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Answering Annie

2011-12-28T18:39:00.001-08:00

One of my college roommates started a blog early this year. To my shame, I didn't see this post until just now. I know the topic has been done to death, but I thought she deserved an answer. Here's the original post, and my response follows. Beating a dead horse is still good exercise, right?

Annie says:

There are many topics that I wonder why Christians don't talk about such as homosexuality, mental illness and so on. But the topic that has been on my mind and heart lately has been food. Issues with food is a subject that many of us here in America deal with. But my issue right now I want to talk about is women's relationship with food. I know it sounds funny to say that but think about it we tend to be emotional eaters. We eat when we are happy, we eat when we are sad, when we are bored, to celebrate, when we are upset and so on. Because of my sister and because of some of my own medical issues( there are certain foods I cannot have.) Which sounds like it could be horrible but I have learned to appreciate my food more. I now savor cookies.

I don't say that to say "Look at me - I have it all together," because I still struggle with it. My big question is why do we let food control us? And why can't we talk about emotional eating as Christians? We can talk about things such as eating disorders and I am so thankful there are places like Remuda Ranch in AZ that is an Christian-based organization that helps especially women deal with their eating disorders. But in a church group of women called UFO (unfinished projects) that I go to the topic is always food. Two women there decided to have surgery to help them lose weight. I'm not commenting on my opinion of their decision to have the surgery. But all these women talk about it is food what they can have and what they can't have. And as they lose weight they expect people to constantly be commenting on how good they look. Why do we constantly want compliments about the way we look? Is it cause we as women are vain? Or eating and food is our way of control? Just because we say, "Oh you look soo good!" when you lose weight does that mean that other days, especially when you feel "fat," you don't look good? Why are our compliments so based on our appearances? Our self worth has nothing to do with how we look. So I challenge you all to think about whether food is controlling you or do you have control over food? And what would a healthy relationship with food look like in your own life? Let's start the discussion as Christians and live in the freedom that Christ has given us.

Anna responds:

Just off the top of my head, there's a few things going on here.

1. Women are constantly judged on their appearances in a way that men are not. Feminism and the sexual revolution had unintended consequences in this area. Now modern women have to be sexy all the time, always performing all the time to prove we're equal to men both in the boardroom and the bedroom. Our grandmothers never worried about this, and they had plenty of suitors--and most modern Christian women don't. Toss in the rampancy of porn addiction among men creating further unrealistic standards, and women are really painted into a corner. This is a nasty problem our (within the general Western culture) liberal mothers and grandmothers created and then handed down to us. They can decry it all they like now, but they helped screw us over back in the day. Women can have it all-yeah, right! You want that in a size 6, too?

2. Modern Western food is literally addictive. If you don't cook from scratch according to your personal dietary needs, you're probably poisoning yourself. I work full time. I do what I can to combat processed food, but I recognize after a certain point, I'm SOL (S---omething Outta Luck). The more the government gets involved in what we eat, the fatter we all get. I'm beginning to be convinced that corn subsidies are at the root of the American obesity problem. Practically everything you buy in a package is loaded with high fructose corn syrup (HFCS), soy fillers, or both. Tons of people are allergic to either, or both. (I have a mild fructose intolerance) The human body can respond to allergens by storing it in fat. A lotta potential histamines = a lotta potential thunder thighs, beer guts, and triple chins. In addition, soy is naturally loaded with estrogen. Too much affects male fertility! Eating it in the occasional edamame or tofu dish is one thing; eating hidden soy in practically everything is a yikes!

Eat for your individual health. If you're self-aware, you know what foods make you feel bad, and what foods you need to pick yourself up again. See Fat Nutritionist for a healthy perspective. Michelle's fairly anti-weight loss, which I disagree with, but I like her focus on figuring out what you individually need to eat for your best health, and being unapologetic about getting it.

3. Yes, food is often a means of control in a stressful, hard-charging world. Children compensate for lack of control and stress overload by becoming super picky. Adult men turn to sports, hobbies, work, and porn to get lost in. Women tend to overeat and overspend. Overeating isn't particularly a personal fault of mine; I'm a stress shopper instead. We all have coping mechanisms that are unhealthy. Overeating is a particularly emotionally fraught habit to break because eating is not something we can just stop doing.

Addressing the vanity question: I see a lot of confusion in the world between the definitions of self worth and self esteem. Self worth is your humanity, your inalienable rights, your eternal soul before God. Self esteem is how you feel about the above.

Women who have lost a ton of weight and need constant reassurance are really asking, "Am I worth something? Do you love me the same even though I'm more attractive now? Does my personhood matter to you, or is it just my outer shell?" It's a constant minute re-calibration of insecurity. I can't claim I'm above this one.

For example, let's take the "Do these pants make me look fat?" question our menfolk always dread. We all know its a trap-there's no way they can answer truthfully and spare your feelings, and even if they give a "correct" answer, the female insecurity we all harbor will probably make us change clothes anyway. The problem is that the "fat pants" question is a red herring. The real question is, "Do you still love me even though I feel ugly today?" But we can't ask the real question, because we're always afraid that the answer might be no.

Annie, you and I both know that ultimately, we find our worth and dignity in being made in the image of God. Goodness knows that's the focus of every. single. women's. study. But God made us to relate both to Him and to other human beings. We're also fallen creatures, and as such, we put unhealthy weight on the opinions of other fallen people. We know it's wrong, and stupid, and we just can't help it!

I wish I had a magic pill, and if I did, I'd be living in ... well, probably some expensive, romantic, bohemian city. But until I make my fortune figuring out how to cure all female neuroses, the best answer I can give you is to acknowledge that yes, it's hard; yes, circumstances and people can suck - both singly and simultaneously! Yes, knowing God made you and loves you is cold comfort when your favorite flattering sweater has mysteriously shrunk, and you never put it in the dryer...When your best guy cheats on you, when your dog pees on your new rug (how do animals always know???), when your best friend doesn't have time to see you, and your parents unfairly criticize you....Okay, I'm all depressed now.

It's going to sound crazy, but acknowledging how much the world can suck is a big help. We cry out against all the wrongness because it was never meant to be this way. But as long as mankind was given free will, sin was inevitable - I truly believe that. If Adam and Eve hadn't done it; their kids would have, or somebody down the line. That's the discouraging part. But it helps to remember that we still have free will. We can choose not to keep eating when we're actually full. We can choose to trot around the block after work instead of immediately sinking into the couch for the night. We can choose to fix ourselves up nicely even when we feel like it's no use. We're not helpless. We have the freedom of personal responsibility, and we have the Holy Spirit's guidance.

The Busty Woman's Fashion Primer

2011-12-20T15:48:00.000-08:00

I've been hearing little bleats of insecurity from some of my more endowed friends and coworkers about dressing their busty figures fashionably. There's a lot of body insecurity and plain old confusion about what to wear. I can certainly relate. I matured early and have spent a lot of time in pursuit of that female Grail: not looking fat. A large chest makes it harder, but there are still plenty of things out there. With apologies to What Not to Wear, here are my tips:

1. Get fitted for a supportive bra. Unsupported breasts can visually become just another roll in your midsection-YIKES! You’ll need to get fitted about once a year. If there’s no change, congratulations, but small (and large, but we’re pretending those don’t happen) weight and hormone fluctuations can cause you to need different sizes over time. There are plenty of online guides for measuring yourself. Doing this before you go to the store is a good idea-the person measuring you may not really know what they’re doing. A good rule of thumb for getting your band size right is taking your rib measurement and adding 2 inches if you’re an even number or 3 if you’re an odd number. You’ll need about three plain bras for work and everyday life. Two should be beige/nude if you’re white or brown if you’re black. The third should probably be black. White bras show through even white t-shirts. Don’t recommend them at all. Your go-to bra should be the one closest to your skin color. The balconette cut is the most useful to the busty woman. I recommend saving the lower-cut demi for fancy occasions when cleavage is appropriate. Lace is pretty, but it always manages to lumpily show through tops. Again, save the lace and embroidery for times when your bra needs to show. *wink*

Try not to be too chagrined about your cup size. Getting the right bra size, no matter how appalling the numbers on the tag, is the best thing you can do for yourself. There is nothing more distracting to the rest of the world than you walking around looking like you had a falling out with your bra. (Pun definitely intended.) The best way to hide is…don’t hide. Stand straight, and if you don’t make a big deal out of your mountainous outcroppings, nobody else will, either. In fact, most people won’t notice. Remind yourself that people pay for what you may consider a nuisance. When my mom went gray, she was thinking about coloring her hair until her friends started asking where she got her hair done because the frosting was so pretty. Big boobs are another thing people pay for. Yours came free.

2. Make friends with the closely fitted, solid (or subtly patterned) t-shirt or sweater. It should be as snug as you can get away with based on your age and level of physical fitness. Obviously, you don’t want to look ridiculous, but you also don’t want to obscure your shape in any way. Adding fabric bulk is suicidal to your waistline if you have a large chest.

3. Re: patterns, you can scale up with physical size. If you’re a large woman, wear a big print. If you’re petite, look for something more delicate. Beware of florals. If they aren’t abstract enough, it’s practically a guarantee that you’ll have a gigantic cabbage rose blooming on your boobs.

4. Your shirt neckline should at least show your collarbones. Do not wear anything higher than that. Avoid the classic turtleneck at all costs–if you’re cold, wear a scarf. You want to make it clear that you’re accessorizing, not being swallowed body-first by a snake. A loose and floppy cowl neck is fine. Collared shirts are fine. V-necks and scoop necks are ideal. A wide boat neck or ballet neck can be okay; it depends on the overall cut of the shirt. Split necks also fall into this category. For formal occasions, off-the shoulder can be lovely. Strapless is also fine, as long as it fits well.

5. Knits-go as fine gauge as you can. Ribbing and cable knits can be dicey because a large bust can distort the lines of the knit into something that would make an epileptic seize. Chunky knits have to be approached with caution, but can work with care. If you wear a bulkier top, compensate elsewhere with skinnier pants or a slim pencil skirt.

6. Skirts- Your skirt should hit at the skinniest parts of your leg. For most people, this is immediately above or below the kneecap. The longer the skirt, the higher the heel you need to compensate, unless you’re just having an “I need comfy shoes and don’t bother me about it today,” day, or your podiatrist has banned heels. If you’re insecure about your legs, wear opaque tights or solid leggings tucked into boots. White tights are for old ladies, toddlers and nurses. Dark, solid colors or subtle patterns are great. If the weather is warming up, but it’s not quite bare leg weather, turn to nude hose (but not with boots.). If you are quite petite, stick to skirts above the knee almost exclusively.

The two best skirts for the busty lady are the A-line and the Pencil. Bonus points if the pencil skirt has a built-in high waistband. Both types of skirts are fitted in the waist and hip. A pencil skirt goes straight down from the hip and looks straight or narrow at the hemline. An A-line skirt has a slight flare at the hemline.

Also worthy of mention is the gored/fishtail/mermaid/trumpet skirt. This skirt is again fitted in the waist and hip, but has many more seams. It nips in, then flairs out dramatically to give an exaggerated feminine shape. The fishtail skirt is a variation on this, but has a longer hem in back than in front.

Very full skirts and dirndls can be worn, but carefully. They are more useful for the busty woman who is also blessed in rumpage. I personally do not prefer them because adding bulk, even to my lower half, makes me look fatter all over. Your mileage may vary. If you do wear a very full skirt, make sure your top is just shy of painted on. A waist-defining belt may also be a good idea.

7. At all costs, define your waist. You have one. But probably only you, God, and your husband if married know about it right now. Getting your boobs up where they belong will help. A belt will help more. Cincher belts and skinny belts are very trendy right now, and are appropriate for any age, shape, or fitness level. If you don’t feel like accessorizing, a severely tailored blouse or fitted top is enough. Try belts, though. They can help you get away with an unstructured top or cardigan that you just love, but may not be that flattering on its own.

8. Jewelry-Shine by your face can help draw attention upward, away from your chest. Earrings are great. Necklaces are good too, if you pay attention to their length. A good rule is that your necklace should lie within the neckline of your top, no longer. Sadly, we gifted gals can’t really pull off the super long chains that are trendy right now. You don’t want people to think of a waterfall when they see a long necklace drape smoothly down your chest, and then abruptly assume a 90 degree freefall.

I didn’t mention colors, because busty women come in all complexions. The final piece of looking your best is figuring out the best colors for your skin tone and sticking to them. Next time you shop, remember these three rules: Good Bra, Good Fit, and Good Colors. Eventually, you will assemble a wardrobe where most things match, and dressing yourself will become effortless.

Cheap Riches

2011-04-24T15:46:00.000-07:00

Savvy Chic by Anna Johnson came in the mail a few days ago after I devoured the whole thing on one of our Barnes & Nobles dates. It was definitely worth picking up, and I'd recommend it to anyone; just don't pay full price. Anna Johnson is a flamboyant, romantic spendthrift who has (mostly) mended her ways and put forth a manifesto on how to enjoy luxury without paying much, or anything for it. It was definitely a book I needed to read, since, as my mother has famously said, I have caviar taste on a hamburger budget. One could theorize that it was an inevitable backlash against years of missionary (and Dutch) thrift, but I prefer to think of my expensive yearnings as a love of beauty frequently butting up against the fact that quality and originality are rarely cheap.

With my job in jeopardy and our house undergoing an expensive, though involuntary remodel, I've never needed to reign in my spending more. Yet, I've never been more tempted. Some people are stress eaters. I'm a stress shopper. In the last six weeks, I've bought Savvy Chic, a new frying pan to match my set, Stila powder foundation, an Anthropologie sweater (a steal from eBay) and a camisole to match it, two clearance cocktail dresses and a blouse fromPepperberry, a pair of Crocs ballet flats (Too small, returned 'em), and I tried to buy some shoes at Naturalizer (had a coupon, nothing fit). I also bought six yards of Waverly outdoor fabric (30% off!)for curtain panels in my kitchen and seven tension rods on which to hang them. And that's not even counting a $385 binge at Ikea Atlanta two weeks ago that yielded a china cabinet, duvet cover, down pillows, towels, a candle and a flower pot. I'm exhausted and ashamed just looking at that inventory.

Granted, circumstances have been extenuating with the house torn up, but only five or six of the things I bought relate directly to the house. The blouse that hasn't arrived yet from England and Anthropologie sweater are meant to be worn to a job I may not have in a few weeks. Two cocktail dresses? Well, I need one that must do double duty for an August formal wedding and my company's December party...if I'm still employed. Both were on clearance and I couldn't decide. Will liked one better; my mom liked the other. I've stiffened my spine, though. When I try them on, the one that is less flattering is getting returned, along with a linen dress from Pepperberry that was too big, and I haven't returned yet because the kitchen flood happened. I wasn't out of powder foundation; it was just a great deal on an expensive item. I tell myself that I use Stila because it's the only brand I've found that exactly matches my skintone, and it would be a waste to try and discard drugstore brands when I've found something that works perfectly. That is true, but I wore drugstore brands in high school and college. Though the color matches weren't ideal, I didn't look ghoulish. No, I looked bad in high school and college for a whole host of reasons that had nothing to do with cheap makeup.

Now that I feel thoroughly broke, I need to think about things that make me feel rich.

1. Buying organic veggies at the farmer's market. Cost: $10/week if I don't buy a watermelon.
2. Richly scented soaps that come in pretty packaging. Cost: Doesn't matter to me. $3.99 at Marshall's is average, though I like to buy soaps from places we go, like Colonial WIlliamsburg. No lavender or anything powdery or sugary-sweet, please, if you're planning to give me a gift. I like crisp, clean scents, especially citrus, mint and bayberry.
3. Playing Messiah at a volume just short of "bleeds ears" and singing along. Cost: free. It reminds me of many road trips to and from college, and that magical night when I took Will (not yet my boyfriend) to a spring Messiah concert at Lookout Presbyterian. I still get shivery thinking about sitting in the back of that glorious cathedral and being borne away by the polyphony.
4. Good coffee. Good coffee is harder for me to find now that I'm allergic to caffeine. (It makes me itch horribly) A nice, rich decaf is a treasure. Cost: $5 for a medium Snickers latte at Wholly Cow, or $10-15 a pound. Ground coffee lasts a long time at my house because I only drink it on the weekends. I'd be perfectly happy to buy Folgers Gourmet Selects decaf, if only I could find it! I keep checking the grocery stores I frequent, but nobody stocks the decaf! Dunkin' decaf isn't bad, but it isn't special, either.
5. Dried mangoes from Saigon Oriental Market. Cost: $1.98/bag. They're imported from the Philipines. That satisfies my love for exotica. The fact that they're the most blissfully delicious thing ever doesn't hurt either. Sure, I eat the whole (small) bag in one sitting, but that's what makes it a treat, and it's a cheap treat at that.
6. A spotless bedroom. Cost: time and laundry. I've decorated our bedroom so that it looks like an expensive hotel room. I spent less than $300 on it, but it radiates luxury. It's extremely soothing to open the door and see a crisply made bed, scented candles and a gently running ceiling fan. As a matter of fact, that's making me sleepy, so if you'll *yawn* excuse me....

Narrowing to a Point

2011-04-22T19:42:00.000-07:00

The past six weeks have been absolutely harrowing. First, our kitchen flooded. A dishwasher hose split and we came home to water an inch deep in some places. The day after that, I found out I might be getting laid off. Neither of those situations are resolved yet. I'm keeping a vigilant watch for gray hairs, because I'm sure all the stress has created some.

I will say that the kitchen is coming along nicely, though a big rainstorm put us behind schedule. It won't be finished for Easter, like we had originally hoped, but it should be done early next week. I've barely cooked in six weeks. I've mostly been living on peanut butter and jelly, sometimes eating it twice a day. Haven't lost any weight from it. There's no justice in this fallen world, I'm afraid.

So far, the kitchen has been painted (Valspar Belle Grove Moss) and the new cabinets are in. Mike the contractor finished the counters today. He said that it looked like an interior decorator had designed the kitchen. I was super pleased by the compliment, because I wanted to be an architect or an interior designer in high school, and spent a lot of time studying for the life path I didn't take. Most people might have chosen a cream or tan counter to go with the birch cabinets. That would have been the obvious course to take, but I think it would have ended up looking like the Gobi desert. I chose a mottled gray with blue and rust undertones. I was sweating bullets before it was installed, because I had only a tiny square of laminate sample and no cabinet to match it to when I chose the colors. It worked out, thank goodness. The vinyl flooring will be a sandy gray in a fake tile style. Unfortunately, real tile wasn't in the budget-not because of the materials-but because one guy can install linoleum, but it takes a team to do tile in a kitchen as big as mine.

The contractors took the paper shades down in the kitchen, and suddenly I'm confronted with another problem to solve. The paper shades were never meant to be permanent, and now that they're down, they're not going back up. I have 7 huge windows across the back of the house. Obviously, I don't want the thugs in the house behind us to be able to see in. Traditional blinds would be too expensive, and besides, I want something interesting. I was looking into getting a patterned bamboo or roman shade when I looked at World Market and saw exactly what I was looking for. All kinds of cute roman shades, on clearance. I mentioned it to my coworker and friend, Pretty Smile, and she found me a wonderful World Market coupon that I could print out multiple times. I rushed out and found that the one I wanted was too big for my windows, my second choice was sold out...and there was no third choice. Feeling discouraged and defeated, I got myself a Snickers latte from Wholly Cow, and barely enjoyed it I was so upset. Did I mention it poured all day? It's hard to keep upbeat when it's pouring, and one's cowardly dog shredded the bathroom door in which he was confined. Could not believe the mess. He owes us $60. Thinking of garnishing his kibble until he pays us back. Awful, awful dog!

We went home and took a nap, and upon rising I looked at the window problem with fresh eyes. Back we went to World Market to buy a different style of shade, which was also on sale. The Summerville store didn't have enough, so we drove back to West Ashley to pick up the three we lacked. In the time it took to have a nap, lose an eBay auction of an exquisite Anthropologie dress I really wanted, and return to the store, the style I wanted had sold out. I realize it's hard to find seven matching anything, anywhere, much less when it's on clearance, but I really thought events were in my favor. I can't spend much on this, because all our money is tied up in the involuntary kitchen remodel. They were cute. They were the right price. I had a coupon. I was so sure it was in the bag. GRRRR! So now I have to return four jute shades and figure out what I'm going to do instead. I could sew curtains, but at my current state of busy-ness, that's about as appealing as getting a cavity filled. I wish I could just buy shades, but I really can't pay more than $15 each. I do have the beginnings of an idea, though. My windows are 31 inches wide. There's no reason why I couldn't buy a runner like this, cut it in half, sew it together, and make a pocket at the top for a tension rod. So back to World Market I go tomorrow, to return the shades and see what my schemey little brain can come up with.

It's taking all my ingenuity to keep on top of everything that's going on. I have a distinct sensation that my world is narrowing to a point, and I'm being driven toward the narrow end, like icing in a cake decorator's bag. Hopefully, like the icing, something beautiful and useful will come of all of this. In the meantime, it's awfully frightening and uncomfortable.

Greedy Scheming

2011-02-25T16:19:00.000-08:00

I’ve been reading a lot of blogs lately instead of writing my own. Mostly design and fashion blogs, like academichic and designsponge. Throw in a little House Beautiful and some Etsy browsing. The result is a manic desire to remake my home with quirky things I can’t afford, and to cut up half my wardrobe and re-sew it. All at the same time. Needless to say, my mind hasn’t been on my work too much lately.

Going to the Celadon Outlet at the old Navy Yard with my friend, Pretty Smile, did NOT help my greed and scheming. The outlet is for scratch and dent furniture and overstocks, and I saw at least a dozen things I would love to decorate a hypothetical hipster bungalow with an outdoor kitchen and mossy bricks. I do not own a hipster bungalow with an outdoor kitchen. Any mossy bricks I possess are by sheer
accident, and I live in fear that someone, probably me, will slip on them the next time it sleets, which is a pretty rare occasion in Charleston, SC. Yes, I know, I’m talented that way. Thank you, Mother, for passing down your inimitable physical grace. *Ahem.* Moving on…

My house is a 1965…ranch? It was a long, narrow brick house, until somebody added a mother in law suite onto the right side of it. In the 2000s, it was updated by a flipper, who had the wisdom to leave the original six inch baseboards and crown moldings, but who did a lousy job installing his own carpet and linoleum. He also did not replace the original, cracked windows or improve the insulation. This condition led to the purchase of some very expensive flannel sheets from Dillard’s that are cloud-soft, blissfully warm, and also pill like no other. *grumblesnort!*

When we moved in, we had only bought a few things as we needed them. Most of the rest of our furniture was hand-me-down from Will’s aunt or parents. From Will’s aunt, we received a heavy cherry veneer bedroom set. The worn out bed slats eventually dumped us on the floor at 3 am, and I didn’t like the cockatoo-chewed, neo-Victorian headboard well enough to keep it, so we dragged it to the curb
before we left Miami. However, we kept the nightstand, and pair of approximately 300-lb dressers. I’m exaggerating the weight, but wow, they’re heavy. Solid wood is usually worth hanging onto even if it’s not my style, says I.

We replaced the matching bed with a modern sleigh bed from Overstock.com. It wasn’t long before that dumped us on the floor as well. All it took was my 200-ish pound husband sitting down hard on his side of the bed, and that was the end of that slat. Finally gave up and bought a metal bed frame to attach the headboard to. Unfortunately, the footboard took a beating when the slat cracked, so I’m going to try to glue it back together with some heavy duty wood glue. If that doesn’t work, well, the bed looks just fine with no footboard, and we both like to hang our toes over the end. Tall peoples’ prerogative. Alas, rubberwood is a huge rip-off.

Nature apparently abhors a vacuum-why is that, anyway? Is Nature really a giant cosmic shelter mutt? I ventured that question to a dog fancier at work, and he pointed out that God spelled backward IS doG. I’m not prepared to go that far, theologically. John Calvin and my minister father might both have issues with that, and I don’t want to end up like my college roommate who was a Bible major. She had recurring nightmares of John Calvin and the Greek verb luw chasing her. Hi, Annie! How ya sleeping lately?

Anyway, MY nature abhors an empty corner I could be decorating. Once we fix the broken footboard, that will free up the floor space of the corner to the right of the nightstand on my side of the bed. Got that? The wall to the right of the nightstand is occupied by a Chinese ink painting scroll that was a wedding gift. I had been toying with the idea of getting a cushy chair, footstool, and tiny bookcase to put in that corner. Because I totally don’t read on the couch all the time. My books are starting to take over, and I want to move the more embarrassing titles off the top of the piano. No, I don’t read romance novels. Haven’t read one since college, when it was beyond hilarious in my clique of virginal, horny girls, to give romance novels as birthday presents and read the steamy parts aloud in a deadpan voice. I just have a suspicion that having more than a certain number of Mercedes Lackey novels will make people think I’m frivolous. The reality is that nobody notices, and I’m secretly afraid that being female inherently makes me frivolous, but that’s between me, God, and my imaginary counselor.

So I need to get the fairy tales off the piano and move to the forefront titles like “Druids,” The English Country Gentleman and the Age of Chivalry”, “Selected Works of Chretien des Troyes,” and “The Complete Annotated Works of Shakespeare,” All of which I have read, thank you very much. And I think Titus Andronicus is a sad example of what artists will do for money. Much Ado about Nothing is still my
favorite, so maybe I am lowbrow. I never got into Sudoku, either. I will now embrace my plebeian status. Will it hug me back?

The problems with that fantasy of a bedroom reading nook are that 1. It’ll clutter the room with too much furniture. 2. I’ll never use it. 3. It’ll just end up covered in clothes that aren’t quite dirty and need one more wearing before washing, thereby increasing clutter even more, and 4. If I can ever manage to get knocked up, I’ll need that corner for a crib while Beers Jr. is a newborn. *Encouraging news on the
fertility front: the doctor said that since I’d been on the pill so long after marriage, I am really only one year out from detoxing, not two. Doesn’t change the amount of time that’s passed, but it makes me feel better. Hopefully my thyroid problems will fall in line soon.*

After all that digression, I know what the real problem is. I either have too many books or too few bookcases. And I don’t like one of the bookcases. We got it free, and it’s just a plain, wood-grained particle board DIY-er. It’s not particularly sturdy and it’s certainly not attractive. I have shoved it up in the corner behind the French doors in my living room where I don’t have to look at it.

Here’s where the temptation comes in. I saw two stunning bookcases at Celadon. They’re distressed cream, made out of some plasticky stuff, but they look like antique wrought iron garden gates. My pragmatic hindbrain is reminding me that not only are they not sturdy, which I profess to require, they are also something like $400. Each. That’s the sale price. Whiiiiiiine. It’s like the Anthropologie catalog. I don’t even like half their stuff, and it’s all stratospherically expensive, and who can afford that anyway, but I STILL WANT TO BE THAT GIRL! I want to be that girl who has fragile, expensive bookcases that look like antique garden gates. With exotic knick-knacks and rare plants, and only about a dozen actual books on them. Sadly, the last time I saw great design intersect practical living was in the Not So Big House books by architect Sarah Susanka. I can’t afford those bookcases, and I sure can’t afford to hire an architect. I’m also pretty sure THAT GIRL is a hypochondriac control freak who hasn’t spoken to her mother in six months. She also has a friend with benefits named Stefan. I don’t like her.

What is a lot more manageable is getting a large bookcase from Good Wood or craigslist and painting it to my specs, maybe painting the back and shelves a fun color. Maybe wallpapering them. I could do that. It wouldn’t break the bank. And it would fit in better with my non-hipster, non-bungalow décor. It is also true that upgrading bookcases is hardly an emergency on the priority list. In fact, replacing and adding kitchen lighting would be a much better return on investment, since my huge kitchen is sun-drenched during the day, and grim and dim at night.

I can also go though my books. Yes, I’m feeling faint at the idea, but I’m hanging in there. I’m wondering if, at almost five years out of college, I need to keep every single book I referenced in my undergrad thesis? Some of them are unbelievably boring, and hardcovers take up a lot of space. Probably time to revisit those. But will I still be respected for my mental acuity if I get rid of half my research books on druids and medieval poetry and keep the Mercedes Lackey? Eek!

Another thing I can do to satisfy my design craving is go back to the Celadon outlet and NOT buy the bookcases. When I went, I saw a pale chair with a hybrid Gothic/Moorish arch on the back. It was under $100. The exact price escapes me, but I think it was $75, which isn’t at all bad for a dining chair. If they have two of those, I can buy them to expand our dining room seating from four to six. We frequently host hours-long card games, so having more chairs would be a boon. We usually just drag in the piano bench, and I get nervous every time some hulking guy plumps down on it. Furthermore, if my mother in law lets me have her white Danish-style chairs when I get their big black table after they move, the two Gothic chairs would make excellent captain’s chairs at the head and foot of the table. If she doesn’t, the two Gothic chairs would still make excellent captain’s chairs; I’ll just be pitching a raving, lunatic fit while I shop for four more chairs. I should probably sell advance tickets. That tantrum promises to be entertaining.

Naturally, I’ll go back to Celadon, cash in hand, and there won’t be two of the Gothic chair, and I’ll talk myself out of just buying one, or there will be two, but I won’t have any peace about buying them. “Peace” is always how my mom described having a mental or emotional check on doing something that’s probably a bad idea, or the timing is wrong. She ascribes that feeling to the Holy Spirit. I’ve felt that many times when I was all revved up to buy or do something and I just couldn’t and
couldn’t explain why. Sometimes it was an upset stomach providing the jerk on the reins. Sometimes it was certainly the Holy Spirit. Sometimes the sour stomach and the Holy Spirit feel pretty much the same. But I didn’t do or buy what it was I wanted to do or buy, and not doing it has always proven to be a good decision.

**Update** I did go back to Celadon, cash in hand. And there was only one of the Gothic chairs and I didn't buy it. Instead, I went to Next to New in Mt. Pleasant and bought a scrolly mahogany table that had been painted celery green. It wasn't a bargain. In fact, it was [Price Redacted], but I loved it, and I'm using it as a nightstand.

I won’t die if I don’t do any of the above. In fact, just writing it all down and puzzling it out takes a lot of the urgent sting out of it. I’m also pretty easily distracted by pretty things. In a day or two, I’ll have another “great” idea that will feel like I can’t breathe if I don’t do it RIGHT NOW. I’ll live through that
too. What’s more important than how trendy and tasteful our home is, is how our guests feel in it.

Nobody’s ever complained of feeling unwelcome, so I can quit obsessing any time now. Maybe I’ll quit obsessing tomorrow. After my next big idea.

Shabby Apple

2011-02-17T15:18:00.000-08:00

My Shabby Apple Cider Dress arrived today. Thoughts: The color is beautiful and the lines are flattering. I really like the sassy purple zipper. The Cider Dress is marked as "Fits Generously" and it definitely does. My measurements are 45/35/43. I ordered an XL, which fit in the bust and shoulders, but is quite wide in the waist and hips, so I'll be taking it in on the sides. I'd venture to guess it had about an extra four inches in the hips. That's good news for certain friends of mine with *ahem* assets. I am 5'9.5 and the hem came to the bottom of my knee cap. The scooped neckline is a little higher than I expected, but that's hardly a problem since my collarbone still shows. Material is a stretch cotton. Now you know, girls.

Hair Horns Ensued....

2010-10-22T15:04:00.000-07:00

I stopped liking my hair the day I set foot in seventh grade in a new school, new state, new continent. Rows of identically layered, poker-straight, blonde ponytails swiveled to give me a cold onceover. I failed the test. At 12 years old, I was nearly finished growing, but I still had my messy, childish, wavy hair that I brushed once in the morning and forgot about unless forcibly reminded. No bangs. No layers. No natural (or ruthlessly Sun-Inned) blonde coloring. At thirteen, I cut myself wispy bangs in the hurried five minutes in the bathroom after PE class. I didn’t own a round brush or a straightening iron; didn’t even know what either of them was for. Hair horns ensued. Mom was no help whatsoever since her own poker-straight hair looked much the same whether air-dried or styled. The only clue was the presence or absence of mousse-crunchy strands. She didn’t understand my horror of my hair. “People pay a lot of money for waves like yours,” she consistently pointed out. I didn’t care if it was true. I wanted that perfectly-layered, high ponytail, tied with a black satin ribbon a scant few atoms wide, just like the other girls. (Of course, I wanted to be thin and athletic like them too, and see how that turned out!)

At 14 I cut my hair above my shoulders. This was my first major cut, and I chose the layered bob everyone else had. I’d never had anything beyond a half inch trim before, and my hair was just halfway down my chest. Even though the cut transformed my head into a Mardi Gras of curls, I liked the cut. I wouldn’t have hair below my shoulders again until I was 25.

College led to the epiphanies of the round brush and straightening iron. Had some vaguely mullet-like cuts in there, but they weren’t that unflattering once I tamed the frizzies. I got married at age 20 with my hair just below my jawline, which was unbelievably chic with my grandmother’s Juliet Cap veil, circa 1932.

Now at 26, my hair is experiencing the recession. I haven’t cut it since a half-hearted reshaping in January that I paid too much for. I have a long side bang I cut myself. The rest of my head has reverted to the messy, childish waves I used to hate. The tips of my grown-out inverted bob are just stretching below my collarbone. My husband loves my longer hair, which I find bemusing since it was much more flattering and stylish shorter. Must be a primal male thing. I’ll take the attention, though. After all, as a married woman, whom do I need to impress with my beauty? None but him. Today, I realized that my scanty braids were just long enough to climb up the sides of my head for an almost-there German milkmaid look. I pinned my hair up and stood in front of Will. When he glanced up from his iPhone zombie smashing, his eyes glowed. I never got a look like that with a sassier cut. So we’ll see how long I can go until the next cut. Part of me is curious to see my genetically pre-programmed maximum length. Another part of me misses the frothy curls. But I keep reminding myself that “people pay a lot of money for waves like mine. “ Thanks, Mom. You got through to me and it only took a decade!

Snow (Hey Oh)

2010-02-15T13:10:00.000-08:00

Snow was in the forecast for Friday, Feb 12. I admitted skepticism, considering that the coast of South Carolina is one of the least likely places on earth for snow. Considering that last year it snowed in Daytona while we had warmish weather. When I left work around 4:30 on Friday, the wind was picking up, but the temperature was a solid ten degrees too warm. Probably not going to happen, I told myself. Best not to get any hopes up. However, by the time I picked Will up from work, it was quite cold. And then it started to rain on the way home. After an hour of rain, we had Snow. I was in the kitchen rolling spring rolls for our Chinese New Year dinner when the neighbor boy pounded on the door. We opened the door and crept out on the porch, awed by the snowfall’s beauty. There was already at least an inch on the car, and the footprints on our front steps were swiftly filling in.

It took a moment to believe what we were seeing, but only a moment. Seconds later, we were gloved, booted, and be-hatted (me), dashing out into the wintry night. It was incredibly satisfying to pelt the 15 year old boy next door with snow balls (I firmly believe teenagers should have things thrown at them as often as possible.).

After getting socked in the thigh by an ice ball Will ducked, I was done with the snow ball fight. So I disengaged and moved to the demilitarized zone, i.e. the end of the driveway. I spun around, feeling the snow brush against my face. And here’s where the night got all romance novel-y. I was caught in strong arms mid spin and shyly peeked up from under my hat brim at my William. He said slowly, “You are so adorable” and kissed me. And then we kissed again to make sure we liked it. Oh yeah. That’s an item off my bucket list.

I scampered back inside not long after that, turned on the Olympic opening ceremony and fried the spring rolls. My first attempt at spring rolls turned out beautifully, by the way. I made about 16, and probably ate 9 or 10 of them. I’m not going to do that again, but spring rolls are such a treat, and they tasted so authentic and fried things go bad fast and, and…Yeah, I paid for it, but it was worth it. With the spring rolls, I served “froggy food,” a stir-fried soy bean (edamame) and pork mixture over rice. Just a little feast for Chinese New Year. Xin nian kuai le and gong xi fa cai!

I went to bed that evening starry-eyed with a belly full of grease. Life was good. The snow stopped falling around 1 am. 4 inches total. Magical.

Saturday morning, I woke up just long enough to push Will out of bed so he could go to Taekwondo. About an hour later I woke up to find a very sheepish William offering me a bowl of cheerios, a strawberry yogurt, and a mug of tea. Breakfast in bed! It turned out that the gym was closed due to the snowfall, and the roads were still slick. I loitered in bed a little longer, but couldn’t stand the inactivity and got to work. I had already taped off the master bath; now it was time to paint. While I brushed the dusty plum color on the walls, I had a very cute view. Will had obviously taken a cue from Friday the guinea pig and was snoozing with just the ends of his hair sticking out. I admit I took some pictures. Blackmail may be forthcoming. Painting the bathroom took about two hours, then I moved on to cleaning the living room, watching the Olympics, and burning things. I’m embarrassed to admit that the front left corner of the living room was still covered in fir branches I cut off the Christmas tree to use for tinder. Ouch. It was appropriately cold, so I kept a toasty fire going all afternoon, burning broken boards from TKD, fir branches and junk mail. My pyromania is satisfied…for now. I played a little WoW and made Will help me hang a shelf in the dining room. By mid-evening the paint dried enough to finally hang the huge round mirrors I bought in August(!) I also swapped out the old paint-spattered switch plates for brushed nickel and put up two black and white art photos my dad took –one of a fern draped over bamboo, and the other of a snail shell encased in concrete. Because snails are totally what someone thinks of when they think of a bathroom. There! Voila! Finished! I promptly collapsed into a hot bath to enjoy the spa-like ambiance (and new paint smell).

After all that physical labor, it was hard to get moving Sunday. We were very late to church. Will’s nose twitched longingly as we walked past a favorite restaurant: Jestine’s Kitchen. After church, I noted that the line to get in was not that long, and we could at least see what the specials were. He nodded vehemently. The specials were pot roast (yum!) and catfish (yum for Will!), so we waited in line, flirting shamelessly with each other. It was windy and cold, but I sure didn’t feel it. During lunch, Will casually mentioned that his phone was very busted, and the Apple store was right around the corner. I laughed, knowing he’d been dying to get an iPhone but wanted to wait until his current phone was good and dead. The surprise was not that he got an iPhone, but that he wanted to get me one too. So now we have black and white, bride and groom iPhones. This is truly a luxury I didn’t know I couldn’t do without until I had one. I love it!!!

After the spending orgy at the Apple Store, Will dropped me off at home for a nap. He went out again on his own and got me hot pink roses and a white case for my iPhone. And then he made lasagna from scratch for dinner! This after I said I didn’t want to do much for Valentine’s Day! What a man I’ve got! What a great, romantic, productive weekend we have.

Sadly, the next home improvement project on my plate is painting the master bedroom. I have a lovely warm gray picked out, but I’m quailing at the scope of it. Five windows and five doors to tape around. Urg. I don’t think that’s going to happen any time soon, but when I get to it, it’s gonna look great. Our duvet is eggplant velvet, and I’m going to mix that with crisp whites and apple green. That should be very sharp, but first, I could use some sleep, because all this happiness is very exhausting.

Defiance, Compliance...Poop?

2010-02-10T18:17:00.000-08:00

February 3rd, Will and I started obedience class for Toby and Frankie. This has been a long time coming, as we've had Toby since September 09 and have had plenty of time to observe and deplore his issues. Frankie came home with us December 30, 2009, and we're still figuring him out. He was a stray, so we're not sure what he knows. Furthermore, he was sick the entire first month we had him, and sickness tends to have a deleterious effect on bowel control. There were some unfortunate consequences for the kitchen floor. Sigh I've been watching him like a hawk, and I definitely don't trust him yet. I guess all this clean up has been good for me. Poop really icks me out. Maybe having dogs is supposed to desensitize me before we have kids. Gross.

The class was held at the Charleston Animal Society on Remount Rd, about five minutes away from our home. That's a good thing, too, because Frankie is afraid of riding in the car, and always raises a fuss. I drove, with Toby in the front seat, and Will and Frankie in the back. Will had both leashes and was coordinating the dogs like that old America's Funniest Home Videos clip where the couple has broken windshield wipers in a rainstorm. The woman ties twine to the blades, and through cracked windows, pulls the wipers back and forth manually. I never got why that clip won. It would have been funnier with two squirming, crying 50 lb mutts instead of windshield wipers.

With a mishap or two, we (Okay, I was the one having trouble. I had a leash with an excited, pulling mutt on the end of it, my purse, and two medical folders in my hands) made it through the door. There were probably eight other puppies. I was worried that Toby and Frankie would be much too large, but there was a sheepdog-type thing, and a year-old labrador mix that were about the same size. I had to laugh when the lab, named Will, was parked next to human Will and Toby. Canine Will was black, with a huge white blaze on his chest and face. The resemblance was uncanny. After the class, Will and I joked that canine Will had his looks and my personality. Whenever I looked at the dog, he was lying down, slobbering cordially. My kind of guy.

Two of the small puppies stood out to me as well: pretty little girls named Izzy and Reesie. Reesie was no doubt named for a peanut butter cup. If I were to guess, I'd say her ancestry was chocolate lab with maybe pit bull? She had a gorgeous, brindled orange-and-brown coat, and her tough-looking owner had decked her out in a pink and brown collar-the same paw-print pattern as Frankie's green and brown collar. I detected a softy.

Izzy was a proud little German Shepherd with a light tan coat and a delicately shaded black snout. Whenever she got a little slack on the leash, she dove to the end of the tether nose first and plopped on her belly with a surprised look. I hope I get the chance to scoop her up during the class, because she's going to be too heavy to carry pretty soon, and I'm dying to give her a good ear rub and chin tickle.

The class covered sit-stays, the "leave it!" command and how to let your dog meet another dog. Frankie sat like a champion, which amused me because at home, he's a slow, apathetic sitter. I guess he was showing off, or the super cheapy string cheese we used is his heart's greatest desire. Or something. At least he liked that. I don't blame him for being uninspired by the hot dogs we also cut up for treats. I wouldn't have touched those either. 88c a pack off-off-brand? Blech. At least my dog has good(ish) taste. We're going to have to practice "leave it" at home with a variety of tasty objects. Frankie has already eaten one of my shoes, and the dogs together shredded an old book with a cloth cover. Thank goodness it wasn't one I was attached to, but I was pretty mad that they made a point of taking it out of the basket on the bookcase. I guess the cloth cover had an interesting smell or flavor? Who knows? I turn to my default answer: Dogs are dumb.

Though my session with Frankie went swimmingly, Will had a war on his hands with Toby. Every time I looked across the room at them, Toby was straining at the end of his leash. He would not listen, he would not sit, he could have cared less about the treats, and every time Will forced eye contact, the expression in Toby's eyes was a hard, bright "[screw] you." I swear that beast slid out of his mongrel mama smoking a cigar. His entire attitude since we've had him has been "Oh yeah? What are you gonna do about it?" He's very strong-willed and high energy. The only thing we've found to calm him down has been schlepping two cans of tomatoes in his saddlebags. I guess that fulfills some psychological need deep in his little canine hindbrain. Too bad we can't take him to class loaded up and strapped in. Sigh. Dogs.

The class ended with a five minute play period off-leash. The puppies slithered across the tile floor quite endearingly. Toby went off by himself after a few cursory sniffs. What's wrong with him? Did he get a cat soul? Frankie went over and made friends with canine Will. I'm sure when they separate the dogs into play groups, Frankie and Will are going to be placed together. And why not? They're big enough to handle each other. A little more running around, and then the excitement got to Frankie and he dropped 4 huge nuggets on the floor. I was so embarrassed. Those tiny puppies made it through an hour, and my nearly 2 year old dog is the one to lose it. The trainers advised us to just not feed them at all next Wednesday so they're hungry for treats and we won't have a reprise. Poop. Why'd it have to be poop?

Haiti

2010-01-17T14:21:00.001-08:00

God rest the souls of those who perished in the earthquake. And may he give peace, comfort, and strength to those who survived and are suffering. May help come quickly.

2 Talents, or 5?

2009-12-11T21:14:00.001-08:00

The other day, Boundless blog asked what our talents were and are we wasting them? Ouch. Yes. I'm a writer, a pianist and singer-though I don't compose, an expert seamstress, and fledgling illustrator. Do I really do those things? Not really. I don't belong to the church choir because they have a glut of women, and this is probably my ego talking, but nobody in the choir reads music and I think I would be frustrated pretty quickly. There’s no way this isn’t going to sound proud, but I am certainly more advanced technically, and I know from experience I would have a hard time being patient when I've had so many years of musical training and it comes so easily to me. I've also seen many times when an average church choir gets one person who's had training and has a fantastic voice (not talking about myself here in respect to the voice. My voice is pleasant, but it's not remarkable). That person tends to have all the music built around them, whether it was their intention or not. They end up singing everything and will either get burned out or develop an inflated view of their talent, and it crowds out the dedicated, so-so people who are trying to serve.

I do miss singing very badly. I loved getting into a really technically difficult piece and mastering it. Our college Chorale director was always very exacting and pulled feats of beauty out of us we didn’t know we were capable of. If the dust ever settles (ha), I’d love to audition for the annual Messiah performance at the Citadel. I would probably have an advantage since I already know it well; the only difficulty is my voice. It’s smoky, and ill-suited to the baroque choral music I love so much. I have a strong suspicion that the college director only kept me around because he liked me and knew I’d turn in a solid performance with perfect rehearsal attendance-and those are good reasons-but probably not good enough for a professional orchestra director.

As far as writing goes, I wrote prolifically in high school and college, and then tapered off since I got married. I find the Muse doesn't visit much when I'm happy, since my genius, like a dung beetle, always fed on big juicy piles of angst. I have a novelette to finish. I started it in high school and never really had any good inspiration for it. It was supposed to cap off a trilogy, and I never could get that into it. The first two were much more fun. My college roommate and I started a story about a tribe of Celtic-ish women warriors that got bogged down in the middle and ground to a halt when we both graduated. Could finish that, but I have a strong suspicion I (we?) was only writing it to keep my mind off my lack of dating prospects at the time.

Am I sewing? I should be. I want to be, but I'm not. In our new house, I finally have the space to spread my work out. I have a half dozen projects in planning stages or unfinished, and a big stack of mending and alterations. But there's always something to cook or clean, and by the time I'm done with my chores, I'm too tired to do much of anything.

Am I drawing? I need to be. I signed an illustration contract in October and haven't accomplished much. Right around Thanksgiving I discovered I have an overactive thyroid that's sucking all the energy out of me. After work, it's all I can do to throw a load of wash in, fix a quick stir fry, and collapse on the couch. I must push through the fatigue and make myself draw, however, because my author is counting on me.

Tobosthenes the Biter of Men

2009-11-15T18:34:00.000-08:00

It's sad that I have to be prodded to keep posting on MLV. In my defense, I've been insanely busy lately, though not too busy to re-read some hoary old novels I probably should have memorized by now.

Tonight, I'm supervising Will cleaning up the office. I'm also playing with Tobosthenes the Biter of Men. It's a good thing he's cute. *Mumbles indistinct threats* I know he's a puppy and he's going to do these things, but the not-so-little doggy is driving me nuts. He also farts. And by farts, I mean he emits a poisonous miasma from his tailpipe that could be classified as a biohazard. Hazmat suit, please! However, I am fond of the muttling, in spite of his very obvious (and painful) flaws. He's putting on weight nicely. I figure he's gained 8-10 pounds and has definitely gotten taller in the two months or so we've had him. Every evening I call him in, he seems subtly bigger. Is that how my mom looked at me when I was ten? We've guess that his physical maturity in human years should put him at the same level of coordination as a 10 year old boy. Which means he can barely walk without running into something. And by walk, I mean skidding at top speed, front legs splayed out, eyes full of panic. Dog fails at hardwood floors. The funniest example was one night when Will was at Taekwondo, Evan was on the laptop in the living room, and I was coming in from the kitchen to the living room. Toby was doing laps around the couch at top speed. He circled the coffee table and headed toward me. I sidestepped, but unfortunately didn't get out of the way fast enough. He crashed into my knees, nearly knocking me over, then picked himself up and did another lap. By the time he was done with his lap, I was standing by the back door, holding it open. Toby slid across the linoleum, gathered his hind legs for one enormous leap, sailed out the back door and belly flopped onto the pavement. He immediately bounced up, looking delighted with himself and the whole world. The expression on his face said "Ahhh, this is the life." Whatever you say, dog. Belly flopping on concrete isn't for me.

As hazardous as it is, I'm discovering a sick desire to mess with the dog. Fully protected, of course, in TKD sparring helmet and leather gardening gloves. Just loudly saying GAHBLEAHBLEAHBLEAH makes him totally freak out, spinning in puppy pirouettes with jaws wide and teeth gleaming. If I'm far enough out of range, this is hilarious. If not, ouch. I'll be nursing the scratches for the next three days. He's also terrified of the dust mop. I discovered this purely by accident when I was sweeping up the sand that came off our bicycle tires. He started running around yipping in panic. I couldn't believe a stalwart, manly pup like Toby would be afraid of something that sweeps smoothly and silently, but he is. I haven't exactly chased him with it (and boy am I lying right now), but I have been sweeping more than usual. As my dear friend Annie would say, I'm *so* going to hell.

I must admit I like Toby best when he's snoring at my feet while I watch TV. He's a great foot warmer, and it's cathartic to stroke his snoring head. I love his silky ears and his little puppy snores. However, if he doesn't shape up as he grows, especially if we have a kid, I'm sending him one way in a box with no airholes to Florida. My father in law seemed totally besotted by the pup, and they have more time than we do to train him and play with him. We'll see how it plays out.

Hungry for Fall

2009-10-05T14:21:00.001-07:00

Let me bend my back now and take the beatings from certain persons who have been after me to update my blog for the last month. I'm looking at you, Work Buddy.

The last 7 weeks have galloped by with the tick-tack of Toby's claws on my hardwood floors. Yes, there is now a Toby. Since we closed on our house we've acquired a roommate, a puppy, and some bicycles. We've broken the lawnmower and put some hammer head-sized holes in the closet wall trying to hang a shelf that just didn't want to stay up. We've hosted Will's parents, a birthday party, and a gaming night that wasn't supposed to go to 3 am, but did.

We now have our 4th anniversary behind us, my birthday on the tenth, and the weather has almost been "chillish." Because I am always mildly hungry, my attention turns to the delights of autumn food. Not the candy apples and funnel cakes of county fairs, though those definitely factor in, but cold weather comfort food to make at home. With 30 minutes left on the clock, hungry and bored, I clicked over to Real Simple's recipe tab. Found a mouth-watering recipe for macaroni and cauliflower casserole. I'm eager to make it for Will since, like many young men, he could eat macaroni and cheese 2 meals a day, 6 days a week (Sunday being reserved for roast and leftover roast for supper).

When the in-laws visited, my mother in law gave us a white ceramic pumpkin cookie jar and a dairy-free pumpkin cookie recipe. I'm excited to make that, since pumpkin is one of my favorite flavors, along with hazelnut, and let's face it, soy sauce.

I'm also remembering with growling stomach, a fantastic white chili a hallmate made for all of us my senior year of college. I've Googled white chili recipes, but can't seem to find one that doesn't heavily rely on hot peppers. The crazy thing is, I don't really like chili because of the mushy texture of the beans, but that chili was just so good-and it could have been that we used Fritos for spoons-that I really want to try it again as the weather changes.

I'm covered for cold weather lunch options. Madra Rua, the local Irish pub, has Angus burgers with inch and a half thick patties and steaming shepherd's pie. EVO, the foodie pizza place, has carrot-ginger bisque that is a little overwhelming on its own, but when sopped up with the house focaccia bread, is absolutely sublime. Unfortunately, I first tried it at the end of July when it was too hot to appreciate it properly. I'm waiting until mid-November to order it again; it should be just the thing then.

Eating out is all very well, but I cherish daydreams of going for a long walk in the crisp air, then coming home to a warm house to make hot chocolate and eat pumpkin cookies, or of pulling pies out of the oven as the Man and Roommate of the house trudge in with the Christmas tree. Sometimes you just have to make the food yourself and experience the satisfaction of feeding your own.

In Which Will Does Cute Things

2009-08-13T19:41:00.000-07:00

We're in the middle of the agonizing process of moving. Last night we tried to head to the apartment to load more stuff...and ended up at Chick fil-A, starving to death. From there, we went straight to Best Buy, and then to Target. By that time, it was raining (Again. This move has been undertaken during a 100% humidity weather system. Figures.), so we holed up there, ostensibly to look for over-the-door hooks and a TV console table. We found an espresso colored cabinet that fit the bill and wasn't too expensive. Will took the cart to the electronics section while I cruised the bed and bath section looking for those hooks. On my 287th pass, I began to suspect I might never find them and headed toward the back of the store to find Will. I practically bumped into him turning a corner. Some things had been added to the basket: a Josh Groban cd and a pair of royal blue goggles. He smiled his sweet, dimply smile and said "I think you lost some things. Here they are." Indeed I had lost those things. Papa Crabbe had given me Closer by Josh Groban to get me through my sinus surgery, and it had been borrowed by somebody and never returned. My old lime green and black goggles had been stolen, along with my swimsuit, sometime during the last weeks of my sophomore year of college. They could have had the matronly, high-necked blue swimsuit, but I needed those goggles! I can't/won't put my face underwater without goggles because my eyes refuse to get used to chlorine, and that lack had definitely made me antisocial at pool events. I couldn't believe he remembered! Just another example of how nicely my husband takes care of me.

Wise as Serpents

2009-08-13T14:19:00.000-07:00

Today I got an e-mail forward from an older person I greatly admire. It was claiming that President Obama specifically targeted a Christian group at some function. I deleted it without watching the video it linked to. Christians seem particularly susceptible to urban legends. Hardly a day goes by without the religious right spreading chain e-mails guaranteed to provoke outrage or hysteria. Unfortunately, 99% of those "facts" are not true. Please, please, please, before you pass on a political chain e-mail, check its veracity. Snopes.com is specifically devoted to that end. Christians already look foolish enough to the world for our beliefs, which Jesus warned us would happen. Let's not add self-inflicted ignorance to the list of things Christians are mocked and written off for.

Op Ed

2009-08-05T15:29:00.000-07:00

Work Buddy has been bugging me to post again. She's out on maternity and must be going a little nuts if she's so eager to hear from me again. I'm still in the "waiting to close on my house" holding pattern. Kind of feels like I've died and gone to limbo. What's annoying is knowing that I won't need to use any of my own money for the down payment, but I still have to leave it in the bank so the lender can see it. That's all right. By this time next week, we'll be pretty much debt free because the second we get the keys in our hand, we're going to be making gigantic credit card payments. Time to get THAT business over with. I was supposed to have lunch with my other friend, Pretty Smile, today. She got trapped in meetings all day and couldn't make it. Oh well, we'll try again for Friday, and at any rate, Madra Rua fries are worth pretty much anything, so I don't mind getting stood up. Pretty Smile is also looking at a lot in a new-construction neighborhood. I'm excited for her about that. I think hearing about our house experience and meeting our realtor made her want a place of her own. Hope it goes well.

None of that is related to the topic at hand.
Healthcare is all over the news right now. I'm trying to crystalize my beliefs on the subject, though I doubt I'll be asked to debate them anytime soon. First, I believe that the government should not have any say in how a person uses his money. He earned it; it's his. But since the government has authorized itself to appropriate a tidy chunk of earnings in taxes, I believe the government should tread very carefully when using those funds, because the people it took the money from are watching. Now to the healthcare issue. I don't think providing universal healthcare with taxpayer money is a legitimate purpose of the government. We have three branches: Congress makes laws, the Supreme Court interprets and applies the law, and the President declares war and makes treaties. I don't see healthcare in any of those functions. It could be argued that it falls under Congress making laws, but just because Congress can make a law, doesn't mean that it should. A law should not restrict whether a person may purchase a legal service such as health insurance with his own money, how much of it he may buy, and for what products and services it may be used. That's going too far. Granted, the President has repeatedly said that healthcare plan will not interfere with private insurance, but I don't understand how it won't. If there is a public health plan, there is no incentive for employers to offer insurance coverage; in fact, dropping it will save companies a lot of money. Let's face it, the most desirable employees in terms of experience are often overweight and middle-aged. Won't be long before they have heart trouble, knee replacements, and Type 2 Diabetes. None of those things are cheap. A public health plan will also drive private insurance companies out of business, except for a few with wealthy clients. The rest of us won't be able to afford supplemental insurance under the inevitable increased tax burden. How does the government think to pay for all of this, anyway? Higher taxes.

My next issue is who the public healthcare plan is supposed to benefit? The poor? They get Medicaid. The elderly? Medicare. The wealthy have no trouble affording the very best in healthcare. Most middle-class get insurance through their jobs if they choose to take it. What group does that leave out? Illegal immigrants? The homeless? Both of those groups are afforded care through emergency rooms and targeted non-profit centers. So it seems like every major group is pretty much covered. There are at least options if one chooses to take advantage of them. Or not. That's the freedom of choice. And I'm wondering where the public demand for universal healthcare came from? I watch, read, and listen to the news daily and I haven't heard anything about it since Hillarycare in the late 90s. From what I've heard going into the election, the public wanted more fiscal responsibility and a plan for ending the war. Nothing about healthcare.

All of that aside, given the political climate in the country, I think that some move toward socialism in this area is probably going to happen. If it does, I would like to recommend the Australian plan rather than the Canadian or UK plan. As I understand it, the Australian government offers a baseline of healthcare to all and then individuals buy supplemental insurance. There doesn't seem to be the long waits for care or the rationing that plagues the UK. If this is what Obama is advocating, I'm more okay with it than a plan like the UK's, though I'd prefer that it not get messed with at all. It's hard to pin down what's actually going on with all the political bombast on the subject.

What I would like to see no matter what happens is a reforming of attitudes toward pregnancy and childbirth. My insurance currently costs quadruple what Will's does, simply because I am of childbearing age. Pregnancy is not an illness, and should not have to wrack up such horrendous medical expenses. I just read an article on Slate's Double X womens' blog. The author told of receiving a hospital bill for $22,000, even though she had insurance. Turns out the loopholes in the policy enabled the company to only agree to cover $3,000 of the total. She fought the company and received a reimbursement, but stories like that highlight how out of hand this whole thing has gotten. In that sense, I think a re-assessment of insurance company operating procedures would be extremely useful even while universal healthcare is being debated.

The other main issue that I see is that seniors are afraid healthcare rationing will kill them off. And yes, I think this will happen, not by design, but in practice. I am going to have to feel my way very carefully here. I have a problem with the way that geriatric care is handled. Many old people's lives are endless rounds of surgeries, pills, catheters, etc. Does it need to be this way? Is it really worth it to perform a procedure on someone in their last illness that will perhaps prolong their life for a semi-conscious, heavily drugged week? I'm not even going to talk about the financial cost that much, but the other day I heard a woman call in to a talk radio show. She said her father had cancer, and they might have to lose their family farm in order to pay for his treatment, but they'd do it to keep him alive. The woman was middle aged, which would make her father elderly. There seems to be a denial that old age and illness are the primary means by which humans meet their Maker. Clearly, people without the Lord have everything to fear from death. But there seems to be something extra undignified about the way Americans scramble to stay alive, bankrupting their families, drawing out debilitating illnesses for years. Maybe it's the era, maybe it's Western culture. I can't quite put my finger on who started it, but there's no denying that there is widespread fear of aging and death. Human frames are temporary. 70-80 years or so, and it falls apart on its own. There's something painful, almost funny, about the way people are surprised when they're wrinkled, stiff, and unwell. The way they talk, you'd think it was a surprise. But age doesn't sneak up on anybody. We feel the clock ticking down. We move forward through time as our structure breaks down. The water tower rusts, the picket fence rots, and so do we. I have always thought that old age was the time to "put one's house in order," as the prophet Isaiah said to King Hezekiah. In that sense, I agree that geriatric medicine should focus on hospice and palliative care. Knowing that one cannot live forever should lead the sick to evaluate any treatment offered in that light.

And so from hour to hour we ripe and ripe,
And then from hour to hour we rot and rot;
And thereby hangs a tale.

As You Like It
William Shakespeare

Crabby Fifth

2009-07-06T15:26:00.001-07:00

The highlight of being at church with the Crabbes was being given a picture of my mother when she was in her early 20s. Her old friends Bill and Joann Robinson (She taught two of their children) attend Cornerstone and they were eager to see what Judy’s daughter looked like. Bill told a hilarious story about how his sons complained that “Miss Dryfhout broke the yardstick on them!” So Bill made a long, sturdy paddle and left it on her desk anonymously. Then his sons complained that she had a real paddle and was not shy in applying it! He said he waited years to tell her who her paddle benefactor was. I was delighted to have the picture, which looked like a yearbook photo. In it, Mom has shoulder-length flipped hair and is wearing the stereotypical early-70s paisley blouse. She’s also very cute. Sadly, I don’t look a thing like her. It would have been nice to compare pictures of us at the same age. Our similarity is more of a general likeness of gait and mannerism. And one day, I hope we have a likeness of character, which would mean more to me than having her cheekbones.

After church, the Crabbes took us to Twin Dragons. Food was cold and iffy, except for the stir fry bar (like Mongolian BBQ, but not. Wish it had been). The building was notable, though. It had a red, peaked roof that was unmistakably Chinese, but also unmistakably mountain lodge. I give points to the architect on that one.

We took leave of the Crabbes mid-afternoon and started down the road. Top was up this time. We’d learned our lesson about the sun. Made a stop in Greenville to see our friend Brittany and grab a snack. Spent too long with her, then got down the road. Unfortunately, around Columbia it seemed like we drove into a Hollywood rain machine. Horrible storm. Got wet. But you already know this part. You’ve seen the movie trailer.

Crabby Fourth

2009-07-06T15:22:00.002-07:00

Saturday, Nana took us to her favorite pottery, Mud Dabbers. It was a wonderland of the beautifully hand-crafted. There was every possible vessel one could imagine, from small dishes with spikes in the middle especially for baking apples, to Ikebana vases. I picked out a navy blue-glazed bowl with blue-on-blue mottling in the bottom. Just the right size for Chinese noodles. Nana insisted on buying it for me. I think I’ll get a lot of use out of it since it’s microwave, oven, and dishwasher safe.

On our way back up the mountain, we stopped at Looking Glass Falls. Nana said the county contains the most waterfalls in the US, a whopping 250. Looking Glass Falls was beautiful! We took a few pictures with her camera. We found out ours had gone to the great Photoshop in the sky Friday morning when we changed the batteries. Oh well. Pictures will be on Facebook soon. Then back up to Ridge Haven where we picked up Sophy and went to the Cornerstone church picnic on the grounds, THEN went to a bonfire for the camp counselors at the home of the Linvilles.

John Linville provides bluegrass music for the evening camp gatherings. He and his wife are HUGE hippies. They live in a house that defied classification. I couldn’t even decide whether it was a hundred years old, or just made to look like it. I doubt it was up to code, either way. The yard was filled with overgrown plants-both flowering and food plants-and a glorious profusion of junk was scattered through the long grass. A rusted tandem bike was next to a brilliantly executed piece of stained glass was next to a broken window frame, etc. There was a bamboo grove full of fireflies. A home-made swing under a woven tree-branch arbor so overgrown it was hard to sit without being prickled. There were three separate sheds, all ramshackle, all crammed with unrelated objects. It was all terribly interesting and a little alarming. There was even a long track down to a beautiful broad river that involved crossing a huge mossy log. The halfway point to the river was a well-used firepit and lean-to. Even though I just met the Linvilles, there was no doubt in my mind that they enjoy their eccentric lifestyle to the fullest, and their hospitality was certainly impeccable.

When John Linville was sure the twenty or so young people had talked themselves out, he packed up the grill and we all piled back into cars to go to downtown Brevard for fireworks. Will bought a lemon-berry slush at Sonic and we slurped as we watched the explosions. One of the boys found a dead white squirrel. White, but not albino, squirrels are peculiar to Brevard. They’re ordinary squirrels, except they’re cream colored. Quite pretty. I was glad we were able to see a live one on the way to church the next morning.

Crabby Third

2009-07-06T15:22:00.001-07:00

If this were a movie trailer, the scene would open on a terrible rainstorm. A beleaguered red convertible with broken windshield wipers and a leaky canopy inches along the highway in the dark. Inside are two damp, terrified young people. Will they make it home? Will they even make it to the next gas station to wait out the worst of the rain? Will the steam cloud kicked up by the next semi truck send them into a ditch they couldn’t see? All this and more, in “Home to Charleston!”

Now that you know how the trip ends and that we lived, I’ll back up. Our dear friends the Crabbes, whom I love as grandparents, invited us to come to their mountain cabin in Brevard at Ridge Haven. Retired, they volunteer at the Christian camp. We hadn’t seen them since an old friend’s wedding in March, and before that, hadn’t seen them since we got married. Obviously, we were long overdue for some Crabbiness, plus Will’s sister Sophy is a camp counselor at Ridge Haven this summer, so that was added incentive to throw our bags in the back of the car and take off! Five blissful hours of wind in the face, matted hair, Chick Fil-A milkshake, watching Will’s arms and nose turn the color of stew meat….Yes, Will got the inaugural sunburn of the season. And now he’s peeling all over his face and looks like a leper. I feel really sorry for the poor thing. I rolled in SPF 50 until thoroughly slimed (yuck). I don’t like the feel of sunscreen on me. Hate to feel so oily, but skin cancer runs in the Dutch side of the family. Every time I go outside for longer than five minutes, the sun goes “Oh, there she is. SCORCH!” The only place I missed was my ears. I usually don’t think about them because I don’t pull my hair back, but in the Eclipse, I had to. It was either that or breathe in hair for five hours. My ears are raw and peeling and hurt pretty badly. I’m sorry he has that level of misery on his whole face, but he says it doesn’t hurt that badly.

We met Nana (Martha) Crabbe at the gas station at the bottom of the mountain. Brevard is rural, lush, and sown everywhere with orange lilies. Stunning! The air was soft and cool. I think the highest high over the three days was 75 degrees. We followed her up a narrow, sometimes single-lane road full of hairpin turns, ups and downs. Runaway mine train rides have nothing on this road! I’m afraid all that bouncing around made me a bit queasy. Funny, I’ve never been carsick before, but this road was steeper and narrower than anything Lookout Mountain could dish out. She led us to a large cabin on a gravel road. The front yard was filled with interesting boulders and birdbaths. There must have been half a dozen log-house style birdhouses and even more bird feeders. The house itself is a 4-bedroom, 2 story with a wrap-around deck. (Papa told a story about a BEAR visiting the bird feeder on their porch) It’s decorated with a sophisticated rustic look, in medium blues, navies, and cranberries. Even has the requisite creaky floors. But the most important decoration is in the downstairs bedroom. Our wedding picture is sitting on the dresser in between theirs and their adopted son’s. I feel so honored and loved!

We arrived around 3:30 and I talked to Papa (Max) while Nana fixed a chicken casserole. He wanted to know what was going on at Pinewoods (we talked about all the men who have died, especially Uncle Buddy. He’s found a friend and prayer partner at Cornerstone, but still misses Buddy terribly, as we all do) and filled me in on old Aletheia people. Found out my basketball and PE coach has been separated from his wife and two school-age sons for a year because of his poor behavior. An affair, an apparent apostasy. I really didn’t like either of them, but I am very sorry to hear of their difficulties. I would never wish that kind of trouble on anybody and I hope he allows Godly counsel to get through to him. Maybe that marriage can be restored someday. Too bad.

Anyway, after a tasty supper of casserole (Campbell’s cream of chicken soup, sour cream, poppy seeds, chicken, and bread crumbs), we went down the hill part way to Ridge Haven to meet Sophy. She was with some of her campers, who promptly peppered us with questions. Were we so and so’s mom and dad? ARGH! I felt so old! I guess to a ten year old, anybody over six feet tall (Will) or who has a full rack (me) must be parents. My ego hasn’t really recovered yet.

After that, we went back to the Crabbes and watched a movie. I chose Secondhand Lions out of their black hole of chick flicks. Really, really cute movie. Wasn’t saccharine, but was very sweet and surprisingly manly. Definitely recommend it.

Update

2009-06-13T21:13:00.000-07:00

Nothing to report except that I have nothing to report. All of my time and energy for the last six weeks or so has been completely consumed with finding a house. Our lease is up in mid-July and Will and I are both tired of being cramped. We've had good times in this apartment, and I think it's still the cutest apartment I've ever seen, but it's still. an. apartment. We're piled on top of each other in the office, and we're still sleeping on just a mattress and box spring because our bedroom is so small there's not really any room for both our dressers and a large bed frame. Not to mention it would be nice to be able to use the dining room table again to eat on instead of its current function as a pig pedestal. This morning we signed offer letter papers for the fourth time. Our realtor has been an absolute doll and we couldn't be more pleased with her, but time is wearing on and I just want to find and claim my home.

I'm having fun scouring craigslist for furniture, but it's hard to envision what I'll buy since I don't know where we'll be living yet. If we get the house we offered for, I'm going to use the formal dining room as my workroom/library. I spotted the cutest contemporary chaise. I'm dreaming of lying there like Lady Bountiful surrounded by my books, sewing projects, and piano. I know that's truly the impractical dream of a childless woman, but if Will gets his office space, why shouldn't I have my library? It'll all go out the window eventually, of course. But for the meantime, I can't interpret every tummyache as a sign of pregnancy. That's a quick and easy way to go completely nuts, especially since we're taking a laissez-faire approach to getting me knocked up.

So we're supposed to hear by Sunday evening whether our offer was accepted. I think our realtor wants to wrap this up as badly as we do. She's acting very determined lately. Something to pray about.

A Tale of Two Piggies, Among Other Things....

2009-06-03T14:19:00.000-07:00

Time to shake the dust off and post again. I’m a bad blog-keeper these days because life has a way of coming along and embroiling one so very badly. First of all, our family has expanded: we now have two guinea pigs! No, nothing human yet; we’re working on that. We’re also in the process of buying a house.

Friday is very disgruntled about the cute little interloper (named Saturday), who joined us about two weeks ago. We had just made an offer on a house right next to work and were kicking around the idea of getting a dog. Will suggested we visit the SPCA to see what they had even though we knew we wouldn’t be able to adopt a dog until at least July. We walked in the door, and there, on the table nearest the door, was a delicate little female piggy! They were calling her Bella, and we had to have her, if only to rescue her from the Twilight name. It doesn’t hurt any that she’s practically the reincarnation of my beloved (and long gone) Shui, both in looks and personality. Saturday is an energetic little creature with a black head and rump, white middle. So imagine a hairy Oreo cookie with ears and claws. She’s a smooth coated pig, as opposed to Friday’s Abyssinian whorls. We figure she’s only a few months old.

I began the introductions by bathing them together so they’d smell the same, hoping that the experience would make them bond out of fear, if nothing else. Then I wrapped them in the same towel and held them on my lap together. Finally, I cleaned the big cage thoroughly so it would smell unfamiliar to both pigs and plopped them in. All was quiet for about ten minutes until Friday figured out what I was up to. She gave me a long, disgusted look. It very plainly said “Either take the new kid away or make her shut up. I’m NOT sharing my cabbage.” Saturday was happily sniffing around and wheeking/chittering to herself non-stop (she’s very vocal). Then Friday lunged at her and started chasing her up and down the cage nipping her rump. She was also making pig noises that don’t translate well…okay, they do, but they’re not repeatable. If guinea pigs could swear…. Not good. I left them in there since Friday wasn’t drawing blood to see if they’d settle down. No dice. Friday would retreat to the smaller pigloo to sulk, or they’d nap curled up next to each other, but as soon as Friday emerged or they woke up, back to chasing and nipping. We separated them, since we didn’t bring Saturday home just to be harassed by a crabby roommate. We’ll work out the cage situation after we move. I still hope we can house them together. Friday really should give Saturday a chance. Yes, she’s younger, cuter, and thinner, but she doesn’t know what cabbage is. She’ll eat the store-bought treats Friday won’t touch, and Friday can keep all her cabbage to herself. Besides, if Friday keeps being hostile, she’s only going to look like a bully. Saturday is half her length and one third of her weight. Friday should pick on someone her own size. Friday v. a tank. That might be fair.

However, our housing situation comes first. Unfortunately, the house we chose isn’t anywhere near work or Will’s taekwondo. I turned over what felt like every rock trying to get something close to work, but no dice. The area we were looking is becoming trendy, but is working its way up from old and blighted. Prices reflect the trendiness, houses are still relatively crummy, and crime is still being cleaned up. I was satisfied with the neighborhood of the one nice house we found, but it’s moot because our best offer on that one wasn’t accepted. Very disappointing. Our realtor suggested we look at a bank-owned property in Summerville, and we grudgingly agreed because the house was brick and the price was ridiculously low. By this time, Will was done looking at houses and just wanted to settle on something. So right now we’re working with the bank and its contractors to get the place fixed up so we can buy it because the bank won’t sell us the house in its current 1970s-with-rodents condition. Yes, the commute is going to stink, but I believe the house will be everything we wanted once it’s fixed up. I’m excited to be choosing colors and materials. I’m a bit of a frustrated decorator, and Mom would never let me practice on her house, probably because I had a new “great-havetodoitrightnow!” idea every fifteen minutes. Will is excited about having the attic room wired with Cat 5 and Cat 6 cables for his man cave/office/excuse to buy those Left 4 Dead posters I won’t let him have now. I’m excited about having a designated sewing room. I’m not sewing right now because my little table is squeezed up on the end of the unholy coffee table-tv cabinet Frankensteinian thing in the living room. In the winter it was great to be so toasty, but now I’m not too keen to sew with my elbows in the fireplace. Best of all, yesterday Mom asked me how long after we move in should she wait to ship my piano? I cannot WAIT to get my piano back! My fingers have been mothballed since I left for college. I’m far from the days when I’d provide two solid hours of dinner music for Christmas parties. However, since we all blanched at the thought of getting a 53 inch Yamaha upright into a second floor, one bedroom apartment, finger rustication was for the best.

So lots of interesting things going on, but the result is that I’m dizzily chasing myself around. Posting may continue to be sporadic.

Upcoming travel: July 4th with the Crabbes at Ridgehaven. They just met Will’s sister Sophy, who’s camp counseling for the summer.

Mid-July after move-in in VA with my beloved friend Jennifer (of Intellectual Neophyte fame), whom I consider a sister. I’m going to make this happen, Jenn. Don’t lose heart.

When Mully Grumbies Attack

2009-05-14T12:10:00.000-07:00

Today is the new worst day of my life. It’s the sort of day where, if I’m going to go to all the trouble of keeping breathing, I want to be compensated for it. That’s right, I’d charge God overtime. I may even demand extra days off and spa coupons if this keeps up. If Will were around, I’d be clinging to his leg like a whiny barnacle. The sad thing is, my life couldn’t be going better, but it’s amazing how physical discomfort can trash everything. I have a full blown case of what my late Uncle Buddy called the “mully grumbies.” The mully grumbies is a vicious mood disease that can only be cured by hanging the afflicted upside down and shaking her vigorously by the ankles. Since I’m at work, my cure is going to have to wait.

Still, I do think the angst is justified. Try having what the cheerful Scottish nurse called “a raging UTI, love,” and see how you like it. Then, when you start feeling a smidgen better and are blessing the marvel of antibiotics, life drops the proverbial grand piano on your head and you realize Old Faithful is about to blow. For those of you who have minimal-pain periods or are male (shouldn’t there be a circle of hell devoted to both of those crimes?), let me give a very graphic description. Imagine a tray of biscuit dough. Nice, inoffensive biscuit dough. Biscuit dough with clean karma. It’s never slapped a baby or said anything nasty about anybody’s tacky prom pictures. That dough is your innards. Next, sprinkle that dough with a lethal assortment of thumb tacks, two inch nails, and rusty razor blades. Season to taste with motion sickness. Now, ever so gently, roll that dough into a cylinder. Here’s where it gets fun. Take a baseball bat, poker, rolling pin, mace, or other weapon of your choice, and BEAT THE DAYLIGHTS out of that dough. That is what cramps feel like when you have dysmenorrhea.

Even though I feel like doom on the half shell, I am trying to focus on the things that aren’t making me hurt. Like the fact that Will dropped by my work this morning to share his Coolatta with me. Like my Little Yellow iPod. I drove home for lunch this afternoon and on the way back, somebody apparently declared it monsoon season because I was creeping along the highway with negligible visibility in the downpour. Suddenly, lightning cracked close to my car. My first thought was, lightning can hit the car, but it can’t fry my iPod. The Castlevania Playground remix is the only thing keeping me from shaving my head and walling myself into a cell like some medieval anchoress. Will’s perky video game remixes are keeping me from wallowing in bleakness too much. Although with the low barometric pressure, everybody at work is so testy, I doubt I’m standing out. Oh well, maybe all the rain will coax my snow pea vines to flower. A chow mien full of home-grown snow peas would be a fine thing indeed.

Another thing I’m very happy about is bravissimo.com. I just found out about this company yesterday and I’m already obsessed with it. Bravissimo sells tops by cup size! This is genius! I’ve been saying for years that somebody ought to, because uniformly cutting clothing for a B cup is lunacy when the average American woman is a C. Read that somewhere, anyway, and I believe it. Bravissimo caters to the D cup+ market (but not plus-sized. Sizing runs from a US 4-ish to a US 12-ish, if I figured the UK size conversion correctly), and their stuff is fashionable, but not too trendy, just the way I like it. The models all have builds very similar to mine so I didn’t have to guess what I’d look like in the clothes. The pricing was equivalent to Ann Taylor: a little expensive, but doable. I’d much rather pay more for one blouse that fits than buy three or four that gape at the bustline. As soon as I get paid again, I will probably place an order. I’m dazzled by the opportunity to have matching lingerie sets! (A frustration of having a plus-sized boobage and misses-sized rumpage) Button-down blouses that don’t require a camisole underneath because the buttons might pop off if I try to button them over my mountainous outcroppings! Dresses I don’t have to take in at the waist because I had to buy the next size up! The head swims with possibilities!

All that retail goodness is definitely lifting my spirits. Today wasn’t a total loss at work, either. I turned in two documents several hours ahead of the deadline. The work day is almost over. And I’m remembering that I have Haagen Dazs coffee-and-almond ice cream bars in the freezer at home. I’m not usually the “eat to cope” type, but some days….

Pass the Ammunition

2009-04-20T11:20:00.000-07:00

The world is changing. The poster boy is definitely President Obama. No matter what one thinks of his policies, there’s no denying that he’s ushering in an era where ideas formerly labeled “liberal” are going to be mainstreamed.

Change is going to be felt in churches as well. Old ways of witnessing (EE, etc) are not going to work with young people. Why? The Bible isn’t respected anymore. At best, it’s equated with every other religious text and viewed as a relic of ancient superstitions. At worst, it’s viewed as a textbook for madmen. The church as an institution has largely discredited itself in the eyes of young people. They see the infighting among denominations over (seemingly) minute and meaningless distinctions. They see the highly-publicized sex scandals. And most damagingly, they see the Christians of their acquaintance as ignorant, anti-intellectual, and judgmental.

Christians have had it easy for too long. We’ve cruise-controlled our faith in previous eras where everyone was at least a Deist, went to church on Christmas Eve and Easter Sunday and respected the Bible. The current generation is completely unfamiliar with the Bible, doesn’t believe in God (and doesn’t want to), and knows nothing of any sacred holidays.

Will has had an ongoing discussion with a young English gay man in the xkcd IRC channel. Julian went to Sunday school as a child, but now considers himself an atheist. He accepts nothing that cannot be proved by science. I think Julian is probably typical of the way the world has bent. Arguments from Scripture will no longer work, except to clear up misconceptions about not eating shellfish and not wearing poly-blend socks. Whenever somebody wants to make fun of Christians, they inevitably go for the Levitical law. They don’t know enough about Scripture to know that most of the Levitical law was rescinded in Acts 15—and when we point that out, the reaction is “Well, it’s all [baloney] (sic) anyway, so why does it matter?”

Will is still talking to Julian about various religious topics, especially homosexuality. I’ve had my own share of conversations with various online acquaintances. What we’ve learned from these encounters is how incredibly vital it is to know what you believe and why you believe it, and to be able to explain yourself without using Scripture or Christian buzzwords. There are a lot of hostile people out there who will rip you to shreds if you waffle just the slightest bit. Also, when you hit a dead end, be willing to say that you don’t understand something, but wiser heads than you have taken a stab at it—so know your Church Fathers so you have references to back you up. Be ready to admit your doubts and failings. The slightest whiff of hypocrisy will send a non-believer packing. And really, isn’t it time Christians stopped being fake with each other as well?

My goal in talking to those people is not to convert them. The Lord knows their hearts and the elect are pre-destined. My goal is to give an accurate representation of the truth I believe and to plant that seed that not all Christians are stupid and scary. And I really wonder if any un-churched young people do come to the Lord, whether they will eschew the conservative denominations? I really think that issues like the condemnation of homosexual practice and the ban on women’s ordination will prove to be too alienating for my generation, who grew up with CEO mothers and openly gay and bisexual friends. I have a hard time with the ban on female clergy myself. I know many ministers’ wives who are better speakers than their husbands and it really bothers me that they must take a supporting role. However, there are things in the Bible I don’t understand and don’t like, but they are there for a reason and I must trust that the omniscient Lord knows better than I do. When put that way, the question becomes laughable. Me? Know better than God? Ha! So I abide.

We sideline ourselves when we care more about how fellow believers keep the Sabbath (to eat out or not?), etc., than whether the Gospel is being preached to a world that needs it, but doesn’t want it. Christians need to stop chewing over Roast Brethren for Sunday lunch. We must get over ourselves and get back to work.

Friday Complains

2009-04-13T12:46:00.000-07:00

Dear Mistress Anna and Master Will,

This is Friday, your poor tormented piggy! I believe that I must protest your recent abuse of my person. Recently I was in my home doing piggy business when suddenly, the top of my home was ripped off, and monstrous hands grabbed me and took me into a strange land and then I was put down!
There were two huge monsters close by making horrible sounds that came from large oval places in their faces, but I could not make out any piggy language at all. To my piggy ears, it sounded like gaseous belching from a sick volcano! My little piggy heart was frightened, but there was no place for me to hide!
I tried to calm myself by nibbling on a strange plant, but I was so frightened that my taste buds were numb! Besides, would you want to chew on a peace lily?
Then one of the monsters stood up and made a grab for me! Thankfully, I was not eaten, but placed back into my home. It resembled my home, but everything had changed! The smells were different! It was cleaner than before, but at least there was shelter where I could hide from the gaze of those two monsters!
I just want my mistress and master to be informed that I formally protest the abuse that I suffered, and that if it happens again and I survive, I will be forced to lodge an official complaint with the SPCA!!

Sincerely yours,

Friday, the abused piggy

(written by Dad)

Friday Gets a Reply

2009-04-13T12:44:00.000-07:00

Dear Friday,

Perhaps the Monsters are actually not malevolent! Since they did not require the exhausting scaling of any mountains or the swimming of rivers, and since they provided sustenance in the large place, they may be regarded with less alarm. However, you were right not to entrust yourself wholly to them. Forgive the lack of delicacy, but I understand that in some places Monsters actually eat some of our number. Indeed, they think we are a delicacy. Perish the thought! Happily that did not happen to me, and I met a natural demise.

Keep me posted on the Most Latest Developments,
the Ghost of Shui,
the last High Pig Counselor

(written by Mom)

Friday in the Wild

2009-04-03T16:42:00.000-07:00

After work this afternoon, I was debating whether to take a nap or do chores before Will came home. I did neither; instead I made coffee and took a John Grisham book and a pillow out on the deck to enjoy the soft sun (and gloat over my sprouting snow peas). When Will came home, I proposed we bring Friday the guinea pig (and a bag of Doritos) out with us. We watched her nose around for about an hour, chew on my peace lily, etc. before cleaning her cage and putting her back in. She now has a well-pollinated belly. Ahhh, Spring. Sometime later, I found this half-chewed communique in her pigloo.

To the High Pig Council:

My trials continue. At roughly 18:00 hours the pink dome I dwell in was lifted off me. I scampered for the hay log, determined to make it difficult for the Monsters to get at me. To my surprise, the hay log had already been removed, along with the tall white grid that forms the top part of my prison. I had no place to go! The fearsome Hand scooped me up and carried me many pig-lengths, passing through a giant clear portal. New smells assaulted me and a breeze ruffled my crest. The Hand put me down. I smelled something familiar. There were four dried out carrots in front of me, but I did not give in to instinct. I splayed out my hind legs and glared all around in a display of defiance. Nothing happened. Then I saw that the white grid had re-appeared and was stretched length-wise to enclose a much larger space than my prison. The Monster had settled itself in the corner and sat motionless. It appeared to be ignoring me. Soon a larger Monster joined it. I heard the rustling of a bag. I refused to wheek. They were not going to get any satisfaction out of me! The Monsters removed something flat and crunchy out of the bag. They ate those things and drank from oddly-shaped vessels that lacked the practicality or elegance of the bottle in my prison. I crept close and sniffed the liquid inside. It was dark brown and smelled bitter. Deciding it was of no interest to me, I explored the area. The Monsters made no move to stop me, beyond making the loud noises that serve as their communication. (Thus far, they have made no effort to learn Piglish, and interpret my demands for release as requests for food.) While my back was turned, a pile of delicious clover appeared next to the carrots. I was not distracted from my duty. I sniffed everything I could see. There were some large vessels with plant matter growing in them. Some of the plant matter was just within the reach of my snout, and for scientific purposes, I sampled it. It appeared to be a peace lily. When I had explored the entire area, only then did I tentatively taste the provisions that had been left for me. They were not tainted, so I tucked in, periodically doing a perimeter sweep. All this time, the Monsters moved little, and did not touch me... [the next section is missing and the paper is gnawed.]
...returned to cage. I will ponder this development and try to determine if there is any chance of escape. Please advise further.

Signed,
Agent Friday

Weekend Potpourri

2009-03-30T10:55:00.000-07:00

Monday morning and I’m actually awake! I attribute this to the enormous amount of sleep I had over the most relaxing weekend I can remember. Too bad I don’t have anything to do, but that’s hardly unusual. My boss is currently canvassing other projects for more writing I can pick up, but until the work appears on my desk, it doesn’t exist. No shirt, no shoes, no charge code? No service! At least I can trust that my boss wants the official Tech Writer 1 title for me and is trying to help me get it. He’s a great guy. Working for an engineering firm wasn’t what I’d envisioned using my English degree for, but when it comes down to it, I had no idea that an English degree could be useful. I only knew it was smarter than getting an art degree, and then what did I do? Minored in art! It’s a wonder I’m not living in a refrigerator box. I like my boss and I work for a good company in an industry that milks my patriot glands, so I have it much better than a lot of people.

It was an eventfully uneventful weekend, if that makes any sense. Friday afternoon I sat with the invalid wife of a coworker. She had a stroke in early January, and when I saw her, I was horrified. She has no business being out of the hospital—she’s not even able to sit up on her own yet! I remember that Dad wasn’t released after his stroke until he could be propped up in a wheelchair. The poor woman has bed sores because the nurse only comes twice a week to check on her. Not to mention this is seriously hurting my teammate’s career because she cannot be left alone. He traveled for work a lot and he won’t be able to anymore. We’ve hardly seen him at work since the new year, and while the company is bending over backwards to make things easier for him-letting him work from home, taking up a collection to buy medical supplies, etc-there’s a limit to how much HR can do. Some of us on the team have volunteered our time, but again, we have our own lives. My teammate is a shell of himself. He’s lost ten pounds and is looking increasingly shabby. I can’t imagine the pressure on him trying to work full time and nurse his wife full time. Neither of those things can budge, either. He’s not well off, so he must work, and of course he must care for his wife. Prayers are needed!

While I sat in the sickroom, I read my work buddy’s favorite novel, Crown Duel (Sherwood Smith). It was like getting to know her better. It didn’t suit me, exactly, but I could see why she loves it. She IS the main character-physically short, hot tempered, fiercely loyal, scrambling to educate herself, etc. Makes me wonder why we like the books we do? My favorite books are That Hideous Strength (C.S. Lewis) and All Hallows’ Eve (Charles Williams). What do they say about me?

Saturday was leisurely. Will and I slept in to about 11, then I made pancakes and coffee. During brunch, we got a call from our friends Evan and Brittany, announcing their engagement. Totally knew about it ahead of time. We had a late supper with Evan Thursday night and he was definitely not in his right mind. Poor guy, but he seems to have lived. Grats to them! Did some laundry, planted snow peas in my three empty pots and went grocery shopping. We made it home just as the first gust of rain came down. I’d been warned about the storm from my parents in Pensacola who had hail! We didn’t get anything half so exciting-just steady rain all night.

Sunday was a break from cooking. For lunch we had Pillsbury Savorings spinach and cheese puffs. Yum! Supper was a DiGiorno thin crust pizza, and somewhere in between an entire box of Ritz Bits got eaten. Not going to name names, but the bulk of the Ritz gobbling wasn’t me. (Thanks for the coupons, Mom!) I know all of that sounds delicious, but the next time I get that lazy, somebody needs to smack me. From 6:00 pm to 1:00 am, a poisonous miasma settled over the office. I could feel everything I’d eaten actively compacting in my stomach. Every once in a while, I had to convince myself I wasn’t hearing Tetris music coming from my midsection during each gastric shift. Imagine with me, if you will, the opening bars of “Korobushka” followed by GURGLE, BLURP, SLUUUUUUP! Me: Ow! *burrrrrrrp* Groan…. And that’s just detailing my contribution to the air pollution. Yes, it’s good that I’m getting out of the junk food habit, but when I indulge, does it really have to hurt that much?
After midnight, the gas had subsided to merely embarrassing levels (but still wouldn’t let me sleep) and I was able to arrange my iTunes after a long, no-music deprivation. My computer got overhauled a while ago and I hadn’t gotten around to re-downloading things I used to have on there, iTunes being the main one. Will had backed up his music files on my computer, and of course they all dumped into my iTunes. I knew he had a ton of wonderful music from OCRemix, and from being around him over time I’ve learned how magical video game music can be, but wow! I’d never associated games like Metal Gear Solid 2 with beautiful music before. Will had to endure my off-key crooning for a while as I hummed along with songs I didn’t know. I’m sure that didn’t help his digestion any, but I enjoyed it. At least he knows I can sing. In fact, I have a smoky mezzo-soprano voice perfect for all those 1940s USO songs. These days it’s more husky than buttery, but that won’t change without the training I’m not getting right now. It’ll also improve with age. It always struck me as odd that the best opera singers are in their 40s and 50s, but they’re playing characters in their teens and twenties. Cognitive dissonance, but it’s not like I’ve ever seen an opera in person and I’ve heard girdles and pancake makeup work wonders, so the incongruity is purely academic…like a lot of things I ramble on about. Anyway, I’ve come full circle back to Monday morning and the drive into work with my right thigh smelling like acetone because I punched right through my stockings and had to patch them up with nail polish on the way out the door. Everybody sing with me! “I used to ruuuuuuule the world….”

Redeemer Women's Retreat-A

2009-03-28T17:35:00.000-07:00

The final letter of SPA is Adoption. Pastor's wife Kathy Bailey taught the final session. She described the characteristics of a true son or daughter of God versus someone who feels himself a slave.

A Son is confident of his status, feels protected and provided for, secure, free, uninhibited. He is transparent, assured of acceptance and has a sense of peace.

A Slave is fearful, relies on his own efforts, legalistic. He is self-conscious and self-judgmental. Because he judges himself harshly, he judges everyone else just as harshly. He is perfectionistic, anxious, lonely. He feels guilty about everything. Ultimately, he is completely defeated.

The clearest evidence of adoption is whether you can extend grace to others and don't need to bind them with your own hang-ups. A slave uses others to validate himself. Slaves obey out of duty; sons serve out of love.

Oddly, people tend to feel comfortable with Jesus but be afraid of the Father. Jesus is the first born of many brothers to make room for the brothers that will come under him by adoption. (Rom 8:29) God the Father makes us able to come and gives us full status as sons.

Redeemer Women's Retreat-P

2009-03-28T17:12:00.000-07:00

The P of SPA stands for Physician. Barb Hildreth, MD, spoke on God the Physician. What do we need healing from? Sin, disappointment, relationships, hurts, sorrow, disease, selfishness, disconnection, loneliness, addiction, fear, abuse, physical/spiritual death.

Barb spoke about her continuing struggles with anxiety and depression. Here are some key points:
The spiritual aspect of depression is a lack of acceptance of the way God has made you. Depression is never only spiritual or only physical. You cannot pray your way out of an illness if your body is sick, and no amount of drugs will cure you if you are heart-sick or soul-sick.
Self-hatred severs reliance on God and fosters resentment of the people around you.
Luke 5:17-26-sins being forgiven is a prerequisite for any kind of healing.
Sometimes God doesn't heal our earthly symptoms, but he renews our trust and that is enough for us.
What has God really promised? To reveal himself.
What does healing really look like? Renewed trust in God, increased dependency on him, and dying to self. Sometimes God brings about healing through physical death.

The story of Jacob shows that wrestling with God can leave a permanent limp. Yes, our troubles may not heal for the rest of our natural lives, but they are a reminder of having been near to God. Being close to God is inherently uncomfortable. We are pitiful creatures, and we are not able to bear the refiner's fire without drastic changes to our metal.

Ultimately, any healing that occurs is because of God's grace and at his pleasure. All will be made right when his kingdom comes.

Shall We Dance?

2009-03-26T07:40:00.000-07:00

Dum da da, dum da da. One, two, three; one, two, three. I’ve been fascinated by dance ever since Mom took me to see some Flamenco dancers in Taiwan when I was four. Of course, I called them “Flamingo” dancers and after about half an hour, asked if all they did was stamp around on the stage. It’s a wonder Mom didn’t strangle me. It also didn’t help that Dad jokingly referred to dancers as “roach stompers” after that occasion. And then there was the waltz practice scene in Peter Pan with Mary Martin, though for some reason I found that embarrassing to watch. Can’t figure that out. Fast forward to about ten years old and I saw Beauty and the Beast for the first time. The famous ballroom scene was enrapturing. It still is.

So what is it about ballroom dance, particularly the western social and standard dances, that captures (women’s) imaginations? Part of it is probably a cultural memory of a time when dancing was a social grace, when women wore rustling gowns and men had to pretend they had manners in public. Social ballroom dance is also attractive because it has no height or weight requirements; only a reasonable level of coordination and an ear for rhythm. Anybody can learn the standard waltz or foxtrot without mangling it too badly.

Ballroom dance is also incredibly sensual, but the prescribed movements and distance from one’s partner keep it innocent. The restraint of the dance builds emotional passion, but keeps it in check. In contrast, grinding up against somebody leaves nothing to the imagination, but is far more awkward and tiresome than sexy. Social dance also brings a sense of community, as it is very easy to chat while performing a simple waltz or foxtrot. Ballroom isn’t self-conscious; everyone else on the floor is doing the same movements, unlike modern dancing where each person dances alone and spends the whole time wondering if (s)he looks like an idiot.

No doubt, some of the allure is the beautiful clothes. I watched some youtube videos last night. One was of the annual ball in Vienna. All of the women were wearing white ballgowns and elbow gloves. The men were in white tie. I love watched them whirl around the floor and change partners without missing a beat. In my own dance daydreams, I’m wearing a tea-length rose dupioni gown with cap sleeves, white gloves, and a spray of opals in my hair. It saddens me that only high-society and the military have any need to dress for formal occasions anymore. And with that thought comes the treasonable idea that a good deal of beauty in society was lost when women started wearing pants regularly. One would have to pry my jeans out of my cold, dead hands, of course, but there’s no denying skirts are more graceful. So is outward dress a symptom or a cause of the loss of general mannerliness in public life?

Music is the final piece of the puzzle. Waltz music, for example, can be poignant, inspiring, even gritty (Chad Kroeger’s Hero from the Spider-Man soundtrack). The music changes the whole tone of the dance from intense to romantic, to soothing, etc. The fact that the same dance steps can be performed with such a wide variety of emotions makes social dance enduring and consistently relevant to the human experience. Shall we dance?

Ohhhh yeah.....

2009-03-25T06:57:00.000-07:00

It’s funny how some of the best little moments in life have to do with sudden changes in temperature. Think about it a minute. Anyway, here is my list of ohhhhh yeah moments.
Getting into a clean, cool bed
A hot bath on a cold night
Going from a warm house to a crisp day and vice versa
Drinking white grape juice on the rocks when it’s 90 degrees in the shade
Biting into a cold Fuji apple
Putting one’s cold feet on one’s sleeping spouse….oh wait, never mind.

If you can't beat 'em, level a pally

2009-03-16T08:13:00.000-07:00

I’m fed up with my guild. Folks on my server haven’t seen me on my druid in quite a while. She doesn’t deserve to be so neglected, but I have a new love: my paladin. It’s a huge problem when your guild makes you hate the game. Frankly, they’re a bunch of juvenile, misogynist jerkholes. They’re not even funny, which would make some of it forgivable. They’re also the best Alliance guild on the server, and as Will has said frequently, playing Horde is Communist. So there’s really nowhere else to go. And no, I’m really not just complaining because my gear is lousy and I keep early hours, so I don’t go on raids. I would rather not raid, thank you. Raids make me incredibly nervous. I do have a gripe that it’s hard to get groups for Heroics, but I also don’t see that changing because there are cliques that do things together. I have no problem with dungeon cliques; I’d just like to be in one.

Renewed zest for the game has come from leveling my paladin (who is not in the same guild as my druid). Maybe I’m so excited about it because leveling as balance spec was 70 levels of miserable drudgery. 70-80 wasn’t bad. Remembering 1-70 still makes me want to kick small animals. My pally is probably wearing the plate equivalent of a paper bag, but hey, it’s plate! Aggro three mobs 4 levels higher than you? No problem, you’ll live to loot ‘em! Just beat those Gibbering Ghouls to death with a nice spiky [Mace of Bludgeoning]. Aggro more than you can handle? Bubble, grab the quest item and skip away shouting Nyah nyahs over your shoulder. Nyah nyahs are also so much more satisfying when delivered by a shapely lavender squid alien with neck tentacles, hooves, and a tail. Hooray for the Draenei!

So remember, when the game sucks, level a pally!

Bury me in a shoebox

2009-03-10T05:21:00.000-07:00

It has come to my attention that I'm sick. Several things clued me in: the fact that my skull has felt too tight for my brain for the last three days, the fact that I can't breathe, the fact that every time I manage a weak cough, I'm afraid I'm going to puke up my toenails, and the fact that when I saw Will off this morning, steam radiated off my exposed skin. So here I am at the computer with a bag of frozen rice balanced on my head wondering what I'm going to do with myself all day because WoW is down for Tuesday server maintenance. This doesn't look good.

Redeemer Women's Retreat-S

2009-03-07T13:56:00.000-08:00

A few weeks ago, I attended my second women's retreat at Redeemer. It was held at a big, open, comfortable house smack on Folly Beach-the sort of house that says "yeah, we're loaded, but we're regular people." I admit, I had to make a concerted effort to pay attention and not just stare outside at the beautiful beach-and the few idiot tourists in bikinis. The wind was sharp and I was wishing I had a windbreaker instead of a soft cloth jacket. Perfect setting for our SPA theme.

S stands for Suffering. Christine Alele from Uganda taught in a style that reminded me of Mom's. She compared Job's, Jehoshaphat's and the late Bill Bright's (Campus Crusade) responses to adversity.

Job:

So what does suffering look like? Unfortunately, there is no way to quantify it. You know it when you feel it. Circumstances vary so wildly that it is unjust to say that one person has it much worse than another.

Does God trust us with suffering? God allows it-in fact, God set Job up. Suffering should be received like any other blessing.

What does Satan want from our suffering? To make us question God, to destroy God's character, and to convince us that God buys our love with toys and when the good times end, God doesn't love us anymore.

What sustains Job through the ordeal? The hope that God is good and the knowledge that God is sovereign. "I know that my Redeemer lives..." "Christ learned through suffering to be the obedient son..." "Through suffering we possess our faith..."

Can we prepare for suffering? We have to. Once we're in the middle of the storm, it's too late to decide what we believe about God. Suffering reveals the correctness (or not) of our theology.

Jehoshaphat:

When something big threatens, human instinct is to form an alliance with somebody, anybody, whether or not they or it are good for us. Instead, Jehoshaphat declares a national day of prayer and fasting. When we see trouble coming, it is important to set aside time to pray. In this circumstance, God promised to fight for Israel. Immediately, the nation praised God, even BEFORE the deliverance occurred.

Bill Bright:

Suffering calls us to teach others how to live and die. Dr. Bill Bright and his wife Vonette founded Campus Crusade for Christ (CCC) in 1951. During the next 50 years, CCC grew to a full time staff of more than 26, 000 in 190 countries. In 1993, Dr. Bright was diagnosed with prostate cancer. As a result of a malfunction with the radiation treatment, five years later, he developed an incurable pulmonary fibrosis. In his last book, "The Journey Home, Finishing with Joy," Dr. Bright chronicles his journey from the doctor's office where he was told "this is worse than heart attack or cancer. You will slowly die by choking." His response was, "Thank you Lord Jesus. You called me for the past 50 years to teach your people how to live, now you are calling me to teach them how to die."
It is an indictment of modern Christians that we do not know the names and stories of contemporary saints the way we know our celebrities. We can learn from those who have trained their relationship with the Lord so that when suffering inevitably hits, we respond faithfully. We all are given separate gifts from the Giver, but God remains good and supreme.

More to come on the P and A of SPA as I get around to it.

Writer's Block

2009-03-06T11:16:00.000-08:00

Amy Jane over at Untangling Tales made a post called “Don’t trust yourself.” http://untanglingtales.com/?p=1187#comments
She’s writing about humility and I get what she’s saying. Everyone likes to work with humble people. “Do not think of yourselves more highly than you ought, etc.” Or, like Mom used to say to squelch bragging, “Let others praise you.” But I’m really wondering what you do when you know you’ve done something good? The people around you are not always equipped to recognize the quality of what you’ve done. When that happens, how do you keep from losing confidence in your work while still recognizing that maybe the people you were hoping would give you your strokes don’t have the education or the artistic eye or whatever to give you honest praise and feedback?

Anybody who writes has had somebody close to them misunderstand or laugh at something they felt deeply about. In my case, it was an old boyfriend who read a novelette I was working on without my permission and then verbally tore it to shreds. I knew it wasn’t any good, but the characters were dear to me and I had put a lot of time into it. Another time, a person whose approval I wanted read an article I wrote for Among Worlds magazine about the difficulties of going out on one’s own after living a missionary life where someone always meets your plane. He thought it was funny and I was hurt. Those are the only two circumstances I can think of where somebody has laughed at my writing, but they’re definitive. The mind and heart tend to gloss over a hundred instances of approval and focus on the times criticism wasn’t deserved.

Yet, the writer needs an audience. What’s the use of “writing for yourself?” You’ve already thought of it; it’s all in your head, so what’s the use of putting it down? Unless you’re writing to communicate something to somebody else, there’s no purpose. Still, it’s hard not to let the fear of misunderstanding and harsh criticism stifle the willingness to share. (I do differentiate between positive and negative criticism. But in this case, I’m using criticism in the negative sense and the word “feedback” positively.)

Obviously, it is essential to select your (positive) critics carefully. Just as you wouldn’t let a child play with your great-grandmother’s crystal, I would say you shouldn’t let people whom you know don’t have the background or education to appreciate your work even see it. They’re simply not going to understand it, and if you persist in trying to make them like it, you’re going to end up with worthless feedback. Their suggestions may even damage the piece and will probably leave you feeling like the wounded artiste oppressed by Philistines. That said, you may want to collect several writing (helpers?) who are for you and can bring different viewpoints to the table. One person will probably not be able to critique your Epithalamion (Marriage hymn. I’m most familiar with the epithalamia of John Donne.) written in the byzantine style of Charles Williams. (Yes, I have written one of those. No, I’m not posting it. Nobody would understand it.)You’re either going to want a graduate student or college professor, or a self-educated Lit nut who is very familiar with Williams and Donne to critique that. But that first friend, perhaps someone with a lot of small children, will be perfect to review your children’s stories and illustrations.

Problem one: where do you find these friends to help you knead your work? Problem two: How do you punch down your attitude to be able to take it well when someone dislikes your work? Problem three: How do you differentiate between somebody just not connecting with your writing and when the writing is genuinely bad? Problem 4: How do you maintain the nerve to keep putting your work in front of people?

She doesn't want much, just the world with a fence around it

2009-03-04T07:20:00.000-08:00

I’m having one of those days where I’m afraid my head has been swapped with a less intelligent body part. I’m not quite bumping into things, but it sure was hard to leave the flannel sheets this morning. I’ve been creaking around like an Ent since then and I haven’t been useful at all. Did I mention I’m not a morning person? I made it to work late (for me, that is. My company doesn’t really care when you show up as long as you log your time.), since my hair wouldn’t cooperate and I had to hit level 300 in Fishdom before I left. Once I got here, I wandered to the break room to fill up my giant yellow cup and ran into my lead engineer. He was in a good mood. Maybe it was because he hadn’t had coffee yet, and therefore was too fuzzy to find anything to gripe about. Anyway, we started talking about how nice it would be to be rich and have a housekeeper to serve breakfast every morning. That started my mouth watering thinking about my ideal breakfast. It’s not too fancy-I’ve never gone for steak and eggs (Scratch that, I’ve never HAD steak and eggs)- but it would be labor consuming and regrettably, I’ve never eaten any of these things at the same time. Let’s see: Chai or coffee, cantaloupe, Cream of Wheat with maple syrup to stir in, and a big pile of scrambled eggs and bacon. I can see it now, laid out on fine china (Nana’s Lenox, naturally) on a sunny deck. Nobody pinch me. I really should do this once the weather is reliably in the 70-80 range this spring. I have the china and the wooden deck; just need the lazy Saturday to put the rest of it together. The problem is, I want to eat like this EVERY morning. And once I’d had breakfast, I’d start dreaming about lunch. A BLT (extra bacon) on a French baguette with mint sun tea and cheddar Sun Chips. Now we’re drooling! Late afternoon snack of gourmet Swiss cheese on wheat crackers with sugared frozen grapes. Dinner would be at 7 and would be…let’s see…rosemary or sage pork roast with mixed vegetables sautéed in a light balsamic vinaigrette and small helping of mushroom alfredo.
Having described the food, now I’ll describe the ideal day. Since this is a dream, let’s say I wake up at 8. I do some stretches, take a long shower, then make myself that breakfast and eat it slowly. After I wash Nana’s Lenox and stop feeling guilty about using it on a random Tuesday, I ride my vintage Schwinn (yellow, with a basket and bell) over to the grocery store and buy everything on the day’s menu. I prepare the pork and put it in the oven and freeze the grapes for later. Then I put on breezily quaint gardening clothes-probably a sleeveless smock or babydoll and capris, and a wide straw hat with long ribbons- and head out to terrorize the dandelions. No shoes, of course. I don’t dream about fire ants. I don’t get sunburned in my dreams either. My yard is a fantasy of Japanese cherry, ornamental pear and dogwood trees, hydrangea and azalea. There is an herb garden and a koi pond. A red Chinese moon door separates the kitchen garden from a Chinese garden that’s all cool bamboo and black and white pebbles. My BLT lunch gets eaten outside under a big tree. Back inside after lunch, I putter in my sunny workroom overlooking the garden. I sew or write while the light is good (And nap. There’s no accident there’s a couch in there.) Once the afternoon fades, I wander back outside to the big tree and swing a little while as the fireflies come out. The pork is nearly done and I can smell it from yards away through the open windows. Evenings are a little sharp even though the days are warm, so I kindle a fire with the twigs I picked up from the yard. Dinner time, then curling up on the couch to watch TV or read. Dessert is a cup of hot chocolate and a plate of shortbread cookies. Bed around midnight.
Of course, to make this romantic scenario remotely possible, I’d have to be wealthy and probably retired. But long, slow days filled with good food, moderate exercise, and plenty of creativity really appeal to me.

Most Latest Vegetable?

2009-03-03T12:22:00.000-08:00

*Disclaimer: I can be very abrasive, so please bear with me as the Lord softens me. I’m growing up (painfully slowly for those who have to put up with me, but the alternative is worse) and learning what’s important and what is sacred and what is fair game. Furthermore, if I do keep up this blog and you find yourself continually offended, please consider that this blog may not be for you. One can know a lot of people and don’t have to be chummy with all of them. My purpose in posting is to entertain and dialogue with a few close friends who are already used to me.

So what’s with the Engrish title? “Most Latest Vegetable” is a tribute to Taiwanese buses, Taiwanese orthodontics, and my soft-touch Daddy. I had braces from 5^th grade until … well, it was a long time and I had to have them twice. My international Christian School (Bethany Christian School) was downtown, and so was my orthodontist. Mom would meet me after school and we’d ride the bus across downtown together. After I had my teeth prodded and clucked over, we’d ride to Tien Mu, the halfway point between downtown and Christ College, where we lived and my parents taught. Dad would be waiting at the stop in front of Fang’s Restaurant. Fang’s had giant plate-glass windows in front that looked into the kitchen on the left side. I’d press my nose against the glass and watch the cooks rolling dough, stuffing dumplings, stir-frying veggies. Then we’d go inside and I’d gum down plates of jiao tze and bao tze (steamed pork dumplings and veggie buns) and go home with spinach stuck in my freshly-adjusted wires. Fang’s had a menu that was trying to be bilingual. It mostly succeeded, but we always had a gentle chuckle over the “Most Latest Vegetable” entry. It meant “Vegetable of the Day” or “Seasonal Vegetable,” but the way it was phrased, in such earnest Engrish, made it charming.

It probably doesn’t follow, but “Most Latest Vegetable” has seemed to take on the larger context of the English “What you see is what you get.” Maybe it’s just because I’ve used it as a Gchat status for so long. “Most Latest” = up to date and random. Hot off the presses and probably strange. As for “Vegetable,” nobody needs to be told that I spend a lot of time wandering around in my own mind. Me: now with your recommended daily intake of Vitamin C.