Does anyone remember a certain post of mine from '08 on the dialectical swing of the universe? Here. It's not a very good post--I just reread it--but it was interesting to me, because the concept is still very much on my mind. Things throughout history swing back and forth--action reaction--tick tock, tick tock.
But lately, I have been seeing how this applies to me, personally--to the workings inside my lil' head.
I work, earnestly, to tell the truth--not only to everyone else, but to myself. And that can be hard, if not nearly impossible. To tell the truth, you have to know what the truth is. I've noticed my thoughts about myself swing between two opposite extremes. In a nutshell: yes, I'm awesome, and no, I'm not. Some days I'm incredibly unique, hyperactive, brightly shining and off my rocker--other days I'm dull, scared, plain, sunk so firmly into normal that I barely have a pulse.
Those are both lies.
I think I've got a handle on it, now. Whenever I'm thinking something so extreme about myself--it's a lie. The truth is somewhere in the middle--perhaps not so easy to polarize and define, but blended. Perhaps a little bit of a paradox, now and then. Not high or low, but midrange. Not hot or cold, but fair. I'm a little bit of a lot of things. An alloy. Stronger than any one pure metal.
The more I can realize that--the more truth I can tell myself--the more balanced I become. More honest. More me. None of this wild swinging from one mutually exclusive extreme to the other.
Maybe that's how everyone's mind works. I don't know. Maybe it's a little bit of the devil--he seems fond of encouraging extreme swings. I'm so thinking C.S. Lewis right now, and his statement about the "opposite and equal errors" people make about the devil. Either way, the thoughts are mine. And I'm giving them the boot.
What thoughts about yourself are rattling around inside your little head? Have you ever taken a look at the contradictions? Stop. Think. Reject the lies.
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Monday, November 8, 2010
most awkward scenarios ever, part II
The company Christmas party. Yes, it’s just about that time of year again.
Office Christmas parties can be rough, even if you work with decent folks. There’s just endless opportunities for awkwardness. Example: bringing a date. Do you? Don’t you? All of the married folk will bring their spouses. Who wants to be number seven at an eight-seat table? Awkward. But so is bringing a random date to fill that eighth seat. More awkward. There is bound to be a bit of inquisition, especially since he is not a committed significant other. The best solutions I’ve come up with thus far are to a) bring my mom, or b) join forces with other single gals at the office and claim our own table.
But what if we went for a third option? What if we took the awkwardness up a few more notches? Instead of a regular date with an acquaintance—how about a blind date? Oh boy. Nothing says “doomed to fail” like a blind date at an office party.
Even better—how about all of the single girls in the office all bring a blind date? Now we’re talking pain. All of us could writhe in agony together.
But we’re not quite done—there’s one more bit of awkward joy we could add: each girl brings a buddy of hers as a blind date for one of her coworkers. We could draw names, like Secret Santa.
And the awkward bus has arrived.
So next time you’re at a company Christmas fling, single ladies—remember it could be worse. Much, much worse.
Office Christmas parties can be rough, even if you work with decent folks. There’s just endless opportunities for awkwardness. Example: bringing a date. Do you? Don’t you? All of the married folk will bring their spouses. Who wants to be number seven at an eight-seat table? Awkward. But so is bringing a random date to fill that eighth seat. More awkward. There is bound to be a bit of inquisition, especially since he is not a committed significant other. The best solutions I’ve come up with thus far are to a) bring my mom, or b) join forces with other single gals at the office and claim our own table.
But what if we went for a third option? What if we took the awkwardness up a few more notches? Instead of a regular date with an acquaintance—how about a blind date? Oh boy. Nothing says “doomed to fail” like a blind date at an office party.
Even better—how about all of the single girls in the office all bring a blind date? Now we’re talking pain. All of us could writhe in agony together.
But we’re not quite done—there’s one more bit of awkward joy we could add: each girl brings a buddy of hers as a blind date for one of her coworkers. We could draw names, like Secret Santa.
And the awkward bus has arrived.
So next time you’re at a company Christmas fling, single ladies—remember it could be worse. Much, much worse.
most awkward scenarios ever, part I
Sometimes it’s good to give yourself a little perspective—realize that whatever happened (or didn’t happen) isn’t, perhaps, quite as bad as you thought. Take a step back. Reduce the level of self-induced drama.
One of the most enjoyable ways to do that, in my opinion, is to imagine how horribly it could have gone.
Example: you spill half a glass of red wine on yourself at a party. Sad. But it could have been worse. You could have spilled your glass on another woman (perhaps your boss or pastor), and while floundering to help her clean up, you trip on the shag rug, accidentally grope her, and catch yourself on the wobbly end table—which has candles on it. The candles fall, and the alcohol-infused rug bursts into flame. You put it out, but burn your writing hand. You will now spend at least the next two weeks in awkward, pain-filled misery.
See, spilling some wine on yourself wasn’t so bad, after all, was it?
One of the most enjoyable ways to do that, in my opinion, is to imagine how horribly it could have gone.
Example: you spill half a glass of red wine on yourself at a party. Sad. But it could have been worse. You could have spilled your glass on another woman (perhaps your boss or pastor), and while floundering to help her clean up, you trip on the shag rug, accidentally grope her, and catch yourself on the wobbly end table—which has candles on it. The candles fall, and the alcohol-infused rug bursts into flame. You put it out, but burn your writing hand. You will now spend at least the next two weeks in awkward, pain-filled misery.
See, spilling some wine on yourself wasn’t so bad, after all, was it?
Monday, November 1, 2010
just another Saturday
This Saturday, my dad came over to help me limb the giant tree in my backyard. Not only is it just a bit too shady in the summer, it was also threatening my power lines and my garage. Here's a couple pics after we'd made our mess. The big branch on the driveway side is the most obvious difference, but the difficult part was on the power line side--we had to take the branches down a tiny piece at a time, mostly with a pole saw, trying to drop the branches neithr on our heads or onto the power lines. Good times. And...here's a couple pics after cleaning it all up. Happy sigh. Doesn't it look great? And I may even have enough firewood for half of next winter already. 
Monday, October 11, 2010
living room
With the advent of a functional fireplace and new curtains came a distinct need to rearrange furniture. Take a peek!
And, of course, the awesome vintage suitcase set I got for my birthday. Too good to store in a closet somewhere.
Ah, the warm glow of a fire. Tasty. 
Yes, my brown chair is missing. It's been relocated to the bedroom--where Clifford is enjoying it pretty much 24/7.
Yes, my brown chair is missing. It's been relocated to the bedroom--where Clifford is enjoying it pretty much 24/7. Who can tell what's different about this wall? 
Ok, there's more than one thing different. It's called fire. But technically, I've only hung one more thing on the wall...
Ok, there's more than one thing different. It's called fire. But technically, I've only hung one more thing on the wall...
Friday, September 24, 2010
the kitchen continues
On those days when I feel like I'll just never get done with the kitchen, I take a look back, and see how far I've come...At possession, July 2009. About five minutes before we started refinishing the cabinets.
April 2010, with new appliances, counter, and tile. Awesome linoleum remains.
September 2010, outlet covers done and window trim refinished. Curtains to come. And then, the kitchen will be "done."
Thursday, September 23, 2010
the refrigerator manifesto
There are two words that can send an icy stab of horror into the most dauntless heart:
community refrigerator.
Ahhhh!
Sorry about that. I lost control for a moment there.
But having just spent waaay too long rummaging through the industrial-sized company refrigerator for my (very brightly colored and distinct) lunch bag only to find it astronomically removed from its previous location, I'm a little...out of patience. It's time to do something. Something...drastic. And somehow, this feeling is...familiar. It's time for the return--the return of...
The Kitchen Nazi!
Not since the hazy golden days of Stryker Cottage '03 has this fearsome creature truly been beheld, standing proudly--sword in one hand and spatula in the other--with her iron-fisted policies of cleanliness and order clearly posted on the wall behind her!
But it might just be time for her return. At the very least, time for her to write a few new rules for the company refrigerator. Harsh? Perhaps. But effective. As always.
The Refrigerator Manifesto
Whereby all personnel who utilize the company refrigerator do so through a wish to keep their food at the appropriate temperature, in sanitary condition, and conveniently accessible:
1. Each individual must use a designated food container to hold all of their items. This container may not be generic (as in a plastic Meijer bag), insulated (seriously--those keep your food cold without a fridge), or incapable of being moved about without spilling its contents. Clearly labeling each designated food container with the name of its owner is also strongly suggested.
2. All food must be properly contained. No open packaging. Not even in your designated food container. If you periodically cannot eat the whole fruit cup in one sitting, keep a ziploc bag in your food container to tuck the cup into until your next nibbling. And get a bigger stomach, for the love of all that's holy.
3. No loose items such as pieces of fruit, tubs of margarine, or bottles of salad dressing will be tolerated. All items must be fully contained in each individual's designated food container.*
*The only exception to this rule is large items such as two-liters of soda and large cartons of milk or other beverages. These may be left on the bottom shelf--provided they are clearly labeled and unexpired.
4. Large, appropriately sealed, and clearly labeled takeout containers will be tolerated temporarily--provided they are not fish, and are removed within six hours of their arrival to the community refrigerator. If they are fish, and left for more than two days--God help you.
5. If it becomes necessary to move another individual's designated food container, it is expected that the mover will do their best to return the container to its original placement. If this cannot be done, a grid system will be initiated, with each individual's designated food container receiving a number that corresponds to a section of the shelving. "Parking tickets" will be issued to all who cannot respect the grid system.
6. "Community" does not mean "communal." Whether an item is labeled or not, if you eat or drink it without explicit permission, you are stealing.* If you are stealing, you're a jerk. If you're a jerk, we get to lock you in the supply closet overnight.
*I can't believe this one even has to be listed, honestly.
7. The community refrigerator will be scrubbed down once a week. All legitimate items will be returned to the shelves; all illegitimate items will piled up in the parking lot, doused with gasoline, and lit on fire. Or thrown away. Whatever.
And remember: if the Kitchen Nazi ain't happy, ain't no one happy. But if she is happy--she bakes! It's a win-win. Sort of.
community refrigerator.
Ahhhh!
Sorry about that. I lost control for a moment there.
But having just spent waaay too long rummaging through the industrial-sized company refrigerator for my (very brightly colored and distinct) lunch bag only to find it astronomically removed from its previous location, I'm a little...out of patience. It's time to do something. Something...drastic. And somehow, this feeling is...familiar. It's time for the return--the return of...
The Kitchen Nazi!
Not since the hazy golden days of Stryker Cottage '03 has this fearsome creature truly been beheld, standing proudly--sword in one hand and spatula in the other--with her iron-fisted policies of cleanliness and order clearly posted on the wall behind her!
But it might just be time for her return. At the very least, time for her to write a few new rules for the company refrigerator. Harsh? Perhaps. But effective. As always.
The Refrigerator Manifesto
Whereby all personnel who utilize the company refrigerator do so through a wish to keep their food at the appropriate temperature, in sanitary condition, and conveniently accessible:
1. Each individual must use a designated food container to hold all of their items. This container may not be generic (as in a plastic Meijer bag), insulated (seriously--those keep your food cold without a fridge), or incapable of being moved about without spilling its contents. Clearly labeling each designated food container with the name of its owner is also strongly suggested.
2. All food must be properly contained. No open packaging. Not even in your designated food container. If you periodically cannot eat the whole fruit cup in one sitting, keep a ziploc bag in your food container to tuck the cup into until your next nibbling. And get a bigger stomach, for the love of all that's holy.
3. No loose items such as pieces of fruit, tubs of margarine, or bottles of salad dressing will be tolerated. All items must be fully contained in each individual's designated food container.*
*The only exception to this rule is large items such as two-liters of soda and large cartons of milk or other beverages. These may be left on the bottom shelf--provided they are clearly labeled and unexpired.
4. Large, appropriately sealed, and clearly labeled takeout containers will be tolerated temporarily--provided they are not fish, and are removed within six hours of their arrival to the community refrigerator. If they are fish, and left for more than two days--God help you.
5. If it becomes necessary to move another individual's designated food container, it is expected that the mover will do their best to return the container to its original placement. If this cannot be done, a grid system will be initiated, with each individual's designated food container receiving a number that corresponds to a section of the shelving. "Parking tickets" will be issued to all who cannot respect the grid system.
6. "Community" does not mean "communal." Whether an item is labeled or not, if you eat or drink it without explicit permission, you are stealing.* If you are stealing, you're a jerk. If you're a jerk, we get to lock you in the supply closet overnight.
*I can't believe this one even has to be listed, honestly.
7. The community refrigerator will be scrubbed down once a week. All legitimate items will be returned to the shelves; all illegitimate items will piled up in the parking lot, doused with gasoline, and lit on fire. Or thrown away. Whatever.
And remember: if the Kitchen Nazi ain't happy, ain't no one happy. But if she is happy--she bakes! It's a win-win. Sort of.
Friday, September 17, 2010
the day of birth...once again again
I remembered blogging about my birthday last year. I wondered if I had managed to do it every year since I began this beast...and the answer is yes. Wow.
Even stranger--my first birthday post was my 26th birthday. Geesh.
I'm 29 now. I've been writing this blog since 2007. Holy wa. I'm in my fourth year of blogging. Granted, sometimes I go weeks between posts, but...
Back up the truck. I'm 29. How did that happen? Objectively, I know how...but...dang. All of a sudden, that number seems a lot bigger than 28. I liked 28. It was divisible by 7. 29 is...not. Freakin' prime number.
Then again, what's wrong with being prime? I mean, think Optimus Prime. Yeah. Awesome.
I feel better now.
No, really. It's been a good year. I've owned my house for about 14 months (not that I'm counting) and I really enjoy it. I like having projects.
I've pushed a little harder at some of my weak places, like my social life, and I think I've been decently brave in getting out there and hanging out with new people. Go me.
And this past summer, I've had the best bruises from softball and frisbee. Ever. I have to say--and if you know me, then you know I always have bruises somewhere--that these were groundbreaking. I actually went to bed once with an ice pack strapped to my shin.
And I gloat about this? Well, yeah. Because it means that I'm not holding back or half-assing my way through. (Sure, "half-ass" can be a verb. I just did it. So there. It's set as a gerund, actually, for those who care.)
Sometimes it feels like the older I get, the more childish I am free to be. Ha.
Paradoxically, I think it's a sign of maturity. I'm no longer feeling so compelled to act like an adult--emphasis on act. I am an adult. Period. And a lady.
Remember that, ok, the next time you see me covered in grass stains.
And that's enough deep thought for today.
Even stranger--my first birthday post was my 26th birthday. Geesh.
I'm 29 now. I've been writing this blog since 2007. Holy wa. I'm in my fourth year of blogging. Granted, sometimes I go weeks between posts, but...
Back up the truck. I'm 29. How did that happen? Objectively, I know how...but...dang. All of a sudden, that number seems a lot bigger than 28. I liked 28. It was divisible by 7. 29 is...not. Freakin' prime number.
Then again, what's wrong with being prime? I mean, think Optimus Prime. Yeah. Awesome.
I feel better now.
No, really. It's been a good year. I've owned my house for about 14 months (not that I'm counting) and I really enjoy it. I like having projects.
I've pushed a little harder at some of my weak places, like my social life, and I think I've been decently brave in getting out there and hanging out with new people. Go me.
And this past summer, I've had the best bruises from softball and frisbee. Ever. I have to say--and if you know me, then you know I always have bruises somewhere--that these were groundbreaking. I actually went to bed once with an ice pack strapped to my shin.
And I gloat about this? Well, yeah. Because it means that I'm not holding back or half-assing my way through. (Sure, "half-ass" can be a verb. I just did it. So there. It's set as a gerund, actually, for those who care.)
Sometimes it feels like the older I get, the more childish I am free to be. Ha.
Paradoxically, I think it's a sign of maturity. I'm no longer feeling so compelled to act like an adult--emphasis on act. I am an adult. Period. And a lady.
Remember that, ok, the next time you see me covered in grass stains.
And that's enough deep thought for today.
Friday, September 10, 2010
pressure? what pressure?
Somehow, I’ve been working on a little more young adult/teen material than usual this week, and you know what that does? It make me think about my own spent youth—who I was, who I am, where I’m going—how my life and personality have been shaped. Things I’ve done—and things I haven’t done. Things I have barely been tempted to do, that seem to drive so much teen trouble.
Case in point: fitting in. Being a vital part of the group. Any group. Identifying myself with a particular clique versus another clique.
Not my thing. (Even in junior high, when I wandered about basically friendless and nose-deep in books. Throw in a couple tree forts, lots of grass stains, and still-developing physical coordination, and you get the idea.)
Perhaps that’s noble. Or would be—if I’d done it intentionally.
But I seem to be lacking that thing—whatever that thing is—the thing that prompts people to try super hard to “fit in.”
Not that I wouldn’t do it. (Like I said—I’m not quite noble.) Sometimes it sounds nice, though it’s less vital now that I’m all big and grown-up. (Ish.) I just don’t seem to know how to go about it. So I really don’t. Not deeply, anyway. I maintain socially acceptable behavior, no worries, but that’s not the same thing. You dig? Or am I off my rocker?
Well, it wouldn’t be the first time.
And I do have friends, I promise. I like people. Some more than others, natch, but I like people. (Quit laughing. I do. Most of the time.) I like to hang out and laugh and dance and play.
But trying to be popular? Nope. Not me.
The same with peer pressure. I can’t really say I’ve ever felt pushed to be a certain way, to adopt a certain personality. I’m sure it has affected me—I’m human—but perhaps the effects have been more subtle, below the radar.
Let’s put it this way: you say “peer pressure,” and I look up and go, “What? Huh? Oh, look—something shiny.”
Either I’m socially maladjusted or I’m way ahead of the curve. Eh. Who knows?
Perhaps I should join the “I don’t quite fit in” club.
Sorry, couldn’t resist. I love the irony.
Case in point: fitting in. Being a vital part of the group. Any group. Identifying myself with a particular clique versus another clique.
Not my thing. (Even in junior high, when I wandered about basically friendless and nose-deep in books. Throw in a couple tree forts, lots of grass stains, and still-developing physical coordination, and you get the idea.)
Perhaps that’s noble. Or would be—if I’d done it intentionally.
But I seem to be lacking that thing—whatever that thing is—the thing that prompts people to try super hard to “fit in.”
Not that I wouldn’t do it. (Like I said—I’m not quite noble.) Sometimes it sounds nice, though it’s less vital now that I’m all big and grown-up. (Ish.) I just don’t seem to know how to go about it. So I really don’t. Not deeply, anyway. I maintain socially acceptable behavior, no worries, but that’s not the same thing. You dig? Or am I off my rocker?
Well, it wouldn’t be the first time.
And I do have friends, I promise. I like people. Some more than others, natch, but I like people. (Quit laughing. I do. Most of the time.) I like to hang out and laugh and dance and play.
But trying to be popular? Nope. Not me.
The same with peer pressure. I can’t really say I’ve ever felt pushed to be a certain way, to adopt a certain personality. I’m sure it has affected me—I’m human—but perhaps the effects have been more subtle, below the radar.
Let’s put it this way: you say “peer pressure,” and I look up and go, “What? Huh? Oh, look—something shiny.”
Either I’m socially maladjusted or I’m way ahead of the curve. Eh. Who knows?
Perhaps I should join the “I don’t quite fit in” club.
Sorry, couldn’t resist. I love the irony.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
words I like that start with C
charred chemistry
competent
caress
circumnavigation
culottes
cherry
capability
cinema
catawampus
cracker
chivvy
culpable
cardamom
calendula
cork
creosote
competent
caress
circumnavigation
culottes
cherry
capability
cinema
catawampus
cracker
chivvy
culpable
cardamom
calendula
cork
creosote
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Rain or Shine Purses
NEW!
Rain or Shine Purses
Worried about a wet wallet? A soggy cell phone?
No more!
Check these super-cute, water-resistant purses. Made of fabulously fun oilcloth, each tasty bag is fully lined and features a protective front flap and secure button closure. Clutch has a zippered closure and a wrist loop; small and medium bags have shoulder strap.
Small (6 x 9; modelled by the lovely Gladys): $12
Medium (9 x 12): $16
Clutch (10 x 6 x 4): $22
Simple Snap Wallet (4 x 4): $10
Prints Currently Available:
Forever Strawberry on Green (shown)
Paradise Blue Lace (yes, it’s as awesome as it sounds)
Throw me a line for orders/more information!
Custom requests welcome.
Note: all proceeds on this project go to benefit the Madison Square Church Making Room Campaign. For more information, please visit www.madisonsquarechurch.org
Rain or Shine Purses
Worried about a wet wallet? A soggy cell phone? Check these super-cute, water-resistant purses. Made of fabulously fun oilcloth, each tasty bag is fully lined and features a protective front flap and secure button closure. Clutch has a zippered closure and a wrist loop; small and medium bags have shoulder strap.
Small (6 x 9; modelled by the lovely Gladys): $12
Medium (9 x 12): $16
Clutch (10 x 6 x 4): $22
Simple Snap Wallet (4 x 4): $10
Prints Currently Available:
Forever Strawberry on Green (shown)
Paradise Blue Lace (yes, it’s as awesome as it sounds)
Throw me a line for orders/more information!
Custom requests welcome.
Note: all proceeds on this project go to benefit the Madison Square Church Making Room Campaign. For more information, please visit www.madisonsquarechurch.org
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Speed Dating, Spoolstra Style (for Liz)
The lighting was low, meant to be intimate—but in reality, the room was just dim. Looking at the row of small booths, she felt her gut twist with apprehension. Bad idea. I knew this was a bad idea. Two or three people mingled near the registration table. The man sitting behind it saw her, and smiled with hearty shallowness, like a car salesman. She squared her shoulders. You’re here, and you’re going to do it. Buck up and be brave. She smiled back, albeit less intensely, and took the last half-dozen steps to reach the table. If her hand shook with adrenaline, it was subtle enough that she was able to hold the marker steady as she filled out her nametag.
A few minutes later, she took her seat as directed in one of the small booths, feeling as if the small lamp on the table only lit her to the chin. I probably look like I have old lady jowls. The absurd thought startled her into a genuine smile. Around her, the other women also took their places. The men were shadowy figures spread across the dim room, and at the chime of a bell, each picked a table and sat down. Four minutes, and then the bell would ring again, prompting them to shift down the line of women. How anyone thought that such a shallow game would ever germinate a meaningful relationship, she surely didn’t know. You’re just here to practice conversation. No pressure. She reminded herself.
The first man took his seat at her table without introducing himself first. Strike one, she thought, most uncharitably. He was tall, but slight, and the false blonde highlights in his hair stood out even in the crummy lighting.
“Hi,” he said, a little too loudly.
Be nice; he’s probably just nervous, she scolded herself.
“Hi,” she answered.
“I’m Steve,” he said, shifting on the vinyl seat.
“Lindsey,” she answered.
One too many buttons on his oxford shirt was unfastened, and the collar had been popped. Lord, save me. The next four minutes will be an eternity.
And something in her…blossomed to life. And with it came an idea that she could not resist. Instead of shaking the hand he awkwardly offered, she propped her elbow on the table and lifted her hand in a clear invitation to arm wrestle.
“Let’s cut to the chase, ey?” she said. “If I beat you, you’re gone.”
“What?”
She felt a mischievous grin stretch across her face.
“Arm wrestle,” she said. “Let’s go.” She waggled her fingers.
He laughed nervously.
“That’s pretty funny.” He shifted on the seat again, and made no move to grasp her hand. “Is that your ice breaker? It’s a good one.”
“No, I’m pretty sure I’m serious, Steve.”
She beat him.
The next guy refused to take her up on her challenge.
The third guy almost beat her, but she still had three or four inches to fall when the bell rang, so they declared it a draw.
She beat the fourth guy. She beat the fifth guy—left handed, to give her arm a break. The sixth guy also refused to wrestle, and spent three of his minutes texting on his cell phone. That was fine with her; she felt the first beads of sweat trickling down her body, and used the break to drink some water and cool down.
The seventh guy grinned and beat her within thirty seconds. He had a beard she did not like. To pass the remaining time, she went best of seven, and held him off from total victory long enough for the bell to ring.
She went left-handed on the eighth, to rest her arm again. She beat the ninth, but it was a tough match. The last man looked strong, and she almost abandoned the game, but she couldn’t make it this far and quit. When she offered the challenge he took it. He held her off for a long time; she realized he could beat her, and was simply waiting. She did not like that, and told him so. He looked surprised—the pressure on her hand eased, just for a moment. Quickly, instinctively, she slammed his hand down. He laughed, and shook out his fingers.
And then the speed dating nightmare was over. Everyone else gathered around the bar to mingle and enjoy a complimentary drink. She wanted to leave, but she was also quite thirsty. She stayed in her seat and drained her water glass, and contemplated refilling it at the bar. Before she could decide, a waiter appeared with a carafe and offered a refill. She accepted gratefully.
“By the way,” he said, as he filled her glass. “I just won fifty bucks. Thanks, lady.”
“What? How—”
“I bet on you,” he said.
She laughed, loud and freely.
“Didn’t realize I had an audience,” she said, when she could speak. “Glad I could entertain.”
He smiled, and faded away into the shadows. She finished her water and left, quietly. No one else accosted her, and in five minutes she was outside, breathing in the free air.
A few minutes later, she took her seat as directed in one of the small booths, feeling as if the small lamp on the table only lit her to the chin. I probably look like I have old lady jowls. The absurd thought startled her into a genuine smile. Around her, the other women also took their places. The men were shadowy figures spread across the dim room, and at the chime of a bell, each picked a table and sat down. Four minutes, and then the bell would ring again, prompting them to shift down the line of women. How anyone thought that such a shallow game would ever germinate a meaningful relationship, she surely didn’t know. You’re just here to practice conversation. No pressure. She reminded herself.
The first man took his seat at her table without introducing himself first. Strike one, she thought, most uncharitably. He was tall, but slight, and the false blonde highlights in his hair stood out even in the crummy lighting.
“Hi,” he said, a little too loudly.
Be nice; he’s probably just nervous, she scolded herself.
“Hi,” she answered.
“I’m Steve,” he said, shifting on the vinyl seat.
“Lindsey,” she answered.
One too many buttons on his oxford shirt was unfastened, and the collar had been popped. Lord, save me. The next four minutes will be an eternity.
And something in her…blossomed to life. And with it came an idea that she could not resist. Instead of shaking the hand he awkwardly offered, she propped her elbow on the table and lifted her hand in a clear invitation to arm wrestle.
“Let’s cut to the chase, ey?” she said. “If I beat you, you’re gone.”
“What?”
She felt a mischievous grin stretch across her face.
“Arm wrestle,” she said. “Let’s go.” She waggled her fingers.
He laughed nervously.
“That’s pretty funny.” He shifted on the seat again, and made no move to grasp her hand. “Is that your ice breaker? It’s a good one.”
“No, I’m pretty sure I’m serious, Steve.”
She beat him.
The next guy refused to take her up on her challenge.
The third guy almost beat her, but she still had three or four inches to fall when the bell rang, so they declared it a draw.
She beat the fourth guy. She beat the fifth guy—left handed, to give her arm a break. The sixth guy also refused to wrestle, and spent three of his minutes texting on his cell phone. That was fine with her; she felt the first beads of sweat trickling down her body, and used the break to drink some water and cool down.
The seventh guy grinned and beat her within thirty seconds. He had a beard she did not like. To pass the remaining time, she went best of seven, and held him off from total victory long enough for the bell to ring.
She went left-handed on the eighth, to rest her arm again. She beat the ninth, but it was a tough match. The last man looked strong, and she almost abandoned the game, but she couldn’t make it this far and quit. When she offered the challenge he took it. He held her off for a long time; she realized he could beat her, and was simply waiting. She did not like that, and told him so. He looked surprised—the pressure on her hand eased, just for a moment. Quickly, instinctively, she slammed his hand down. He laughed, and shook out his fingers.
And then the speed dating nightmare was over. Everyone else gathered around the bar to mingle and enjoy a complimentary drink. She wanted to leave, but she was also quite thirsty. She stayed in her seat and drained her water glass, and contemplated refilling it at the bar. Before she could decide, a waiter appeared with a carafe and offered a refill. She accepted gratefully.
“By the way,” he said, as he filled her glass. “I just won fifty bucks. Thanks, lady.”
“What? How—”
“I bet on you,” he said.
She laughed, loud and freely.
“Didn’t realize I had an audience,” she said, when she could speak. “Glad I could entertain.”
He smiled, and faded away into the shadows. She finished her water and left, quietly. No one else accosted her, and in five minutes she was outside, breathing in the free air.
pictured rocks!
And...I'm back from my lovely week-long backpacking stint up at the delightful Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore with the awesome Christ Church youth group.
This was our sunset on Tuesday night...the first one we noticed. Monday night might have had a sunset, I think...but pretty sure I was in bed. Or close to it. We started our hike on Monday afternoon in the rain...which fortunately let up after about an hour. We did about seven miles that afternoon, and were all pooped. Tuesday, I was sore but in good spirits. And on Wednesday, I finally got my pack dialed in to the "perfect" fit. I do believe I danced a little jig. With pack on.
And this was our Wednesday campsite...
(sigh of delight) And our Wednesday beach....
Lovely! I actually didn't bring my camera (gasp) but I wasn't worried. Everyone else did. Check my fb for the complete albums taken by some of the kids on the trip. I just hiked and enjoyed the scenery, and they gave me pics like this...
And this....
And finally, here's a pic of us frolicking at our last swim in Lake Superior.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
more kitchen
Well, for anyone who was wondering if I ever got the outlet covers put up in my kitchen...
Yes, yes I did. Of course, you may note, it was not as simple as it "should" have been. First I had to remedy my design flaw (gasp! a mistake! surely not!) and knock out some of the little glass tiles and replace with bits of subway tile, so that the covers could lie flush. Some of it was fun--I do like to tile. But I do not like recutting the same piece three times. Oh, well. It's done.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
ever wonder?
You can tell a lot about someone just by studying their hands.
At least, I think so. Ok, so perhaps it's not entirely accurate--no one can change how big their hands are, for example. But otherwise...well, it's interesting to think about.
As it just so happens, I have a pair to study. Mine. (Of course, the sample size is a bit low, and biased, but cut me some slack. I'm ruminating, here.)
I have big, strong hands--for a girl. A dairy farmer would quickly put me to shame, but mine are good enough to open 89% of all jars on the face of the earth and that's something.
My nails are short but not ragged or gnawed, and my cuticles are the victims of benign neglect. They've never seen a manicure and would probably laugh at the very idea. Several of my nail beds have clearly been jammed in at one time or another, which you can see if you compare left to right.
Small scars from nicks, and cuts--all minor--and one pale streak on the back of my left pointer finger from my first experience with a chisel. Most of the women I know have smoother (and smaller, but that's beside the point) hands than I do. A little beat up, a little used. As they should be. What are hands for, if not use?
However, you can tell I'm not that tough from my lack of real calluses. My most pronounced callus is from writing. But it's on my ring finger because I'm weird like that.
So, what does all this say? I can draw conclusions because I know the answers. I know I work in an office and write a lot and...well, what else? You tell me.
Are these hands of mine special? Unique? Or all too ordinary? Yes to all of the above?
On a tangent: thinking about hands makes me think about handshakes. I got nothing but respect for my male counterparts...but I've shaken hands with a few "scholarly type" guys with hands like silk, and I just can't trust man hands like that. When I'm afraid I've hurt the guy with a healthy handshake...there are issues. Sure, you work at a desk...but does that mean you never, ever wield a shovel? A canoe paddle? Anything?
Hmm. That's a whole 'nother ball of wax. I won't go into that today.
And if you are a smooth-handed man, don't fret. We can still be friends. But...you may want to apply some sandpaper or something before asking me out on a date. I'm just sayin'.
At least, I think so. Ok, so perhaps it's not entirely accurate--no one can change how big their hands are, for example. But otherwise...well, it's interesting to think about.
As it just so happens, I have a pair to study. Mine. (Of course, the sample size is a bit low, and biased, but cut me some slack. I'm ruminating, here.)
I have big, strong hands--for a girl. A dairy farmer would quickly put me to shame, but mine are good enough to open 89% of all jars on the face of the earth and that's something.
My nails are short but not ragged or gnawed, and my cuticles are the victims of benign neglect. They've never seen a manicure and would probably laugh at the very idea. Several of my nail beds have clearly been jammed in at one time or another, which you can see if you compare left to right.
Small scars from nicks, and cuts--all minor--and one pale streak on the back of my left pointer finger from my first experience with a chisel. Most of the women I know have smoother (and smaller, but that's beside the point) hands than I do. A little beat up, a little used. As they should be. What are hands for, if not use?
However, you can tell I'm not that tough from my lack of real calluses. My most pronounced callus is from writing. But it's on my ring finger because I'm weird like that.
So, what does all this say? I can draw conclusions because I know the answers. I know I work in an office and write a lot and...well, what else? You tell me.
Are these hands of mine special? Unique? Or all too ordinary? Yes to all of the above?
On a tangent: thinking about hands makes me think about handshakes. I got nothing but respect for my male counterparts...but I've shaken hands with a few "scholarly type" guys with hands like silk, and I just can't trust man hands like that. When I'm afraid I've hurt the guy with a healthy handshake...there are issues. Sure, you work at a desk...but does that mean you never, ever wield a shovel? A canoe paddle? Anything?
Hmm. That's a whole 'nother ball of wax. I won't go into that today.
And if you are a smooth-handed man, don't fret. We can still be friends. But...you may want to apply some sandpaper or something before asking me out on a date. I'm just sayin'.
Monday, June 28, 2010
the name game
Finally, after months of talking about it, I have committed myself to... (drumroll)
Opening my own store on Etsy! (insert cheering here)
Yep, that's right. We're taking the crazy fun online. But I need YOUR help to do it. Really. I need help coming up with a name for my store. Who doesn't like to name things? C'mon, jump on in with a suggestion!
I'll be starting with a small inventory, until I can see how things go, focusing mainly on items made from repurposed fabrics. Namely, awesome purses made from vintage tablecloths and scraps of old upholstery fabric, and even more awesome necktie skirts.
Name ideas I've had so far:
Cherry and Dill: Peace, Love, and Repurposed Fabric (getting a little groovy, baby)
The Button Box (who doesn't like alliteration? but this might be too cutesy)
Spools! (if it ain't broke, don't fix it, right? but I'm kinda bored with it)
[blank] Salvage Co. (this one I like...if I could find a word or two to fill the blank)
Good Morning, Glory (does this scream 'grandma'?)
The Old Bag (makes me laugh, but not sure if everyone would get it)
Please, jump on in with an idea! I'd love to hear your thoughts.
Opening my own store on Etsy! (insert cheering here)
Yep, that's right. We're taking the crazy fun online. But I need YOUR help to do it. Really. I need help coming up with a name for my store. Who doesn't like to name things? C'mon, jump on in with a suggestion!
I'll be starting with a small inventory, until I can see how things go, focusing mainly on items made from repurposed fabrics. Namely, awesome purses made from vintage tablecloths and scraps of old upholstery fabric, and even more awesome necktie skirts.
Name ideas I've had so far:
Cherry and Dill: Peace, Love, and Repurposed Fabric (getting a little groovy, baby)
The Button Box (who doesn't like alliteration? but this might be too cutesy)
Spools! (if it ain't broke, don't fix it, right? but I'm kinda bored with it)
[blank] Salvage Co. (this one I like...if I could find a word or two to fill the blank)
Good Morning, Glory (does this scream 'grandma'?)
The Old Bag (makes me laugh, but not sure if everyone would get it)
Please, jump on in with an idea! I'd love to hear your thoughts.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
a thoughtful thursday
You know that feeling, when you’re just trucking along through life and then something…crumbles. And just like that, things fall apart. Not everything. Just something—enough to make you feel off balance and aware of your terrible fragility. A bad news story. A relationship gone awry. An accident. A death.
I hate that feeling. I wish it never happened—or at least, only happened every once in awhile, like during an F-5 tornado. No one would feel wrong for falling apart after a friggin’ F-5 tornado. It’s simply what happens. And it’s not your fault—seriously, blame the giant life-sucking whirlwind of doom, man. There would be something wrong with you if you didn’t lose it.
But…that’s not how it works. We’re crumbling at the corners nearly every day. From things both small and large. I am beyond wishing never to crumble. Sure, it sounds good, but sister, that just ain’t gonna happen. I’m human. Everyone around me is human, too. Perfectly wonderful (wink) though I am…I’m a disaster area. Just like everyone else.
And here’s the rub for me, as a Christian. Logically, I know that I’m supposed to be ok with falling apart. I know that I can’t hold myself together, and I know that I’m really not supposed to, even. Broken is supposed to be ok. I’m supposed to live all messy and let things hang out and trust in the grace and mercy of God—that he’s got me in hand, and all will be well. Whole in my brokenness, saved by the paradox of Christ. Right?
And when trouble comes, and I feel part of my heart crumble like a stale cookie, I wish…I wish…
I wish that I truly could be ok with it. I wish that I could really let go. I wish that I could stumble through life not caring in the slightest if I have all my crap together.
Is that so strange? Am I wrong for thinking this?
I hate that feeling. I wish it never happened—or at least, only happened every once in awhile, like during an F-5 tornado. No one would feel wrong for falling apart after a friggin’ F-5 tornado. It’s simply what happens. And it’s not your fault—seriously, blame the giant life-sucking whirlwind of doom, man. There would be something wrong with you if you didn’t lose it.
But…that’s not how it works. We’re crumbling at the corners nearly every day. From things both small and large. I am beyond wishing never to crumble. Sure, it sounds good, but sister, that just ain’t gonna happen. I’m human. Everyone around me is human, too. Perfectly wonderful (wink) though I am…I’m a disaster area. Just like everyone else.
And here’s the rub for me, as a Christian. Logically, I know that I’m supposed to be ok with falling apart. I know that I can’t hold myself together, and I know that I’m really not supposed to, even. Broken is supposed to be ok. I’m supposed to live all messy and let things hang out and trust in the grace and mercy of God—that he’s got me in hand, and all will be well. Whole in my brokenness, saved by the paradox of Christ. Right?
And when trouble comes, and I feel part of my heart crumble like a stale cookie, I wish…I wish…
I wish that I truly could be ok with it. I wish that I could really let go. I wish that I could stumble through life not caring in the slightest if I have all my crap together.
Is that so strange? Am I wrong for thinking this?
Friday, June 4, 2010
the bedside notebook
The blank page beckons,
waiting to be filled with everything
I couldn't say,
all the half-formed phrases
tearing at my heart.
All the fluid, semi-shapeless dreams
and desires--
ambition without legs, genius without arms.
A mind without its own melody.
And once again,
I stood beside you
and could not speak.
My heart is bleeding.
Patch it with paper;
stitch it with pen.
Rock it to sleep with this lullaby of looping, curving
letters and words and lines and
waiting to be filled with everything
I couldn't say,
all the half-formed phrases
tearing at my heart.
All the fluid, semi-shapeless dreams
and desires--
ambition without legs, genius without arms.
A mind without its own melody.
And once again,
I stood beside you
and could not speak.
My heart is bleeding.
Patch it with paper;
stitch it with pen.
Rock it to sleep with this lullaby of looping, curving
letters and words and lines and
Monday, May 17, 2010
may and I
slow to wake, this
body of mine. slow to catch
fire
after cold solitude, all energies turned
inward for survival. no
more.
and it feels good to feel
good.
and it's impossible
to feel impossible.
here, now, when I cannot speak in
words,
when I can barely
move a
muscle, my only
hope of an interpreter
is the vigorous
pounding of my heart.
this moment is
everything.
and nothing.
slow burn. blue fire. hazy
day.
leaves unfurl. the cherries
blossom.
body of mine. slow to catch
fire
after cold solitude, all energies turned
inward for survival. no
more.
and it feels good to feel
good.
and it's impossible
to feel impossible.
here, now, when I cannot speak in
words,
when I can barely
move a
muscle, my only
hope of an interpreter
is the vigorous
pounding of my heart.
this moment is
everything.
and nothing.
slow burn. blue fire. hazy
day.
leaves unfurl. the cherries
blossom.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
deep thoughts and one-liners, v.4
I spend half my time lost in my thoughts...and the other half finding myself in them.
Monday, April 19, 2010
the old lady's still got it, part II
So the new season of ultimate frisbee has begun. Ok, actually it began last Sunday, but it wasn't a super good game for me; we were all shaking the rust off. It was still great to be outside, of course. It was sunny and warmish and everything I could ask for in a spring day. But yesterday...
Yesterday rocked. The weather wasn't quite as nice--in fact, it got down right windy and cold, the last quarter hour or so. But I was running on all cylinders and it was a glorious thing.
Now, I'm not trying to complain, because I certainly have no right to. After all, I did it to myself. No one made me fling myself through the air again...and again. I'm just trying to tell it like it is: I laid it out good and hard, quite a few times. I landed so hard once I actually hurt my butt. I was in a good half-dozen midair collisions. (I think I only won two, but the guy had much better ups than me--what could I do?) When I got home, I was so stiff it took conscious effort to get out of the car, stumble to the house, and climb into a hot shower. I went to bed with a hot pack on my quad. This morning, I vaguely feel like I've been hit by a bus.
It was great. No--it was magnificent. Of course I didn't play perfect--I botched a couple catches, for sure, and had trouble getting my long passes to fly right. I got tired on defense. But it doesn't really matter. Because there were moments when everything worked right, when my body and mind seemed to be in harmony, when I acted without hesitation, without fumbling, without thought for what I was about to do.
The play of the day: We were only about a half hour into the game, so I was all warmed up but not yet tired. I charged down the sideline, sprinting to shake my defense, then I obeyed an instinct and began a cut toward the center, looking back over my shoulder. It was a long bomb; I saw it coming. I shifted direction to make the catch, saw the disk curve, lose height. Without thinking, I slid on my hip--a lusciously beautiful softball slide, the well-groomed soccer field turf was dry and just what I needed--and caught the disk a handsbreadth from the ground. In that moment, all was right with the world. I popped back up with ease I couldn't have planned if I tried.
It didn't hurt that from there I was able to throw for the score. Admittedly, the story wouldn't be quite as sweet if I'd been so excited I tanked the toss. Not that I would ever do that...ahem.
But why am I telling this story? I'm not sure. It's probably part of that same personality streak that makes me unashamed of my bruises. (I admit, I even show them off to my mother.) But I think, somehow, that this kind of moment is part of my philosophy of life--or at least how I wish I could live. Perhaps I cannot manage it 24/7, but at least I can lay it out once a week on the field, not holding back, not worrying about what might happen, trusting my body and my brain to take care of each other. Why can't I live like that every day? Why can't that physical abandon translate into my interpersonal endeavors, or my career? I don't really know.
Well, maybe I do. The game has very clear rules, and boundaries--and objectives. I operate within a very secure structure, with known outcomes. I can lay it all out, knowing exactly what I'm risking. And knowing, deep down in, that it really doesn't matter if I make the catch or not. My life will probably not shift direction because I threw the game winning toss or not.
Life in general holds no such easy certainty. And honestly, I doubt I could sustain the kind of energy I would need to live with such abandon. Granted, daily life doesn't generally include flying-through-the-air collisions or short, desperate sprints across the turf. (ok, ok, if you're a professional athlete, ok. shush.) But the energy drain would still be very real. More subtle, harder to gauge. And, I think, harder for me to spend. I know how to replenish my body: stretching, sleep, and hot/cold packs pretty much take care of it; but how do I replenish my mental energy? I know how to handle a physical tumble, but how do I get up after I take an emotional hit? Perhaps I'd figure it out--I certainly haven't made it this far in life with no trouble--but all that gray area makes me feel small, and shy. I've handled smallish hits, but could I handle big ones? Would I even see them coming? Without the boundaries, the rules, the objectives, the reliance on reflexes--I lose some of my fire.
Maybe that's not a bad thing. I'm not sure. I don't want to run through life with rampant recklessness. Forget hurting myself--other people get hurt that way. But I don't want to be a coward, either. As usual, I seek middle ground. But sometimes it's hard to find, and sometimes our hearts cry out to push limits.
Maybe that's why I like this game so much. I get to let all my crazy out, safely. I get to ram around and feel strong, and special, and (maybe just a little) fierce. I get to push myself. And then I get to go home.
Or maybe I just really like frisbee, and all this philosophical stuff is simply a sign that I haven't had enough coffee. Who knows?
Yesterday rocked. The weather wasn't quite as nice--in fact, it got down right windy and cold, the last quarter hour or so. But I was running on all cylinders and it was a glorious thing.
Now, I'm not trying to complain, because I certainly have no right to. After all, I did it to myself. No one made me fling myself through the air again...and again. I'm just trying to tell it like it is: I laid it out good and hard, quite a few times. I landed so hard once I actually hurt my butt. I was in a good half-dozen midair collisions. (I think I only won two, but the guy had much better ups than me--what could I do?) When I got home, I was so stiff it took conscious effort to get out of the car, stumble to the house, and climb into a hot shower. I went to bed with a hot pack on my quad. This morning, I vaguely feel like I've been hit by a bus.
It was great. No--it was magnificent. Of course I didn't play perfect--I botched a couple catches, for sure, and had trouble getting my long passes to fly right. I got tired on defense. But it doesn't really matter. Because there were moments when everything worked right, when my body and mind seemed to be in harmony, when I acted without hesitation, without fumbling, without thought for what I was about to do.
The play of the day: We were only about a half hour into the game, so I was all warmed up but not yet tired. I charged down the sideline, sprinting to shake my defense, then I obeyed an instinct and began a cut toward the center, looking back over my shoulder. It was a long bomb; I saw it coming. I shifted direction to make the catch, saw the disk curve, lose height. Without thinking, I slid on my hip--a lusciously beautiful softball slide, the well-groomed soccer field turf was dry and just what I needed--and caught the disk a handsbreadth from the ground. In that moment, all was right with the world. I popped back up with ease I couldn't have planned if I tried.
It didn't hurt that from there I was able to throw for the score. Admittedly, the story wouldn't be quite as sweet if I'd been so excited I tanked the toss. Not that I would ever do that...ahem.
But why am I telling this story? I'm not sure. It's probably part of that same personality streak that makes me unashamed of my bruises. (I admit, I even show them off to my mother.) But I think, somehow, that this kind of moment is part of my philosophy of life--or at least how I wish I could live. Perhaps I cannot manage it 24/7, but at least I can lay it out once a week on the field, not holding back, not worrying about what might happen, trusting my body and my brain to take care of each other. Why can't I live like that every day? Why can't that physical abandon translate into my interpersonal endeavors, or my career? I don't really know.
Well, maybe I do. The game has very clear rules, and boundaries--and objectives. I operate within a very secure structure, with known outcomes. I can lay it all out, knowing exactly what I'm risking. And knowing, deep down in, that it really doesn't matter if I make the catch or not. My life will probably not shift direction because I threw the game winning toss or not.
Life in general holds no such easy certainty. And honestly, I doubt I could sustain the kind of energy I would need to live with such abandon. Granted, daily life doesn't generally include flying-through-the-air collisions or short, desperate sprints across the turf. (ok, ok, if you're a professional athlete, ok. shush.) But the energy drain would still be very real. More subtle, harder to gauge. And, I think, harder for me to spend. I know how to replenish my body: stretching, sleep, and hot/cold packs pretty much take care of it; but how do I replenish my mental energy? I know how to handle a physical tumble, but how do I get up after I take an emotional hit? Perhaps I'd figure it out--I certainly haven't made it this far in life with no trouble--but all that gray area makes me feel small, and shy. I've handled smallish hits, but could I handle big ones? Would I even see them coming? Without the boundaries, the rules, the objectives, the reliance on reflexes--I lose some of my fire.
Maybe that's not a bad thing. I'm not sure. I don't want to run through life with rampant recklessness. Forget hurting myself--other people get hurt that way. But I don't want to be a coward, either. As usual, I seek middle ground. But sometimes it's hard to find, and sometimes our hearts cry out to push limits.
Maybe that's why I like this game so much. I get to let all my crazy out, safely. I get to ram around and feel strong, and special, and (maybe just a little) fierce. I get to push myself. And then I get to go home.
Or maybe I just really like frisbee, and all this philosophical stuff is simply a sign that I haven't had enough coffee. Who knows?
Monday, April 12, 2010
deep thoughts and one-liners, v.3
"She's like an Amazon," says the girl to her husband, as I pick up my half of the refrigerator.
Monday, March 29, 2010
backsplash!
Prepping the walls...
The first little wall of tile...
The worst bit ever (check all the cuts I had to make)...
And more tile...
Pause to grout and caulk...and done!
The first little wall of tile...
The worst bit ever (check all the cuts I had to make)...
And more tile...
Pause to grout and caulk...and done!
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Monday, March 22, 2010
Thursday, March 4, 2010
first signs of spring
Check it out! Look what's growing on the south side of my house! It's a perfect spot--the only place where the snow has totally melted, tucked out of the wind and right smack in the sunshine.
I can't wait to see what they are. I'm thinking this massive cluster is daffodils. 
But these, I'm not so sure. Tulips and grape hyacinth? Oh, I hope they don't get killed off in a late cold snap. It happens. After all, we still have another month of winter. But man, it's hard not to think spring when I come home from work to a sight like this.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
the same old fight
Is there any sort of life out there that doesn't make you deal with the same crap over and over again? Because that sounds mighty nice. I sit back, sip my herbal tea, wish I was drinking coffee, and dream of a world where things are dealt with, resolved, and (poof!) gone.
Then I realize where most of these repetitious issues come from: me. And you just can't live without yourself, I don't care what philosophers say. I keep repeating the same behaviors, hoping for different results. And that, as we've all heard, is the definition of crazy.
I keep waiting for someone to wave that magic wand and create positive change. I keep resting on my good intentions. I keep hiding behind excuses: "that's just my personality," "it's genetic," "I can't risk it," "most of the time it's fine," "I don't know how to begin,". . . and my all-time favorite, "things aren't really bad and you're being too dramatic."
I'm not much good at trying new things. Not sure why--I've never thought of myself as a scaredy-cat. And I never, ever want to feel that I'm afraid of hard work. But maybe I am both of those things. I don't know. Compared to. . . but wait--I can't measure myself on anyone else's yardstick, remember? It's just me and the truth. And the truth stings.
I think I need to pray a very dangerous prayer: I need the status quo to be unbearable, to feel I have no choice but change. God, help me change. Make me uncomfortable. Help me slough off this pervasive, subtle laziness. Without your help, in five years I'll still be sitting at this desk in pants that are just a tad too tight, wishing I was somewhat more awesome. Again.
Then I realize where most of these repetitious issues come from: me. And you just can't live without yourself, I don't care what philosophers say. I keep repeating the same behaviors, hoping for different results. And that, as we've all heard, is the definition of crazy.
I keep waiting for someone to wave that magic wand and create positive change. I keep resting on my good intentions. I keep hiding behind excuses: "that's just my personality," "it's genetic," "I can't risk it," "most of the time it's fine," "I don't know how to begin,". . . and my all-time favorite, "things aren't really bad and you're being too dramatic."
I'm not much good at trying new things. Not sure why--I've never thought of myself as a scaredy-cat. And I never, ever want to feel that I'm afraid of hard work. But maybe I am both of those things. I don't know. Compared to. . . but wait--I can't measure myself on anyone else's yardstick, remember? It's just me and the truth. And the truth stings.
I think I need to pray a very dangerous prayer: I need the status quo to be unbearable, to feel I have no choice but change. God, help me change. Make me uncomfortable. Help me slough off this pervasive, subtle laziness. Without your help, in five years I'll still be sitting at this desk in pants that are just a tad too tight, wishing I was somewhat more awesome. Again.
Friday, February 12, 2010
kitchen chaos
(first changes, painting walls and cabinets)
(ripping out the old counter and sink...but at least I have doors, now)
(new counter and sink, scraping backsplash)
(counter and sink in, new corner door in, now just need to finish that backsplash...and get some new appliances...and refinish the window trim...)
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
a musing
Wishing I could hurry up and get wise.
Well, you're looking particularly fine today--what are you waiting for?
I should sort out my sock basket. When's the last time I bought fun socks? Would my feet look better in stripes, or polka dots?
I've decided that good women aren't hard to find--we're just hard to keep. Meaning that it actually requires some effort.
I think people need a certain amount of adversity to flourish. Nowadays we're well-fed, soft, comfortable--amid floundering in painful, messy ways. Let's get more good clean dirt on our hands and drop-kick all those purse-sized bottles of hand-sani.
Can't you open your eyes and see that I, in all my backwardness, am actually ahead of them all? Ok, some. Ahead of some. I still got work to do. Who doesn't?
If it doesn't require effort, is it worth anything?
And tupperware. I need to sort my tupperware, too. Get rid of those lidless misfits.
My left shoulder pops funny when I roll it. Why is that?
Repeating the same behavior and expecting different results?
That's crazy talk.
Well, you're looking particularly fine today--what are you waiting for?
I should sort out my sock basket. When's the last time I bought fun socks? Would my feet look better in stripes, or polka dots?
I've decided that good women aren't hard to find--we're just hard to keep. Meaning that it actually requires some effort.
I think people need a certain amount of adversity to flourish. Nowadays we're well-fed, soft, comfortable--amid floundering in painful, messy ways. Let's get more good clean dirt on our hands and drop-kick all those purse-sized bottles of hand-sani.
Can't you open your eyes and see that I, in all my backwardness, am actually ahead of them all? Ok, some. Ahead of some. I still got work to do. Who doesn't?
If it doesn't require effort, is it worth anything?
And tupperware. I need to sort my tupperware, too. Get rid of those lidless misfits.
My left shoulder pops funny when I roll it. Why is that?
Repeating the same behavior and expecting different results?
That's crazy talk.
Friday, January 15, 2010
for Jeff
It's Friday, so I'm wearing jeans.
I decided not to go to Jeff's funeral service today, because I went to the visitation yesterday. I paid my respects, I said my prayers. I cried a little. I said goodbye.
But it's surprisingly hard, today. Everytime I see someone dressed in their funeral best, it's like a slap in the face, telling me "That's right. Death happened here. Don't forget." And lots of people are going, carpooling from the office, right about...now, in fact. I hear them gather, putting on their coats. The office gets quieter.
I'm going to keep working, going to keep moving, going to keep on doing what needs to be done. Because I don't know what else to do.
But it's hard, with this funny little ache that comes and goes, catching me just when I've started to relax.
Logically, I know what to do. Don't stuff your grief, but don't dwell. Do express yourself, but don't try to drum up exaggerated emotion. Do pray for mercy on the family. Don't say anything stupid. Do be glad that Jeff's in heaven. Don't for a moment kid yourself that you don't still want him here.
Don't don't don't. Do do do.
You know what I regret the most? That I didn't know him better. Perhaps I shouldn't feel that way--after all, if I'd known him better I'd be grieving harder now, right? Logic. But logic has little place here, today. Logic can go stuff it.
Where am I going with this? I don't really know.
I suppose this is the part where I roll out some beautiful rumination on life and death, something profound, or a statement of faith. But I'd have to go shallower in my heart to make that happen, and I don't think Jeff deserves that.
He deserves me at a loss for words.
I decided not to go to Jeff's funeral service today, because I went to the visitation yesterday. I paid my respects, I said my prayers. I cried a little. I said goodbye.
But it's surprisingly hard, today. Everytime I see someone dressed in their funeral best, it's like a slap in the face, telling me "That's right. Death happened here. Don't forget." And lots of people are going, carpooling from the office, right about...now, in fact. I hear them gather, putting on their coats. The office gets quieter.
I'm going to keep working, going to keep moving, going to keep on doing what needs to be done. Because I don't know what else to do.
But it's hard, with this funny little ache that comes and goes, catching me just when I've started to relax.
Logically, I know what to do. Don't stuff your grief, but don't dwell. Do express yourself, but don't try to drum up exaggerated emotion. Do pray for mercy on the family. Don't say anything stupid. Do be glad that Jeff's in heaven. Don't for a moment kid yourself that you don't still want him here.
Don't don't don't. Do do do.
You know what I regret the most? That I didn't know him better. Perhaps I shouldn't feel that way--after all, if I'd known him better I'd be grieving harder now, right? Logic. But logic has little place here, today. Logic can go stuff it.
Where am I going with this? I don't really know.
I suppose this is the part where I roll out some beautiful rumination on life and death, something profound, or a statement of faith. But I'd have to go shallower in my heart to make that happen, and I don't think Jeff deserves that.
He deserves me at a loss for words.
Friday, January 8, 2010
the yardstick
Ladies and gentlemen (and all you other people), I have a serious confession to make:
I scamper.
I do. I scamper. And on a fairly regular basis, too. I scampered to my car this morning, partially to keep the snow from overwhelming my shoes, but also just because I felt like it. I scamper a lot around the house. The hardwood floors make it easy. I jive, baby, sliding into rooms and around corners. I also tend to dance around when I'm in the kitchen, but that's another story. (I need to get curtains in my kitchen, too, but that's also a tangent.) Today, we focus on the scamper. It's not mature, stately, sedate, poised, or any of those important grown-up adjectives. And that got me thinking--what was wrong with me? I'm twenty-eight, for cripes' sake (which is quite different than for crepes' sake, which is much tastier and more French). Who was I to be acting so juvenile?
And then I realized I was falling into the same old trap again: measuring myself by someone else's yardstick.
Who I am is who I am, and the details of that are between me and God, not me and the world. God made me special. (And "special," too, depending on the day.) I've always done things at my own speed. That speed may be "slower" than some other people, but I'm the only one walking on my road. I've got my own speed limit, baby, and no one can tell me my road isn't as good as anyone else's. I'll scamper until I no longer feel like scampering, no matter how "old" and "mature" I get. Maybe I'll never stop.
I hope I don't stop. I hope I can keep remembering that the Bible never tells me to be suave or polished. I don't need to be sophisticated--which, to me, usually just feels worldly. Wait--I have read something in the Bible about being worldly...what was it again? Oh, yeah: DON'T.
Maybe I'm gauche and naive. Maybe I run around like I'm still in a ten-year-old's body. So what? I don't want to hide behind a facade. My mind and my heart are not childish. They still need work, no doubt, but we'll never stop growing. Isn't that awesome? We're all growing up, together. In our own way, in our own time.
And yes, I did just reference myself in the plural. Suck it up, cupcake.
I scamper.
I do. I scamper. And on a fairly regular basis, too. I scampered to my car this morning, partially to keep the snow from overwhelming my shoes, but also just because I felt like it. I scamper a lot around the house. The hardwood floors make it easy. I jive, baby, sliding into rooms and around corners. I also tend to dance around when I'm in the kitchen, but that's another story. (I need to get curtains in my kitchen, too, but that's also a tangent.) Today, we focus on the scamper. It's not mature, stately, sedate, poised, or any of those important grown-up adjectives. And that got me thinking--what was wrong with me? I'm twenty-eight, for cripes' sake (which is quite different than for crepes' sake, which is much tastier and more French). Who was I to be acting so juvenile?
And then I realized I was falling into the same old trap again: measuring myself by someone else's yardstick.
Who I am is who I am, and the details of that are between me and God, not me and the world. God made me special. (And "special," too, depending on the day.) I've always done things at my own speed. That speed may be "slower" than some other people, but I'm the only one walking on my road. I've got my own speed limit, baby, and no one can tell me my road isn't as good as anyone else's. I'll scamper until I no longer feel like scampering, no matter how "old" and "mature" I get. Maybe I'll never stop.
I hope I don't stop. I hope I can keep remembering that the Bible never tells me to be suave or polished. I don't need to be sophisticated--which, to me, usually just feels worldly. Wait--I have read something in the Bible about being worldly...what was it again? Oh, yeah: DON'T.
Maybe I'm gauche and naive. Maybe I run around like I'm still in a ten-year-old's body. So what? I don't want to hide behind a facade. My mind and my heart are not childish. They still need work, no doubt, but we'll never stop growing. Isn't that awesome? We're all growing up, together. In our own way, in our own time.
And yes, I did just reference myself in the plural. Suck it up, cupcake.
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