hardly noticeable. Sometimes, they jump out at those observant.
Either way, we all get worn. All the more when we try to be the letters in heavy rotation... to use ourselves in the service of many words, to fully give ourselves away. Sometimes, "best letter" people wear down to the point of being unreadable. But, if a careful hand knows just where to find it and how much pressure to apply, a key with no observable label will still create its intended shape.
I don't know what this means, but it makes me much less sad about my S. It makes me much less sad to be an S.
And less sad is very good.
I bet it's not that uncommon, to wear away the letter decals with heavy use or over time. I got this keyboard in Dec. '04, and since then I guess I've tended to hit that second row left-hand corner too hard -- I do sort of thud my way through the day, unable to click daintily like anyone who was ever trained in typing.
It's understandable. Still.... I am bothered by that small, missing piece of S. It leaps out at me every time I type.
Oh, and the bottom half of the left side of the A -- you know, the little part under the horizontal line? -- it's missing, too. That one doesn't bother me so much, because my pinky often rests on top of it. Plus, the A just sort of fades away at the bottom. The S has a clear gap in it... a bit of jarring non-congruity in its serpentine curve.
I think all the best people are like letters in heavy use. We have missing edges and little gaps life has worn into our shapes. Sometimes, our wear marks are hardly noticeable. Sometimes, they jump out at those observant.
Either way, we all get worn. All the more when we try to be the letters in heavy rotation... to use ourselves in the service of many words, to fully give ourselves away. Sometimes, "best letter" people wear down to the point of being unreadable. But, if a careful hand knows just where to find it and how much pressure to apply, a key with no observable label will still create its intended shape.
I don't know what this means, but it makes me much less sad about my S. It makes me much less sad to be an S.
And less sad is very good.
Miles & Michelle
There's a little girl in Miles' class named Michelle. Michelle and Miles. Miles and Michelle. As you may have guessed, they've become fast friends.
Michelle's family moved here from Michigan, but her parents are originally from Mexico. So her Mom speaks Spanish and teaches their preschool class some Spanish, every other week. Anyway, I think Michelle is a darling, nice, smart-as-a-whip little girl... and have said so since she moved into Miles' class last spring. It's possible I have extolled her virtues a little too persistently (or the great minds in my family just think alike), because Miles' teacher told me that my redhead has developed a noticeable crush on the little brown-pigtailed girl.
Ahhh, so... it all adds up!
Earlier this week, I walked in to pick Miles up and found him power hugging Michelle -- just squeezing the life out of her with a big bear hug around her shoulders. (This is a game a group of boys usually play at the end of the day, and they seem to get extra points for knocking each other down and rolling around in the bear hug on the floor, until some mom says "enough!") I mentioned the lovey-dovey hug to the boy's father, and he brought it up later at dinner. Though Miles brags about his rough-housing exploits with Tejas and Christian Q. and would never leave class without hugging Nathan, he grew strangely silent about this little episode ...he appeared EMBARRASSED, even.
Add to this.... Miles asked last week if we could buy a birthday present for Michelle. I said sure, as soon as it is her birthday. Now, according to Miles, it's been Michelle's birthday twice in the last 10 days. Again this morning he says, "Today is Michelle's birthday." Oh, and he's invited to her party. To eat pizza. Somewhere. At some time.
I began to explain to the young love-bird that we need a party invitation ( in order to know when and where to go) but I was interrupted as Miles said, "It's OK. Michelle already invited me to her house." I then explained that no kid has this many birthdays, so only ONE day is Michelle's real birthday, and I need to know what day that is before we start handing over presents and weird her parents out. (What if her birth were in August, for instance, and they believe Miles is a pint-sized stalker?)
This stumped the band for a moment, and then Miles said, "Oh, so THAT'S why we need the moms to talk. Well, she might talk in Spanish but that's OK. (then another small pause.) And you might not understand her. But that's OK, too. I'll tell you what she said."
Priceless. Just priceless. Though he retains next to NO Spanish vocabulary, I find the boy's confidence refreshing. His optimism heartening. His little fixation sweet and endearing.
Here's to boys everywhere, and to the mothers who see them through their first crushes, latest crushes, crushed hearts and best attempts at communication. It really is a joy to be the mom of a boy!
Michelle's family moved here from Michigan, but her parents are originally from Mexico. So her Mom speaks Spanish and teaches their preschool class some Spanish, every other week. Anyway, I think Michelle is a darling, nice, smart-as-a-whip little girl... and have said so since she moved into Miles' class last spring. It's possible I have extolled her virtues a little too persistently (or the great minds in my family just think alike), because Miles' teacher told me that my redhead has developed a noticeable crush on the little brown-pigtailed girl.
Ahhh, so... it all adds up!
Earlier this week, I walked in to pick Miles up and found him power hugging Michelle -- just squeezing the life out of her with a big bear hug around her shoulders. (This is a game a group of boys usually play at the end of the day, and they seem to get extra points for knocking each other down and rolling around in the bear hug on the floor, until some mom says "enough!") I mentioned the lovey-dovey hug to the boy's father, and he brought it up later at dinner. Though Miles brags about his rough-housing exploits with Tejas and Christian Q. and would never leave class without hugging Nathan, he grew strangely silent about this little episode ...he appeared EMBARRASSED, even.
Add to this.... Miles asked last week if we could buy a birthday present for Michelle. I said sure, as soon as it is her birthday. Now, according to Miles, it's been Michelle's birthday twice in the last 10 days. Again this morning he says, "Today is Michelle's birthday." Oh, and he's invited to her party. To eat pizza. Somewhere. At some time.
I began to explain to the young love-bird that we need a party invitation ( in order to know when and where to go) but I was interrupted as Miles said, "It's OK. Michelle already invited me to her house." I then explained that no kid has this many birthdays, so only ONE day is Michelle's real birthday, and I need to know what day that is before we start handing over presents and weird her parents out. (What if her birth were in August, for instance, and they believe Miles is a pint-sized stalker?)
This stumped the band for a moment, and then Miles said, "Oh, so THAT'S why we need the moms to talk. Well, she might talk in Spanish but that's OK. (then another small pause.) And you might not understand her. But that's OK, too. I'll tell you what she said."
Priceless. Just priceless. Though he retains next to NO Spanish vocabulary, I find the boy's confidence refreshing. His optimism heartening. His little fixation sweet and endearing.
Here's to boys everywhere, and to the mothers who see them through their first crushes, latest crushes, crushed hearts and best attempts at communication. It really is a joy to be the mom of a boy!
11.29.2006
Realization
So today I found out I'm not crazy. I'm not just lazy. I'm not self-indulgent or exaggerating (or, probably not that much, anyway). I am not making things up. ...I am depressed.
Like, as in, textbook, real-life, some-serious-shit actual medical depression. This is what I have.
No wonder I thought I've been losing my mind! I sort-of did. Lose. The me that lives inside my head. (Isn't it scary that one's brain can actually become damaged by internal directives -- no outside events or physical traumas required? I heard the explanation about neurotransmitters today, and what I think about that right now, is that I have somehow wrecked my brain's ability to listen to itself. Not on purpose, of course. But still. Somehow this thing has happened to me, and right now I have a, literally, damaged brain.)
It makes perfect sense in my need-for-logic way. I have been floating along, going Casper in my own life, while I know my head is not functioning properly. I couldn't figure out how, exactly, I was different if I looked the same, talked the same, acted the same. But it's so very, heartbreakingly true: I have not been the same.
Not the same, in so, so long.
Now I just feel tired. Tired and bereft of energy for the climb out of this pit.
I hope I'm up to it. I do. Because I really miss that girl I used to be. She was nice. And funny. And her husband really, really loved her.
I hope somebody loves this girl. She needs that much.
Like, as in, textbook, real-life, some-serious-shit actual medical depression. This is what I have.
No wonder I thought I've been losing my mind! I sort-of did. Lose. The me that lives inside my head. (Isn't it scary that one's brain can actually become damaged by internal directives -- no outside events or physical traumas required? I heard the explanation about neurotransmitters today, and what I think about that right now, is that I have somehow wrecked my brain's ability to listen to itself. Not on purpose, of course. But still. Somehow this thing has happened to me, and right now I have a, literally, damaged brain.)
It makes perfect sense in my need-for-logic way. I have been floating along, going Casper in my own life, while I know my head is not functioning properly. I couldn't figure out how, exactly, I was different if I looked the same, talked the same, acted the same. But it's so very, heartbreakingly true: I have not been the same.
Not the same, in so, so long.
Now I just feel tired. Tired and bereft of energy for the climb out of this pit.
I hope I'm up to it. I do. Because I really miss that girl I used to be. She was nice. And funny. And her husband really, really loved her.
I hope somebody loves this girl. She needs that much.
Mind Dump, 11.29.06
I feel like I need to write today... but I'm not sure where to start or what to say.
It's strange because, I WANT to put down words that reach out to more people than myself. (I could open a Word document and start dumping if I only needed to get things out of my head.) Still, I don't know how to tell you the kinds of things I mostly say to me. (As is only proper & pragmatic, I'm sure. People aren't exactly forming a queue for this interior monologue.)
But you get what I mean? I really WANT to communicate with you. I just don't know how... right now.
Miles is outside, and I should make him come in. He's been out almost an hour. I can hear him talk to passing cars, but I can't see him where he's hanging out.
Dinner won't happen if I don't make a start of it soon.
...But who needs dinner? I could live without.
Jeremy isn't home yet.
The light is tinged with blue, the way sunshine gets when it's fading into dusk. And the leaves are all my favorite shades. It's a nice-looking time of day.
I can't even imagine what it would be like to enjoy my work calls again. Can't even make a picture come to mind.
I also can't think when my memory last matched my age, when it stood with me as something reliable and sturdy.
I don't think I make wishes anymore. I know I don't write Christmas lists. But I'm thinking maybe, this year, I should write a letter to Santa.
I believe I am going to getting better. But it'll be work. Such, such work. (Why is this true? God only knows. I'm just figuring out it's true for each of us, in every thing.) I'm guessing my thing is going to take a long time.
And, in the meantime, I am both hopeful and afraid that there's a lot to come out....
It's strange because, I WANT to put down words that reach out to more people than myself. (I could open a Word document and start dumping if I only needed to get things out of my head.) Still, I don't know how to tell you the kinds of things I mostly say to me. (As is only proper & pragmatic, I'm sure. People aren't exactly forming a queue for this interior monologue.)
But you get what I mean? I really WANT to communicate with you. I just don't know how... right now.
Miles is outside, and I should make him come in. He's been out almost an hour. I can hear him talk to passing cars, but I can't see him where he's hanging out.
Dinner won't happen if I don't make a start of it soon.
...But who needs dinner? I could live without.
Jeremy isn't home yet.
The light is tinged with blue, the way sunshine gets when it's fading into dusk. And the leaves are all my favorite shades. It's a nice-looking time of day.
I can't even imagine what it would be like to enjoy my work calls again. Can't even make a picture come to mind.
I also can't think when my memory last matched my age, when it stood with me as something reliable and sturdy.
I don't think I make wishes anymore. I know I don't write Christmas lists. But I'm thinking maybe, this year, I should write a letter to Santa.
I believe I am going to getting better. But it'll be work. Such, such work. (Why is this true? God only knows. I'm just figuring out it's true for each of us, in every thing.) I'm guessing my thing is going to take a long time.
And, in the meantime, I am both hopeful and afraid that there's a lot to come out....
11.20.2006
State of Domestic Affairs
Wow. This month is completely getting away from me! I have 6 drafts cooking and yet no consistent posting schedule. (Good thing I have a day job, because my actual word output wouldn't amount to any sort of living.)
I am doing some writing, in the compiling/ editing of an Advent devotional for church (and no one say a word about my tendency to over-volunteer!) -- but I don't seem to have the focus for blogging. The problem is just how I am. I want my posts to come out all neat and polished, when most days the inside of my head is all discombobulated. (I just love that word!)
Since all this journal really requires is my personal documentation of the imperfect and everyday, I am commandeering myself, right now, to take stock of what's happened in November 2006 and throw some words into the gap of time.
Cute Anecdote: Miles was humming something at dinner the other night, and it turned out to be the sing-songy introduction to "Quiet Water, Still Water." (You know... "Quiet water, still water, 1...2...3. See how quiet and still you can be"?)
I asked what he was humming and the boy explained the game to us parents (because we are lab-test humans who grew in pods and were never children ourselves). "Well, you see, when the person says it, you have to stop talking AND stop moving. At the same time." Then he says -- with a shake of his small head and an earnestness words cannot contain: "It's real hard."
Requisite Moment of Neurosis: I am not resting peacefully for all the dreams, lately. They aren't bad -- just very, very strange and involved. It's like Dr. Suess for grown-ups (without the rhymes but with all the fantastical scenery) in my head lately. I had to navigate a Suessian New York City on foot... I went to an other-worldly Alaska... Some snotty lady with a furry animal around her neck told me I was going to give my child ring-worm (?!). ...Just some weird and wacky stuff.
I guess I'm OK until Robin Williams and Cuba Gooding Jr show up in my sleep. When I go Hollywood, I'll know I have fallen over the final ledge of logic and believability....
Cultural Update: I went to a very cool social event sponsored by my Sunday School class this weekend. It was sort of like (and forgive me, please, if this sounds just condescending and all wrong...) "Meet the Muslim Night."
Representatives from four Muslim families and about 8 Christian families got together so we (the Xians) could ask questions we might have/ clear up any misconceptions we carry about the practice of Islam. This came about because my church's Women's Ministries visited one of the local mosques, and two women -- one visiting, one hosting -- befriended each other. (Also, this particular Muslim community has one very outgoing, locally prominent congregant who likes to be ecumenical and stage such get-togethers.)
Well, I really had no questions going in (yes, an appalling lack of curiosity/ burning intellectual fire/ heart for evangelism -- but I'm pretty comfortable with that). I just thought I should show up, to show some respect for these kind folk who were willing to walk into their own kind of lion's den to build a bridge between the culture they grew up in and the one they have come to live in.
Background: Not one of these folks are originally from around here. And "here" is a Bible-thumping, public-Jesus-referencing, prayer in school, Southern-Baptist dominated kind of place. I don't even notice it, so much anymore, but I'm sure it can be kinda scary for anyone who feels "other." Who KNOWS what kind of grilling they thought they were in for?!
Well, the coolest thing (as any true Jesus-follower could easily have known beforehand) was that we all got along great! We bonded over food and kids and were laughing and talking and sharing in free-flowing conversation before the end of dinner. I knew they'd be nice, but I guess they weren't sure we'd be. I'm thinking we passed some kind of tolerance test, however, as none of us tried to convert them or argue their take on Jesus as just another prophet. (Look, it seriously wasn't the venue. And to what end, I'd have to ask?)
One of the Islamic families is a young couple -- she an American citizen and he a Chinese citizen who has only been in the States a few months and is still learning the language ropes. (They communicate fine as she speaks Mandarin and they both speak Arabic. And in my little town -- crazy, huh?) Another couple are Canadian citizens (Kingston, Ontario -- I know right where it is!) who moved here from New Hampshire. Another woman was raised in Atlanta. It was just a crazy quilt of God's people... looking for some common ground.
And I guess we found it, in the commandment we hold in common, to live at peace. John 14:27, in Jesus' own words: "Peace I leave with you; my peace I give unto you. Not as the world gives do I give. Let not your hearts be troubled, and do not be afraid." So, an evening of greater peace with our neighbors and within ourselves... It was a nice way to start my own personal Advent.
I am doing some writing, in the compiling/ editing of an Advent devotional for church (and no one say a word about my tendency to over-volunteer!) -- but I don't seem to have the focus for blogging. The problem is just how I am. I want my posts to come out all neat and polished, when most days the inside of my head is all discombobulated. (I just love that word!)
Since all this journal really requires is my personal documentation of the imperfect and everyday, I am commandeering myself, right now, to take stock of what's happened in November 2006 and throw some words into the gap of time.
Cute Anecdote: Miles was humming something at dinner the other night, and it turned out to be the sing-songy introduction to "Quiet Water, Still Water." (You know... "Quiet water, still water, 1...2...3. See how quiet and still you can be"?)
I asked what he was humming and the boy explained the game to us parents (because we are lab-test humans who grew in pods and were never children ourselves). "Well, you see, when the person says it, you have to stop talking AND stop moving. At the same time." Then he says -- with a shake of his small head and an earnestness words cannot contain: "It's real hard."
Requisite Moment of Neurosis: I am not resting peacefully for all the dreams, lately. They aren't bad -- just very, very strange and involved. It's like Dr. Suess for grown-ups (without the rhymes but with all the fantastical scenery) in my head lately. I had to navigate a Suessian New York City on foot... I went to an other-worldly Alaska... Some snotty lady with a furry animal around her neck told me I was going to give my child ring-worm (?!). ...Just some weird and wacky stuff.
I guess I'm OK until Robin Williams and Cuba Gooding Jr show up in my sleep. When I go Hollywood, I'll know I have fallen over the final ledge of logic and believability....
Cultural Update: I went to a very cool social event sponsored by my Sunday School class this weekend. It was sort of like (and forgive me, please, if this sounds just condescending and all wrong...) "Meet the Muslim Night."
Representatives from four Muslim families and about 8 Christian families got together so we (the Xians) could ask questions we might have/ clear up any misconceptions we carry about the practice of Islam. This came about because my church's Women's Ministries visited one of the local mosques, and two women -- one visiting, one hosting -- befriended each other. (Also, this particular Muslim community has one very outgoing, locally prominent congregant who likes to be ecumenical and stage such get-togethers.)
Well, I really had no questions going in (yes, an appalling lack of curiosity/ burning intellectual fire/ heart for evangelism -- but I'm pretty comfortable with that). I just thought I should show up, to show some respect for these kind folk who were willing to walk into their own kind of lion's den to build a bridge between the culture they grew up in and the one they have come to live in.
Background: Not one of these folks are originally from around here. And "here" is a Bible-thumping, public-Jesus-referencing, prayer in school, Southern-Baptist dominated kind of place. I don't even notice it, so much anymore, but I'm sure it can be kinda scary for anyone who feels "other." Who KNOWS what kind of grilling they thought they were in for?!
Well, the coolest thing (as any true Jesus-follower could easily have known beforehand) was that we all got along great! We bonded over food and kids and were laughing and talking and sharing in free-flowing conversation before the end of dinner. I knew they'd be nice, but I guess they weren't sure we'd be. I'm thinking we passed some kind of tolerance test, however, as none of us tried to convert them or argue their take on Jesus as just another prophet. (Look, it seriously wasn't the venue. And to what end, I'd have to ask?)
One of the Islamic families is a young couple -- she an American citizen and he a Chinese citizen who has only been in the States a few months and is still learning the language ropes. (They communicate fine as she speaks Mandarin and they both speak Arabic. And in my little town -- crazy, huh?) Another couple are Canadian citizens (Kingston, Ontario -- I know right where it is!) who moved here from New Hampshire. Another woman was raised in Atlanta. It was just a crazy quilt of God's people... looking for some common ground.
And I guess we found it, in the commandment we hold in common, to live at peace. John 14:27, in Jesus' own words: "Peace I leave with you; my peace I give unto you. Not as the world gives do I give. Let not your hearts be troubled, and do not be afraid." So, an evening of greater peace with our neighbors and within ourselves... It was a nice way to start my own personal Advent.
Feline Health Update
So the cat's eye looks fine today. All bright and wide-open.
...Ahhh, the restorative power of the 24-hour nap!
PS: De-lurking Week ROCKS! I'm off to leave smiley faces at lots of RevGal blogs, just as soon as I can escape work. Thanks for the happy comments here. I smile at each one -- real big.
...Ahhh, the restorative power of the 24-hour nap!
PS: De-lurking Week ROCKS! I'm off to leave smiley faces at lots of RevGal blogs, just as soon as I can escape work. Thanks for the happy comments here. I smile at each one -- real big.
11.19.2006
Outside on Purpose
OK, so this kind of stinks.
(And, yes -- sigh -- I am going to blog about the cat AGAIN. I have very little range, OK? Kid and cat, cat and kid. Take away the kid and I am quickly becoming Angela from The Office, US version, who keeps cat figurines on her desk and calls them "old souls." I knew this would happen! I have old-lady-with-too-many-cats in my family history.)
Anyway, it all begins on Saturday, when I had some people over and one of the people said to me, "Is that your cat?" (Currently hanging out on the front porch.) "You don't let him go outside ON PURPOSE, do you?" Well, yes, actually, I do.
Now, I know there are arguments against this barbaric, outdated practice, but look, this is Texas and EVERYONE goes out. Man or beast, we all spend a good amount of time outdoors. And, look, this is Texas. We just don't tend to coddle the animals. The cat came to me never having been INSIDE a house. (His mom was a stray; he was born in a carport and kept in a kennel in there for 6 weeks.) Most vets areound here treat livestock as often as housepets, and the pigs go out. So, I just give Chester his kitty-sized firearm and send him on his way. (This is Texas... get it? Joke, people. Joke.)
I tried hard to be polite when called on the carpet about... gasp.... letting the cat out. One of my guests is a pretty frequent visitor and is clearly allergic to the cat, so for her alone I would have banished him to a back room. But he chose the outdoors early in the afternoon, and I didn't usher him back in until he showed up on the porch.
This is pretty routine, by the way. Cat goes out for jaunts about twice a day and comes back in when he gets hungry/ when he needs a nap/ when Miles gets home/ when it gets darkish. He has a friend next door named Mister Whiskers, and he sometimes follows Mister Whiskers home. (Mister also nudges unlatched doors open and comes ininvited into our home. Have I mentioned the time Miles said -- over dinner -- "Oh, look! Mom, Chester has a friend over!"?!)
All seems well with this nifty little system. My cat has an entire kingdom on Sherry Lane. He also has play dates, gets his energy out and still remembers where his food bowl is. Only yesterday or today... Chester must have played a little too hard, because he came home with a scratched eye and has been almost constantly napping ever since.
I think the eye will heal on its own. It's just swollen and pink, making it look unlike the other one. But the cat lets me mush his face without making a noise, he purrs and his appetite is fine.
Only... dammit! Someone said I shouldn't let him out, and almost at that same moment, he gets hurt outside?! This does NOT look good!
It was probably playtime with Mister Whiskers. Chess is way more agile and determined to win, but The Mister just keeps coming back for more. They swish their tails and bat the air and chase and chase, finally falling into a tangled ball of fur on the back driveway -- Chester always on top and Whiskers always flinching first. They do this silently, and when I first saw it, I sprinted outside to save my endangered kitten from the 10-lb gray evil. Then I noticed that they were so relaxed... no raised backs or wrinkled noses, no snarls or flared ears. Their tails were just swishing, swishing, then Chester would crouch down to signal the start of the chase. After each encounter, Mister Whiskers would disentangle himself, circle our backyard and then start again. (I don't know... maybe when they play at his house, Mister Whiskers gets to be the tough guy. Around here, he's the patsy every time.)
So, I figure the boys just went at it a little too hard. And maybe Mister needed to defend himself. I'm not upset with the other cat. But I know cats can infect each other with some pretty bad stuff. And I know eyes are vital organs. And I know I'll have to watch my cat carefully for days, now. And I am seriously going to hate driving him to the vet. ...Where a nice, non-judgmental old guy will make Chester all better, but not before some fresh-faced, well-meaning vet tech will say to me, "You know, people don't let their cats outdoors anymore. You didn't actually send him outside ON PURPOSE, did you?"
(And, yes -- sigh -- I am going to blog about the cat AGAIN. I have very little range, OK? Kid and cat, cat and kid. Take away the kid and I am quickly becoming Angela from The Office, US version, who keeps cat figurines on her desk and calls them "old souls." I knew this would happen! I have old-lady-with-too-many-cats in my family history.)
Anyway, it all begins on Saturday, when I had some people over and one of the people said to me, "Is that your cat?" (Currently hanging out on the front porch.) "You don't let him go outside ON PURPOSE, do you?" Well, yes, actually, I do.
Now, I know there are arguments against this barbaric, outdated practice, but look, this is Texas and EVERYONE goes out. Man or beast, we all spend a good amount of time outdoors. And, look, this is Texas. We just don't tend to coddle the animals. The cat came to me never having been INSIDE a house. (His mom was a stray; he was born in a carport and kept in a kennel in there for 6 weeks.) Most vets areound here treat livestock as often as housepets, and the pigs go out. So, I just give Chester his kitty-sized firearm and send him on his way. (This is Texas... get it? Joke, people. Joke.)
I tried hard to be polite when called on the carpet about... gasp.... letting the cat out. One of my guests is a pretty frequent visitor and is clearly allergic to the cat, so for her alone I would have banished him to a back room. But he chose the outdoors early in the afternoon, and I didn't usher him back in until he showed up on the porch.
This is pretty routine, by the way. Cat goes out for jaunts about twice a day and comes back in when he gets hungry/ when he needs a nap/ when Miles gets home/ when it gets darkish. He has a friend next door named Mister Whiskers, and he sometimes follows Mister Whiskers home. (Mister also nudges unlatched doors open and comes ininvited into our home. Have I mentioned the time Miles said -- over dinner -- "Oh, look! Mom, Chester has a friend over!"?!)
All seems well with this nifty little system. My cat has an entire kingdom on Sherry Lane. He also has play dates, gets his energy out and still remembers where his food bowl is. Only yesterday or today... Chester must have played a little too hard, because he came home with a scratched eye and has been almost constantly napping ever since.
I think the eye will heal on its own. It's just swollen and pink, making it look unlike the other one. But the cat lets me mush his face without making a noise, he purrs and his appetite is fine.
Only... dammit! Someone said I shouldn't let him out, and almost at that same moment, he gets hurt outside?! This does NOT look good!
It was probably playtime with Mister Whiskers. Chess is way more agile and determined to win, but The Mister just keeps coming back for more. They swish their tails and bat the air and chase and chase, finally falling into a tangled ball of fur on the back driveway -- Chester always on top and Whiskers always flinching first. They do this silently, and when I first saw it, I sprinted outside to save my endangered kitten from the 10-lb gray evil. Then I noticed that they were so relaxed... no raised backs or wrinkled noses, no snarls or flared ears. Their tails were just swishing, swishing, then Chester would crouch down to signal the start of the chase. After each encounter, Mister Whiskers would disentangle himself, circle our backyard and then start again. (I don't know... maybe when they play at his house, Mister Whiskers gets to be the tough guy. Around here, he's the patsy every time.)
So, I figure the boys just went at it a little too hard. And maybe Mister needed to defend himself. I'm not upset with the other cat. But I know cats can infect each other with some pretty bad stuff. And I know eyes are vital organs. And I know I'll have to watch my cat carefully for days, now. And I am seriously going to hate driving him to the vet. ...Where a nice, non-judgmental old guy will make Chester all better, but not before some fresh-faced, well-meaning vet tech will say to me, "You know, people don't let their cats outdoors anymore. You didn't actually send him outside ON PURPOSE, did you?"
11.15.2006
Halloween Flashback
I forgot until today that I really meant to post Halloween pictures.
Of course, when I looked at the picture folder, I remembered why I forgot. None were very good.
Nonetheless, M. had great fun dressing up as BOTH Batman and Darth Vader (at different events, different times of the day). This was fine with me because: both figures use the same cape; the Batman mask was from last year; the lightsaber we already had; and it actually gave me great amusement to watch sweet, skinny Miles, top-heavy and bumbling in the oversize Vader mask, wondering how to play the character. He tended to just walk around with his arms out, saying "arrrgh, arrrgh," as if Vader imight be a pirate or mummy.
Anyway: Here are a few images from early in the day.
I call them "Batman Spreads His Wings" and "Crusader With Cat" (alternate title: Another Reason Why Chester Is the Best Sport Ever). I love the motion effect on the first one, even though the image is a bit fuzzy. And I just love the second one.
I wonder what will become the costume of choice next Halloween? Last year it was a skeleton and Batman -- at the same time. Already, after this year, I've heard talk of becoming a viking. (I think he just wants the cool hat.) Whatever Miles chooses, I hope he keep making the choice for years to come. The dress-up is big fun for the mamas. And the memories are what childhood is made of.
Of course, when I looked at the picture folder, I remembered why I forgot. None were very good.
Nonetheless, M. had great fun dressing up as BOTH Batman and Darth Vader (at different events, different times of the day). This was fine with me because: both figures use the same cape; the Batman mask was from last year; the lightsaber we already had; and it actually gave me great amusement to watch sweet, skinny Miles, top-heavy and bumbling in the oversize Vader mask, wondering how to play the character. He tended to just walk around with his arms out, saying "arrrgh, arrrgh," as if Vader imight be a pirate or mummy.
Anyway: Here are a few images from early in the day.
I call them "Batman Spreads His Wings" and "Crusader With Cat" (alternate title: Another Reason Why Chester Is the Best Sport Ever). I love the motion effect on the first one, even though the image is a bit fuzzy. And I just love the second one.
I wonder what will become the costume of choice next Halloween? Last year it was a skeleton and Batman -- at the same time. Already, after this year, I've heard talk of becoming a viking. (I think he just wants the cool hat.) Whatever Miles chooses, I hope he keep making the choice for years to come. The dress-up is big fun for the mamas. And the memories are what childhood is made of.
11.10.2006
Kitty Love
In evidence of his hard, hard life and all the energy he expends just being feline, our pal Chester
is forced to spend much of his day in a posture something like this.
(Yeah -- you tell me how that's comfortable? I'm thinkin,' only if you weigh four pounds and have tiny bones made of rubber.)
If not on the couch, then he is often to be found on the chair, or the other chair (the one closest to the breakfast room window), or maybe the rug, or -- in a pinch, say if narcalepsy overtakes him -- flat-out on the carpet in front of the picture window. Yes, it's good to be a cat.
But today Chester surpised even me, a fairly close cataloger of his habits and haunts, as he settled in to nap -- that is, to actually fall ASLEEP -- beside my computer. (Napping on the CPU, I have witnessed. It's located in a warm, cozy, more empty space under the desk. Napping by my the mouse -- amid the daily piles, files and coffee-cup stains -- now that's a
new one.)
I confess I missed the import at first. Sure, he likes chewing on my legal pad and swiping at the phone cord but, really, it's just plain wood. Hard wood. When he's got a house full of soft spots, too! And then it dawned on me. The cat just wanted to be close to me. (Everybody, now: Awwwwwwww.) As I moused, he dozed. And then I got cute and tried to take this picture, which instantly woke him up. (See his surprised looking back feet, which have just shot away from his body...)
But the moment remains: a little act of kitty-love as my pet helped himself to some companionship and helped me through the workday. About that, I just want to say -- though cats can't read (I'm pretty sure) and Chester's obviously already got my number -- you've come a long way, Mr. Walking Ginsu Knives, and you're really a very nice Kitty Boy. I'm glad you're part of our family. And, one more thing (imagine the voice of Flower in Bambi): You can like me best if you want to.
is forced to spend much of his day in a posture something like this.(Yeah -- you tell me how that's comfortable? I'm thinkin,' only if you weigh four pounds and have tiny bones made of rubber.)
If not on the couch, then he is often to be found on the chair, or the other chair (the one closest to the breakfast room window), or maybe the rug, or -- in a pinch, say if narcalepsy overtakes him -- flat-out on the carpet in front of the picture window. Yes, it's good to be a cat.
But today Chester surpised even me, a fairly close cataloger of his habits and haunts, as he settled in to nap -- that is, to actually fall ASLEEP -- beside my computer. (Napping on the CPU, I have witnessed. It's located in a warm, cozy, more empty space under the desk. Napping by my the mouse -- amid the daily piles, files and coffee-cup stains -- now that's a
new one.)I confess I missed the import at first. Sure, he likes chewing on my legal pad and swiping at the phone cord but, really, it's just plain wood. Hard wood. When he's got a house full of soft spots, too! And then it dawned on me. The cat just wanted to be close to me. (Everybody, now: Awwwwwwww.) As I moused, he dozed. And then I got cute and tried to take this picture, which instantly woke him up. (See his surprised looking back feet, which have just shot away from his body...)
But the moment remains: a little act of kitty-love as my pet helped himself to some companionship and helped me through the workday. About that, I just want to say -- though cats can't read (I'm pretty sure) and Chester's obviously already got my number -- you've come a long way, Mr. Walking Ginsu Knives, and you're really a very nice Kitty Boy. I'm glad you're part of our family. And, one more thing (imagine the voice of Flower in Bambi): You can like me best if you want to.
For SusieDerk
So! Many, many days have passed since my friend's birthday. Which was in a different month. Than we are in now. (But, hey, to gimme a break, the date did fall towards the end of the last one.)
To mark the occasion, I had this great tribute post floating in my head and sort of sketched out in my drafts folder... but it's going nowhere. I just don't have the mental focus to bring it together right now. Again, someday, I'll bring it out. Because we're going to be BFFs for a really long time. Really! I have it all planned. :)
In the meantime, I did think of one thing I would like to post. A song that has a link to a beyond cheesy era of television. The fact that I learned this song watching NBC in the 80s will seriously knock hip points off my world rating, I'm sure, but it's just... so... perfect.. nonetheless. So, Suse, know that I am willing to publicly link myself -- forever! in the unerasable realm of cyberspace -- to Bea Arthur and Estelle Getty, just to deliver these good words. Enjoy!
Thank you for being a friend
...Traveled down that road and back again
Your heart is true,
You're a pal and a confidant
And if you threw a party
Invited everyone you knew
You would see the biggest gift would be from me
And the card attached would say
Thank you for being a friend...
And if it's a car you lack
I'd surely buy you a Cadillac
Whatever you need
Any time of the day or night
Thank you for being a friend...
And when we both get older
With walking canes and hair of gray
Have no fear even though it's hard to hear
I will stand real close and say
Thank you for being a friend...
To mark the occasion, I had this great tribute post floating in my head and sort of sketched out in my drafts folder... but it's going nowhere. I just don't have the mental focus to bring it together right now. Again, someday, I'll bring it out. Because we're going to be BFFs for a really long time. Really! I have it all planned. :)
In the meantime, I did think of one thing I would like to post. A song that has a link to a beyond cheesy era of television. The fact that I learned this song watching NBC in the 80s will seriously knock hip points off my world rating, I'm sure, but it's just... so... perfect.. nonetheless. So, Suse, know that I am willing to publicly link myself -- forever! in the unerasable realm of cyberspace -- to Bea Arthur and Estelle Getty, just to deliver these good words. Enjoy!
Thank you for being a friend
...Traveled down that road and back again
Your heart is true,
You're a pal and a confidant
And if you threw a party
Invited everyone you knew
You would see the biggest gift would be from me
And the card attached would say
Thank you for being a friend...
And if it's a car you lack
I'd surely buy you a Cadillac
Whatever you need
Any time of the day or night
Thank you for being a friend...
And when we both get older
With walking canes and hair of gray
Have no fear even though it's hard to hear
I will stand real close and say
Thank you for being a friend...
11.07.2006
Some Things About Rain
I fell asleep Sunday night to the sound of rain, and it was nice.
(The sound later woke up Miles and drove him to his father's side of the bed, waaay too early in the morning, but I'll leave off lamenting about that since it didn't happen to me.)
I was wondering, in the shower Monday morning, why rain at night is a comfort to me while rain during the day is just such a drag. I think it has to do with my most fundamental ordering of the world. Well, at least, my world. Because, here, where I live...
The darkness should know its place!
I've got no problem with gray and dreary when it's ALREADY dark outside. Pitter patter, doesn't matter. But my soul gets jittery every time my expectation of what should logically and naturally follow gets upended. Sun shines every day in my world, and to it is given the better part of each day. That's how it is. Period. This business of hours upon hours lacking any sparkle or shine... well, I must insist upon a return to our regularly scheduled programming.
Now here's where things get interesting. Because I'm pretty sure God spoke to me as I was facing off with my worldview, in the shower, on Monday morning. While the neighborhood was still wringing wet and with my own head half lathered, I think God gave me to understand that a little less must-have-my-physical-needs-met-every-day is going to be necessary in the life He has designed for me. A higher level of resilience will, perhaps, serve me better.
It's not that I'm wrong to crave the sun and decry the rain (the actual or the symbolic, I mean). It's that I would likely ease my own load if I could accept the gray drizzle that so often arrives in my everyday. If I could stop believing I always need the opposite of it, then perhaps I could let the gray stand as a weather condition, but not a soul condition.
'Cause here we are, friends -- smack dab in the middle of a long, gray day-in-the-life that I have proven I myself cannot control. I want to have more children. And I don't. I just don't. We've tried. We'll keep trying. But I've lost precious and sacred things in the process; my heart is wounded and time passes and it all still sucks pretty badly. Cue the lightning. Roll the thunder.
...Now what?
Instead of fighting the suckiness of this situation all the time -- like I must actively resist feeling sorry for myself -- why have I not thought to let it be? Just let it be what it is, then pick up and proceed, in sunshine and light, toward the things God wants me to do. OK... easier said than done, sure... But maybe, if I stop feeling like I'm fighting all the time, I can stop feeling like I'm losing the fight.
And now we're back to God. I've known for months that His soul tonic for me would also be a tough pill to swallow. (It's no coincidence I picked this metaphor. I hate non-chewable things; I choke on vitamins.) I guess maybe I was afraid for a while. Leery, or rebellious. Or something. But I need to stop fighting this hurt now. I need to let it be. His voice says it in a softer and gentler tone than I could ever summon. "Just live," God tells me. "Just live the way I made you to be." For the record, I live in light -- in all circumstances, through every trial, over and above any pressing cloud, I live in light.
"My grace is sufficient for you," He told Paul in 2 Corinthians 12. (Like I'm going to be proud, or stupid, enough to lay claim to something more or different?!) "I have learned the secret of being content..." Paul answered back in Phillipians 4.
"I know what it is to be in need, and I know what it is to have plenty. I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation, whether well fed or hungry, whether living in plenty or in want. I can do everything through him who gives me strength." So go verses 12 and 13. And, then, like a ray straight from my own personal sun comes verse 14. "Yet it was good of you to share in my troubles."
Yes, yes, it was. It was good of all of you. Thanks for thinking of me while I work these things out for myself. For being here, and for "listening." You shine the light.
(The sound later woke up Miles and drove him to his father's side of the bed, waaay too early in the morning, but I'll leave off lamenting about that since it didn't happen to me.)
I was wondering, in the shower Monday morning, why rain at night is a comfort to me while rain during the day is just such a drag. I think it has to do with my most fundamental ordering of the world. Well, at least, my world. Because, here, where I live...
The darkness should know its place!
I've got no problem with gray and dreary when it's ALREADY dark outside. Pitter patter, doesn't matter. But my soul gets jittery every time my expectation of what should logically and naturally follow gets upended. Sun shines every day in my world, and to it is given the better part of each day. That's how it is. Period. This business of hours upon hours lacking any sparkle or shine... well, I must insist upon a return to our regularly scheduled programming.
Now here's where things get interesting. Because I'm pretty sure God spoke to me as I was facing off with my worldview, in the shower, on Monday morning. While the neighborhood was still wringing wet and with my own head half lathered, I think God gave me to understand that a little less must-have-my-physical-needs-met-every-day is going to be necessary in the life He has designed for me. A higher level of resilience will, perhaps, serve me better.
It's not that I'm wrong to crave the sun and decry the rain (the actual or the symbolic, I mean). It's that I would likely ease my own load if I could accept the gray drizzle that so often arrives in my everyday. If I could stop believing I always need the opposite of it, then perhaps I could let the gray stand as a weather condition, but not a soul condition.
'Cause here we are, friends -- smack dab in the middle of a long, gray day-in-the-life that I have proven I myself cannot control. I want to have more children. And I don't. I just don't. We've tried. We'll keep trying. But I've lost precious and sacred things in the process; my heart is wounded and time passes and it all still sucks pretty badly. Cue the lightning. Roll the thunder.
...Now what?
Instead of fighting the suckiness of this situation all the time -- like I must actively resist feeling sorry for myself -- why have I not thought to let it be? Just let it be what it is, then pick up and proceed, in sunshine and light, toward the things God wants me to do. OK... easier said than done, sure... But maybe, if I stop feeling like I'm fighting all the time, I can stop feeling like I'm losing the fight.
And now we're back to God. I've known for months that His soul tonic for me would also be a tough pill to swallow. (It's no coincidence I picked this metaphor. I hate non-chewable things; I choke on vitamins.) I guess maybe I was afraid for a while. Leery, or rebellious. Or something. But I need to stop fighting this hurt now. I need to let it be. His voice says it in a softer and gentler tone than I could ever summon. "Just live," God tells me. "Just live the way I made you to be." For the record, I live in light -- in all circumstances, through every trial, over and above any pressing cloud, I live in light.
"My grace is sufficient for you," He told Paul in 2 Corinthians 12. (Like I'm going to be proud, or stupid, enough to lay claim to something more or different?!) "I have learned the secret of being content..." Paul answered back in Phillipians 4.
"I know what it is to be in need, and I know what it is to have plenty. I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation, whether well fed or hungry, whether living in plenty or in want. I can do everything through him who gives me strength." So go verses 12 and 13. And, then, like a ray straight from my own personal sun comes verse 14. "Yet it was good of you to share in my troubles."
Yes, yes, it was. It was good of all of you. Thanks for thinking of me while I work these things out for myself. For being here, and for "listening." You shine the light.
10.26.2006
Why Ginger Should Not Live in Seattle
So it rained again yesterday. ALLLL day, yesterday. Day and night, yesterday. A real downer! (Pun points, anyone?) Actually, the rain did make it hard for me to concentrate. Impossible to achieve any brain function higher than comprehension (see this list of skills I lost). Seriously: We had take-out pizza for dinner, because I couldn't think of anything else with all that noise above my head.
I also had to buy larger jeans last night. I needed them because I'm pretty sure I'm gaining the Freshman 15, 17 years late. (No, the Fresh 15 is a joke. I just read about this! A recent study of collegiate weight gain says it's more like the freshman 5 to 8, followed by the sophomore 3 to 5, etc, etc. Really. You should Google News it!) But all this is an elaborate aside....
What I'm really saying is: I have determined I am NOT a strong candidate for life anywhere there is a dearth of sunshine. In a week or less, I would get the SAD, real bad! (it's a real term, the seasonal affective disorder -- even when they fit perfectly and rhyme, I don't make these things up!)
While I truly do like rain in the abstract -- in songs about Noah, in kid art, when I'm inside movie theaters -- and while I can heartily enjoy the first 20-30 minutes of a downpour -- I just don't cope well with darkness.
This probably explains a lot more than I meant to say, but let's let it lie, shall we? For now, let's just take my assertion that I am well-positioned in this geography and go with that. Anyone else hear The Beatles about now?
Hmm, hmm, um, huuh... Hum, hum, uh "long cold lonely winter.
Little darling, it feels like years since it has been here
Here comes the sun..."
Oh, yeah. It's all right! Until global warming changes my climate, I've got sun, sun, sun... here it comes!
I also had to buy larger jeans last night. I needed them because I'm pretty sure I'm gaining the Freshman 15, 17 years late. (No, the Fresh 15 is a joke. I just read about this! A recent study of collegiate weight gain says it's more like the freshman 5 to 8, followed by the sophomore 3 to 5, etc, etc. Really. You should Google News it!) But all this is an elaborate aside....
What I'm really saying is: I have determined I am NOT a strong candidate for life anywhere there is a dearth of sunshine. In a week or less, I would get the SAD, real bad! (it's a real term, the seasonal affective disorder -- even when they fit perfectly and rhyme, I don't make these things up!)
While I truly do like rain in the abstract -- in songs about Noah, in kid art, when I'm inside movie theaters -- and while I can heartily enjoy the first 20-30 minutes of a downpour -- I just don't cope well with darkness.
This probably explains a lot more than I meant to say, but let's let it lie, shall we? For now, let's just take my assertion that I am well-positioned in this geography and go with that. Anyone else hear The Beatles about now?
Hmm, hmm, um, huuh... Hum, hum, uh "long cold lonely winter.
Little darling, it feels like years since it has been here
Here comes the sun..."
Oh, yeah. It's all right! Until global warming changes my climate, I've got sun, sun, sun... here it comes!
10.24.2006
So... How you make Kool-Aid is...
...That you open the little bottle, and you give the packet to Mrs. Lisa... And she opens it and gives it back, and you REAL carefully pour it into the water which turns red ...but, actually, you have to put the cap back on first and swish it around first [insert arm motion for "swish, swish"], because it doesn't just get red right away. Some parts are just clear until you mix it all together. I guess it's because it's so sour. Dontcha know!? Some parts of the Kool-Aid are sweet and some parts of it are sour, so what you do is put it all together and mix it around and around, so the sweet parts will SLOWLY melt, and eat the sour parts. And then it's good to drink! Dontcha know?
Weclome to the Four-year-old Zone! You have just been treated to a carefully reconstructed car monologue in which Miles relays the most enjoyable part of eating a Lunchable at his school. (I didn't get any introduction or transitional phrases, either, so don't blame me. It's just accuracy in reporting.)
In fact, Miles is very big on the "dontcha know" phrase lately. He regularly drops the words as an introduction to a bit of arcane knowledge, a pint-sized decree or a cheerful recitation of TV marketing: "Dontcha know fingernails can get Play-Doh out of the little jars when it gets stuck;" "dontcha know Darth Vader is the best StarWars costume;" "dontcha know you can buy the can with the scrubbing bubbles and no human will have to touch the tub to get it clean!"
Not long after he gave me the Treatise on Kool-Aid Mixing, the boy and I shared two more exchanges -- one you may need to know and one you probably "dontcha," but perhaps they will amuse and entertain both casual and familial observers.
M: "Dontcha know, I know who the first people to celebrate Thanksgiving were!"
Me: "Oh, really? Who?"
M, proudly: "Indians and Pilgrims."
(We talk for a few seconds and then...)
M: "And, I know what Indians ate and what Pilgrims ate."
Me: "Well, what?"
M: "Indians liked bears and buffaloes, and Pilgrims liked deer and turkeys. But everybody ate corn."
A few hours later.... in front of the TV.
M: "Excuse me."
Me: "OK... thanks for saying it."
M: "Well, I wouldn't have if I were alone. But it's best not to say funny things about your farts if other people are around. Right?"
Me: "Umm... Yes, hon. That's what we tell you."
M: "But if I were alone... I would just probably say... 'That was a good one!' "
Weclome to the Four-year-old Zone! You have just been treated to a carefully reconstructed car monologue in which Miles relays the most enjoyable part of eating a Lunchable at his school. (I didn't get any introduction or transitional phrases, either, so don't blame me. It's just accuracy in reporting.)
In fact, Miles is very big on the "dontcha know" phrase lately. He regularly drops the words as an introduction to a bit of arcane knowledge, a pint-sized decree or a cheerful recitation of TV marketing: "Dontcha know fingernails can get Play-Doh out of the little jars when it gets stuck;" "dontcha know Darth Vader is the best StarWars costume;" "dontcha know you can buy the can with the scrubbing bubbles and no human will have to touch the tub to get it clean!"
Not long after he gave me the Treatise on Kool-Aid Mixing, the boy and I shared two more exchanges -- one you may need to know and one you probably "dontcha," but perhaps they will amuse and entertain both casual and familial observers.
M: "Dontcha know, I know who the first people to celebrate Thanksgiving were!"
Me: "Oh, really? Who?"
M, proudly: "Indians and Pilgrims."
(We talk for a few seconds and then...)
M: "And, I know what Indians ate and what Pilgrims ate."
Me: "Well, what?"
M: "Indians liked bears and buffaloes, and Pilgrims liked deer and turkeys. But everybody ate corn."
A few hours later.... in front of the TV.
M: "Excuse me."
Me: "OK... thanks for saying it."
M: "Well, I wouldn't have if I were alone. But it's best not to say funny things about your farts if other people are around. Right?"
Me: "Umm... Yes, hon. That's what we tell you."
M: "But if I were alone... I would just probably say... 'That was a good one!' "
10.23.2006
Canton Connections
So, an all-natural, no-wheat graham cracker is a pretty awful thing -- just in case you were wondering. It tastes like thick, dry wallpaper paste with a little cinnamon afterwhif.
This observation comes to you all courtesy my most recent visit to the shopping sprawl that is Canton, Texas (actual explanation here). My friend, Susie, wrote a pretty great exposition of what this venue of commerce means to her -- with an example from the trip of which I speak! -- so I really should have linked you to her instead of to the official, Travel Bureau-type sites. Here's Suse's insider post.
(Pause while you all go read up. It's good stuff. No, really... Head on over. I'll wait. Oh, and if you quit while she was still on the State Fair... keep reading! It all relates.)
So, back to the cracker of death. It is a product from a new, Dallas-based company called Doctor Kracker. (That should have been my first clue! I mean, really... is this an appropriate business name?) A seemingly very nice and mild-mannered Doctor Kracker representative (pressed, tucked tropical shirt; well-groomed hands; vaguely Eastern European accent to distinguish him from the other barkers hawking homemade cookies and fried oreos) was sampling his wares at the last Canton market. We stopped, and I really liked the cheddar pumpkin seed crackers -- made from spelt and sunshine and not much else, according to Herr Docktor. They were a GOOD kind of dry-and-crunchy. Worth the inflated health-food price. I had no qualms throwin' down 3 bucks for a package of about 1.6 ounces. Susie also decided to buy a little somethin' somethin' for a snack, so we compiled a total purchase of $6. I handed the guy a 10 and a awaited the normal course of business.
...But no change was forthcoming. The accent suddenly thickened and Herr Docktor became confused. "Vhat? Vhat you need? Oh! OH! I ... I ... I have no vuns. Please. Can I geeve you des instead? $4 value! And... and take deese also. Please." Please?! GEEZ! Talk about your assumptive upselling! That was some darn pushy showmanship from the suddenly sleazy Docktor. But that is exactly how I came to own two packages of cinnamon grahams and two travel size pumpkin cheese bags along with my only intended purchase.
I ate the cheesy snack bounty, over the course of the next two weeks, with only mild distaste every time I thought of the financial wheeling & dealing that secured them. I held off on the cinnamon grahams because even I -- your basic optimist and believer in many a bald-faced marketing claim -- had a bad feeling about them. This weekend, I finally got desperate enough to crack a graham, spread some Nutella and tuck in.
Gag! Choke. Sputter. Cough. They were BAAAD, people. Not good. I mean... Baaaad.
I would have to downgrade the whole trip to "not quite successful" if it weren't for my only other Canton purchase of the month. With it I am quite pleased!
(Hmmm. Uh... Ummmh. Actually, I'm not even sure I can use a name or description, as Susie's mom is getting this thing as a gift but I don't know WHEN the gift-giving occasion commences. To be safe, I better follow the Super-Top-Secret protocol and refer to this only as "the next new thing.") I can say that it --like ET and jelly shoes and cut-out sweatshirts before it -- is oddly cool. Not stunningly attractive, I might say, but unique and new.
Now, just to tip my hat to the real niftyness of our find, I can share this: My flea-market purchase from East Texas was trend-spotted by a shopkeeper when I used it on my recent trip to Chicago. Yessiree, Bob: a real life, big city dweller recognized my cool item and swaped brand and product names with me -- me! a lowly, easy mark, push-me-around-and-give-me-cardboard-crackers-in-return kind of consumer. Just remembering this does wonders for my constitution.
I may not be a healthy eater or a bold defender of my own pocketbook, but I know a clever, soon-to-be-coveted item when I see one! I have been to the big city, my friends, and I was still cool. ;)
...Now, if only this Canton purchase can avoid becoming the next Crocs, I will keep that cool. Until the next Trade Days.
This observation comes to you all courtesy my most recent visit to the shopping sprawl that is Canton, Texas (actual explanation here). My friend, Susie, wrote a pretty great exposition of what this venue of commerce means to her -- with an example from the trip of which I speak! -- so I really should have linked you to her instead of to the official, Travel Bureau-type sites. Here's Suse's insider post.
(Pause while you all go read up. It's good stuff. No, really... Head on over. I'll wait. Oh, and if you quit while she was still on the State Fair... keep reading! It all relates.)
So, back to the cracker of death. It is a product from a new, Dallas-based company called Doctor Kracker. (That should have been my first clue! I mean, really... is this an appropriate business name?) A seemingly very nice and mild-mannered Doctor Kracker representative (pressed, tucked tropical shirt; well-groomed hands; vaguely Eastern European accent to distinguish him from the other barkers hawking homemade cookies and fried oreos) was sampling his wares at the last Canton market. We stopped, and I really liked the cheddar pumpkin seed crackers -- made from spelt and sunshine and not much else, according to Herr Docktor. They were a GOOD kind of dry-and-crunchy. Worth the inflated health-food price. I had no qualms throwin' down 3 bucks for a package of about 1.6 ounces. Susie also decided to buy a little somethin' somethin' for a snack, so we compiled a total purchase of $6. I handed the guy a 10 and a awaited the normal course of business.
...But no change was forthcoming. The accent suddenly thickened and Herr Docktor became confused. "Vhat? Vhat you need? Oh! OH! I ... I ... I have no vuns. Please. Can I geeve you des instead? $4 value! And... and take deese also. Please." Please?! GEEZ! Talk about your assumptive upselling! That was some darn pushy showmanship from the suddenly sleazy Docktor. But that is exactly how I came to own two packages of cinnamon grahams and two travel size pumpkin cheese bags along with my only intended purchase.
I ate the cheesy snack bounty, over the course of the next two weeks, with only mild distaste every time I thought of the financial wheeling & dealing that secured them. I held off on the cinnamon grahams because even I -- your basic optimist and believer in many a bald-faced marketing claim -- had a bad feeling about them. This weekend, I finally got desperate enough to crack a graham, spread some Nutella and tuck in.
Gag! Choke. Sputter. Cough. They were BAAAD, people. Not good. I mean... Baaaad.
I would have to downgrade the whole trip to "not quite successful" if it weren't for my only other Canton purchase of the month. With it I am quite pleased!
(Hmmm. Uh... Ummmh. Actually, I'm not even sure I can use a name or description, as Susie's mom is getting this thing as a gift but I don't know WHEN the gift-giving occasion commences. To be safe, I better follow the Super-Top-Secret protocol and refer to this only as "the next new thing.") I can say that it --like ET and jelly shoes and cut-out sweatshirts before it -- is oddly cool. Not stunningly attractive, I might say, but unique and new.
Now, just to tip my hat to the real niftyness of our find, I can share this: My flea-market purchase from East Texas was trend-spotted by a shopkeeper when I used it on my recent trip to Chicago. Yessiree, Bob: a real life, big city dweller recognized my cool item and swaped brand and product names with me -- me! a lowly, easy mark, push-me-around-and-give-me-cardboard-crackers-in-return kind of consumer. Just remembering this does wonders for my constitution.
I may not be a healthy eater or a bold defender of my own pocketbook, but I know a clever, soon-to-be-coveted item when I see one! I have been to the big city, my friends, and I was still cool. ;)
...Now, if only this Canton purchase can avoid becoming the next Crocs, I will keep that cool. Until the next Trade Days.
10.17.2006
Movie Maniac Me
So, I have this new kitten, right? And he likes me best among all my family. (This is not a brag. I am hardly ever proud of it and sometimes quite annoyed by it. It is what it is.)
Anyway, Chester is generally a friendly, engaging and endearing animal -- expect when an unsuspecting ankle passes his turf, or an unsuspecting business caller is on the line and would be damaged by my screams of profanity/ agony. These are the moments Chester strikes.
I can't figure out if the razor claws or the dagger teeth are worse -- but neither feels very nice on flesh. Nor do they allow any permanent healing of my scratch-surfaced, puncture-wounded, pock-marked hands. And -- I swear -- this cat is menaically drawn to me while I'm on the phone! Any movement of cord and it's all over. He's on the arm of the chair; he's reached the desk; he's in the air.
In response Chester's rapid attack mode, I have developed a plan I call Operation: Kill-him-with-Kindness. I've develope da cool, almost King-Fu move for when he takes flight, headed for my hands. I swivel my body, grab him and immobilize him against my midsection. Then, still holding firmly, I pet the cat and whisper nice things I don't currently feel. Being a fuzzy lump o' love at his core, Chester pretty much gives up immediately. As long as he gets attention, he will stay and purr.
So here I am all day -- a busy, busy woman of international business, attached to her headset, plotting counterattacks for kittens while playing it smooth in front of her flat screen. Then I recline in my large leather chair, stroking the purring pussy. I might as well be plotting world domination.
...Not seriosuly, but don't you see where I'm going with this? Yes, I have become the very picture of Auric Goldfinger.
No, really. James Bond villian extraordinaire -- that's me. Gimme a signet ring for the pinkie and the picture will be complete. "No, Mr. Bond. I expect you to die."
"Choose your next witticism carefully, Mr. Bond; it may be your last."
What? You don't see it?
Anyway, Chester is generally a friendly, engaging and endearing animal -- expect when an unsuspecting ankle passes his turf, or an unsuspecting business caller is on the line and would be damaged by my screams of profanity/ agony. These are the moments Chester strikes.
I can't figure out if the razor claws or the dagger teeth are worse -- but neither feels very nice on flesh. Nor do they allow any permanent healing of my scratch-surfaced, puncture-wounded, pock-marked hands. And -- I swear -- this cat is menaically drawn to me while I'm on the phone! Any movement of cord and it's all over. He's on the arm of the chair; he's reached the desk; he's in the air.
In response Chester's rapid attack mode, I have developed a plan I call Operation: Kill-him-with-Kindness. I've develope da cool, almost King-Fu move for when he takes flight, headed for my hands. I swivel my body, grab him and immobilize him against my midsection. Then, still holding firmly, I pet the cat and whisper nice things I don't currently feel. Being a fuzzy lump o' love at his core, Chester pretty much gives up immediately. As long as he gets attention, he will stay and purr.
So here I am all day -- a busy, busy woman of international business, attached to her headset, plotting counterattacks for kittens while playing it smooth in front of her flat screen. Then I recline in my large leather chair, stroking the purring pussy. I might as well be plotting world domination.
...Not seriosuly, but don't you see where I'm going with this? Yes, I have become the very picture of Auric Goldfinger.
No, really. James Bond villian extraordinaire -- that's me. Gimme a signet ring for the pinkie and the picture will be complete. "No, Mr. Bond. I expect you to die."
"Choose your next witticism carefully, Mr. Bond; it may be your last."
What? You don't see it?
10.16.2006
You Always Take the Weather
Did you know there's a real place called Comfort, Texas? I've never been, but it's always sounded good to me. Since it's raining bobcats and coyotes in East Texas, I have gazed down the fenceline of Greener Pastures and conducted a brief meteorological search. Just as I predicted: No precipitation in Comfort today. ...Comfort, which is near Kerrville, by the way.
Hours apart, back in Tyler, my Monday appears to have little of the comfort in it. It's dim inside and dreary out. You might think the overcast skies would signal a chill, but even in October, it's stiflingly muggy. The rain has come and gone all night (as the adults in my home have not been sleeping well, we know of the "all nights"); and now it's back with more force than before. It falls in waves of white noise, bouncing off the roof, the street, the driveway. Puddles of the wet stuff pool on the concrete, against the curb, in depressions where earth gives way to tree.
The rain makes me think of a Joy Williams song -- I think it's called "Beautiful Redemption." There's a line that says, "I've spent 40 days and 40 nights at sea; I've had 40 years in the wilderness, or so it seems." On a morning like this, I relate. The weather puts my mind adrift.
Hmm. It's letting up a little now. The static sound comes softer inside my office, and the rows of vertical dots and dashes are harder to make out if I squint slightly and focus across the street. You know, I believe the earth won't ever see 40 days and 40 nights of rain again -- not since Noah's flood and God's rainbow. When I sit with this thought for a while, I guess what I'm also saying is that I believe nothing so bad will ever happen to me.
It may feel like I'm spending days and days on a gray-clouded sea, sometimes. Especially on mornings that dawn with no comfort. But weather in Texas is a funny thing. Stick around, apply just a little patience, and watch everything change. The secretary at Miles' school told me we're expecting a clear day with a high of 90 tomorrow. Since I've already admitted to checking, that sounds like Comfort weather to me. :)
In truth, I don't need blazing sun (really, I mean it; who around here can forget -- or forgive -- August?!) to feel better. I don't actually want to compare my home to any other, everyday place with the same set of realities under a Utopoian name. The weather makes its way to everyone, I know. So my sky is gray today. That stinks. But I've heard a brighter forecast, and I'm willing to wait around and see.
Hours apart, back in Tyler, my Monday appears to have little of the comfort in it. It's dim inside and dreary out. You might think the overcast skies would signal a chill, but even in October, it's stiflingly muggy. The rain has come and gone all night (as the adults in my home have not been sleeping well, we know of the "all nights"); and now it's back with more force than before. It falls in waves of white noise, bouncing off the roof, the street, the driveway. Puddles of the wet stuff pool on the concrete, against the curb, in depressions where earth gives way to tree.
The rain makes me think of a Joy Williams song -- I think it's called "Beautiful Redemption." There's a line that says, "I've spent 40 days and 40 nights at sea; I've had 40 years in the wilderness, or so it seems." On a morning like this, I relate. The weather puts my mind adrift.
Hmm. It's letting up a little now. The static sound comes softer inside my office, and the rows of vertical dots and dashes are harder to make out if I squint slightly and focus across the street. You know, I believe the earth won't ever see 40 days and 40 nights of rain again -- not since Noah's flood and God's rainbow. When I sit with this thought for a while, I guess what I'm also saying is that I believe nothing so bad will ever happen to me.
It may feel like I'm spending days and days on a gray-clouded sea, sometimes. Especially on mornings that dawn with no comfort. But weather in Texas is a funny thing. Stick around, apply just a little patience, and watch everything change. The secretary at Miles' school told me we're expecting a clear day with a high of 90 tomorrow. Since I've already admitted to checking, that sounds like Comfort weather to me. :)
In truth, I don't need blazing sun (really, I mean it; who around here can forget -- or forgive -- August?!) to feel better. I don't actually want to compare my home to any other, everyday place with the same set of realities under a Utopoian name. The weather makes its way to everyone, I know. So my sky is gray today. That stinks. But I've heard a brighter forecast, and I'm willing to wait around and see.
10.04.2006
Brief & Random
No time to post. For reals! But as my last writing was kind of somber, and I don't want to leave the blog on a blah note while out of town, here are some random (and I mean, random, random, random!) Miles quotes that have recently made me smile....
To me, after reading a bedtime story: "I like it when the Dad in Spot says, 'Puppy overboard' because he doesn't know Spot is OK. It's just water; it's not like it's cement or anything!"
To Chester the kitty, soon after his arrival: "I know you don't have as many toys as me, but don't worry! We'll get more. This is only your second day."
To Chester, again, after kitty spent his first 10 minutes outside and came back: "You are the bestest cat in all the world. I KNEW you wouldn't leave us forever!"
(My child is a drama prince; I know, I know. Poor thing, though... He comes by the over-emoting honestly.)
To Dad, while snuggling under Dad's chin at a chilly restaurant: "Oh, your beard... it's so cozy!"
To the household, in confident proclamation while coloring and listening to Animal Planet: "Didncha know? Meerkat Manor is coming up next. They call it that because the little ones are still learning their manners."
To me, excitedly and loudly, while I am on the work phone: "Mom! Mom! I think I might want to dress up as Superman and then dress up Chester as Superkitty!"
Oh, I say, why not? Miles probably needs a Superman outfit. He is, after all, my own Boy Wonder.
G'night!
To me, after reading a bedtime story: "I like it when the Dad in Spot says, 'Puppy overboard' because he doesn't know Spot is OK. It's just water; it's not like it's cement or anything!"
To Chester the kitty, soon after his arrival: "I know you don't have as many toys as me, but don't worry! We'll get more. This is only your second day."
To Chester, again, after kitty spent his first 10 minutes outside and came back: "You are the bestest cat in all the world. I KNEW you wouldn't leave us forever!"
(My child is a drama prince; I know, I know. Poor thing, though... He comes by the over-emoting honestly.)
To Dad, while snuggling under Dad's chin at a chilly restaurant: "Oh, your beard... it's so cozy!"
To the household, in confident proclamation while coloring and listening to Animal Planet: "Didncha know? Meerkat Manor is coming up next. They call it that because the little ones are still learning their manners."
To me, excitedly and loudly, while I am on the work phone: "Mom! Mom! I think I might want to dress up as Superman and then dress up Chester as Superkitty!"
Oh, I say, why not? Miles probably needs a Superman outfit. He is, after all, my own Boy Wonder.
G'night!
10.03.2006
Rumination On A Day Gone By
Ed Note: Tonight I noticed this post, headlined in green & still labeled "DRAFT" in my trusty Blogger Dashboard. Huh. Well.
So I never actually wrapped it up and POSTED the dad-gum thing?! Sometimes, even I am surprised by my apalling lack of follow-through.
Here, then, is a delayed response to Sept. 21 -- a day that could have rallied much more reflection & response from me, I'm sure, but due to long blogging neglect is now only dimly memorable. All I can say now is it was some day last month... and, my, but it didn't seem to be a good one.
It's been a while since I slumped at the keyboard, drooling over the little letters, crossing my eyes and wondering how to push uphill the immesaureably heavy stone that is time.
But that day has come.
I don't exactly name this malaise "depression" -- cause I tend to recall, that feels a lot suckier. I do name it not a nice feeling. Yesterday, I got into a verbal snit with a customer. (Pause while I refrain from typing nasty thoughts about said customer, but imagine me RIGHT NOW, just recalling the snit, with a little cartoon squiggle of black above my head.) And I've been out of sorts ever since.
I believe the problem is: I need to REEEALLY come unhinged. I need to have some sort of throw-down, emotive, cathartic, hissy fit where I am indignant and outraged and gesticulate wildly.
...Only I can't find anyone to be legitimately mad at.
I had this moment, yesterday, where some jerk with a pushy attitude, no manners and a ridiculous line of argument was "wrong" and I was "right." And I felt so justified standing up to him and expressing my irritation. Then I was told I can never be so honest with customers.
Fine. (sigh.)
Sure. (shrug.)
Only: When doI get to feel how I feel? I understand the management perspective. I really do. We work for these (crazy) customers. It is our job to suck it up. I used to toil away in a newroom where fellow copy editors and city desk writers regularly hurled the F-bomb at each other, so I get why it is good to control our baser reactions and remain adult about things. I quite prefer an F'ing-free workplace. (Well, mostly.) But even on the job... I DO have personal reactions. I am not an automatron (no, I didn't look it up and no, I'm not sure it's a word). I need to censor some parts of me for my profession, sure. Everybody does. But, bottom line: Why can't I -- while not using any over-the-top language or personal insults -- occasionally EXPRESS MY-FREAKIN-SELF?
It is perhaps time for a day off.
Sadly, none is on the horizon. I AM due to get a new piece of furniture delivered tomorrow, and that should require me to unplug from the phone for a while. After that, I have a quick week and half before the big business trip of the year -- spring market in Chicago. I'll be gone 6 days (or for my entire business-appropriate wardrobe, however you want to measure). I think it will be great to get away. I'll miss my boys, absolutely, but anything to break the tedium....
If any are so inclined to share good will and good thoughts, maybe one could wish me Godspeed and a string of good-hair days. (Which I will need to distract the fashionistas from my not-this-season's shoes and my mangled home manicure.) Oh, and maybe someone should start praying that I don't have my long-awaited throw-down in full view of the entire industry. (Windy City, indeed! I bet I could give those jaw-flappin' politicians a run for their money.....)
So I never actually wrapped it up and POSTED the dad-gum thing?! Sometimes, even I am surprised by my apalling lack of follow-through.
Here, then, is a delayed response to Sept. 21 -- a day that could have rallied much more reflection & response from me, I'm sure, but due to long blogging neglect is now only dimly memorable. All I can say now is it was some day last month... and, my, but it didn't seem to be a good one.
It's been a while since I slumped at the keyboard, drooling over the little letters, crossing my eyes and wondering how to push uphill the immesaureably heavy stone that is time.
But that day has come.
I don't exactly name this malaise "depression" -- cause I tend to recall, that feels a lot suckier. I do name it not a nice feeling. Yesterday, I got into a verbal snit with a customer. (Pause while I refrain from typing nasty thoughts about said customer, but imagine me RIGHT NOW, just recalling the snit, with a little cartoon squiggle of black above my head.) And I've been out of sorts ever since.
I believe the problem is: I need to REEEALLY come unhinged. I need to have some sort of throw-down, emotive, cathartic, hissy fit where I am indignant and outraged and gesticulate wildly.
...Only I can't find anyone to be legitimately mad at.
I had this moment, yesterday, where some jerk with a pushy attitude, no manners and a ridiculous line of argument was "wrong" and I was "right." And I felt so justified standing up to him and expressing my irritation. Then I was told I can never be so honest with customers.
Fine. (sigh.)
Sure. (shrug.)
Only: When doI get to feel how I feel? I understand the management perspective. I really do. We work for these (crazy) customers. It is our job to suck it up. I used to toil away in a newroom where fellow copy editors and city desk writers regularly hurled the F-bomb at each other, so I get why it is good to control our baser reactions and remain adult about things. I quite prefer an F'ing-free workplace. (Well, mostly.) But even on the job... I DO have personal reactions. I am not an automatron (no, I didn't look it up and no, I'm not sure it's a word). I need to censor some parts of me for my profession, sure. Everybody does. But, bottom line: Why can't I -- while not using any over-the-top language or personal insults -- occasionally EXPRESS MY-FREAKIN-SELF?
It is perhaps time for a day off.
Sadly, none is on the horizon. I AM due to get a new piece of furniture delivered tomorrow, and that should require me to unplug from the phone for a while. After that, I have a quick week and half before the big business trip of the year -- spring market in Chicago. I'll be gone 6 days (or for my entire business-appropriate wardrobe, however you want to measure). I think it will be great to get away. I'll miss my boys, absolutely, but anything to break the tedium....
If any are so inclined to share good will and good thoughts, maybe one could wish me Godspeed and a string of good-hair days. (Which I will need to distract the fashionistas from my not-this-season's shoes and my mangled home manicure.) Oh, and maybe someone should start praying that I don't have my long-awaited throw-down in full view of the entire industry. (Windy City, indeed! I bet I could give those jaw-flappin' politicians a run for their money.....)
9.19.2006
Snacktime Theology
Today, Miles asked (while eating a delicious homemade brownie and watching the Catholic channel): "I wonder what God eats?"
I said, " I don't know... but that's a good question."
He said, "Yeah! I don't know, either, because I've never been up there yet, to check it out!"
I told Miles that, while Jesus lived on Earth, He ate the same things everybody else ate -- fish and bread and wine and fruit and cheese. Which prompted the Pint-Size Deep Thinker to say, "Oh, yeah, fish. I think bears also eat a lot of fish. Hmmm... Bears eat mostly JUST fish, I think."
So I let the conversation drop. No need to force things in a Godly direction. But a few moments later, Miles came to my office door and said, "Maybe God grows trees in Heaven and picks some things off of them, to eat them just because they taste so good."
I wanted to add (but stopped for fear of sounding sacreligious): And maybe God grows brownies on His trees. Maybe. Just because they're yummy. Thus I come to my own, small Monday musing: Chocolate in Heaven.... Can I even imagine how good that has got to be?
I said, " I don't know... but that's a good question."
He said, "Yeah! I don't know, either, because I've never been up there yet, to check it out!"
I told Miles that, while Jesus lived on Earth, He ate the same things everybody else ate -- fish and bread and wine and fruit and cheese. Which prompted the Pint-Size Deep Thinker to say, "Oh, yeah, fish. I think bears also eat a lot of fish. Hmmm... Bears eat mostly JUST fish, I think."
So I let the conversation drop. No need to force things in a Godly direction. But a few moments later, Miles came to my office door and said, "Maybe God grows trees in Heaven and picks some things off of them, to eat them just because they taste so good."
I wanted to add (but stopped for fear of sounding sacreligious): And maybe God grows brownies on His trees. Maybe. Just because they're yummy. Thus I come to my own, small Monday musing: Chocolate in Heaven.... Can I even imagine how good that has got to be?
9.15.2006
Brushing By for a Friday Five
OK... no real time to post, but can't resist a fun topic at my favorite web ring! Thus I give you a hasty, unedited RevGalBlogPals Friday Five, on the topic "Brushes with Greatness."
1. Tell us about a time you met someone famous.
"Met" is perhaps too specific a word :), but I did once wear the garments of a (sort-of, in some circles) celebrity. I was working in a bridal shop with in-house alterations. The alterationist was very, very good and word must have gotten around. The shop was 30 minutes from Denver, where many other bridal shops with alterationsts were available to the stray, time-pressed alt-rock musician/ performer... but those stores aren't part of my story.
A band by the name of REM came to Colorado for two nights one fall, and bassist Mike Mills ripped his bedazzled stage suit while performing in Denver on Night One. A roady or an intern or a tour employee somehow suggested they take the pantsuit to this great little place in Boulder where repairs would be swift and proficient. And that is how I happened to show up for work one day to find mild-mannered Patty Elliott, seamstress extraordinaire, sniffing what looked like a royal purple matador's jacket with heavy gold embroidery. ...It smelled like celebrity, you see. And vaguely like sweat.
The jacket was rather slim in the shoulders and, being for a man & all, it had no, um, boob room. That meant many of the girls on staff couldn't slide it on or button it. I, however, being the shape of your average 12-year-old boy at the time, had no trouble fitting into the famous musician's jacket. ...And damned if that gaudy thing didn't look GOOD.
So what were we to do but dress me up in the jacket AND pants (rip already repaired), and stage a photo session at the three-way mirrors outside the bridal dressing rooms? We got the Polaroid camera (this was the pre-digital age, and the instant shots helped girls decide which dress looked best, or gave them something to take back to their friends/ family). I got dressed. (The legs were a little long, but I like working the flare.) I struck what I hoped was an appropriate air guitar pose and felt the music... it was GREAT! I asked for one close up of the jacket lining, where "Mike Mills" was embroidered under the pocket. Brilliant! Then it was time to sneak me downstairs, Elvis-undercover style, since we had a customer. Somewhere, though, in a small and tasteful photo album much too bourgeois to hold these glimpses of my rock-star soul, the images rock on.
2. Tell us about a celebrity you'd like to meet.
Hmmm... Billy Graham was the first name that came to mind. And I've never even seen a Billy Graham crusade or read one of his books. I think it's the man's larger-than-life but still-very-authentic presence that somehow attracts me. He has the Spirit, no? Also, Sandra Bullock would make a fun lunch date in Austin.
3. Tell us about someone great who's *not* famous that you think everyone oughta have a chance to meet.
My friend Nancy Grant is uber-cool. She has this diva kind of thing going on but is also the most loving and giving and affirming person. Every young person who needs just an extra nudge to say "you're OK; you're special; you're going to be fine" should hang with Nancy.
4. Do you have any autographs of famous people?
Nope. I used to have a Tyler Wildcatters baseball signed by (pre-game enteretainer) The Dynamite Lady, but that wasn't exactly a hotly traded item. The Wildcatters were about a single-A team that didn;t last long. Ah, but it was fun while it lasted!
5. If you were to become famous, what would you want to become famous for?
Being understanding. Bringing people together. Writing nice words. Oozing faith.
Bonus: Whose 15 minutes of fame was up long, long ago?
Must we limit ourselves to 1?! Paris Hilton comes to mind. Jeffrey from Project Runway. Anne Coulter. Nancy Grace. Screechy people and vapid people and just plain nasty people are off my cool list for good, I think.
1. Tell us about a time you met someone famous.
"Met" is perhaps too specific a word :), but I did once wear the garments of a (sort-of, in some circles) celebrity. I was working in a bridal shop with in-house alterations. The alterationist was very, very good and word must have gotten around. The shop was 30 minutes from Denver, where many other bridal shops with alterationsts were available to the stray, time-pressed alt-rock musician/ performer... but those stores aren't part of my story.
A band by the name of REM came to Colorado for two nights one fall, and bassist Mike Mills ripped his bedazzled stage suit while performing in Denver on Night One. A roady or an intern or a tour employee somehow suggested they take the pantsuit to this great little place in Boulder where repairs would be swift and proficient. And that is how I happened to show up for work one day to find mild-mannered Patty Elliott, seamstress extraordinaire, sniffing what looked like a royal purple matador's jacket with heavy gold embroidery. ...It smelled like celebrity, you see. And vaguely like sweat.
The jacket was rather slim in the shoulders and, being for a man & all, it had no, um, boob room. That meant many of the girls on staff couldn't slide it on or button it. I, however, being the shape of your average 12-year-old boy at the time, had no trouble fitting into the famous musician's jacket. ...And damned if that gaudy thing didn't look GOOD.
So what were we to do but dress me up in the jacket AND pants (rip already repaired), and stage a photo session at the three-way mirrors outside the bridal dressing rooms? We got the Polaroid camera (this was the pre-digital age, and the instant shots helped girls decide which dress looked best, or gave them something to take back to their friends/ family). I got dressed. (The legs were a little long, but I like working the flare.) I struck what I hoped was an appropriate air guitar pose and felt the music... it was GREAT! I asked for one close up of the jacket lining, where "Mike Mills" was embroidered under the pocket. Brilliant! Then it was time to sneak me downstairs, Elvis-undercover style, since we had a customer. Somewhere, though, in a small and tasteful photo album much too bourgeois to hold these glimpses of my rock-star soul, the images rock on.
2. Tell us about a celebrity you'd like to meet.
Hmmm... Billy Graham was the first name that came to mind. And I've never even seen a Billy Graham crusade or read one of his books. I think it's the man's larger-than-life but still-very-authentic presence that somehow attracts me. He has the Spirit, no? Also, Sandra Bullock would make a fun lunch date in Austin.
3. Tell us about someone great who's *not* famous that you think everyone oughta have a chance to meet.
My friend Nancy Grant is uber-cool. She has this diva kind of thing going on but is also the most loving and giving and affirming person. Every young person who needs just an extra nudge to say "you're OK; you're special; you're going to be fine" should hang with Nancy.
4. Do you have any autographs of famous people?
Nope. I used to have a Tyler Wildcatters baseball signed by (pre-game enteretainer) The Dynamite Lady, but that wasn't exactly a hotly traded item. The Wildcatters were about a single-A team that didn;t last long. Ah, but it was fun while it lasted!
5. If you were to become famous, what would you want to become famous for?
Being understanding. Bringing people together. Writing nice words. Oozing faith.
Bonus: Whose 15 minutes of fame was up long, long ago?
Must we limit ourselves to 1?! Paris Hilton comes to mind. Jeffrey from Project Runway. Anne Coulter. Nancy Grace. Screechy people and vapid people and just plain nasty people are off my cool list for good, I think.
9.13.2006
Muse, Where Art Thou?
Inspiration is wonderful when it happens, but the writer must develop an approach for the rest of the time... The wait is simply too long. -- Leonard Bernstein
I love this quote.
I'm working on a "rest-of-the-time" approach right now, actually.... It's going very, very well.
(Does sarcasm wink, flash or smell on screen?)
Anyway: I got cute stuff to say about Miles and the kitty -- who is now offically named Chester. I got stuff goin' on internally, that I should probably try to blog out, just to vent a little sadness and depression. I got church stuff going on and a small reason to feel that God did a good thing through me. Yep, I got a lot -- ALLLLLL in my head. And none of it really wants to come out and play.
Maybe later tonight I can try to coax the words into order, for at least some pressing topics of the day. I may be forced to test Jack London's approach, which is even more blunt than Lenny's. "You can't wait for inspiration," London says. "You have to go after it with a club."
I love this quote.
I'm working on a "rest-of-the-time" approach right now, actually.... It's going very, very well.
(Does sarcasm wink, flash or smell on screen?)
Anyway: I got cute stuff to say about Miles and the kitty -- who is now offically named Chester. I got stuff goin' on internally, that I should probably try to blog out, just to vent a little sadness and depression. I got church stuff going on and a small reason to feel that God did a good thing through me. Yep, I got a lot -- ALLLLLL in my head. And none of it really wants to come out and play.
Maybe later tonight I can try to coax the words into order, for at least some pressing topics of the day. I may be forced to test Jack London's approach, which is even more blunt than Lenny's. "You can't wait for inspiration," London says. "You have to go after it with a club."
9.05.2006
Houston, we have Kitten.
Yes, it seems like a long-scrubbed mission has finally achieved liftoff as the family B has acquired a pet. (This comes after four years with no animals -- save the sub-adult homo sapien kind -- under foot.) New little kitty has been around for about 2 days and has not yet been properly named. As you can see, however, he seems to be settling in nicely. By way of introduction, I can tell you he's a boy, he's red-headed, and he's a fine napper -- which pretty much sums up our first cat plus gives him lots in common with the 2 other members of my household.
We're leaning toward calling him Chester, Jasper or Gus but are still open to inspiration. If you have a name suggestion, please leave a comment!
(Oh, and act fast because, while "Little Kitty Boy" works well enough to call the feline to a meal, it's getting old every time I need to chastise him. So far today, thanks to some cord-chewing, paper scattering and ankle climbing, I've had that need about 15 times.) Thanks! And... yeah for us!
8.29.2006
Papagallo Pants
Here' s a little proof that my (re)indoctrination into the Outfitting of East Texas Womanhood is near complete. I almost bought lime green pants for my birthday.
LIME. GREEN. PANTS!
Before I get too wound up, I should explain. I LOVE Texas women; glad to be one of 'em. We're cool chicks, for sure. We're big-hearted and spunky. We know how to get things done. We have, um, a certain flair for the dramatic. But that's where things also go a little wonky because -- yes, it's true -- we wear some crazy, crazy things with way too many accessories and let that visual buffet pass for style.
Even worse, we regard as truly tasteful a whole category of clothing that walks the wonky line. These aren't the openly gaudy clothes (which, really, I find admirable for their honesty if nothing else. Their wearers want to be noticed, so they make it impossible for people to look elsewhere). No, no. These are the matchy-matchy kind of clothes that employ very specific color combinations, cuts or embellishments like expiration dates. They announce to the world when they were purchased and for what purpose. They aren't timeless. They do not blend. They do not transition. And, somehow, in East Texas, they are THE LOOK. Oh, how I have struggled to maintain sanity and some semblance of belonging in the face of THE LOOK!
When we first moved to this city, it was late spring. I felt vaguely out of place but couldn't put my finger on why. I thought it was my poor sense of direction. Then we started church shopping and therein my true "otherness" was revealed.
I would dress myself up every Sunday, recycling my best pencil skirt with a different black top and the same, seasonless pair of strappy black sandals. Oh, did I think I looked chic! But no compliments, ever, here in the Social Niceities Capital of North America. After about the third congregation, it hit me: No other women were wearing black sweaters. Certainly not SOLID black. (Sharp inhale!) I was OUT OF SEASON. Out of date! (Ack! Most definitely out of state!)
As anyone can tell ya', true East Texas women sport beachy prints and sherbet-colored cardigans and impractically colored sandals in the summertime. They carry straw handbags or appliqued ones that coordinate with everything else they're wearing. They THEME ACCORDING TO SEASON. Black is blah and simply will not do in the time of pool parties (which spur many toward turquoise tones) or, depending upon one's Protestant denomination, margaritas (think: citris shades!).*
*A corollary for 2006: When paired with white pants and, lately, chunky white beads, black does become an acceptable summer color. Sleeves should be cap or absent, however, and a measure of lace, ribbon or crochet is preferable.
A couple years later, as I've now observed several cycles in the ebb and flow of body-adorning textiles, I believe our local customs have some practical basis. Varying color palette by season may simply be a calendar-marking mechanism necessitated by the (blankety blank) heat. As it seems to be summertime 3/4 of the year, how else might we know it's fall but that our sandals are brown, not pink, and our capri pants now include autumnal shades?
Back then, however, I was just confounded by the clothes. Where, oh, where, were the other women buying these clothes? Leaving aside my qualms over actually paying for them, I didn't know where to find something with grosgain ribbon trim or an all-over motif of embroidered flip-flops. Then I discovered Stein Mart -- my town's go-to source for all things trendy and frou frou and a bit overdone (oh so THE LOOK!). It was like touching the Rosetta stone.
...I'm serious here! This isn't ONLY about bold prints and eyelash fringe and tangerine boucle blazers. Stein Mart is much more. A bridge between cultures. A point of revelation! The key to speaking a distant language. Here is a retail center that consistently stocks enough of my I-hope-classy-but-possibly-just-drab preferences (brown/ white/ khaki/ black/ blue/ no prints) that it welcomes me inside. Then it dangles so many shiny and sparkly objects NOT of my own style that I am distracted... weakened... bewitched... and finally compelled to grab an armful & try on for size. Oh, I don't often buy. But I do try. And I try. And, by repeated exposure, I've been reacclimated to the wide world of color and pattern my compatriots so perfer.
Mostly, this change is a good thing. Over time, I've added some shades of party punch and after-dinner mints to my closet. Picked up a few pair of clearance sandals in colors that limit their usage. Collected handbags that can't be carried year-round. I've worn all these things and lost any self-consciousness about them. I think they add something nice and feminine to the classics.
Now, I sometimes still do picture myself as the plain brown wren in a family of plumed pheasants. But I believe that has more to do with my extended female relatives than with me. Can I help it if they are all singularly gifted in the Ways of THE LOOK? I'm doing pretty well for an ordinary person, and while it's possible I may have hung at the back of their pack before my 8-year hiatus out of state, I have permanently moved on and there is NO WAY now that I can keep pace with their polished, practiced, professional-grade Texas dressing.
And that (oh, yes! finally!) brings me to the pants. All growing things can be trained, you see. Shaped by environment and circumstance to bend a certain way. I've been reshaping myself, bit by little bit, since I came home in 2001. Like a crooked tree, I bent one way first in life, and now I've bent another. But every living thing eventually hits the limits of adaptation. Earlier this month, when I found myself in my beloved Stein Mart, holding a $12 pair of Papagallo lime green capri pants, I knew I had finally reached the end of mine.
They were cute pants. Just 12 bucks, did I mention? Ah, and a name brand, too. I could almost see myself wearing them with an embroidered V-neck tee and floral slides; they would be just right for a summertime girl's night out or... but no. They were truly lime green in color. I know me, and I know I'm not the kind of girl who wears lime green pants.
Not in a house; not with a mouse. Not in a box; not with a fox. I do not wear the lime green pants! I do not give lime green a chance. I do not find this shade my friend. I cannot wear it to fit in. I love when my clothes have some Texas flair. But I've drawn the line -- and I hold it RIGHT THERE.
...Can I get an Amen on that?
LIME. GREEN. PANTS!
Before I get too wound up, I should explain. I LOVE Texas women; glad to be one of 'em. We're cool chicks, for sure. We're big-hearted and spunky. We know how to get things done. We have, um, a certain flair for the dramatic. But that's where things also go a little wonky because -- yes, it's true -- we wear some crazy, crazy things with way too many accessories and let that visual buffet pass for style.
Even worse, we regard as truly tasteful a whole category of clothing that walks the wonky line. These aren't the openly gaudy clothes (which, really, I find admirable for their honesty if nothing else. Their wearers want to be noticed, so they make it impossible for people to look elsewhere). No, no. These are the matchy-matchy kind of clothes that employ very specific color combinations, cuts or embellishments like expiration dates. They announce to the world when they were purchased and for what purpose. They aren't timeless. They do not blend. They do not transition. And, somehow, in East Texas, they are THE LOOK. Oh, how I have struggled to maintain sanity and some semblance of belonging in the face of THE LOOK!
When we first moved to this city, it was late spring. I felt vaguely out of place but couldn't put my finger on why. I thought it was my poor sense of direction. Then we started church shopping and therein my true "otherness" was revealed.
I would dress myself up every Sunday, recycling my best pencil skirt with a different black top and the same, seasonless pair of strappy black sandals. Oh, did I think I looked chic! But no compliments, ever, here in the Social Niceities Capital of North America. After about the third congregation, it hit me: No other women were wearing black sweaters. Certainly not SOLID black. (Sharp inhale!) I was OUT OF SEASON. Out of date! (Ack! Most definitely out of state!)
As anyone can tell ya', true East Texas women sport beachy prints and sherbet-colored cardigans and impractically colored sandals in the summertime. They carry straw handbags or appliqued ones that coordinate with everything else they're wearing. They THEME ACCORDING TO SEASON. Black is blah and simply will not do in the time of pool parties (which spur many toward turquoise tones) or, depending upon one's Protestant denomination, margaritas (think: citris shades!).*
*A corollary for 2006: When paired with white pants and, lately, chunky white beads, black does become an acceptable summer color. Sleeves should be cap or absent, however, and a measure of lace, ribbon or crochet is preferable.
A couple years later, as I've now observed several cycles in the ebb and flow of body-adorning textiles, I believe our local customs have some practical basis. Varying color palette by season may simply be a calendar-marking mechanism necessitated by the (blankety blank) heat. As it seems to be summertime 3/4 of the year, how else might we know it's fall but that our sandals are brown, not pink, and our capri pants now include autumnal shades?
Back then, however, I was just confounded by the clothes. Where, oh, where, were the other women buying these clothes? Leaving aside my qualms over actually paying for them, I didn't know where to find something with grosgain ribbon trim or an all-over motif of embroidered flip-flops. Then I discovered Stein Mart -- my town's go-to source for all things trendy and frou frou and a bit overdone (oh so THE LOOK!). It was like touching the Rosetta stone.
...I'm serious here! This isn't ONLY about bold prints and eyelash fringe and tangerine boucle blazers. Stein Mart is much more. A bridge between cultures. A point of revelation! The key to speaking a distant language. Here is a retail center that consistently stocks enough of my I-hope-classy-but-possibly-just-drab preferences (brown/ white/ khaki/ black/ blue/ no prints) that it welcomes me inside. Then it dangles so many shiny and sparkly objects NOT of my own style that I am distracted... weakened... bewitched... and finally compelled to grab an armful & try on for size. Oh, I don't often buy. But I do try. And I try. And, by repeated exposure, I've been reacclimated to the wide world of color and pattern my compatriots so perfer.
Mostly, this change is a good thing. Over time, I've added some shades of party punch and after-dinner mints to my closet. Picked up a few pair of clearance sandals in colors that limit their usage. Collected handbags that can't be carried year-round. I've worn all these things and lost any self-consciousness about them. I think they add something nice and feminine to the classics.
Now, I sometimes still do picture myself as the plain brown wren in a family of plumed pheasants. But I believe that has more to do with my extended female relatives than with me. Can I help it if they are all singularly gifted in the Ways of THE LOOK? I'm doing pretty well for an ordinary person, and while it's possible I may have hung at the back of their pack before my 8-year hiatus out of state, I have permanently moved on and there is NO WAY now that I can keep pace with their polished, practiced, professional-grade Texas dressing.
And that (oh, yes! finally!) brings me to the pants. All growing things can be trained, you see. Shaped by environment and circumstance to bend a certain way. I've been reshaping myself, bit by little bit, since I came home in 2001. Like a crooked tree, I bent one way first in life, and now I've bent another. But every living thing eventually hits the limits of adaptation. Earlier this month, when I found myself in my beloved Stein Mart, holding a $12 pair of Papagallo lime green capri pants, I knew I had finally reached the end of mine.
They were cute pants. Just 12 bucks, did I mention? Ah, and a name brand, too. I could almost see myself wearing them with an embroidered V-neck tee and floral slides; they would be just right for a summertime girl's night out or... but no. They were truly lime green in color. I know me, and I know I'm not the kind of girl who wears lime green pants.
Not in a house; not with a mouse. Not in a box; not with a fox. I do not wear the lime green pants! I do not give lime green a chance. I do not find this shade my friend. I cannot wear it to fit in. I love when my clothes have some Texas flair. But I've drawn the line -- and I hold it RIGHT THERE.
...Can I get an Amen on that?
8.27.2006
I am not alone in my indignation.
Oh... Oh, my! How touching!
It was with great delight that I Googled on Friday (sorry for the verb form, Anglican; I know how you dislike that) -- for it was then I could truly grasp the world's response to recent events. The populace has spoken, and Earth loves Pluto! We feel for our far-flung little friend, and we are in arms -- up, up, and in arms, I tell ya! -- over its shabby treatment.
You know what this means? I'm not some kooky dreamer, ranting from the piney woods about the International Astronomical Union vote on Thursday (well, I'm not ONLY that). I am a single voice lending my pipes to an intercontinental choir!
LOTS of people have been wound about Pluto. (And/ or it's been a slow news week.) The headlines are fab -- examples to come! -- and the leads are far catchier than those hard news stories usually receive. I am SO excited, suddenly, to engage in a current event! It's almost like pleasure reading!
Just take this example, by Robert Nolin of the South Florida Sun-Sentinel:
Yes, and as I alluded, some crack copy editors have offered the reading populace a slew of witty headlines (I'm only linking to the better articles, or those longer than a graf or 2):
Adieu, poor Pluto, sent to the doghouse
Behind the 8 balls: Evicted Pluto long seen as a world apart from other planets
Is 8 Enough?
The Little Planet That Couldn't
Pluto, Take Heart: Less is More
Shock to the (Solar) System
Scientists Rock Pluto's World
What fun that publications are editorializing with (finally!) some slant I like! OK, sure, most are using the really opinionated headlines for editorials, but I see some yellow dog journalism here right after my own heart! And, I note: Only real sticks-in-the-mud can't make fun copy out of this story.
Even non-real-news sources are in on the act, and they're arguably having the most fun of all. To wit, this snippet from Animated-News.com:
It was with great delight that I Googled on Friday (sorry for the verb form, Anglican; I know how you dislike that) -- for it was then I could truly grasp the world's response to recent events. The populace has spoken, and Earth loves Pluto! We feel for our far-flung little friend, and we are in arms -- up, up, and in arms, I tell ya! -- over its shabby treatment.
You know what this means? I'm not some kooky dreamer, ranting from the piney woods about the International Astronomical Union vote on Thursday (well, I'm not ONLY that). I am a single voice lending my pipes to an intercontinental choir!
LOTS of people have been wound about Pluto. (And/ or it's been a slow news week.) The headlines are fab -- examples to come! -- and the leads are far catchier than those hard news stories usually receive. I am SO excited, suddenly, to engage in a current event! It's almost like pleasure reading!
Just take this example, by Robert Nolin of the South Florida Sun-Sentinel:
FORT LAUDERDALE, Fla. - Life has been anything but a ray of sunshine for poor Pluto, that pipsqueak on the periphery of the solar system.
It was named for the Roman god of the underworld, whose name in turn was hijacked by a lop-eared cartoon dog. It's a relative newcomer to the brotherhood of planets, having been discovered only 76 years ago, and at 4.6 billion miles, it's the farthest planet from the sun.
On Thursday, it suffered further indignity.
(full story here)
Yes, and as I alluded, some crack copy editors have offered the reading populace a slew of witty headlines (I'm only linking to the better articles, or those longer than a graf or 2):
Adieu, poor Pluto, sent to the doghouse
Behind the 8 balls: Evicted Pluto long seen as a world apart from other planets
Is 8 Enough?
The Little Planet That Couldn't
Pluto, Take Heart: Less is More
Shock to the (Solar) System
Scientists Rock Pluto's World
What fun that publications are editorializing with (finally!) some slant I like! OK, sure, most are using the really opinionated headlines for editorials, but I see some yellow dog journalism here right after my own heart! And, I note: Only real sticks-in-the-mud can't make fun copy out of this story.
Even non-real-news sources are in on the act, and they're arguably having the most fun of all. To wit, this snippet from Animated-News.com:
"Despite Planetary Downgrade, Pluto Is Still Disney's 'Dog Star'"
BURBANK, CALIF -- In reaction to news today that Pluto was demoted to the status of "dwarf planet," the Seven Dwarfs issued their own short statement:
"Although we think it's DOPEY that Pluto has been downgraded to a dwarf planet, which has made some people GRUMPY and others just SLEEPY, we are not BASHFUL in saying we would be HAPPY if Disney's Pluto would join us as an 8th dwarf. We think this is just what the DOC ordered and is nothing to SNEEZE at."As Mickey Mouse's faithful companion, Pluto made his debut in 1930 -- the same year that scientists discovered what they believed was a ninth planet.
Said a white-gloved, yellow-shoed source close to Disney's top dog, "I think the whole thing is goofy. Pluto has never been interested in astronomy before, other than maybe an occasional howl at the moon."
8.25.2006
It's a Shame About Pluto
I read earlier in the week that the High Poo-Bas of Intergalactic Studies (OK... some group of scientists who have a completely benign name I've now forgotten) were going to vote on the status of Pluto. Up for decision: Does the lil' one on the end really deserve to be a planet?
Well, the vote is in -- and it's a sad, sad day in Muddville, folks, because poor Pluto has been struck out.
As of Thursday, we have only 8 planets.
Sigh....
Look, it's a nice, round number -- I concede that. Cleanly divisible by two if the planets ever need to employ The Buddy System. And, hey, we've still got Uranus. (Insert joke here.) It's just sad. I mean: Who wants to be labeled a "dwarf" and put on the cosmic B-list? I feel bad for Pluto! The poor guy was already living in the low-rent district of the solar system. What's next? Deportation to another galaxy?
It's bad enough, this treatment of Pluto. But what about the rest of us? Woe to all now-grown children who once made styrofoam and coathanger mobiles of the planets! How will we UNLEARN what we went to such trouble to commit to memory in the first place?
I say: SO WHATif Pluto is on the puny side and not exactly made of "planetary stuff?" Hello, Charlotte's Web! Wilbur was small, too. And, hey, do astronomers not watch sports flicks? Becuase if they did, they'd know the underdog always turns out to be the MVP!
SO WHAT if Pluto's personal space is a bit messy, that he can't quite muster the muscle to clear space debris? He has a medical condition! He's size challenged! Unlike millions of American teenagers, at least he has an excuse!
SO WHAT if Pluto's orbit is "irregular?" Are we not taught, in today's world, to value diversity?! I personally liked learning that for years at a stretch, Pluto's orbit takes it closer to the sun than Neptune. I LIKE that slightly out-of-the-box, planned deviant behavior in my celestial bodies.
Those scientist types? ...Apparently not so much.
Hey, they make their points. They have logic and a bully pulpit on their side. But I have passion for this topic. Passion, baby! Again, I cry: What mass degredation is next? Are we going to kick Q out of the alphabet because no one uses it much?
Perhaps I shouldn't take this so hard. I read that the widow of the man who first discovered Pluto is handling the news quite well, thanks, and believes her husband would have come around, too. I quote:
I'm proud of that spunky Patricia and her ability to put things in perspective. I'll try to follow her lead -- though not, perhaps, before I file a complaint at InterplanetaryPoo-Bas.com. I feel I need to do it... for Pluto! For Clyde! For moldy sytrofoam models in closets and basements and attics everywhere!
Power to the Laypeople! Up with Small Semi-Planets! Bigger isn't Always Better!
Feel free to deviate your own, usual orbit this weekend, in solidarity with rebel Pluto and me. We appreciate your support.
Well, the vote is in -- and it's a sad, sad day in Muddville, folks, because poor Pluto has been struck out.
As of Thursday, we have only 8 planets.
Sigh....
Look, it's a nice, round number -- I concede that. Cleanly divisible by two if the planets ever need to employ The Buddy System. And, hey, we've still got Uranus. (Insert joke here.) It's just sad. I mean: Who wants to be labeled a "dwarf" and put on the cosmic B-list? I feel bad for Pluto! The poor guy was already living in the low-rent district of the solar system. What's next? Deportation to another galaxy?
It's bad enough, this treatment of Pluto. But what about the rest of us? Woe to all now-grown children who once made styrofoam and coathanger mobiles of the planets! How will we UNLEARN what we went to such trouble to commit to memory in the first place?
I say: SO WHATif Pluto is on the puny side and not exactly made of "planetary stuff?" Hello, Charlotte's Web! Wilbur was small, too. And, hey, do astronomers not watch sports flicks? Becuase if they did, they'd know the underdog always turns out to be the MVP!
SO WHAT if Pluto's personal space is a bit messy, that he can't quite muster the muscle to clear space debris? He has a medical condition! He's size challenged! Unlike millions of American teenagers, at least he has an excuse!
SO WHAT if Pluto's orbit is "irregular?" Are we not taught, in today's world, to value diversity?! I personally liked learning that for years at a stretch, Pluto's orbit takes it closer to the sun than Neptune. I LIKE that slightly out-of-the-box, planned deviant behavior in my celestial bodies.
Those scientist types? ...Apparently not so much.
Hey, they make their points. They have logic and a bully pulpit on their side. But I have passion for this topic. Passion, baby! Again, I cry: What mass degredation is next? Are we going to kick Q out of the alphabet because no one uses it much?
Perhaps I shouldn't take this so hard. I read that the widow of the man who first discovered Pluto is handling the news quite well, thanks, and believes her husband would have come around, too. I quote:
Meanwhile, the widow of Clyde Tombaugh said he would have understood why his discovery was demoted to non-planet status, because he was a good scientist.
“Clyde said, 'Well, it's there. You can do what you want with it',” Patricia Tombaugh, 94, said from her home in Las Cruces, New Mexico.
Her husband, who discovered Pluto while working at the Lowell Observatory in Arizona, was disappointed and frustrated when scientists began questioning its status.
But, she said: “Clyde would have said, 'Science is a progressive thing and if you're going to be a scientist and put your neck out, you're apt to have it bitten upon'.”
(full story here)I'm proud of that spunky Patricia and her ability to put things in perspective. I'll try to follow her lead -- though not, perhaps, before I file a complaint at InterplanetaryPoo-Bas.com. I feel I need to do it... for Pluto! For Clyde! For moldy sytrofoam models in closets and basements and attics everywhere!
Power to the Laypeople! Up with Small Semi-Planets! Bigger isn't Always Better!
Feel free to deviate your own, usual orbit this weekend, in solidarity with rebel Pluto and me. We appreciate your support.
8.16.2006
Kitchen Chat
So I made really good cookies today. REALLY good cookies!
...Maybe the best cookies I have ever made.
They were baked on one of those silicon mats that goes over the aluminum cookie sheet (only I think my cookie sheet is some high-tech, withstand-the-heat-of-the-sun compound that has very little aluminum in it, thus explaining the carpal tunnel-crushing WEIGHT of it --- and I digress).
While I secretly thought the silicon mat might be an indulgent, yuppy-type toy I really did not need but was convinced to buy because A.) it came in cute colors, and B.) it could keep "gunk" buildup off my new, space-aged cookie sheet -- I was wrong. The thing actually makes GREAT cookies! GREAT, I tell ya!
Where have I been? I need to cook more! To innovate. To take notes next time I watch Alton Brown! ...Or just to use the oven more than twice a week.
Oh, Resolutions, thou knowest me well! Go easy, dear good and gentle friend, when next we part -- as always we do. But, pray thee, serveth my family fine foods until then.
...Maybe the best cookies I have ever made.
They were baked on one of those silicon mats that goes over the aluminum cookie sheet (only I think my cookie sheet is some high-tech, withstand-the-heat-of-the-sun compound that has very little aluminum in it, thus explaining the carpal tunnel-crushing WEIGHT of it --- and I digress).
While I secretly thought the silicon mat might be an indulgent, yuppy-type toy I really did not need but was convinced to buy because A.) it came in cute colors, and B.) it could keep "gunk" buildup off my new, space-aged cookie sheet -- I was wrong. The thing actually makes GREAT cookies! GREAT, I tell ya!
Where have I been? I need to cook more! To innovate. To take notes next time I watch Alton Brown! ...Or just to use the oven more than twice a week.
Oh, Resolutions, thou knowest me well! Go easy, dear good and gentle friend, when next we part -- as always we do. But, pray thee, serveth my family fine foods until then.
8.15.2006
On Ancient History and Opposable Thumbs
At lunch today, little man Miles & I were talking about Little Golden books, which have been around a long, long time. The impetus was a "David & Goliath" book on our table, published in 1974. (This is not, as in, "first published." This ACTUAL book was published that year. It is 32 years old. And I got it when I was a child. Which makes me older than the book. Eek!)
I was trying to explain just how old a 32-year book is, to a 4-year-old. Miles asked if it was as old as our house. I said no.
Me: "The book is about my age, and our house is older than me."
Miles: "Oh, yeah, and then older than me, especially. So our house -- I mean, it must be REALLY old!"
Me: "Well, it's pretty old..." (It was built in 1960.)
Miles: "Yeah, from like dinosaur times!"
Sure, 'cause if it's 30 years older than mom, we've reached the Paleolithic.
In my head, I said, "Um, like, NO!" in my most insulted teenage girl voice. But what actually came out was more like: "Well, no, hon... it's hard to think about how long ago dinosaurs lived, but trust me: It was much longer ago. It was longer than you or I could count, backward or forward. It was before even the first house was built. No houses even existed...."
And on I riffed, and he interjected, and we chatted , for a few minutes. Then we commenced chewing. (It was lunchtime, remember?) And then, after a small silence, Miles brought it all home. Natural history and aging storybooks and time elasping and everything being relative... I guess it all boils down to this.
M: "REALLY!" (Slaps his head like an "I could've had a V8" commerical.) "Of course!" (Wildly guestures with same hand, palm out.) "Dinosaurs couldn't read! I mean, c'mon.... how were they gonna pick up the books?"
I was trying to explain just how old a 32-year book is, to a 4-year-old. Miles asked if it was as old as our house. I said no.
Me: "The book is about my age, and our house is older than me."
Miles: "Oh, yeah, and then older than me, especially. So our house -- I mean, it must be REALLY old!"
Me: "Well, it's pretty old..." (It was built in 1960.)
Miles: "Yeah, from like dinosaur times!"
Sure, 'cause if it's 30 years older than mom, we've reached the Paleolithic.
In my head, I said, "Um, like, NO!" in my most insulted teenage girl voice. But what actually came out was more like: "Well, no, hon... it's hard to think about how long ago dinosaurs lived, but trust me: It was much longer ago. It was longer than you or I could count, backward or forward. It was before even the first house was built. No houses even existed...."
And on I riffed, and he interjected, and we chatted , for a few minutes. Then we commenced chewing. (It was lunchtime, remember?) And then, after a small silence, Miles brought it all home. Natural history and aging storybooks and time elasping and everything being relative... I guess it all boils down to this.
M: "REALLY!" (Slaps his head like an "I could've had a V8" commerical.) "Of course!" (Wildly guestures with same hand, palm out.) "Dinosaurs couldn't read! I mean, c'mon.... how were they gonna pick up the books?"
8.07.2006
Easy Bake Oven
I don't care how many people say it: It isn't just the humidity. It's the actual heat.
...The mind-numbing, never-ceasing, ever-lovin' 98-degrees-at-10-pm HEAT in this sticky armpit we call East Texas.
(Possibly I'm a little grouchy right now. Don't say you weren't warned.)
I have been meaning to rant about the heat for several weeks now, but I've been so sweaty my fingers slide off the keyboard. This is only half a joke.
Really... truthfully: We've had trouble sleeping here. And we have an air conditioner. It runs for about $10 worth of cool per day (give or take some cents), and still we cannot rest in the pervasive, enveloping heat at 11:30 at night.
Also, I work in the house of heat. (Quick disclaimer wherein I say I KNOW other people have it much worse! I don't roof houses or pave highways for 8 hours a day... I know! I get that I've got it good. But the grouch must go on, my friends, so enough of that "perspective" and "maturity" stuff.) It is HOT in my office. Pretty much all of the time I am in my office. Which is pretty much all of the time.
Jeremy brought me a floor fan and a new vent cover, even some special low-wattage halogen light bulbs -- but neither one of us would say these efforts have fully solved the problem. He is with me on this: It is UNPLEASANT inside this tiny, not-very-ventilated space. Every occasion to rise brings with it the unmistakable sound of my sticky flesh unpeeling from my leather desk chair. I'm a Band-Aid off coming off its backing every time I must answer the fax. And even this is an improvement.
I started the summer wearing capri pants and sleeved shirts to work -- not aiming high, mind you, just attire I'm not ashamed of. Come to find out: It was simply not worth the suffering to look presentable for the 15 minutes a day I was out of the house. Now I barely rise above gym shorts & tanks. I find it's much easier to remove damp clothes that don't go past the knees or cover the elbows.
I've been thinking about the best metaphor for my working enviroment this summer, and I believe I've got it! I toil away in a grown-up version of the Easy Bake Oven.
Remember the Easy Bake? With only rudimentary technology (really, the whole thing was a light box MacGyver could have rigged in 45 seconds with an aluminum can, a broken lamp and some eletrician's tape), the Easy Bake delivered ACTUAL, COOKED snacks in a not-unheard-of amount of time. I remember being so suprised!, so impressed!, that a little plastic oven like that could create real food. I mixed and I baked and I mixed and I baked all my included treats on Day One. I just marveled at the innerworkings of the thing. Ah, the power of the lightbulb.
And this is where I've been thinking.... If a single 60-watt bulb can make brownies for two, then 3 halogens, one CPU and an ambient temp of 86 degrees totally explain why I'm a melted puddle by 2 p.m. I am literally BAKING myself every day!
I've tried turning the lights out, and that works for a while. You heard about the vent improvment and one of my two fans. I've experimented with and given up on iced drinks (condensation runs into all my papers). I still sometimes toy with the thermostat -- and you can do that ugly end-of-month math. Really, there is no alternative but to bake, bake, bake.
And, so, until fall, here I'll be. Drop me a line! Share the misery! I'll be busy avoiding my lamp, dressing light and hydrating (basting?) with regular water bottles. I figure that's the best I can do because, really, the what-to-wear-to-work situation can't get much more lax. With a desk window that looks onto the street, I'm pretty sure the entire neighborhood does not want to see me "officing" in swimwear. But, HEY! An idea! If only those halogens came in tanning lights....
...The mind-numbing, never-ceasing, ever-lovin' 98-degrees-at-10-pm HEAT in this sticky armpit we call East Texas.
(Possibly I'm a little grouchy right now. Don't say you weren't warned.)
I have been meaning to rant about the heat for several weeks now, but I've been so sweaty my fingers slide off the keyboard. This is only half a joke.
Really... truthfully: We've had trouble sleeping here. And we have an air conditioner. It runs for about $10 worth of cool per day (give or take some cents), and still we cannot rest in the pervasive, enveloping heat at 11:30 at night.
Also, I work in the house of heat. (Quick disclaimer wherein I say I KNOW other people have it much worse! I don't roof houses or pave highways for 8 hours a day... I know! I get that I've got it good. But the grouch must go on, my friends, so enough of that "perspective" and "maturity" stuff.) It is HOT in my office. Pretty much all of the time I am in my office. Which is pretty much all of the time.
Jeremy brought me a floor fan and a new vent cover, even some special low-wattage halogen light bulbs -- but neither one of us would say these efforts have fully solved the problem. He is with me on this: It is UNPLEASANT inside this tiny, not-very-ventilated space. Every occasion to rise brings with it the unmistakable sound of my sticky flesh unpeeling from my leather desk chair. I'm a Band-Aid off coming off its backing every time I must answer the fax. And even this is an improvement.
I started the summer wearing capri pants and sleeved shirts to work -- not aiming high, mind you, just attire I'm not ashamed of. Come to find out: It was simply not worth the suffering to look presentable for the 15 minutes a day I was out of the house. Now I barely rise above gym shorts & tanks. I find it's much easier to remove damp clothes that don't go past the knees or cover the elbows.
I've been thinking about the best metaphor for my working enviroment this summer, and I believe I've got it! I toil away in a grown-up version of the Easy Bake Oven.
Remember the Easy Bake? With only rudimentary technology (really, the whole thing was a light box MacGyver could have rigged in 45 seconds with an aluminum can, a broken lamp and some eletrician's tape), the Easy Bake delivered ACTUAL, COOKED snacks in a not-unheard-of amount of time. I remember being so suprised!, so impressed!, that a little plastic oven like that could create real food. I mixed and I baked and I mixed and I baked all my included treats on Day One. I just marveled at the innerworkings of the thing. Ah, the power of the lightbulb.
And this is where I've been thinking.... If a single 60-watt bulb can make brownies for two, then 3 halogens, one CPU and an ambient temp of 86 degrees totally explain why I'm a melted puddle by 2 p.m. I am literally BAKING myself every day!
I've tried turning the lights out, and that works for a while. You heard about the vent improvment and one of my two fans. I've experimented with and given up on iced drinks (condensation runs into all my papers). I still sometimes toy with the thermostat -- and you can do that ugly end-of-month math. Really, there is no alternative but to bake, bake, bake.
And, so, until fall, here I'll be. Drop me a line! Share the misery! I'll be busy avoiding my lamp, dressing light and hydrating (basting?) with regular water bottles. I figure that's the best I can do because, really, the what-to-wear-to-work situation can't get much more lax. With a desk window that looks onto the street, I'm pretty sure the entire neighborhood does not want to see me "officing" in swimwear. But, HEY! An idea! If only those halogens came in tanning lights....
8.01.2006
Dark Night
I've been playing Marbles online for 49 minutes. As I would quickly point out to son Miles, it's not play time. It's sleepy time.
But I'm not sleepy.
I just can't sleep.
I can't seem to write, either, so I'm stuck playing games and surfing (is it even called that anymore? I am hopelessly behind the real geeks) until I calm down.
I have 4 draft posts that I could polish. But I'm not so much in a "Walk Humbly" frame of mind just now. In fact, I feel the need to interrupt the regular flow of thoughts here because I'm feeling much more "fruitility" than humility right now.
I looked at the baby clothes at JC Penney this weekend.
I didn't mean to! Honest! I was just walking from the big boys' department (where I found the shortest wait-to-pay line) to the shoe department (nearest where I parked my car... as I can never recall the layout of exterior doors to interior departments). Miles was with me, and I was in a hurry. I paused for only the briefest moment in front of the Carter's display.
I wanted to touch them.
All those sweet, small, unblemished outfits for sleeping and sitting and waiting on the growth. All that 100% cotton possibility....
I wanted so badly to reach out and touch the clothes. But I knew I shouldn't. No hot stoves, and no baby clothes. Learned responses, those are. Both acts of self-preservation.
I hate that something as freakin' ridiculous as 0-12 month rompers can make me this sad. Still. So sad.
I am so very sad.
And my heart can't feel its way back right now.
But I'm not sleepy.
I just can't sleep.
I can't seem to write, either, so I'm stuck playing games and surfing (is it even called that anymore? I am hopelessly behind the real geeks) until I calm down.
I have 4 draft posts that I could polish. But I'm not so much in a "Walk Humbly" frame of mind just now. In fact, I feel the need to interrupt the regular flow of thoughts here because I'm feeling much more "fruitility" than humility right now.
I looked at the baby clothes at JC Penney this weekend.
I didn't mean to! Honest! I was just walking from the big boys' department (where I found the shortest wait-to-pay line) to the shoe department (nearest where I parked my car... as I can never recall the layout of exterior doors to interior departments). Miles was with me, and I was in a hurry. I paused for only the briefest moment in front of the Carter's display.
I wanted to touch them.
All those sweet, small, unblemished outfits for sleeping and sitting and waiting on the growth. All that 100% cotton possibility....
I wanted so badly to reach out and touch the clothes. But I knew I shouldn't. No hot stoves, and no baby clothes. Learned responses, those are. Both acts of self-preservation.
I hate that something as freakin' ridiculous as 0-12 month rompers can make me this sad. Still. So sad.
I am so very sad.
And my heart can't feel its way back right now.
7.31.2006
It Costs Us Nothing
My child thinks restaurants are free. He cannot be dissuaded. And his belief is strangely logical -- if you can see things from the 4-yr-old worldview.
We discovered Miles' misperception when we went to IHOP after church this week. He finished first, of course, and so was amusing himself -- coloring, counting things, opining -- while we wrapped up our high-caloric, Big-and-Tall-scale trays of breakfast bounty. Miles says, "You know why I like this restaurant best of all the others? You get to eat good food and you don't have to pay for it."
Me, quickly: "What?"
The Dad (slower, calmer, and with quizzical look): "We're paying for this food, Miles. We pay at the end, after we're done eating."
Miles (and Me, simultaneously): "Ahhhh..."
Me: "So, Miles, are you telling us that this is different from other eating places where we pay for the food BEFORE they give it to us?"
Miles: "Yeah. Like at Chick-Fil-A. But this kind of restaurant doesn't make you pay."
Dad: "Remember the Mexican restaurant, with the ice cream, where we went the other day? We paid them for the food. We paid at the end. Just like we will here."
Miles seemed accepting of the explanation -- and we seemed distracted by extraction of credit card (spouse) and completion of pancake (me) -- so I really can't remember how this portion of the conversation wound down. I do know we moved on to other topics until, some minutes later, the credit card statement arrived in its black plastic folder.
Jeremy opened it, nodded and began to sign about the time I glanced across the table. Our chipper, hyper, triumphant son was swinging his legs, chin resting on two hands. "See?" he stage whispered to himself, as he outstretched one upturned palm for drama effect. "I TOLD ya' we don't haffa pay here! It's just GREAT!"
So... as long as no actual green or coin money changes hands, we have not paid. And, in fact, when we do pay -- when he is presented with irrefutable evidence of some adult activity inside the black plastic folder -- Miles is pretty sure we're getting money back.
Crazy kid! But, also: OK. Why not? I see exactly where he's coming from. And I hope he has time for a few more wrong notions to (briefly) flourish before the world attacks and uproots them all. As I think about this (much as I do correct him and sometimes squelch his fanciful nature), I have developed a mantra. Reality tomorrow, I say.... Free food today!
We discovered Miles' misperception when we went to IHOP after church this week. He finished first, of course, and so was amusing himself -- coloring, counting things, opining -- while we wrapped up our high-caloric, Big-and-Tall-scale trays of breakfast bounty. Miles says, "You know why I like this restaurant best of all the others? You get to eat good food and you don't have to pay for it."
Me, quickly: "What?"
The Dad (slower, calmer, and with quizzical look): "We're paying for this food, Miles. We pay at the end, after we're done eating."
Miles (and Me, simultaneously): "Ahhhh..."
Me: "So, Miles, are you telling us that this is different from other eating places where we pay for the food BEFORE they give it to us?"
Miles: "Yeah. Like at Chick-Fil-A. But this kind of restaurant doesn't make you pay."
Dad: "Remember the Mexican restaurant, with the ice cream, where we went the other day? We paid them for the food. We paid at the end. Just like we will here."
Miles seemed accepting of the explanation -- and we seemed distracted by extraction of credit card (spouse) and completion of pancake (me) -- so I really can't remember how this portion of the conversation wound down. I do know we moved on to other topics until, some minutes later, the credit card statement arrived in its black plastic folder.
Jeremy opened it, nodded and began to sign about the time I glanced across the table. Our chipper, hyper, triumphant son was swinging his legs, chin resting on two hands. "See?" he stage whispered to himself, as he outstretched one upturned palm for drama effect. "I TOLD ya' we don't haffa pay here! It's just GREAT!"
So... as long as no actual green or coin money changes hands, we have not paid. And, in fact, when we do pay -- when he is presented with irrefutable evidence of some adult activity inside the black plastic folder -- Miles is pretty sure we're getting money back.
Crazy kid! But, also: OK. Why not? I see exactly where he's coming from. And I hope he has time for a few more wrong notions to (briefly) flourish before the world attacks and uproots them all. As I think about this (much as I do correct him and sometimes squelch his fanciful nature), I have developed a mantra. Reality tomorrow, I say.... Free food today!
7.19.2006
What I Do
Oh, what a bad conversationalist am I!
A lovely visitor/poster to this blog (I don't have that many; you'd think I could keep up!) asked some days ago for more details on what I do for a living. She is curious about my job. And I -- inadvertently -- ignored the question.
Sorry, MaryBeth!
I work for a company that manufacturers formal attire. We make mostly bridesmaids dresses, plus some mother-of-the-wedding, after five/ social occasion dresses, and a few informal wedding gowns.
We work only with retailers, not consumers. (Until a really angry wedding party member sneaks in over the transom.) We place merchandise in interested stores and produce "special orders" for individual wedding parties who order through those stores.
I am the Customer Relations division. Officially, I open new accounts, close non-performing accounts, encourage and exhort and otherwise manage flagging accounts. I also handle problems that escalate such that customer service can't give satisfactory resolution to a retailer.
Unoffically -- just as everyone at my hard-working company -- I handle a lot of other crap besides.
:)
Today, I am trying deperately to remember why I needed this purple dress by 8/01. A flurry of emails have told me it might not be ready -- and they're speaking to me like I'm in charge of this problem -- but for the life of me, I cannot determine from the order why I was asking for it that early, anyway.
I am also trying to ensure that two broken zippers are replaced at no charge, and quickly. That multiple Return Authorizations are issued (ugh! paperwork!). That UPS labels are generated and emailed. That order corrections are input before cutting. That replacement orders are begun with faster-than-normal ship times. That I find an extra matte satin swatch card and a FAQ page for two different accounts who lost theirs. That I consolidate two accounts under once ownership, close an account that is doing no business but costing us a great deal of money, and make sure a repaired wedding dress ships to St. Louis overnight.
And, most days, that is just about what I do. :)
A lovely visitor/poster to this blog (I don't have that many; you'd think I could keep up!) asked some days ago for more details on what I do for a living. She is curious about my job. And I -- inadvertently -- ignored the question.
Sorry, MaryBeth!
I work for a company that manufacturers formal attire. We make mostly bridesmaids dresses, plus some mother-of-the-wedding, after five/ social occasion dresses, and a few informal wedding gowns.
We work only with retailers, not consumers. (Until a really angry wedding party member sneaks in over the transom.) We place merchandise in interested stores and produce "special orders" for individual wedding parties who order through those stores.
I am the Customer Relations division. Officially, I open new accounts, close non-performing accounts, encourage and exhort and otherwise manage flagging accounts. I also handle problems that escalate such that customer service can't give satisfactory resolution to a retailer.
Unoffically -- just as everyone at my hard-working company -- I handle a lot of other crap besides.
:)
Today, I am trying deperately to remember why I needed this purple dress by 8/01. A flurry of emails have told me it might not be ready -- and they're speaking to me like I'm in charge of this problem -- but for the life of me, I cannot determine from the order why I was asking for it that early, anyway.
I am also trying to ensure that two broken zippers are replaced at no charge, and quickly. That multiple Return Authorizations are issued (ugh! paperwork!). That UPS labels are generated and emailed. That order corrections are input before cutting. That replacement orders are begun with faster-than-normal ship times. That I find an extra matte satin swatch card and a FAQ page for two different accounts who lost theirs. That I consolidate two accounts under once ownership, close an account that is doing no business but costing us a great deal of money, and make sure a repaired wedding dress ships to St. Louis overnight.
And, most days, that is just about what I do. :)
DAY FOUR, FINALE: For Real This Time
I am obviously having a hard time letting go of my Fiesta 2006 journal! (Gotta get an editor for this blog!) But I don't feel Day Four is yet complete....
OK, so I could tell you about the crumbling mess of a boy who fell to the floor, crying and hissy-fitting, when I cut him off from his third or fourth Cactus Crispie. (Five minutes from an all-VBS snack time! As he was scrounging other kid's leftover plates like a stray dog! After he had licked the peanut butter knife!!) Then I would have to tell you about Rosemary, who is this bountiful blessing of a lady. Rosemary, who blindly volunteered for VBS duty and was assigned -- thankfully! divinely! -- to work in my room. Rosemary, who brilliantly reverse-psychologied the kid off the floor, after two other people failed, in no more than three minutes.
I could also tell you how GREAT it was to have a Karley (our second-day, drop in helper of age group "tween" -- another arrival via luck of draw/divine intervention). That girl ROCKS any task you give her! Karley just goes to it, all out, no matter what "it" is. She organized up a storm and efficiciencied me out of having enough to do! I had to hold her back, that girl. And I came to deeply appreciate her while doing it.
Then, again, I COULD mention the steep learning curve that was my Cactus Crispies (a little "I-can-do-better" snack -- and a food idea clearly not tested as extensively as those "pshaw-that's-so-easy" treats in the curriculum). We had a lot of gooey fingers, some very ameoba-like cactus, and BOWLS of leftover, sticky goo after Group One. Though we did steadily improve.
The visual I really want to end with, however, are the lines of children as they left Maraca Munchies for the last time. Each of our 4 groups had about 14 kids by Day 4, the bulk of them wearing tie-dyed T-shirts (courtesy Cactus Crafts!) they were eager to take home. I've done this VBS gig before, you know, so I've learned a few things. One thing I've gotten much better at is endings. I used to feel completely idiotic when I tried to create a "moment" to end on. But I was trying too hard. Then I learned.
So this is how it goes -- finally, my best advice for anyone wanting to become a VBS volunteer yourself. No matter how snotty or disrespectful they may have been earlier, no matter how manic or crazy-actin' on that final day, you must stop and GET OVER IT -- really, from your heart, let it ALL go -- about four minutes before they leave. You must line them up in a direction or curve they haven't followed all week. You must confuse them slightly, to make them listen for instructions, and then you must send them out, one by one, name after name.
"Goodbye, Kelly. I love you!"
"'Bye, Austin. I love you, too!"
"Mady: I love you, sweet girl! Goodbye."
"Kurt: Have a good day. I love you!"
"Bye, Haydn. I love you! Come back ANY TIME!"
And on it must go.... such that every child hears his or her name and the words, "I love you."
Now, I personally hand them candy -- just my particular weakness, not at all required. You must simply touch each child as he or she files by, small and big ones, sweet and belligerant ones. Touch every one, as if yours are the Hands that hold all the love. A squeeze on the shoulder, a brush of the hair, a pat on the hand. Touch them, speak to them, love them.
This is what I have learned. It is my ending. I sure didn't think of it; I figure I was led to it. You might try it, yourself, because I think then you'll know: You have lived a moment that is just, exactly right.
"Before long, the world will not see me anymore, but you will see me. Because I live, you also will live. On that day you will realize that I am in my Father, and you are in me, and I am in you. Whoever has my commands and obeys them, he is the one who loves me. He who loves me will be loved by my Father, and I too will love him and show myself to him." --John 14: 19-21
OK, so I could tell you about the crumbling mess of a boy who fell to the floor, crying and hissy-fitting, when I cut him off from his third or fourth Cactus Crispie. (Five minutes from an all-VBS snack time! As he was scrounging other kid's leftover plates like a stray dog! After he had licked the peanut butter knife!!) Then I would have to tell you about Rosemary, who is this bountiful blessing of a lady. Rosemary, who blindly volunteered for VBS duty and was assigned -- thankfully! divinely! -- to work in my room. Rosemary, who brilliantly reverse-psychologied the kid off the floor, after two other people failed, in no more than three minutes.
I could also tell you how GREAT it was to have a Karley (our second-day, drop in helper of age group "tween" -- another arrival via luck of draw/divine intervention). That girl ROCKS any task you give her! Karley just goes to it, all out, no matter what "it" is. She organized up a storm and efficiciencied me out of having enough to do! I had to hold her back, that girl. And I came to deeply appreciate her while doing it.
Then, again, I COULD mention the steep learning curve that was my Cactus Crispies (a little "I-can-do-better" snack -- and a food idea clearly not tested as extensively as those "pshaw-that's-so-easy" treats in the curriculum). We had a lot of gooey fingers, some very ameoba-like cactus, and BOWLS of leftover, sticky goo after Group One. Though we did steadily improve.
The visual I really want to end with, however, are the lines of children as they left Maraca Munchies for the last time. Each of our 4 groups had about 14 kids by Day 4, the bulk of them wearing tie-dyed T-shirts (courtesy Cactus Crafts!) they were eager to take home. I've done this VBS gig before, you know, so I've learned a few things. One thing I've gotten much better at is endings. I used to feel completely idiotic when I tried to create a "moment" to end on. But I was trying too hard. Then I learned.
So this is how it goes -- finally, my best advice for anyone wanting to become a VBS volunteer yourself. No matter how snotty or disrespectful they may have been earlier, no matter how manic or crazy-actin' on that final day, you must stop and GET OVER IT -- really, from your heart, let it ALL go -- about four minutes before they leave. You must line them up in a direction or curve they haven't followed all week. You must confuse them slightly, to make them listen for instructions, and then you must send them out, one by one, name after name.
"Goodbye, Kelly. I love you!"
"'Bye, Austin. I love you, too!"
"Mady: I love you, sweet girl! Goodbye."
"Kurt: Have a good day. I love you!"
"Bye, Haydn. I love you! Come back ANY TIME!"
And on it must go.... such that every child hears his or her name and the words, "I love you."
Now, I personally hand them candy -- just my particular weakness, not at all required. You must simply touch each child as he or she files by, small and big ones, sweet and belligerant ones. Touch every one, as if yours are the Hands that hold all the love. A squeeze on the shoulder, a brush of the hair, a pat on the hand. Touch them, speak to them, love them.
This is what I have learned. It is my ending. I sure didn't think of it; I figure I was led to it. You might try it, yourself, because I think then you'll know: You have lived a moment that is just, exactly right.
"Before long, the world will not see me anymore, but you will see me. Because I live, you also will live. On that day you will realize that I am in my Father, and you are in me, and I am in you. Whoever has my commands and obeys them, he is the one who loves me. He who loves me will be loved by my Father, and I too will love him and show myself to him." --John 14: 19-21
7.18.2006
DAY FOUR, FINALE: Part II
It's the last day of Fiesta '06. By 8:55, I can tell we're going out in first-class style.
The Amigos have shown up without much discernable "leadership" from their leaders (the teens are too tired for crowd control, I postulate, and won't be any good to anyone until they make a Starbucks run or get sugared up on donated cookies at breaktime). One of the many Julias has added to the frenetic energy by finding and cornering "a baby lizard" in the cubbies. Not only does she capture said creature in her plump, 5-year-old fist, she fends off three boys (two larger!) to maintain possession of it. Breaking up the scuffle, I find the unfortunate being's tail near a StarWars sneaker on the floor. I am pretty sure it's NOT a lizard. The tail is completely white except for a series of black spots running down each side. The skin appears, um, moist (just yeeck, I know), and it's twitching with a vengeance. A newt, perhaps? Lord, let that thing not be poisonous, I pray. Please don't let the child swell up and die as soon as she gets to Grande Games and accelerates her heart rate.
I send Julia out to the nearest patch of grass to let the "baby" go. (If this were Hogwarts School of Wichcraft and Wizardry instead of First Christian Church, I am suddently sure Julia would bethe student to rescue a baby dragon.) I continue. The treat is a demanding one to mix and assemble, and I, too, could use a Frappacino to get my synapses firing. Suddenly I notice a short little camper sneaking back IN the door -- baggy white T; bright blue eyes; mischieveous grin... it's Michael! AWOL alert! Michael has left the room, and no one has noticed or verified where he's been.
I call the teen leaders to duty, roughly (not my best moment but, HELLO! I'm a mother, and only in my worst nightmare are we EVER gonna tell another mother, "I'm sorry. We lost your kid."). I grab Michael's hand (well, "entire upper arm region" is more accuarte) and escort him QUICKLY out the door for a dressing down. We run into Julia in the hallway, and this Who's on First routine follows:
Me, to M: "Where have you been?"
J: "Outside. Like you said!"
M: (simultaneously) "Wif her!"
J: "Yeah, he scratched me, see?"
Me: (Notice angry red welt running from the back of Julia's hand to almost her elbow.)
"WHAT?" Then, addressing anyone: Why?"
J: "He was trying to get the baby lizard!"
M: "I WANTED the lizard!"
Me: "Julia, is the lizard safe?"
J: "Yes."
Me: "Did he bite you?"
J: "No."
Me: "OK. Do ya' have any, er, animal allergies I need to be aware of?"
J: (Blank stare.)
M: "Can I go now?"
Me: "YOU? You, mister, cannot go anywhere unless an ADULT knows -- not ever again? OK?"
M: (Nods and looks down.)
Me: (Channeling Muttley from the old Hanna-Barbera cartoons; internally saying something like, "Rassum brassum ricken-frasss!!") Aloud: "Well, OK, then. This was NOT COOL, little man. NOT COOL! But it's over now. Both of you, go inside and make some Cactus Crispies!"
...It takes at least 10 minutes for me to realize I never told Julia to rewash her hands.
The Amigos have shown up without much discernable "leadership" from their leaders (the teens are too tired for crowd control, I postulate, and won't be any good to anyone until they make a Starbucks run or get sugared up on donated cookies at breaktime). One of the many Julias has added to the frenetic energy by finding and cornering "a baby lizard" in the cubbies. Not only does she capture said creature in her plump, 5-year-old fist, she fends off three boys (two larger!) to maintain possession of it. Breaking up the scuffle, I find the unfortunate being's tail near a StarWars sneaker on the floor. I am pretty sure it's NOT a lizard. The tail is completely white except for a series of black spots running down each side. The skin appears, um, moist (just yeeck, I know), and it's twitching with a vengeance. A newt, perhaps? Lord, let that thing not be poisonous, I pray. Please don't let the child swell up and die as soon as she gets to Grande Games and accelerates her heart rate.
I send Julia out to the nearest patch of grass to let the "baby" go. (If this were Hogwarts School of Wichcraft and Wizardry instead of First Christian Church, I am suddently sure Julia would bethe student to rescue a baby dragon.) I continue. The treat is a demanding one to mix and assemble, and I, too, could use a Frappacino to get my synapses firing. Suddenly I notice a short little camper sneaking back IN the door -- baggy white T; bright blue eyes; mischieveous grin... it's Michael! AWOL alert! Michael has left the room, and no one has noticed or verified where he's been.
I call the teen leaders to duty, roughly (not my best moment but, HELLO! I'm a mother, and only in my worst nightmare are we EVER gonna tell another mother, "I'm sorry. We lost your kid."). I grab Michael's hand (well, "entire upper arm region" is more accuarte) and escort him QUICKLY out the door for a dressing down. We run into Julia in the hallway, and this Who's on First routine follows:
Me, to M: "Where have you been?"
J: "Outside. Like you said!"
M: (simultaneously) "Wif her!"
J: "Yeah, he scratched me, see?"
Me: (Notice angry red welt running from the back of Julia's hand to almost her elbow.)
"WHAT?" Then, addressing anyone: Why?"
J: "He was trying to get the baby lizard!"
M: "I WANTED the lizard!"
Me: "Julia, is the lizard safe?"
J: "Yes."
Me: "Did he bite you?"
J: "No."
Me: "OK. Do ya' have any, er, animal allergies I need to be aware of?"
J: (Blank stare.)
M: "Can I go now?"
Me: "YOU? You, mister, cannot go anywhere unless an ADULT knows -- not ever again? OK?"
M: (Nods and looks down.)
Me: (Channeling Muttley from the old Hanna-Barbera cartoons; internally saying something like, "Rassum brassum ricken-frasss!!") Aloud: "Well, OK, then. This was NOT COOL, little man. NOT COOL! But it's over now. Both of you, go inside and make some Cactus Crispies!"
...It takes at least 10 minutes for me to realize I never told Julia to rewash her hands.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)