Means making mix cds and doing laundry and arguing with my roommates about various Google maps suggestions (you can't, according to them, bike to Dublin. We're not going to Dublin, but in case you are...) and re-affixing my rearview mirror (which came off again, after I epoxy'd it back on a scant month ago) and purchasing candy in boxes and trying to remember how I did my hair that one time so I don't forget any of the products needed to recreate the magic and packing and trying to remember things like my phone charger and the wedding gift and my contacts case and underwear.
and I love it oh so much.
The current mix cd trend is decidedly danceable-summer tunes, with a heavy emphasis on my days with Souls A'Fire. The cd is of course named according to my Souls nickname: Affirmative Action.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
I really hate that "airplanes in the night sky" song.
You can wish on a night sky as easily as on a shooting star; at least, I've always found it so. It's a poor wish that depends on a star for delivery. Stars aren't always the most reliable creatures.
My hatred of the song may also have as much to do with the repetitive and boring melody as the idiotic lyrics. I can't say I've really invested in analyzing this dislike.
Life is good. So, so good.
I'm praying for a family I sit for regularly. The parents are great people: successful, caring, got-it-together, and yet they do not know Christ. Their kids are tiny monsters, as all small humans are, and I need so much to pray for them, so that I can infuse as much Jesus into their lives as possible this summer.
I have come to see that (incredibly) maybe someday I will understand things that make no current sense. To see and to accept! It's all pattern recognition at heart, after all.
My hatred of the song may also have as much to do with the repetitive and boring melody as the idiotic lyrics. I can't say I've really invested in analyzing this dislike.
Life is good. So, so good.
I'm praying for a family I sit for regularly. The parents are great people: successful, caring, got-it-together, and yet they do not know Christ. Their kids are tiny monsters, as all small humans are, and I need so much to pray for them, so that I can infuse as much Jesus into their lives as possible this summer.
I have come to see that (incredibly) maybe someday I will understand things that make no current sense. To see and to accept! It's all pattern recognition at heart, after all.
Monday, July 19, 2010
Isn't there some famous quote excusing women from being inconsistent?
Because if there is, consider it invoked here and now.
Being at Bekah and David's wedding this weekend made me want to fall in love. If you don't know me, you will not realize how somewhat monumental that statement is--
But I'm learning to believe that just because I don't understand something does not give me cause to reject it out of hand.
Bit by bit, a little at a time. Maybe the old ways don't have to be the new ways. Maybe I can start from where I've learned to be, instead of where things were. Maybe I can trust for real what I claim in theory.
Isn't this exciting?
Being at Bekah and David's wedding this weekend made me want to fall in love. If you don't know me, you will not realize how somewhat monumental that statement is--
But I'm learning to believe that just because I don't understand something does not give me cause to reject it out of hand.
Bit by bit, a little at a time. Maybe the old ways don't have to be the new ways. Maybe I can start from where I've learned to be, instead of where things were. Maybe I can trust for real what I claim in theory.
Isn't this exciting?
Sunday, July 18, 2010
23
My birthday was wonderful.
The wedding in St. Louis was one of the best I've been to.
And now I am hanging out with my friends while they cook Pork Tenderloin with Camembert and Risotto. I got to tenderize the meat. As I type they are discussing the merits of cooking sherries and reductions. They are much cooler than I am.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
At childhood's end
You know your childhood is over when you (in mercenary materialistic Western [broke grad student] fashion) begin to count up the number of people who will probably send you birthday money and realize that they are all dead.
This happened to me while (of all cold-hearted things) I was working on my budget the other night. I sat wondering if I could count on any other odd income this month, and I remembered the birthday hovering around the bend--
and then I recalled that all those wonderful old people, who sent small bills with love and shaky handwriting, are all gone now.
Rocked me a bit--still recovering. What a silly way to miss someone. But what a permanent reminder.
My father's father, Poppy, spelled my name wrong on every card I ever got from him: either one and two e's or two l's and one e, but never the whole thing all correct. I used to look for it on the envelopes, eagerly awaiting the sight of his forward-slanting all-caps handwriting, to see if maybe he caught it this time. He never did, and he likely never knew the difference, but it made me laugh. He made me laugh. And I miss him. Seven years later, and I miss him.
This will be my first birthday away from home, away from my for-now-home, even, as I'll be in another state at a friend's wedding. This will be an excellent lesson in selflessness, and also, probably, my first grown-up birthday, since grown-ups do not get to have a day of their own. I don't even know if I'll have facebook access. Dearth of festal cheer, indeed (O American culture, what a truly bizarre thing you are).
This happened to me while (of all cold-hearted things) I was working on my budget the other night. I sat wondering if I could count on any other odd income this month, and I remembered the birthday hovering around the bend--
and then I recalled that all those wonderful old people, who sent small bills with love and shaky handwriting, are all gone now.
Rocked me a bit--still recovering. What a silly way to miss someone. But what a permanent reminder.
My father's father, Poppy, spelled my name wrong on every card I ever got from him: either one and two e's or two l's and one e, but never the whole thing all correct. I used to look for it on the envelopes, eagerly awaiting the sight of his forward-slanting all-caps handwriting, to see if maybe he caught it this time. He never did, and he likely never knew the difference, but it made me laugh. He made me laugh. And I miss him. Seven years later, and I miss him.
This will be my first birthday away from home, away from my for-now-home, even, as I'll be in another state at a friend's wedding. This will be an excellent lesson in selflessness, and also, probably, my first grown-up birthday, since grown-ups do not get to have a day of their own. I don't even know if I'll have facebook access. Dearth of festal cheer, indeed (O American culture, what a truly bizarre thing you are).
Sunday, July 11, 2010
World Cup
What is it about large sporting events that makes me so happy?
The energy? The passion? The illogical devotion?
The fact that complete strangers feel periodically compelled to pound shoulders and backs in ecstasies of despair or fulfillment, as the case may be? To hug, to cry, to shout, to break bread together?
The unbridled excitement? The instant community?
Anyway, congrats, Spain. It was an excellent game to watch.
(What I will miss most about the World Cup [other than this, or this, or, you know, this) is the announcing. In what other sporting event do you get commentary like "a howl of derision rises from the crowd"? or "...something sinister is afoot". Oh soccer announcers. I will miss you.)
The energy? The passion? The illogical devotion?
The fact that complete strangers feel periodically compelled to pound shoulders and backs in ecstasies of despair or fulfillment, as the case may be? To hug, to cry, to shout, to break bread together?
The unbridled excitement? The instant community?
Anyway, congrats, Spain. It was an excellent game to watch.
(What I will miss most about the World Cup [other than this, or this, or, you know, this) is the announcing. In what other sporting event do you get commentary like "a howl of derision rises from the crowd"? or "...something sinister is afoot". Oh soccer announcers. I will miss you.)
Friday, July 09, 2010
Moderation, in all things
I have been trying hard lately not to give in to regretting my relationship decisions.
In most cases they are really not all that regrettable.
When I was a kid I did and said some stupid things. Cruel things. Ignorant things.
When I was in college it got better and also catastrophically worse.
It's the splintering of the paths that keeps messing me up. What could have been, and what that means for what should have.
Regret is largely a waste of time, useless except as a 1. poison or 2. history lesson.
I'm trying to use it as the latter and not the former, since I find I cannot rid myself of it completely.
In most cases they are really not all that regrettable.
When I was a kid I did and said some stupid things. Cruel things. Ignorant things.
When I was in college it got better and also catastrophically worse.
It's the splintering of the paths that keeps messing me up. What could have been, and what that means for what should have.
Regret is largely a waste of time, useless except as a 1. poison or 2. history lesson.
I'm trying to use it as the latter and not the former, since I find I cannot rid myself of it completely.
I got sick.
Yesterday I puked.
Eventually Leslie got tired of our conversation being punctuated by my frequent flights to the toilet and forced me to go to the store for antacids. I ate five fruity chalk bits in as many minutes. As such I am now qualified to rank off-brand Tums by flavor:
1. Lemon (I had two.)
2. Orange
3. Lime
4. Strawberry (gross.)
Then I crawled into bed with a big red mixing bowl on the floor next to me in case of sudden nocturnal upchucks, reminiscent of childhood's stomach viruses, when Mom would buy Saltines and ginger ale and set us up on the couch with the yellow plastic pitcher we used for a. vomit and b. pancake batter. Odd how that never bothered me before. The red mixing bowl went unused during the night, however, and I spent an uneasy day hanging out with my young charges (13 and 15 years old, respectively. Nice, because they really take care of themselves) and driving home with a headache roughly the size of a barge.
Apparently the cure for what ails me is ibuprofen, half-hour naps, and Vic's beef-and-lentil soup. Divine. I felt so good after dinner that we sat up watching the MST3K "Space Mutiny" episode and laughing inordinately.
For some reason I tend to think sickness only counts when the digestive tract malfunctions, specifically as pertaining to the process of peristalsis. If I throw up, I'm probably kind of sick. But I'm only sick for the period of time when I'm throwing up. Otherwise, I am being a giant pansy. The other kinds of sickness that matter include malaria and pneumonia. Serious sickness. Sore throat? suck it up. Headache? drink some water. But vomiting is special, because it is such a violent reversal of the body's natural order of things.
I have, as is probably apparent, been giving a little too much thought to the inner workings of my physical frame.
Here is something I have noticed: in the school year (thanks to graduate funding) I have no time to do anything I want to do, but, barring major emergencies, I have no want for money; during the summer, I have time for everything in the world, and a major fund shortage. Alack and alas. Greener grass, silver linings, etc.
Eventually Leslie got tired of our conversation being punctuated by my frequent flights to the toilet and forced me to go to the store for antacids. I ate five fruity chalk bits in as many minutes. As such I am now qualified to rank off-brand Tums by flavor:
1. Lemon (I had two.)
2. Orange
3. Lime
4. Strawberry (gross.)
Then I crawled into bed with a big red mixing bowl on the floor next to me in case of sudden nocturnal upchucks, reminiscent of childhood's stomach viruses, when Mom would buy Saltines and ginger ale and set us up on the couch with the yellow plastic pitcher we used for a. vomit and b. pancake batter. Odd how that never bothered me before. The red mixing bowl went unused during the night, however, and I spent an uneasy day hanging out with my young charges (13 and 15 years old, respectively. Nice, because they really take care of themselves) and driving home with a headache roughly the size of a barge.
Apparently the cure for what ails me is ibuprofen, half-hour naps, and Vic's beef-and-lentil soup. Divine. I felt so good after dinner that we sat up watching the MST3K "Space Mutiny" episode and laughing inordinately.
For some reason I tend to think sickness only counts when the digestive tract malfunctions, specifically as pertaining to the process of peristalsis. If I throw up, I'm probably kind of sick. But I'm only sick for the period of time when I'm throwing up. Otherwise, I am being a giant pansy. The other kinds of sickness that matter include malaria and pneumonia. Serious sickness. Sore throat? suck it up. Headache? drink some water. But vomiting is special, because it is such a violent reversal of the body's natural order of things.
I have, as is probably apparent, been giving a little too much thought to the inner workings of my physical frame.
Here is something I have noticed: in the school year (thanks to graduate funding) I have no time to do anything I want to do, but, barring major emergencies, I have no want for money; during the summer, I have time for everything in the world, and a major fund shortage. Alack and alas. Greener grass, silver linings, etc.
Wednesday, July 07, 2010
I never get sick.
Never mind that for the past three days I have woken (woke? waked? wokened?) with a sore throat and one (only ever one) plugged and wheezy nostril.
Perhaps it is more true (provided that there are degrees of truth [?]) to say I never remember being sick.
BUT (God is good) despite the waking-symptoms I have not displayed or felt sickness while on jobs babysitting, and none of my kids have begun to sniffle.
Most of them still yell a lot, though. Occupational hazard. It is amazing how patient I can be when small ones lose their cool, whether tiredness or tantrums or injuries. It is also amazing with what degree of sang-froid a five-year-old boy can carry off climbing onto the kitchen island and subsequently kicking off and smashing my (half-full [half-empty?]) glass of water ("I became momentarily unbalanced," he explains as he sticks sock-clad feet into a nearby gallon-sized Ziploc, "Don't worry, I am okay." Well good. Now take that bag off your feet.)
Amazing.
Perhaps it is more true (provided that there are degrees of truth [?]) to say I never remember being sick.
BUT (God is good) despite the waking-symptoms I have not displayed or felt sickness while on jobs babysitting, and none of my kids have begun to sniffle.
Most of them still yell a lot, though. Occupational hazard. It is amazing how patient I can be when small ones lose their cool, whether tiredness or tantrums or injuries. It is also amazing with what degree of sang-froid a five-year-old boy can carry off climbing onto the kitchen island and subsequently kicking off and smashing my (half-full [half-empty?]) glass of water ("I became momentarily unbalanced," he explains as he sticks sock-clad feet into a nearby gallon-sized Ziploc, "Don't worry, I am okay." Well good. Now take that bag off your feet.)
Amazing.
Sunday, July 04, 2010
History Lessons
This morning in church, in celebration and acknowledgment of Independence Day, one of the elders introduced the sermon with a short recounting of America's early history, including a litany of national heroes. He brought up the Continental Army's Hard Winter of 1779 in Morristown, Pennsylvania; the Kentucky longrifles in Andrew Jackson's Battle of New Orleans at the end of the War of 1812; General Patton's fight through Italy in World War II; and Dwight Eisenhower's command of D-Day, June 6, 1944.
As a lifelong lover of American history I have always taken great pride in the heroism of American fighters and politicians, in Old Glory, in the way that We were Different from the Rest of the World because of Judeo-Christian Values, Democracy, and Capitalism. But today as I sat and listened I could only remember other things:
Like the way Andrew Jackson authorized and enforced the removal of the Cherokee, Seminole, Creek, Chickasaw, and Choctaw nations along the Trail of Tears;
Like General Patton's racism and anti-Semitism;
Like Eisenhower plotting to execute Patrice Lumumba, newly elected president of the newly independent Congo;
it was kind of a buzz kill.
Do not misunderstand me: I love the United States. I love the stories of patriotism and hard-fought battles and adventure. I stand when I hear the national anthem and I cheer obnoxiously during the Olympics. I am acutely aware that there are places in the world where I would not be allowed to post even such a criticism of my country's past and present as this one.
And yet, knowing all of this, and knowing more (Jim Crow.Interment camps.Roe vs Wade), I cannot in good conscience say
"God bless America, because we are great"
but with gratitude, and reverence, and humility, and penitence, say
"May God, in His greatness, bless His creation, and everyone in it [Lord have mercy on me, a sinner, dwelling in a land of sinning people]."
Happy Fourth of July.
As a lifelong lover of American history I have always taken great pride in the heroism of American fighters and politicians, in Old Glory, in the way that We were Different from the Rest of the World because of Judeo-Christian Values, Democracy, and Capitalism. But today as I sat and listened I could only remember other things:
Like the way Andrew Jackson authorized and enforced the removal of the Cherokee, Seminole, Creek, Chickasaw, and Choctaw nations along the Trail of Tears;
Like General Patton's racism and anti-Semitism;
Like Eisenhower plotting to execute Patrice Lumumba, newly elected president of the newly independent Congo;
it was kind of a buzz kill.
Do not misunderstand me: I love the United States. I love the stories of patriotism and hard-fought battles and adventure. I stand when I hear the national anthem and I cheer obnoxiously during the Olympics. I am acutely aware that there are places in the world where I would not be allowed to post even such a criticism of my country's past and present as this one.
And yet, knowing all of this, and knowing more (Jim Crow.Interment camps.Roe vs Wade), I cannot in good conscience say
"God bless America, because we are great"
but with gratitude, and reverence, and humility, and penitence, say
"May God, in His greatness, bless His creation, and everyone in it [Lord have mercy on me, a sinner, dwelling in a land of sinning people]."
Happy Fourth of July.
Friday, July 02, 2010
Speed Racer
After bachelorette-partying til around 12.30 (we so crazy!) (said bachelorette party consisting of Mexican food, chocolate, underpants, and in-depth discussion of menstruation managements strategies. Awesome.), got up at 5 a.m. to drive to Springfield to pick up Mo and made it back to T-town by 11.
According to Google Maps that drive is 2 hours and 55 minutes. According to Colleen's Driving it's more like 2 hours and 20 minutes.
I love driving alone. Modify that: I love driving long stretches of highway alone, when I'm heading someplace and there's no rush, no demand, no stress waiting for me at the end of it. In leaving at 5.30 (by the time I'd filled up the car and hit the road) I was up before the sun, and I had a solid 45-minutes or so when I was mostly alone on 44-E, just me and the pre-dawn world: dim early light and the occasional 18-wheeler and Jesus.
Delightful.
When I am driving alone I can do all sorts of things: pray; sing; skip songs on whatever cd I'm playing according to the song's appropriateness for weather, season, time of day, and mood of me; pretend I can fly; pretend I'm escaping; pretend I'm going home; pretend I'm an adventurer (still one of the best dreams); pretend pretend pretend. And I'm still being productive, I'm still accomplishing something: it's a few hours of movement, of freedom from the demands of life, even while fulfilling them.
Friends are all coming to town for the wedding tomorrow. I love it.
According to Google Maps that drive is 2 hours and 55 minutes. According to Colleen's Driving it's more like 2 hours and 20 minutes.
I love driving alone. Modify that: I love driving long stretches of highway alone, when I'm heading someplace and there's no rush, no demand, no stress waiting for me at the end of it. In leaving at 5.30 (by the time I'd filled up the car and hit the road) I was up before the sun, and I had a solid 45-minutes or so when I was mostly alone on 44-E, just me and the pre-dawn world: dim early light and the occasional 18-wheeler and Jesus.
Delightful.
When I am driving alone I can do all sorts of things: pray; sing; skip songs on whatever cd I'm playing according to the song's appropriateness for weather, season, time of day, and mood of me; pretend I can fly; pretend I'm escaping; pretend I'm going home; pretend I'm an adventurer (still one of the best dreams); pretend pretend pretend. And I'm still being productive, I'm still accomplishing something: it's a few hours of movement, of freedom from the demands of life, even while fulfilling them.
Friends are all coming to town for the wedding tomorrow. I love it.
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