Why do I persist in caring? The unanswerable question. Maybe I have excess energy since I no longer care for most sports. Or something. Who knows.
And the best five movies of 2005 were:
Brokeback Mountain? Yeah, you kinda know my feelings about that one. Downer.
Good Night, and Good Luck? I actually want to see this one, since I went to the Edward R. Murrow School of Communications, but if I hadn't, I can't say I would have cared.
Capote? My 'virtual mother-in-law' says she liked it, but I don't trust her opinion on movies as far as I can throw it. Guess I'll have to see it for myself. (and, another downer.) Though Philip Seymour Hoffman does totally rock.
Munich? I love Spielberg, but ... Ugh. Another total downer.
Crash. A surprise nomination. I heard good things about this one, though it sounds like the racial profiling and anvilicious metaphors beat viewers about the head. Oh, well. Will probably be the most enjoyable one to view, nonetheless.
I was still hoping, though I knew 'twas in vain, for Cinderella Man to pull through. It was a well-made, well-acted movie (yeah, Russell Crowe's a jerk. But I'm okay with that, if he can make me forget it for two hours in the theater), and fun to watch. Not controversial enough, apparently. It's a wonder that Transamerica wasn't nominated, also. I guess there's something to be grateful for. (actually, I'm sure that Cinderella Man wasn't nominated because *gasp* we can't have two movies with the same theme winning two years in a row!)
Walk the Line -- also a good flick. Just not quite as good as these five all-timers, it would seem.
My movie prediction for Best of 2006: Whatever Paul Haggis (Million Dollar Baby, Crash) writes the screenplay for.
Tuesday, January 31, 2006
earworms, II
You know how some families/offices have 'curse jars'? You have to put in a quarter or some set amount if you curse. Then the office/family gets to spend the proceeds on some treat or other.
We need a 'whistle jar' in this office. There's a mega-hyper, micromanager-type guy here (not my boss, praise be) who whistles a lot. Which isn't so bad, except for his selections... I believe we've trained him not to whistle Christmas carols until Thanksgiving. But his stand-by, his go-to song, his raison d'etre, is "Seasons in the Sun." Someone just mentions the title, and I have a mental music file of this guy whistling in my ear for hours.
Aiiiieeeeeee! Anybody got some Wiggles or Barney to help me out here?
We need a 'whistle jar' in this office. There's a mega-hyper, micromanager-type guy here (not my boss, praise be) who whistles a lot. Which isn't so bad, except for his selections... I believe we've trained him not to whistle Christmas carols until Thanksgiving. But his stand-by, his go-to song, his raison d'etre, is "Seasons in the Sun." Someone just mentions the title, and I have a mental music file of this guy whistling in my ear for hours.
Aiiiieeeeeee! Anybody got some Wiggles or Barney to help me out here?
boring weekend
This is late, but what the hey.
Six things that I did or that happened to me this weekend, and two that didn't:
* Vacuumed the house
* Read Lizzy "Pooh's Heffalump Adventure" (book form) four times
* Peed pants while run/walking
* Saw Woody Allen movie, "Match Point"
* Watched extras on "40-Year-Old Virgin" DVD, then wished I could re-boot brain
* Overspent on Thomas the Train track parts; encouraged by great coupons
* Got engaged
* Was abducted by aliens (as far as I know)
Six things that I did or that happened to me this weekend, and two that didn't:
* Vacuumed the house
* Read Lizzy "Pooh's Heffalump Adventure" (book form) four times
* Peed pants while run/walking
* Saw Woody Allen movie, "Match Point"
* Watched extras on "40-Year-Old Virgin" DVD, then wished I could re-boot brain
* Overspent on Thomas the Train track parts; encouraged by great coupons
* Got engaged
* Was abducted by aliens (as far as I know)
Monday, January 30, 2006
the earworms of youth
One of life's simple pleasures is reading something I identify with completely, written in a way that is as good or better than I might have expressed it myself.
Here is one of those stories.
And here, for those who don't feel like following the link, is a great excerpt:
Earworms breed in all kinds of musical environments—the gangrenous wound of a Coldplay chorus, the festering pit of a cellphone ring-tone—but the most fertile breeding ground, by far, is children's music. The genre is an earworm hatchery, the
aural equivalent of an overstuffed Dumpster baking in the August sun. Its grubs are uniquely robust and brain-thirsty: Kids' music is all hook, cutesy melodies pared to the most efficient possible sequence of notes and repeated until the recording studio runs out of tape. It's like a reverse parody of atonal jazz: Instead of denying us the pleasure of melody, kids' music heaps it on so heavily that our desire for it disappears, and melody disintegrates into pure pleasureless noise.
I know this because my daughter requires a constant stream of children's music to fuel her epic, mesmerizing dance-marathons. I've been listening to her music intensively now for almost two years—which makes it, sadly and easily, my most intense engagement with any music since high school.
Though our library of kids' albums is small—a handful of discs inflicted on us at baby showers—I have involuntarily memorized every note. I've listened to these albums so many times they've lost their status as music and become a kind of continuous and ecstatic holy mantra. Instead of criticizing, I just bask irrationally in the soul-cleansing repetition. My musical standards have eroded completely. I know it's just some kind of sensory trick, like submerging your hands in freezing water until it feels like they're burning, but I have started to love it. Even with adult friends around, I sing passionate a-cappella soul renditions of songs I once reviled.
I cannot believe I have not yet purchased this kids' album.
Here is one of those stories.
And here, for those who don't feel like following the link, is a great excerpt:
Earworms breed in all kinds of musical environments—the gangrenous wound of a Coldplay chorus, the festering pit of a cellphone ring-tone—but the most fertile breeding ground, by far, is children's music. The genre is an earworm hatchery, the
aural equivalent of an overstuffed Dumpster baking in the August sun. Its grubs are uniquely robust and brain-thirsty: Kids' music is all hook, cutesy melodies pared to the most efficient possible sequence of notes and repeated until the recording studio runs out of tape. It's like a reverse parody of atonal jazz: Instead of denying us the pleasure of melody, kids' music heaps it on so heavily that our desire for it disappears, and melody disintegrates into pure pleasureless noise.
I know this because my daughter requires a constant stream of children's music to fuel her epic, mesmerizing dance-marathons. I've been listening to her music intensively now for almost two years—which makes it, sadly and easily, my most intense engagement with any music since high school.
Though our library of kids' albums is small—a handful of discs inflicted on us at baby showers—I have involuntarily memorized every note. I've listened to these albums so many times they've lost their status as music and become a kind of continuous and ecstatic holy mantra. Instead of criticizing, I just bask irrationally in the soul-cleansing repetition. My musical standards have eroded completely. I know it's just some kind of sensory trick, like submerging your hands in freezing water until it feels like they're burning, but I have started to love it. Even with adult friends around, I sing passionate a-cappella soul renditions of songs I once reviled.
I cannot believe I have not yet purchased this kids' album.
Friday, January 27, 2006
e-mails from the bad place
I am willing to bet that each and every one of you has seen this e-mail -- or its kissing cousin -- before. And yet, I share it with you in the spirit of mockery.
Gee -- I hope the friend who sends me these e-mails doesn't know I have a blog. Oh, well. I'm willing to risk it.
I mean, “Someone that you don’t even know exists loves you”? How improbable is that?
And, also. Tequila. TOTALLY not made with lemons.
This one is titled, "Tequila & Salt." I am informed right off that it should be taped to everyone's bathroom mirror. (how big is YOUR bathroom mirror? Mine is used to aid in makeup application and to ensure that I don't have a dribble of toothpaste stuck to the corner of my mouth, not taping pseudo-inspirational forwarded e-mails to. In case you were curious.)
Also: "You may not realize it, but it (this e-mail) is 100 percent true."
1. There are at least two people in this world that you would die for.
(I can think of one. Well, maybe two... Okay, this one might be true.)
2. At least 15 people in this world love you in some way.
(Wow! awesome. I rule.)
3. The only reason anyone would ever hate you is because they want to be just like you.
(it couldn't be because you did something hateful! NO.)
4. A smile from you can bring happiness to anyone, even if they don't like you.
(this obviously not written by someone who lives anywhere near D.C.)
5. Every night, SOMEONE thinks about you before they go to sleep.
(ewwwwwwww...)
6. You mean the world to someone.
(I'll buy that, but only because I have a 3-year-old. Soon enough, she will hate me.)
7. You are special and unique.
(just like everyone else!!)
8. Someone that you don't even know exists, loves you.
(that seems highly implausible.)
9. When you make the biggest mistake ever, something good comes from it.
(Another awesome one! Maybe I'll just stick to making mistakes, then.)
10. When you think the world has turned its back on you, take another look.
(a tip for those who find pain enjoyable.)
11. Always remember the compliments you received. Forget about the rude remarks.
(unless they regard your hygiene. Then, please, do remember them.)
So ... If you are a loving friend, send this to everyone, including the one that sent it to you. If you get it back, then they really do love you. And always remember...when life hands you Lemons, ask for tequila and salt and call me over!!
Gee -- I hope the friend who sends me these e-mails doesn't know I have a blog. Oh, well. I'm willing to risk it.
I mean, “Someone that you don’t even know exists loves you”? How improbable is that?
And, also. Tequila. TOTALLY not made with lemons.
This one is titled, "Tequila & Salt." I am informed right off that it should be taped to everyone's bathroom mirror. (how big is YOUR bathroom mirror? Mine is used to aid in makeup application and to ensure that I don't have a dribble of toothpaste stuck to the corner of my mouth, not taping pseudo-inspirational forwarded e-mails to. In case you were curious.)
Also: "You may not realize it, but it (this e-mail) is 100 percent true."
1. There are at least two people in this world that you would die for.
(I can think of one. Well, maybe two... Okay, this one might be true.)
2. At least 15 people in this world love you in some way.
(Wow! awesome. I rule.)
3. The only reason anyone would ever hate you is because they want to be just like you.
(it couldn't be because you did something hateful! NO.)
4. A smile from you can bring happiness to anyone, even if they don't like you.
(this obviously not written by someone who lives anywhere near D.C.)
5. Every night, SOMEONE thinks about you before they go to sleep.
(ewwwwwwww...)
6. You mean the world to someone.
(I'll buy that, but only because I have a 3-year-old. Soon enough, she will hate me.)
7. You are special and unique.
(just like everyone else!!)
8. Someone that you don't even know exists, loves you.
(that seems highly implausible.)
9. When you make the biggest mistake ever, something good comes from it.
(Another awesome one! Maybe I'll just stick to making mistakes, then.)
10. When you think the world has turned its back on you, take another look.
(a tip for those who find pain enjoyable.)
11. Always remember the compliments you received. Forget about the rude remarks.
(unless they regard your hygiene. Then, please, do remember them.)
So ... If you are a loving friend, send this to everyone, including the one that sent it to you. If you get it back, then they really do love you. And always remember...when life hands you Lemons, ask for tequila and salt and call me over!!
Thursday, January 26, 2006
in sickness and in health
First of all, I have to send out a big HEE! to friends Schuyler and Ryan. After a rousing game of Candyland with Dumbo and Lizzy (Dumbo kicked our heinies), I needed it.
Lizzy, despite appearing perfectly feisty and healthy about 99.5 percent of the time, continues to stay home this week with one of her sick leave-impaired parents because she can't seem to keep her meals, er, down. It's strange. Matt, for reasons not clear to me, will feed our "sick" child a breakfast of eggs, cheese, bacon and pancakes, which she seems to do fine with. But when I get home and express horror and insist that she have something milder -- say, a banana -- up it comes an hour later. And we (Matt and I) look at each other, and one of us says, "I suppose we can't very well take her to day care tomorrow, right?", and then we play rock/paper/scissors for the right to go to work the next day. (joking. it's a slightly more scientific method than that.)
I should say that I love spending time with my daughter -- I really do. Although it is no barrel of monkeys -- hm, actually, that is very much what it is like -- to stay home with her all day, I do fantasize about being able to do so full-time, at least for a few years. We're going to hit a sticky spot when she goes to elementary school and has summers off ... what to do, what to do with her all day. By then, I also hope to have another wee 'un, so maybe we can work something out? It depends, it depends. For now, I alternately feel mournful and grateful about still being a member of the Work Force. The job's cool, the commute -- and not seeing my daughter as much as I'd like -- sucks.
So, hats off to all you stay-at-home moms. Today I appreciate what you do more than ever!
On a positive note, Lizzy's gotten really good at aiming for an ever-present bath towel when she has to yak. Thank you, child. Because after washing her sheets and my sheets twice in three days, I'd rather do towels.
And, thank God for an understanding boss.
Lizzy's running out of princess stickers to affix to Matt's typing paper, so I'll save my "list of jobs I've ever had" for later. It's not so long, because, like Schuyler, I had parents who refused to let me work while in high school. NOT THAT I MINDED. It kind of put them in a bad spot, because they had to pay for my desperate perm attempts at Amy Grant hair (yes, it was the late '80s); the many varieties of athletic footwear that my coaches said I had to replace each year (I think I averaged about every other year, actually); my clothes; etc. Come to think of it, my musical tastes (or lack thereof) in high school can be explained by the fact that my mom would buy me Christian tapes (yes, tapes -- I'm OLD, remember?) for free from the Christian bookstore where she worked. I later became a big Michael Jackson, George Michael, Madonna, Tears for Fears, etc., fan, but it took the influence of my college roommate. (Interestingly, I've only ever been a moderate U2 fan. I know -- heresy!! I like them -- I do -- but I don't passionately LURVE them. I very much welcome explanations as to why they're the second coming. I would love to get it. Right now, it's like a 3-D puzzle that I can't see, but I want to share in the rapture I see other people experiencing.)
Hm, rambling. And Lizzy says she's hungry ... Uh-oh.
Lizzy, despite appearing perfectly feisty and healthy about 99.5 percent of the time, continues to stay home this week with one of her sick leave-impaired parents because she can't seem to keep her meals, er, down. It's strange. Matt, for reasons not clear to me, will feed our "sick" child a breakfast of eggs, cheese, bacon and pancakes, which she seems to do fine with. But when I get home and express horror and insist that she have something milder -- say, a banana -- up it comes an hour later. And we (Matt and I) look at each other, and one of us says, "I suppose we can't very well take her to day care tomorrow, right?", and then we play rock/paper/scissors for the right to go to work the next day. (joking. it's a slightly more scientific method than that.)
I should say that I love spending time with my daughter -- I really do. Although it is no barrel of monkeys -- hm, actually, that is very much what it is like -- to stay home with her all day, I do fantasize about being able to do so full-time, at least for a few years. We're going to hit a sticky spot when she goes to elementary school and has summers off ... what to do, what to do with her all day. By then, I also hope to have another wee 'un, so maybe we can work something out? It depends, it depends. For now, I alternately feel mournful and grateful about still being a member of the Work Force. The job's cool, the commute -- and not seeing my daughter as much as I'd like -- sucks.
So, hats off to all you stay-at-home moms. Today I appreciate what you do more than ever!
On a positive note, Lizzy's gotten really good at aiming for an ever-present bath towel when she has to yak. Thank you, child. Because after washing her sheets and my sheets twice in three days, I'd rather do towels.
And, thank God for an understanding boss.
Lizzy's running out of princess stickers to affix to Matt's typing paper, so I'll save my "list of jobs I've ever had" for later. It's not so long, because, like Schuyler, I had parents who refused to let me work while in high school. NOT THAT I MINDED. It kind of put them in a bad spot, because they had to pay for my desperate perm attempts at Amy Grant hair (yes, it was the late '80s); the many varieties of athletic footwear that my coaches said I had to replace each year (I think I averaged about every other year, actually); my clothes; etc. Come to think of it, my musical tastes (or lack thereof) in high school can be explained by the fact that my mom would buy me Christian tapes (yes, tapes -- I'm OLD, remember?) for free from the Christian bookstore where she worked. I later became a big Michael Jackson, George Michael, Madonna, Tears for Fears, etc., fan, but it took the influence of my college roommate. (Interestingly, I've only ever been a moderate U2 fan. I know -- heresy!! I like them -- I do -- but I don't passionately LURVE them. I very much welcome explanations as to why they're the second coming. I would love to get it. Right now, it's like a 3-D puzzle that I can't see, but I want to share in the rapture I see other people experiencing.)
Hm, rambling. And Lizzy says she's hungry ... Uh-oh.
Monday, January 23, 2006
weekend
I'm still having my weekend, unfortunately.
Saturday and Sunday were great, though, in that 'on a productivity high' kind of way. By 10 a.m. on Saturday, I had cleaned out all the old Lizzy clothes that had been cluttering the "guest room" (a storage room, up until now)... and by 2 a.m., Matt had cleaned out the downstairs, unfinished storage area, which he has longed to convert to a weight-lifting area. Sunday, after the best, most poignant one-hour church service I have ever attended (sermon text found here), we moved bunches of stuff into our massive (for a townhouse) attic, and out of our hair until it's needed again -- until another baby comes along, or until Christmas, or until one of us is in the mood to dress up like Snow White or her evil stepmother queen again.
I've never been a stickler for cleanliness, despite my mother's excellent example, but since moving into our spacious (by comparison) townhouse last February, we've really taken pleasure in keeping it looking nice. It feels good to take care of your stuff, you know? Maybe part of it is the difference between renting and owning. Or maybe it's an area of my life that I can manage to keep up with, and have a definitive way of measuring that I'm doing so. For whatever reason, it sure feels good to have those two last unpacked areas mostly tackled. Those last areas that lurk in the back of my mind, keeping me from feeling totally relaxed and finished.
Of course, there's always painting/front porching/fence, er, ing/back porching to do. But, well, that's construction stuff. Man's work, if I may say so. My conscience can rest easy as to those things.
It felt weird, though, to be doing such trivial stuff, and finding satisfaction in it, when we have wonderful friends going through an incredibly painful time. To say the least. To the three or so people who read this blog and don't have the great good fortune to know this couple well, please keep praying for them. I don't even know what to suggest that you say. Just, keep praying.
Last night, to keep me a bit humble, Lizzy threw up twice -- once in her bed, once in mine. At least I was in the cleaning-up groove, though there's nothing like undigested spaghetti in your bed to get you up and moving at 12:30 a.m. regardless of your mood.
So, we stayed home today. I don't know if she's better or not. She seemed pretty happy until after her nap, and now she feels warm and listless. It's never easy to see your baby not feeling well. Or your friends suffering. Be it an affliction minor or major, it's awfully hard to watch. But, of course, it's all we can do. Watch, and pray. And hope.
Saturday and Sunday were great, though, in that 'on a productivity high' kind of way. By 10 a.m. on Saturday, I had cleaned out all the old Lizzy clothes that had been cluttering the "guest room" (a storage room, up until now)... and by 2 a.m., Matt had cleaned out the downstairs, unfinished storage area, which he has longed to convert to a weight-lifting area. Sunday, after the best, most poignant one-hour church service I have ever attended (sermon text found here), we moved bunches of stuff into our massive (for a townhouse) attic, and out of our hair until it's needed again -- until another baby comes along, or until Christmas, or until one of us is in the mood to dress up like Snow White or her evil stepmother queen again.
I've never been a stickler for cleanliness, despite my mother's excellent example, but since moving into our spacious (by comparison) townhouse last February, we've really taken pleasure in keeping it looking nice. It feels good to take care of your stuff, you know? Maybe part of it is the difference between renting and owning. Or maybe it's an area of my life that I can manage to keep up with, and have a definitive way of measuring that I'm doing so. For whatever reason, it sure feels good to have those two last unpacked areas mostly tackled. Those last areas that lurk in the back of my mind, keeping me from feeling totally relaxed and finished.
Of course, there's always painting/front porching/fence, er, ing/back porching to do. But, well, that's construction stuff. Man's work, if I may say so. My conscience can rest easy as to those things.
It felt weird, though, to be doing such trivial stuff, and finding satisfaction in it, when we have wonderful friends going through an incredibly painful time. To say the least. To the three or so people who read this blog and don't have the great good fortune to know this couple well, please keep praying for them. I don't even know what to suggest that you say. Just, keep praying.
Last night, to keep me a bit humble, Lizzy threw up twice -- once in her bed, once in mine. At least I was in the cleaning-up groove, though there's nothing like undigested spaghetti in your bed to get you up and moving at 12:30 a.m. regardless of your mood.
So, we stayed home today. I don't know if she's better or not. She seemed pretty happy until after her nap, and now she feels warm and listless. It's never easy to see your baby not feeling well. Or your friends suffering. Be it an affliction minor or major, it's awfully hard to watch. But, of course, it's all we can do. Watch, and pray. And hope.
Thursday, January 19, 2006
who's seen it?
Okay, who's seen Brokeback Mountain? I would like to discuss this movie with someone.
In a rare moment of restraint, I'm not going to spell out my full thoughts here, but I will say that I didn't think that much of it. And not for the reasons you'd think. However, after hearing the umpteenth ad touting it as "not only one of the best movies of the year, but a masterpiece for the ages -- you'll never think the same way again," I'm very open to someone telling me what's so great about it. Besides the acting, which was terrific.
I will say this -- most of my, er, absence of love for the movie was due to the fact that I expected a love story. Why? Because that's what I've been told it is. I did not find it to be one. I'm not usually a fan of any kind of adulterous theme -- though I seem to be inundated with them lately (I saw Walk the Line last weekend) -- but I really, really tried hard to go into it with an open mind.
Just let me know if you saw it, and if you wouldn't mind talking about it sometime. Change my mind -- convince me it was great. Seriously. Because otherwise, I will be throwing things at my television set during the Academy Awards, and I haven't paid it off yet (the TV, that is), so that would be bad.
In a rare moment of restraint, I'm not going to spell out my full thoughts here, but I will say that I didn't think that much of it. And not for the reasons you'd think. However, after hearing the umpteenth ad touting it as "not only one of the best movies of the year, but a masterpiece for the ages -- you'll never think the same way again," I'm very open to someone telling me what's so great about it. Besides the acting, which was terrific.
I will say this -- most of my, er, absence of love for the movie was due to the fact that I expected a love story. Why? Because that's what I've been told it is. I did not find it to be one. I'm not usually a fan of any kind of adulterous theme -- though I seem to be inundated with them lately (I saw Walk the Line last weekend) -- but I really, really tried hard to go into it with an open mind.
Just let me know if you saw it, and if you wouldn't mind talking about it sometime. Change my mind -- convince me it was great. Seriously. Because otherwise, I will be throwing things at my television set during the Academy Awards, and I haven't paid it off yet (the TV, that is), so that would be bad.
Wednesday, January 18, 2006
poverty vs. wealth
I'm not sure why I was thinking about poverty and wealth on the way to work today. Maybe it's all the Lexuses, etc., we drive alongside on our way along Interstate 66. (it's especially satisfying to fly by them on the rare instance when the carpool lane is doing us any good.)
As most of the people who read this blog know, we talked about racial injustice on Sunday, and touched on poverty, as well as other things. Read further thoughts here and here.
I've been doing some thinking over the past few years about Jesus' contention that it would be easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich person to enter the Kingdom of God. That eye of a needle may or may not have been a narrow gate in Jerusalem; either way, the point is, it's nearly impossible.
I've never been all that gung-ho about "my career," at least not since high school, when we were all encouraged to know exactly what we were going to do and what college we should go to in order to achieve this. If not overtly encouraged, we were at least asked continuously by well-meaning adults what we wanted to do with our lives. At the time, I wanted to be a veterinarian. That didn't really work out, but that's another story. I was told over and over, so I'd understand, that veterinarians usually didn't make much, and it takes "almost as much school as becoming a doctor." So what? Shouldn't the work be its own reward?
I never wanted to be rich, is my point. Maybe I wanted to be a bit of a martyr; I was never put off of journalism when that later became my goal because of dreaded stories about how undesirable the work shifts would be. (And they were. Now I've got a sweet weekday deal going on. Praise God for that.) I never (obviously!) pursued a career so I could "have it all."
Was I afraid of how I'd handle it if I had "lots of" money? I don't know. I kind of don't want the stress. The temptation. I think I actually fear money, to some degree.
I don't buy lottery tickets because a) it's stupid, and b) I don't want to win. I really don't . I don't want to have to agonize over how best to distribute $50 million. So, okay, the government gets $20 million off the top ... So if I give away half of the rest, can I spend the rest on me me me? That sounds pretty generous, right? Not that I would have any clue how to. And you'd make all kinds of new "friends," and be "famous," if you got all that money. I kind of like the life I have. I don't want the disruption.
So, I was wondering: I'm not in this for the eternal reward, for the record. But -- do we get "points taken off" if we're glad we're not rich, because we suspect we're weak? Would I be able to handle wealth if I had it? How DOES one handle millions of dollars responsibly? What does that look like? What would YOU do with it?
I realize also that I'm richer than some ridiculous percentage of the world's population. So maybe I am one of the rich people.
I was reading an article about Patricia Heaton -- the mom on "Everybody Loves Raymond" -- a few years ago. I think she said she made $6 million a year. She's a Christian, according to that story ... she said, Yes, I tithe. But, what is 10 percent to me? I don't think a tithe should necessarily stop at 10 percent. I think it's meant to hurt a little. To cut into our comfort zone.
Perhaps it just comes down to the parable of the talents. We should do the best with what we have. Pray and trust God to tell us what to do with it, and then follow through.
I'm seeing a parallel here between money and eating. Two things we obsess a lot about. The trouble with kicking a habit of overeating, among other things, is that you have to eat SOMETHING. You can't just quit cold turkey. Like, say, cigarettes -- though I hear that's not easy, either. Wouldn't it be great to not need money? To not have to spend it and budget and worry about it? But it's a "necessary evil." It requires thought and discipline and self-control and, ultimately, dis-ownership of it all in front of God. Wow. No wonder it's not easy.
I'm not sure where to go from here, so perhaps I'll stop.
As most of the people who read this blog know, we talked about racial injustice on Sunday, and touched on poverty, as well as other things. Read further thoughts here and here.
I've been doing some thinking over the past few years about Jesus' contention that it would be easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich person to enter the Kingdom of God. That eye of a needle may or may not have been a narrow gate in Jerusalem; either way, the point is, it's nearly impossible.
I've never been all that gung-ho about "my career," at least not since high school, when we were all encouraged to know exactly what we were going to do and what college we should go to in order to achieve this. If not overtly encouraged, we were at least asked continuously by well-meaning adults what we wanted to do with our lives. At the time, I wanted to be a veterinarian. That didn't really work out, but that's another story. I was told over and over, so I'd understand, that veterinarians usually didn't make much, and it takes "almost as much school as becoming a doctor." So what? Shouldn't the work be its own reward?
I never wanted to be rich, is my point. Maybe I wanted to be a bit of a martyr; I was never put off of journalism when that later became my goal because of dreaded stories about how undesirable the work shifts would be. (And they were. Now I've got a sweet weekday deal going on. Praise God for that.) I never (obviously!) pursued a career so I could "have it all."
Was I afraid of how I'd handle it if I had "lots of" money? I don't know. I kind of don't want the stress. The temptation. I think I actually fear money, to some degree.
I don't buy lottery tickets because a) it's stupid, and b) I don't want to win. I really don't . I don't want to have to agonize over how best to distribute $50 million. So, okay, the government gets $20 million off the top ... So if I give away half of the rest, can I spend the rest on me me me? That sounds pretty generous, right? Not that I would have any clue how to. And you'd make all kinds of new "friends," and be "famous," if you got all that money. I kind of like the life I have. I don't want the disruption.
So, I was wondering: I'm not in this for the eternal reward, for the record. But -- do we get "points taken off" if we're glad we're not rich, because we suspect we're weak? Would I be able to handle wealth if I had it? How DOES one handle millions of dollars responsibly? What does that look like? What would YOU do with it?
I realize also that I'm richer than some ridiculous percentage of the world's population. So maybe I am one of the rich people.
I was reading an article about Patricia Heaton -- the mom on "Everybody Loves Raymond" -- a few years ago. I think she said she made $6 million a year. She's a Christian, according to that story ... she said, Yes, I tithe. But, what is 10 percent to me? I don't think a tithe should necessarily stop at 10 percent. I think it's meant to hurt a little. To cut into our comfort zone.
Perhaps it just comes down to the parable of the talents. We should do the best with what we have. Pray and trust God to tell us what to do with it, and then follow through.
I'm seeing a parallel here between money and eating. Two things we obsess a lot about. The trouble with kicking a habit of overeating, among other things, is that you have to eat SOMETHING. You can't just quit cold turkey. Like, say, cigarettes -- though I hear that's not easy, either. Wouldn't it be great to not need money? To not have to spend it and budget and worry about it? But it's a "necessary evil." It requires thought and discipline and self-control and, ultimately, dis-ownership of it all in front of God. Wow. No wonder it's not easy.
I'm not sure where to go from here, so perhaps I'll stop.
Monday, January 16, 2006
the name game
I am taking delight in deconstructing fairy tales these days. Perhaps you'd noticed. I'll spare you the entirety of my musings in regards to "Sleeping Beauty" at this juncture, though.
Last night, we watched "S.B." for the first time -- Lizzy's first time, that is. There were fewer questions than there sometimes are. Perhaps that's because she was busy bouncing around, making tea for us, asking for "real" food, etc. She doesn't like to sit still, that one.
I warned her that it might be kind of scary at times. She didn't seem too bothered.
Remember the three "good witches," or fairies, or whatever they are? They "bless" Sleeping Beauty at the beginning, then end up raising her in an attempt to hide her from the evil witch Maleficent, who, for reasons I never could figure out, wants her dead. Yeah, yeah, she wasn't invited to her public introduction. Big deal! Those things are boring, if you're not good friends of the parents. But I digress.
So Lizzy says, "What are their names?" Meaning the three fairies. I tell her, "Flora, Fauna and Merriweather." "Oh, like my cousins!" she says, brightly.
Matt and I try our hardest not to hoot with laughter.
Here's where this joke falls flat, because for those of you who aren't familiar with my brother and sis-in-law, and their penchant for strange baby names, this joke won't hold up for the length of time it takes to explain their names. To you, I apologize... I have four nieces. Their names are designed to mean something in the original Greek or Hebrew: For example, one's name means "Grace, Mercy and Peace." Let's see, I think that's Charis. Their first names are Aletheia, Maranatha, Charis and Zeteite. Their middle names are so outrageous that I don't even remember them -- the first child's full name is Aletheia Postkuneumate Williams (I think I misspelled the middle name; sorry), and the middle is Maranatha Prostheuneumai? Maybe?
In any case, now you know why my child's name is Elizabeth. If I could come up with a more common name than that, I might have chosen it.
Last night, we watched "S.B." for the first time -- Lizzy's first time, that is. There were fewer questions than there sometimes are. Perhaps that's because she was busy bouncing around, making tea for us, asking for "real" food, etc. She doesn't like to sit still, that one.
I warned her that it might be kind of scary at times. She didn't seem too bothered.
Remember the three "good witches," or fairies, or whatever they are? They "bless" Sleeping Beauty at the beginning, then end up raising her in an attempt to hide her from the evil witch Maleficent, who, for reasons I never could figure out, wants her dead. Yeah, yeah, she wasn't invited to her public introduction. Big deal! Those things are boring, if you're not good friends of the parents. But I digress.
So Lizzy says, "What are their names?" Meaning the three fairies. I tell her, "Flora, Fauna and Merriweather." "Oh, like my cousins!" she says, brightly.
Matt and I try our hardest not to hoot with laughter.
Here's where this joke falls flat, because for those of you who aren't familiar with my brother and sis-in-law, and their penchant for strange baby names, this joke won't hold up for the length of time it takes to explain their names. To you, I apologize... I have four nieces. Their names are designed to mean something in the original Greek or Hebrew: For example, one's name means "Grace, Mercy and Peace." Let's see, I think that's Charis. Their first names are Aletheia, Maranatha, Charis and Zeteite. Their middle names are so outrageous that I don't even remember them -- the first child's full name is Aletheia Postkuneumate Williams (I think I misspelled the middle name; sorry), and the middle is Maranatha Prostheuneumai? Maybe?
In any case, now you know why my child's name is Elizabeth. If I could come up with a more common name than that, I might have chosen it.
Go Pathers!
File this under, "At least I'm not as pathetic as this guy."
or, "What would make a copy editor drive over a cliff?"
Matt and I were driving on 66 the other day -- as we always seem to be doing -- when we saw "GO PATHERS!" written on the back of a Suburban, in whatever white substance people write stuff on their cars with.
(hm. Perhaps if I'm writing to blast someone on their spelling, I should construct my sentences better. Oh, well. I'll just be perverse that way.)
Matt pointed this out and groaned -- he delights in disturbing me with examples like that one, to see me react. Kind of like pouring salt on a slug, or am I the only one who did that as a mean little kid? -- and I said, "What?" I did not even process the error, it was so egregious. I think I figured, hm, some new high school nickname. Well, they'll have no trouble with the PC police with that one.
Then I realized, oh yeah, there are other NFL games going on besides the Seahawks/Redskins this weekend. (GO SEAHAWKS! Yeah, I don't really care, but I'll jump on the bandwagon; why not?) Hm.
I'm trying really hard not to make a crack at Carolinians here. Oops; does that count?
So maybe I'll paint "GO SEEHOCKS!" on my car this weekend. Hee.
or, "What would make a copy editor drive over a cliff?"
Matt and I were driving on 66 the other day -- as we always seem to be doing -- when we saw "GO PATHERS!" written on the back of a Suburban, in whatever white substance people write stuff on their cars with.
(hm. Perhaps if I'm writing to blast someone on their spelling, I should construct my sentences better. Oh, well. I'll just be perverse that way.)
Matt pointed this out and groaned -- he delights in disturbing me with examples like that one, to see me react. Kind of like pouring salt on a slug, or am I the only one who did that as a mean little kid? -- and I said, "What?" I did not even process the error, it was so egregious. I think I figured, hm, some new high school nickname. Well, they'll have no trouble with the PC police with that one.
Then I realized, oh yeah, there are other NFL games going on besides the Seahawks/Redskins this weekend. (GO SEAHAWKS! Yeah, I don't really care, but I'll jump on the bandwagon; why not?) Hm.
I'm trying really hard not to make a crack at Carolinians here. Oops; does that count?
So maybe I'll paint "GO SEEHOCKS!" on my car this weekend. Hee.
Friday, January 13, 2006
"I'm tired of penguins"
I know I'm about 10 months late to this one, but we finally watched (some of) March of the Penguins last night.
Lizzy has been in love with the train table that "Santa" brought her. She wants to play on it ALL THE TIME. Not by herself, though. We have actually found ourselves, a time or two, trying to lure her away with it with the promise of TV viewing... Hard to believe we'd be encouraging that over a somewhat active pursuit, but there it is. And, Matt and I wanted to see the movie, too.
I was talking to my dad when Matt and Lizzy went downstairs, so I missed the first part. I'm hoping I missed some explanation of why these poor animals must walk 40-70 miles several times a year, because that just seems blasted inefficient. Maybe someone who actually watched the movie without distraction can fill me in.
When I did go down to the basement, I could hear Lizzy's chirpy little voice peppering Daddy with lots of "Why?"s. It wasn't so effective, since her questions made us miss Morgan Freeman's voice-over explanations. So I settled in and helped Matt handle some of the "Why?" load.
After awhile, Lizzy wanted to go play with the train again. I kept trying to get her to hold on for the babies to hatch, because I was getting into the movie... Eh, another time, I guess. At least, I own it, so I'm not dependent on Netflix for this one. I bought the DVD sight unseen -- rare for me -- on the strength of all the cool things I heard about it.
Finally, Lizzy said, "I'm tired of penguins," in a very cute, petulant little voice. All right. Since you expressed yourself so well, my dear. Let's go play with the train.
I liked what I saw of the movie, but, like probably 100 percent of the rest of the folks who've viewed it, I thought to myself, "Their lives are SO hard! Why must their lives be so hard?"
Then I remembered that I ask that myself, about us humans, every so often. My life is certainly not hard compared to, well, anyone else's, really. I think what I tend to ask is, why isn't life simpler. But that's an entirely different conversation.
I was awed by the way God created these little guys. The survival instincts and mechanisms they have. The way they pair off, and the understanding that they have to work together in certain ways to carry on the species. Their apparent devotion to their mates, and the relatively small amount of time they actually get to see each other. (though keep in mind, Lizzy and I left shortly after the mommies returned to the daddies and the new hatchlings.) Awe-inspiring. Perhaps this weekend I'll get to see the rest of it, though I doubt we'll be able to talk Lizzy into it.
Lizzy has been in love with the train table that "Santa" brought her. She wants to play on it ALL THE TIME. Not by herself, though. We have actually found ourselves, a time or two, trying to lure her away with it with the promise of TV viewing... Hard to believe we'd be encouraging that over a somewhat active pursuit, but there it is. And, Matt and I wanted to see the movie, too.
I was talking to my dad when Matt and Lizzy went downstairs, so I missed the first part. I'm hoping I missed some explanation of why these poor animals must walk 40-70 miles several times a year, because that just seems blasted inefficient. Maybe someone who actually watched the movie without distraction can fill me in.
When I did go down to the basement, I could hear Lizzy's chirpy little voice peppering Daddy with lots of "Why?"s. It wasn't so effective, since her questions made us miss Morgan Freeman's voice-over explanations. So I settled in and helped Matt handle some of the "Why?" load.
After awhile, Lizzy wanted to go play with the train again. I kept trying to get her to hold on for the babies to hatch, because I was getting into the movie... Eh, another time, I guess. At least, I own it, so I'm not dependent on Netflix for this one. I bought the DVD sight unseen -- rare for me -- on the strength of all the cool things I heard about it.
Finally, Lizzy said, "I'm tired of penguins," in a very cute, petulant little voice. All right. Since you expressed yourself so well, my dear. Let's go play with the train.
I liked what I saw of the movie, but, like probably 100 percent of the rest of the folks who've viewed it, I thought to myself, "Their lives are SO hard! Why must their lives be so hard?"
Then I remembered that I ask that myself, about us humans, every so often. My life is certainly not hard compared to, well, anyone else's, really. I think what I tend to ask is, why isn't life simpler. But that's an entirely different conversation.
I was awed by the way God created these little guys. The survival instincts and mechanisms they have. The way they pair off, and the understanding that they have to work together in certain ways to carry on the species. Their apparent devotion to their mates, and the relatively small amount of time they actually get to see each other. (though keep in mind, Lizzy and I left shortly after the mommies returned to the daddies and the new hatchlings.) Awe-inspiring. Perhaps this weekend I'll get to see the rest of it, though I doubt we'll be able to talk Lizzy into it.
Thursday, January 12, 2006
Sexual harassment -- WOO!
I had the much-anticipated sexual harassment training today. I'm totally kidding, of course; any sort of military-generated training is bound to make your eyes roll up into the back of your head and your tongue to loll out as you pass out from lack of signals to your brain. The Powers That Be claim that the conference room must be kept at near-glacial temps because of the computers nearby, and their preferred operating temperature. I believe the true reason lies in the fact that it's darn hard to fall asleep when you're cold. Unless you're REALLY cold, and then I hear you actually shouldn't do it.
I love the name of the seminar: Sexual harassment training. As if we're being trained HOW to do it. Hee.
So I had two hours to daydream today. Actually, the training wasn't bad at all. Aside from pulling the same tired joke over and over (Sample Question: "Will we have an opportunity to provide feedback at the end of this session?" Answer: "Of course not! HAR! I mean, yeah, of course."), the leaders did a good job.
The lady (anti?)harassment instructor said something toward the beginning that made me think for awhile, and wonder what y'all thought. She was talking about how we all perceive the same situation differently. And we all (or most, and especially us Americans) like to maintain a bubble of personal space around us. Then she talked about the differences of preferred eye contact, how some like to look someone directly in the eye the whole time they speak -- she said she was one -- and some people consider that really rude. How do you feel?
I kind of prefer not so much eye contact. It feels really super personal. And yet, when someone does it, it's kind of like when someone uses your name a lot. You get this little rush of pleasure. It's more intimate, and makes it feel like the person cares.
So, if it creates positive feelings in me if people do it to me, why do I avoid doing it to others? I've been with friends before, having a conversation, when they've actually commented that I seem distracted. I guess I just listen without looking directly at them?
I'm trying to make sense of my differing attitudes on the subject. Perhaps it's a holdover from when I first got to D.C. (or Europe) and learned that if you looked someone in the eye, they thought you a) were interested in some sort of romantic encounter, or b) were spying on them or otherwise planning some harm. To judge from their reaction, anyway.
I love to watch people (strangers), but feel that I shouldn't really look directly at them. It's weird.
Can anyone relate, or have I gone insane from too much harassment training? (I promise not to report you to my supervisor if you reply.)
I love the name of the seminar: Sexual harassment training. As if we're being trained HOW to do it. Hee.
So I had two hours to daydream today. Actually, the training wasn't bad at all. Aside from pulling the same tired joke over and over (Sample Question: "Will we have an opportunity to provide feedback at the end of this session?" Answer: "Of course not! HAR! I mean, yeah, of course."), the leaders did a good job.
The lady (anti?)harassment instructor said something toward the beginning that made me think for awhile, and wonder what y'all thought. She was talking about how we all perceive the same situation differently. And we all (or most, and especially us Americans) like to maintain a bubble of personal space around us. Then she talked about the differences of preferred eye contact, how some like to look someone directly in the eye the whole time they speak -- she said she was one -- and some people consider that really rude. How do you feel?
I kind of prefer not so much eye contact. It feels really super personal. And yet, when someone does it, it's kind of like when someone uses your name a lot. You get this little rush of pleasure. It's more intimate, and makes it feel like the person cares.
So, if it creates positive feelings in me if people do it to me, why do I avoid doing it to others? I've been with friends before, having a conversation, when they've actually commented that I seem distracted. I guess I just listen without looking directly at them?
I'm trying to make sense of my differing attitudes on the subject. Perhaps it's a holdover from when I first got to D.C. (or Europe) and learned that if you looked someone in the eye, they thought you a) were interested in some sort of romantic encounter, or b) were spying on them or otherwise planning some harm. To judge from their reaction, anyway.
I love to watch people (strangers), but feel that I shouldn't really look directly at them. It's weird.
Can anyone relate, or have I gone insane from too much harassment training? (I promise not to report you to my supervisor if you reply.)
Tuesday, January 10, 2006
miracles
It's the 90th post, and you'd think I'd learn eventually that you can't hit 'return' to take yourself from the title line to the message body... We live, we don't learn.
Speaking of airheadedness. I got off the metro (my daily commute -- not a strange route) one stop early yesterday. Even worse, I didn't realize it until I was halfway up the first escalator. I sincerely worry that I am losing my mind. That I will go in for some test one day, and they will find a gaping cavity where a brain should be.
Then again, I've always been a bit airheaded. So that's a comfort. ... I guess.
But none of that has to do with miracles!
Matt and I have been discussing the story of Jonah a lot over the past week. We did a Jonah table for our church's exploration of the minor prophets. The other 11 M.P.'s had tables, too. I loved it (the service). Those things always come together so well. It's been said before, but I love being around such creative and positive and uplifting people. Some weeks, that (and Matt and Lizzy) are the only uplifting people I encounter.
Actually, we've discussed Jonah a bit previously, as well. Kate and Matt trivia: I won't bore (or horrify) you with the entire "the day I was in labor with Lizzy" story, but a weird (to me) part of it is that my water broke at 2 a.m., we called the maternity center, they said to try to get some rest and hold off coming in 'til morning, if we could. I awoke; no more contractions. We went in at about 9. They gave me castor oil -- the effects were way worse than the taste, and you don't want to know what I mean by that -- and told us to hang out somewhere, grab lunch, see a movie, whatever. So we did. We ate at Chick Fil A and then saw "Jonah," the Veggie Tales movie. So weird to be sitting in a movie theater, knowing you will be popping out a kid (who no longer has any cushioning in there) later that day. Wondering how the theater management would feel about this if they knew.
So Jonah (the movie) is rather near and dear to our hearts, sort of. Or at least, the Archibald Asparagus version.
Matt asked me a month ago or so if I really believed that Jonah had been swallowed by a whale, lived in it for three days (roughly) and then survived and went elsewhere about his business. I said, Sure. And, I don't really know. Which is pretty much my response to matters of faith these days. I don't claim to have all the answers. I don't feel that I have many answers at all. But the few things I know, I KNOW. And whether or not I can prove them does not affect my faith.
And those last few sentences probably would have many shaking their heads and considering me an idiot.
So, for the sake of argument, and a wee bit of curiosity, I Googled Jonah for apologetics stories and explanations of what might've happened. I'm happy to go with the "God could've, and perhaps did, create an entirely new creature, or a bastardization of an existing creature, or kept around a dinosaur-era creature, capable of doing this deed." But I suppose some might consider that a cop-out. What I found was that some believe, after research and analysis I won't bore you with, that certain toothed whales -- sperm whale? -- might be capable. They would've have been found, usually, in the waters where this story took place, but, hey. Animals get lost, too. Oh, or a great white shark could've swallowed a man-sized object.
In any case, we'll never be able to prove, or know for sure -- unless God tells us, and I don't know if he will answer our questions or not -- what really happened. If it's true. How it was done. To me, it doesn't matter. God doesn't get bigger or smaller for me regardless of the method.
It led me to think about what miracles are, and who seems to receive them. I think God knows who is receptive. And there are many other variables. And, what some would consider miracles, others would see flukes or coincidences or nothing at all.
With that in mind, and with apologies to the three people who are not me, and therefore who have not granted me permission to share their stories, I would like to list four modern-day miracles that I have heard second-hand, or first-hand (the one that was me):
1) A boy is horribly abused by his stepfather during his entire adolescence. He grows up determined to follow his own way, and to listen to no authority figure. He moves to Hawaii, and runs a bar. He decides that, at age 28, he will kill himself, because he can't stand the thought of being "old" (ouch).
He throws a big party on his boat, after which he will do the deed. He bids everyone goodbye, and goes for a walk on the island. He is clearly feeling disturbed and at the end of his rope. He sees a note on a rock next to the path. He stops to investigate. It is a piece of paper with only the words "God loves you" on the paper, held down by a Hershey's Kiss.
He lays face-down in the path and cries for an hour, then moves off of the path and cries for another hour or so. He connects with God. He decides to live, and live well.
When I heard this story last year (or 2004?), he had a lovely wife and two precious children, and you'd never know he had such a troubled past.
2) A lovely, lively woman moves to another country to pursue an advanced degree. She has a difficult year adjusting to the climate, both physical and social. She has some setbacks. She dates a man for a short time, and breaks up with him. She starts to question why she's there. She feels very down, about herself and just about everything.
One day, she walks along the street, feeling very low. In desperation, she asks God for a sign that he still cares; that she should have some hope for the future.
A few minutes (or so?) later, she looks down at the pavement and sees her name -- not a common name, at that -- written in the cement. Not written ON the cement; written IN the cement.
She has since found one of the loveliest, kindest men on the planet and married him, and is very busy starting her new life, still in that country.
3) A young woman (me) and her friend, during their year abroad in Wales, decide to Eurorail it around the continent for their spring break (which lasts a month). They are fairly poor, but want to see what they can see -- staying in hostels, sleeping on trains occasionally, mostly eating what they can find at grocery stores. They have a fairly tight schedule to meet, since they're very excited about seeing all the places they'd heard of all their lives, and they're trying to pack a lot in.
One day, they have an especially tight schedule: Three hours in Pisa. Just enough to get off the train, run across town, see the Leaning Tower, snap a few photos and get back. On the way back, they figure they still have time to split a pizza for lunch. Only, they're wrong. Even sprinting, with full packpacks a-bouncing, they make it to the train station a few minutes late.
And the very dependable train system shows a flaw. The train they planned to take is 10 minutes late, which had not happened previously in their several weeks of travel. So they are able to hop on board and make it to Genoa, and thus see and hike the Cinque Terre, which turns out to be their favorite day of the entire trip. AND, it's sunny that day, at last.
4) A middle-aged woman goes for her annual breast exam. She is told that there are some unexpected masses showing up on the photos that were taken. She is told that it will take a week or so to run some tests and stuff. She waits, she wonders, she worries, she prays fervently with her husband and tells no one else of this until there's something conclusive to report.
She returns a week later. She is shown to an office that she hasn't seen anyone else taken to. She braces to hear the worst, and is told: "We are SO SORRY! I don't know how this happened, but the film we were looking at wasn't actually yours. Your results were totally normal. No problems."
These are the things my God does. We don't deserve blessings like these -- large and small represented here, obviously -- but we sure get them. I think it's fine to wrestle over the bigger questions, too, but I don't want to miss the smaller, everyday miracles when they come along. They sure feel big at the time.
Speaking of airheadedness. I got off the metro (my daily commute -- not a strange route) one stop early yesterday. Even worse, I didn't realize it until I was halfway up the first escalator. I sincerely worry that I am losing my mind. That I will go in for some test one day, and they will find a gaping cavity where a brain should be.
Then again, I've always been a bit airheaded. So that's a comfort. ... I guess.
But none of that has to do with miracles!
Matt and I have been discussing the story of Jonah a lot over the past week. We did a Jonah table for our church's exploration of the minor prophets. The other 11 M.P.'s had tables, too. I loved it (the service). Those things always come together so well. It's been said before, but I love being around such creative and positive and uplifting people. Some weeks, that (and Matt and Lizzy) are the only uplifting people I encounter.
Actually, we've discussed Jonah a bit previously, as well. Kate and Matt trivia: I won't bore (or horrify) you with the entire "the day I was in labor with Lizzy" story, but a weird (to me) part of it is that my water broke at 2 a.m., we called the maternity center, they said to try to get some rest and hold off coming in 'til morning, if we could. I awoke; no more contractions. We went in at about 9. They gave me castor oil -- the effects were way worse than the taste, and you don't want to know what I mean by that -- and told us to hang out somewhere, grab lunch, see a movie, whatever. So we did. We ate at Chick Fil A and then saw "Jonah," the Veggie Tales movie. So weird to be sitting in a movie theater, knowing you will be popping out a kid (who no longer has any cushioning in there) later that day. Wondering how the theater management would feel about this if they knew.
So Jonah (the movie) is rather near and dear to our hearts, sort of. Or at least, the Archibald Asparagus version.
Matt asked me a month ago or so if I really believed that Jonah had been swallowed by a whale, lived in it for three days (roughly) and then survived and went elsewhere about his business. I said, Sure. And, I don't really know. Which is pretty much my response to matters of faith these days. I don't claim to have all the answers. I don't feel that I have many answers at all. But the few things I know, I KNOW. And whether or not I can prove them does not affect my faith.
And those last few sentences probably would have many shaking their heads and considering me an idiot.
So, for the sake of argument, and a wee bit of curiosity, I Googled Jonah for apologetics stories and explanations of what might've happened. I'm happy to go with the "God could've, and perhaps did, create an entirely new creature, or a bastardization of an existing creature, or kept around a dinosaur-era creature, capable of doing this deed." But I suppose some might consider that a cop-out. What I found was that some believe, after research and analysis I won't bore you with, that certain toothed whales -- sperm whale? -- might be capable. They would've have been found, usually, in the waters where this story took place, but, hey. Animals get lost, too. Oh, or a great white shark could've swallowed a man-sized object.
In any case, we'll never be able to prove, or know for sure -- unless God tells us, and I don't know if he will answer our questions or not -- what really happened. If it's true. How it was done. To me, it doesn't matter. God doesn't get bigger or smaller for me regardless of the method.
It led me to think about what miracles are, and who seems to receive them. I think God knows who is receptive. And there are many other variables. And, what some would consider miracles, others would see flukes or coincidences or nothing at all.
With that in mind, and with apologies to the three people who are not me, and therefore who have not granted me permission to share their stories, I would like to list four modern-day miracles that I have heard second-hand, or first-hand (the one that was me):
1) A boy is horribly abused by his stepfather during his entire adolescence. He grows up determined to follow his own way, and to listen to no authority figure. He moves to Hawaii, and runs a bar. He decides that, at age 28, he will kill himself, because he can't stand the thought of being "old" (ouch).
He throws a big party on his boat, after which he will do the deed. He bids everyone goodbye, and goes for a walk on the island. He is clearly feeling disturbed and at the end of his rope. He sees a note on a rock next to the path. He stops to investigate. It is a piece of paper with only the words "God loves you" on the paper, held down by a Hershey's Kiss.
He lays face-down in the path and cries for an hour, then moves off of the path and cries for another hour or so. He connects with God. He decides to live, and live well.
When I heard this story last year (or 2004?), he had a lovely wife and two precious children, and you'd never know he had such a troubled past.
2) A lovely, lively woman moves to another country to pursue an advanced degree. She has a difficult year adjusting to the climate, both physical and social. She has some setbacks. She dates a man for a short time, and breaks up with him. She starts to question why she's there. She feels very down, about herself and just about everything.
One day, she walks along the street, feeling very low. In desperation, she asks God for a sign that he still cares; that she should have some hope for the future.
A few minutes (or so?) later, she looks down at the pavement and sees her name -- not a common name, at that -- written in the cement. Not written ON the cement; written IN the cement.
She has since found one of the loveliest, kindest men on the planet and married him, and is very busy starting her new life, still in that country.
3) A young woman (me) and her friend, during their year abroad in Wales, decide to Eurorail it around the continent for their spring break (which lasts a month). They are fairly poor, but want to see what they can see -- staying in hostels, sleeping on trains occasionally, mostly eating what they can find at grocery stores. They have a fairly tight schedule to meet, since they're very excited about seeing all the places they'd heard of all their lives, and they're trying to pack a lot in.
One day, they have an especially tight schedule: Three hours in Pisa. Just enough to get off the train, run across town, see the Leaning Tower, snap a few photos and get back. On the way back, they figure they still have time to split a pizza for lunch. Only, they're wrong. Even sprinting, with full packpacks a-bouncing, they make it to the train station a few minutes late.
And the very dependable train system shows a flaw. The train they planned to take is 10 minutes late, which had not happened previously in their several weeks of travel. So they are able to hop on board and make it to Genoa, and thus see and hike the Cinque Terre, which turns out to be their favorite day of the entire trip. AND, it's sunny that day, at last.
4) A middle-aged woman goes for her annual breast exam. She is told that there are some unexpected masses showing up on the photos that were taken. She is told that it will take a week or so to run some tests and stuff. She waits, she wonders, she worries, she prays fervently with her husband and tells no one else of this until there's something conclusive to report.
She returns a week later. She is shown to an office that she hasn't seen anyone else taken to. She braces to hear the worst, and is told: "We are SO SORRY! I don't know how this happened, but the film we were looking at wasn't actually yours. Your results were totally normal. No problems."
These are the things my God does. We don't deserve blessings like these -- large and small represented here, obviously -- but we sure get them. I think it's fine to wrestle over the bigger questions, too, but I don't want to miss the smaller, everyday miracles when they come along. They sure feel big at the time.
on being responsible
I just canceled my Netflix subscription. I am flickless.
It's kind of sad, at least for me -- I would think, "Hm, I haven't watched any Netflix lately. That's a shame," but things like getting sleep just seemed to be a higher priority. When you have a child who goes to bed at 10, and you have to get up at 6, and you have convinced yourself that you need 8 hours of sleep a night... Well, you can do the math. I don't get 8 hours' sleep all the time, of course, but there are other things in life! Books! Telephone calls! Sitting on your bed and staring at the wall because the silence seems so lovely! Etc.
I was thinking, "$19 a month is a deal! You can watch all the movies you can send back and forth!" Until you find yourself getting nothing for that money.
Netflix, I love thee for having every old episode of "Ab Fab," when my local Blockbuster had only one season. For allowing me to feel like a movie critic by rating movies on your site. For giving me something (besides bills, sales flyers, offers for a lower mortgage and credit cards) to find in my mailbox. For allowing me one last artsy viewing of The Station Agent last night.
This post doesn't have much of a point, besides the simple fact that I love Netflix. I love the concept; the efficiency; the organizational tools on the Web site. I highly recommend it for all who have time and interest in watching movies. Someday, I will be among your number again.
Until then, there's always endless repetitions of Disney movies that I own. Oh HOORAY!
(I'm still holding fast to the $35-a-month payment for the cell phone I almost never use. That one, you'll probably have to pry from my cold, dead fingers.)
It's kind of sad, at least for me -- I would think, "Hm, I haven't watched any Netflix lately. That's a shame," but things like getting sleep just seemed to be a higher priority. When you have a child who goes to bed at 10, and you have to get up at 6, and you have convinced yourself that you need 8 hours of sleep a night... Well, you can do the math. I don't get 8 hours' sleep all the time, of course, but there are other things in life! Books! Telephone calls! Sitting on your bed and staring at the wall because the silence seems so lovely! Etc.
I was thinking, "$19 a month is a deal! You can watch all the movies you can send back and forth!" Until you find yourself getting nothing for that money.
Netflix, I love thee for having every old episode of "Ab Fab," when my local Blockbuster had only one season. For allowing me to feel like a movie critic by rating movies on your site. For giving me something (besides bills, sales flyers, offers for a lower mortgage and credit cards) to find in my mailbox. For allowing me one last artsy viewing of The Station Agent last night.
This post doesn't have much of a point, besides the simple fact that I love Netflix. I love the concept; the efficiency; the organizational tools on the Web site. I highly recommend it for all who have time and interest in watching movies. Someday, I will be among your number again.
Until then, there's always endless repetitions of Disney movies that I own. Oh HOORAY!
(I'm still holding fast to the $35-a-month payment for the cell phone I almost never use. That one, you'll probably have to pry from my cold, dead fingers.)
Wednesday, January 04, 2006
Lizzyisms
Sorry, folks. You can't go more than two or three posts without them.
This is how our weekday mornings go, or at least, this part: We pluck Lizzy out of bed (my bed, since that's where she migrates at about 3:30 a.m.), still sleeping, and fling her in the car and peel out in a whirl of dust. After we buckle her in, of course. So I have to select and remember to take her outfit for the day with us.
I know what she likes and doesn't like by now. She's generally a tomboy -- her favorite t-shirts are a black one that says "Power Tots," which refers to her day care gymnastics class, and a tie-dye one that I picked up from a D.C. street vendor because she fell in love with boyfriend Ethan's tie-dye shirt that his mommy very kindly let us borrow one time after we'd bathed her at the Doan house.
So she's really stylin', as you can imagine. She has one or two dresses that she LOVES -- I think she rates her dresses on twirlability. The farther they flare out when she twirls, the more she likes them -- but they are summer dresses, and totally inappropriate for this time of year. I knew I'd get a battle today if I grabbed one of MY favorite Lizzy dresses, but I did so, anyway. Hey. Those clothes are too expensive and cute to hang in the closet all the time, or even to be confined to church wear. So when we got to day care -- I park on the street, then commence changing her in the car where God and everyone can see and be amused -- she threw a FIT when I tried to remove her tie-dye shirt, in which she slept, to put on this adorable dress. What makes this story (barely) worth telling was what she shrieked while she flailed and cried as I yanked it on: "I don't want to be pretty!" And I hadn't said a word, besides, "You WILL wear this dress today." I think she was anticipating my next argument. ("But Lizzy! You'll look so pretty in this dress!") I'm not entirely comfortable with appealing to her vanity to get her to do stuff I want, but it's often an effective measure, and effectiveness, far too often, dictates which measure is employed.
Last night we got her hair cut. She was really good! It's such a cute scene, her in the Bubbles stylist's chair, all but her wee blond head encased in a cape. She was making cutesy faces at herself in the mirror. I guess she felt like being pretty THEN.
She likes to make tea and dinner for her daddy and me. She made me some tea the other night, and of course, I have to pretend it's delicious. It is amazing how air can taste good, if you put your mind to it. I said, "Oh, Lizzy! This is simply delicious! Is it jasmine tea?" She replied, "No, silly. It's Cinderella tea." I'll try to guess better next time.
I have witnesses for this last one: On Monday morning, she and I attended our friend Dee's workout class for mommies and kids. Lizzy wasn't that into it, to say the least. She made a cute little anchor on my leg while I tried to work out. I finally talked her into sitting on the floor for most of it. It's a testament to Dee's awesome class leadership skills -- it was such a great session!Gave us mommies a great workout, and heavily involved the kids -- that she was able to carry on with stitches in her foot. With some demonstration help from our friend.
After class, we three mommies, one daddy and three kiddos went to Burger King so the wee ones could romp on the play place inside. It looked like fun. Lizzy decided she couldn't get up to the level of the slide without my help, and I decided I wouldn't help her, so we had some more unfortunate loud wailing. Eventually, though, she chilled out a little and took to lounging down at the bottom of the slide, waiting for Ethan to return from his Spider-Boy exploits above. She even called out encouragement.
"I'm waiting for you, Big Boy!"
In a classic bit of timing, one of the mommies teased me by saying, "Hm -- I wonder what Lizzy's hearing at home!"
Ayyyyyy.
This is how our weekday mornings go, or at least, this part: We pluck Lizzy out of bed (my bed, since that's where she migrates at about 3:30 a.m.), still sleeping, and fling her in the car and peel out in a whirl of dust. After we buckle her in, of course. So I have to select and remember to take her outfit for the day with us.
I know what she likes and doesn't like by now. She's generally a tomboy -- her favorite t-shirts are a black one that says "Power Tots," which refers to her day care gymnastics class, and a tie-dye one that I picked up from a D.C. street vendor because she fell in love with boyfriend Ethan's tie-dye shirt that his mommy very kindly let us borrow one time after we'd bathed her at the Doan house.
So she's really stylin', as you can imagine. She has one or two dresses that she LOVES -- I think she rates her dresses on twirlability. The farther they flare out when she twirls, the more she likes them -- but they are summer dresses, and totally inappropriate for this time of year. I knew I'd get a battle today if I grabbed one of MY favorite Lizzy dresses, but I did so, anyway. Hey. Those clothes are too expensive and cute to hang in the closet all the time, or even to be confined to church wear. So when we got to day care -- I park on the street, then commence changing her in the car where God and everyone can see and be amused -- she threw a FIT when I tried to remove her tie-dye shirt, in which she slept, to put on this adorable dress. What makes this story (barely) worth telling was what she shrieked while she flailed and cried as I yanked it on: "I don't want to be pretty!" And I hadn't said a word, besides, "You WILL wear this dress today." I think she was anticipating my next argument. ("But Lizzy! You'll look so pretty in this dress!") I'm not entirely comfortable with appealing to her vanity to get her to do stuff I want, but it's often an effective measure, and effectiveness, far too often, dictates which measure is employed.Last night we got her hair cut. She was really good! It's such a cute scene, her in the Bubbles stylist's chair, all but her wee blond head encased in a cape. She was making cutesy faces at herself in the mirror. I guess she felt like being pretty THEN.
She likes to make tea and dinner for her daddy and me. She made me some tea the other night, and of course, I have to pretend it's delicious. It is amazing how air can taste good, if you put your mind to it. I said, "Oh, Lizzy! This is simply delicious! Is it jasmine tea?" She replied, "No, silly. It's Cinderella tea." I'll try to guess better next time.
I have witnesses for this last one: On Monday morning, she and I attended our friend Dee's workout class for mommies and kids. Lizzy wasn't that into it, to say the least. She made a cute little anchor on my leg while I tried to work out. I finally talked her into sitting on the floor for most of it. It's a testament to Dee's awesome class leadership skills -- it was such a great session!Gave us mommies a great workout, and heavily involved the kids -- that she was able to carry on with stitches in her foot. With some demonstration help from our friend.
After class, we three mommies, one daddy and three kiddos went to Burger King so the wee ones could romp on the play place inside. It looked like fun. Lizzy decided she couldn't get up to the level of the slide without my help, and I decided I wouldn't help her, so we had some more unfortunate loud wailing. Eventually, though, she chilled out a little and took to lounging down at the bottom of the slide, waiting for Ethan to return from his Spider-Boy exploits above. She even called out encouragement.
"I'm waiting for you, Big Boy!"
In a classic bit of timing, one of the mommies teased me by saying, "Hm -- I wonder what Lizzy's hearing at home!"
Ayyyyyy.
Tuesday, January 03, 2006
a letter to a friend
I give myself a bit of credit there, calling an e-mail a letter. Heh.
How many old friends do you keep in touch with? I do what I can. E-mail has proven to be a mixed blessing. You know how it goes. You could e-mail at any time! With potential for immediate reply! But how often do you ... and it just doesn't feel the same. Then again, it's a lot quicker and more convenient, and that is worth its weight in gold-pressed latinum.
About my friend. This is a guy -- a German, though he had such an amazing command of the English language, it was easy to forget he was a German -- who sang in the church choir with me when I was in Germany. Have I blogged about this church choir? I can't remember. My previous singing experience was a class my freshman year of high school, which was hideous because no one in there really cared or wanted to practice, and it would take us weeks to learn a song and then perform it badly. And, singing praise in church. Going from that to this choir was like ... going from moldy bread and water to rich sustenance that your body wasn't perhaps ready to digest yet. The choir director was terrific, though he tinkered a bit overmuch with how we did the songs, to the extent that we were altering things right before we sang them. Much of the choir had been together for decades -- one time we practiced a song from Handel's Messiah TWICE before we performed it. They told me, "Just sing softly if you don't feel confident." Gulp.
It was a great experience. We even toured a bit. But I digress.
So this guy, interestingly named Christian, and I were casual buddies. I knew he liked me, but I chose to ignore that fact, and he chose to deny it. *eye roll* We took a couple day trips to amusement parks together. There's nothing like Germany's version of a Disney knockoff. One was a coal-mine ride, sponsored by Michael Jackson. (insert joke here)
So anyway. I correspond with this guy, oh, every other year or so. Here's my take: He's trying so desperately hard to come across as cool that it's painfully clear how desperately he wants to be. Which makes him so NOT cool. And he'd also like you to think he doesn't care what you think. But he cares SO MUCH. ... I don't care about cool! Sheesh. I just like people who are genuine, and who like other people, and who like themselves. I guess this isn't easy for everyone. Who am I kidding ... it's not easy for me, either, sometimes.
I sent him a Christmas card, and he e-mailed me. What he's up to, etc. He said something odd in there about not going to church any more, so he has time for other things. I thought, 'Hm.' I wondered how this guy, with whom I sat through a year and a half of (admittedly bad, military-sponsored) church services and sermons, felt about God. I can't believe I don't know, off-hand. I wonder if I ever asked while I was there.
So I asked him. He gave me back this long, ridiculous reply -- not ridiculous in what he believed -- well, somewhat. You know, if you need a placebo, blah blah, but there's no heaven, so make it count now ... and some logical holes therein. It was just begging to be questioned. (trust me -- I know this guy.) So we debated it a bit, back and forth. He asked me stuff like, why can't I accept what he believes? Well, as a Christian, I guess by definition I don't, but I'm not trying to change him, as he claimed. I said I wasn't shocked by what he said, just a little sad. And I told him why. And as I did this, I wondered, as the devil's advocate side of me listened to my replies: Why is it so hard to say what I believe, without sounding judgmental or superior? Because I didn't WANT to. I feel very humble about this. I don't feel I did anything to earn the salvation I have.
Then he started making some more cracks about stuff ... Hah! I talk about peace, while I work for the Department of Defense! (not entirely true) and asking why I was defensive, when I was just trying to match the tone in which he chose to conduct the conversation (sometimes I HATE e-mail) ... and taking things that I said totally the wrong way, and when I tried to explain them, mocking me. ("if it took you that long to explain it, you must feel defensive about it!") Argh.
I'm not writing about this to make the point that it was so unusual. I'm sure many of you have conversations like this all the time. I guess this time was different, because I just got sick of it. So finally, I called him on it, somewhat. He said he guessed he'd won because he hadn't had to use words like arrogant, when I had used that word to describe an attitude, not him. So I said, fine. You win. Go to Burger King and pick up your paper crown and wear it proudly. Because, really, I wasn't competing. I was just trying to talk to an old friend. But that is proving to be impossible.
I am not good at these discussions. I guess perhaps I need to get better at judging with whom they should be had. Who's ready and willing to discuss personal, spiritual stuff like that. I don't want to change someone's belief. Well, not in a forceful way. But if they're ready to hear what I believe and why, I want to do the same for them, and pray like heck that God is, or makes himself, present in their lives.
However. Probably to end a conversation so rudely isn't going to have that effect. And so I am left to wonder: Why am I seemingly ruder and more abrupt than I used to be? Do I care less? In some ways, yes. I've been through some stuff -- motherhood, for one, and the way it happened for me, for another thing -- that leaves me with little time for people who want to play games. I don't care what people think in terms of whether they like me, or even whether I like them, sometimes, if they are being ridiculous. But is that the right way to be? Have I taken a step forward, or backward? Because caring too much -- as I believe I did for most of my adult life -- definitely has its downside.
Maybe it's the pendulum swinging. Maybe I'll come back toward the middle one of these days. Maybe that no-nonsense attitude will be better seasoned with grace and compassion.
I hope so.
How many old friends do you keep in touch with? I do what I can. E-mail has proven to be a mixed blessing. You know how it goes. You could e-mail at any time! With potential for immediate reply! But how often do you ... and it just doesn't feel the same. Then again, it's a lot quicker and more convenient, and that is worth its weight in gold-pressed latinum.
About my friend. This is a guy -- a German, though he had such an amazing command of the English language, it was easy to forget he was a German -- who sang in the church choir with me when I was in Germany. Have I blogged about this church choir? I can't remember. My previous singing experience was a class my freshman year of high school, which was hideous because no one in there really cared or wanted to practice, and it would take us weeks to learn a song and then perform it badly. And, singing praise in church. Going from that to this choir was like ... going from moldy bread and water to rich sustenance that your body wasn't perhaps ready to digest yet. The choir director was terrific, though he tinkered a bit overmuch with how we did the songs, to the extent that we were altering things right before we sang them. Much of the choir had been together for decades -- one time we practiced a song from Handel's Messiah TWICE before we performed it. They told me, "Just sing softly if you don't feel confident." Gulp.
It was a great experience. We even toured a bit. But I digress.
So this guy, interestingly named Christian, and I were casual buddies. I knew he liked me, but I chose to ignore that fact, and he chose to deny it. *eye roll* We took a couple day trips to amusement parks together. There's nothing like Germany's version of a Disney knockoff. One was a coal-mine ride, sponsored by Michael Jackson. (insert joke here)
So anyway. I correspond with this guy, oh, every other year or so. Here's my take: He's trying so desperately hard to come across as cool that it's painfully clear how desperately he wants to be. Which makes him so NOT cool. And he'd also like you to think he doesn't care what you think. But he cares SO MUCH. ... I don't care about cool! Sheesh. I just like people who are genuine, and who like other people, and who like themselves. I guess this isn't easy for everyone. Who am I kidding ... it's not easy for me, either, sometimes.
I sent him a Christmas card, and he e-mailed me. What he's up to, etc. He said something odd in there about not going to church any more, so he has time for other things. I thought, 'Hm.' I wondered how this guy, with whom I sat through a year and a half of (admittedly bad, military-sponsored) church services and sermons, felt about God. I can't believe I don't know, off-hand. I wonder if I ever asked while I was there.
So I asked him. He gave me back this long, ridiculous reply -- not ridiculous in what he believed -- well, somewhat. You know, if you need a placebo, blah blah, but there's no heaven, so make it count now ... and some logical holes therein. It was just begging to be questioned. (trust me -- I know this guy.) So we debated it a bit, back and forth. He asked me stuff like, why can't I accept what he believes? Well, as a Christian, I guess by definition I don't, but I'm not trying to change him, as he claimed. I said I wasn't shocked by what he said, just a little sad. And I told him why. And as I did this, I wondered, as the devil's advocate side of me listened to my replies: Why is it so hard to say what I believe, without sounding judgmental or superior? Because I didn't WANT to. I feel very humble about this. I don't feel I did anything to earn the salvation I have.
Then he started making some more cracks about stuff ... Hah! I talk about peace, while I work for the Department of Defense! (not entirely true) and asking why I was defensive, when I was just trying to match the tone in which he chose to conduct the conversation (sometimes I HATE e-mail) ... and taking things that I said totally the wrong way, and when I tried to explain them, mocking me. ("if it took you that long to explain it, you must feel defensive about it!") Argh.
I'm not writing about this to make the point that it was so unusual. I'm sure many of you have conversations like this all the time. I guess this time was different, because I just got sick of it. So finally, I called him on it, somewhat. He said he guessed he'd won because he hadn't had to use words like arrogant, when I had used that word to describe an attitude, not him. So I said, fine. You win. Go to Burger King and pick up your paper crown and wear it proudly. Because, really, I wasn't competing. I was just trying to talk to an old friend. But that is proving to be impossible.
I am not good at these discussions. I guess perhaps I need to get better at judging with whom they should be had. Who's ready and willing to discuss personal, spiritual stuff like that. I don't want to change someone's belief. Well, not in a forceful way. But if they're ready to hear what I believe and why, I want to do the same for them, and pray like heck that God is, or makes himself, present in their lives.
However. Probably to end a conversation so rudely isn't going to have that effect. And so I am left to wonder: Why am I seemingly ruder and more abrupt than I used to be? Do I care less? In some ways, yes. I've been through some stuff -- motherhood, for one, and the way it happened for me, for another thing -- that leaves me with little time for people who want to play games. I don't care what people think in terms of whether they like me, or even whether I like them, sometimes, if they are being ridiculous. But is that the right way to be? Have I taken a step forward, or backward? Because caring too much -- as I believe I did for most of my adult life -- definitely has its downside.
Maybe it's the pendulum swinging. Maybe I'll come back toward the middle one of these days. Maybe that no-nonsense attitude will be better seasoned with grace and compassion.
I hope so.
New Year's resolutions
Why I ever make any, I don't know.
I know better than to do the ol' 'I'll lose weight' one. If there ever was a way to doom me losing weight, it's to TRY to lose weight. Has never happened for trying.
So I thought I'd give two a shot: One a daily, one a more long-term goal.
1) To pray every morning. To go somewhere -- probably the glider chair; I love that thing, and never use it -- and give God some space in which to work. Minimum time a day: Five minutes. I figure, if I get up and do it, that's the battle. It's not the time spent once I'm there.
I'm zero for three so far. Darn it.
2) To finish Lizzy's scrapbook(s) of her first year. I'm insane. I do believe I'm putting almost every photo I took that year in her scrapbook. And yet, I don't think I have a single one where she's clearly shrieking her lungs out. Not very representative.
This goal is cool, because I can take a bit more time. And, I've got, what, four months of the first year to go, so it's not like I'm starting from scratch. And those months are more interesting than the "Here's my friend Kelsey holding Lizzy. Here's her grandpa Ron holding Lizzy. Here's my Mom trying to inject formula into Lizzy's mouth, because apparently we don't have this breastfeeding thing down so well yet." Woo. Big excitement there. These are more of the, "Hey! A mirror! Who's that baby in there?" Or, pre-kitty scratch -- hauling on Kitty's ear -- and post-kitty scratch -- screaming.
Hey. Maybe I do have a screaming one. Sweet.
I know better than to do the ol' 'I'll lose weight' one. If there ever was a way to doom me losing weight, it's to TRY to lose weight. Has never happened for trying.
So I thought I'd give two a shot: One a daily, one a more long-term goal.
1) To pray every morning. To go somewhere -- probably the glider chair; I love that thing, and never use it -- and give God some space in which to work. Minimum time a day: Five minutes. I figure, if I get up and do it, that's the battle. It's not the time spent once I'm there.
I'm zero for three so far. Darn it.
2) To finish Lizzy's scrapbook(s) of her first year. I'm insane. I do believe I'm putting almost every photo I took that year in her scrapbook. And yet, I don't think I have a single one where she's clearly shrieking her lungs out. Not very representative.
This goal is cool, because I can take a bit more time. And, I've got, what, four months of the first year to go, so it's not like I'm starting from scratch. And those months are more interesting than the "Here's my friend Kelsey holding Lizzy. Here's her grandpa Ron holding Lizzy. Here's my Mom trying to inject formula into Lizzy's mouth, because apparently we don't have this breastfeeding thing down so well yet." Woo. Big excitement there. These are more of the, "Hey! A mirror! Who's that baby in there?" Or, pre-kitty scratch -- hauling on Kitty's ear -- and post-kitty scratch -- screaming.
Hey. Maybe I do have a screaming one. Sweet.
Sunday, January 01, 2006
status report
Everyone else in the house is sawing logs -- FINALLY -- so it's my big chance to, with trepidation, approach the unfamiliar keyboard (I'm totally used to my ergonomic one at work, and it's hard to go back) and ...
BLOG FROM HOME. Yes, ladies and gents. In honor of the new year, I'll actually make use of the fact that we've had the internet at home for several months now.
I've been thinking about the fact that some of my friends who read this haven't known me for long, and might be curious about some bits of recent history that maybe you don't come right out and ask about in the three minutes that you might talk to me after our church service. Likewise, there are other, older friends who might be curious about how recent events are -- or aren't? -- progressing. So, though I urge one and all to ask anything they'd like, because honestly, I have no secrets anymore, I'm going to try to assuage potential curiosity a little.
If you are all too familiar with the first story, perhaps the second story will be of some interest. Or not. It's certainly not on par with tales and concerns of starving people in Africa, or even overcrowded people in Manassas, but it's what's been on my mind, so I suppose that alone gives it some small degree of import.
And, I wouldn't blame you at all if you skipped this entire thing, because I'm mostly done with it (skipping back up to warn you), and it's REALLY LONG. Sorry. No offense taken if you don't bother. Think of it more as a reference material, if you like.
The obvious: Matt and I are together now, and we have a three-year-old. Since I'm not a big fan of having kids out of wedlock, nor living with a guy I'm dating, it's a bit odd that I've done (or are doing) both. By way of explanation, not excuse -- Matt and I were dating. I got pregnant. I didn't want to rush into a marriage that I was totally not sure about, and in fact I had serious doubts. Mostly due to Matt's lack of, er, being on the same page spiritually, I guess. He was different than me, which was of course a large part of the attraction at first, but eventually there comes a time where I had to maturely assess what was up with us. And, as I got pregnant, clearly all was not right anyway. Then there's the bit of psychoanalysis you can apply, if you like, regarding the fact that Kate rarely HAS ever dated a Christian -- could it be some sort of fear of things working out for the long term? But let's skip lightly over these details and get to my point -- I didn't want to get married right away. Matt did. He was ready to have a family, and live up to this responsibility that we'd created. I just needed to be "sure." Heh, as if such a thing were possible... But, nonetheless, I had to CHOOSE it, somehow. So I gave myself an arbitrary deadline -- June 2003. I had Lizzy in November of 2002, and wanted to make sure I wasn't deciding anything based on hormones or stress or sleeplessness or convenience or anything I'd regret. In that time, poor Matt tried to be as supportive as he knew how, and was doing all the great daddy stuff, and gently asking now and then if there was any chance we could be together.
(here's the part that's really embarrassing)
Then I got back in touch with this guy I dated before I moved to D.C. He still loved me, and we decided to get back together, long-distance. And he's a CHRISTIAN. So, you know, it must be "meant to be." And a really nice guy. We traveled through Europe a lot and he was a lot of fun to spend time with while I was in Germany.
I totally blindsided Matt with this info., and he sadly moved all of his stuff out of my one-bedroom apartment, where he'd been sleeping on the couch for about nine months, and we traded Lizzy back and forth for the next, oh, year or so. Which, need I say, was horrible. The big things -- is he feeding her good food? Will he hear her if she wakes up in the night? Will he remember everything she needs for day care the next morning? Will he drive her safely during that long commute from Manassas to Rosslyn, when it's just the two of them in the car? -- to the minor stuff -- do I have an outfit I don't necessarily like too much that I can put her in, because Matt will be picking her up, and i don't want something I really like disappearing until it's too small for her any more? are haunting us daily.
So the old/new boyfriend/sort of fiance guy actually gets a job here and moves. And I realize preeeetty much as soon as I see him at the airport that I've made a huge mistake. I'm fond of him. He's a very dear man. But by no means am I in love with this guy. And, in the ensuing weeks, I realize that, in fact, he is driving me nuts. I start picking fights when he discusses how we will be merging and arranging our finances, etc. I start resenting the fact that he doesn't know EXACTLY how Lizzy's and my daily lives are set; how things work as a part-time single mom. Though he is eager -- far too eager -- to learn and help. In short -- it's bad, bad, bad. So we break up, about six or seven weeks after he moves here to be with us forever.
Ugh.
But don't feel too bad for him; he met someone about a month later and very recently married her. So, God works in mysterious ways. Or, the guy was really REALLY ready to get married. Or both. Depending on your level of cynicism. As for me, I just wish him well, and it's scary how little I care. A sign that all is well juuust as it is. And that's good, because we still work in the same office... Yikes.
So, I'm free of men! Of pressure! Of someone telling me how to balance my checkbook. It feels GREAT. I don't need a man! I am a strong and independent woman, blah blah blah. And while that's all well and good, Matt sneaks under my radar again. (Darn him!!) I think the news that ex-loverboy was moving to town sounded the death knell for him for any hope of us getting back together, so he let his guard down, and we actually talked when we called each other out of necessity to work out who had Lizzy when or whatever. So he sort of let me in again. Told me what he was up to and stuff. And I told him I wondered if I was making a mistake with the other guy.
When Fiance Guy and I broke up, it wasn't too long before I remembered why Matt was so attractive to me in the first place. He and I have a connection that I've never had with another guy before. He really 'gets' me. And oddly, he has incredible insights into stuff - perhaps all the more because he IS on the "outside" of stuff like religion or church-going. He's very funny, and he thinks I am, too. And I feel so comfortable with him. And so secure. And he is SUCH a great daddy. Something that you can get a feel for before you marry a guy and have kids, but really -- do you KNOW? I would have guessed that he would be, but there's something about seeing it.
And Lizzy loves her daddy so, so much. I'm not back with him (since August '04) because of Lizzy, or for her sake. But it's a huge bonus.
Last winter, we looked for a house -- technically, I bought it, but Matt helps pay the mortgage. It wasn't something I really sought God's will about. I think because I was afraid he would say no. Which, yeah, is dumb. But the apartment I was in was getting way too small, noisy, etc. We needed more. So we lost our fabulous location (Rosslyn), and gained a long, stressful commute, but man are the weekends nice! We avoid the car at all costs.
So here we are, back together, with a three-year-old, co-habitating. What are we up to? And the answer is: Trying to figure out how to get married without spending any money. :) (I joke, but, then again, I don't.) And, just trying to figure out how this works for us, when we started everything backwards. We know it's ridiculous to be where we are and not be married. And the great temptation, at least for me, is to just go to the justice of the peace, or the courthouse, or wherever one gets hitched without any hoopla, and GET IT OVER WITH, already. This has been The Topic between us (around various house repair concerns, etc.) over the past six months or more.
And at this point, we still don't know. Yes, it would be fun to have some event to which my friends could come. But at this point, I have a lot of friends who live all over the place! And I really don't need a Princess Day, where I get to wear a big dress and be the center of attention. Seriously. I don't. There's something about having a princess of my own who is the center of every day's attention that makes me a little more pragmatic about all this.
So on to the last part of my gigantic post, which totally contradicts the above point about not wanting to spend any money on anything unnecessary...
THE RING
The ex-fiance guy was EXTREMELY practical. He also fancied himself to be quite a romantic, but it was apparently a different sort of romantic than I am. I'm pretty practical, in general. I mean, I'll blow money here and there -- I'm a big fan of Starbucks, for example -- but I am not too keen on being told that I need to have 18 red roses in February, or my significant other doesn't love me, and oh yes, that'll be $65. I have more of a, 'oh! you remembered when I off-handedly told you that Hugh Laurie wrote a book, and you ordered it for me off Amazon for Christmas? That is incredibly sweet!' kind of a sense of appreciation. Anyway, this guy thought it best if I didn't have an engagement ring. Two things in his defense: He had just climbed out of a mountain of college debt and didn't want to take on any more, and I told him that this notion was fine. Because, as I said, I'm practical. I don't need a ring!
Except that, of course, I kind of did want one. Nothing big and fancy. But, um, I like rings. And I like the idea that my husband-to-be would like to put a symbol on my hand that I was his, and that we were getting married. I know. Feminists everywhere are spinning in their graves. But I think it's a cool symbol. And, also, probably, it's a neat excuse to get some nice bling.
So Matt, bless his heart, is okay with the ring concept. But a lot of how he operates (I guess this is relationships in general?) is to try to read between the lines of what I say, and guess what I REALLY think. I witnessed this dynamic occasionally between my parents as I was growing up, and almost without fail, it would result in us doing something NO ONE wanted to do. (usually, what restaurant to eat at, or once, unfortunately, which West End show to see in London.) I'm not a big fan of the game -- I'd rather take what the significant other says at face value and force him to deal with the consequences of what he said he wanted -- but it turns out, darn it, that Matt is usually right when he plays this guessing game of "what Kate's really thinking." In this case, I contended that I DIDN'T REALLY CARE what the ring looked like -- well, I had preferences, but it's not like I'm going to find the One Ring To Rule Them All, and sheeminey, let's just buy something and get ON with it! We don't have a lot of free time to waste. He said, no. You'll be wearing this for the rest of your life. You go out and find what you like! And report back.
Oh, I should mention also (remember, I'm not a romantic) that I wanted to be part of the selection process. A BIG part. Because Matt does have a sense of style and all that, but if I don't even know what I like, how's he gonna know? So I insisted, and I suspect he was rather relieved that he didn't have to guess at it all by himself.
So we go a few places together, I see something that seems okay, the salespeople try to shove it down our throats, we get turned off by the sales process and leave, and Matt doesn't see enough of a gleam in my eye to pull the trigger, anyway. Repeat process several times.
Finally, I go to Tyson's mall myself and check out a few places. And then I find it: The Ring I Love. It is sold at the only jewelry store ON THE PLANET that doesn't offer insurance of any kind, a cleaning service, nothing. And, oddly (but nicely), the salespeople don't work on commission, so they're kind and helpful, but don't really care whether you buy the thing or not. I take Matt in to see the ring. He also LOVES it. It costs, incidentally, as much as we said we wanted to spend -- for the setting alone. Pre-diamond. Whoops.
And they're not offering any deals, and they never have sales. It is apparently the Shoppers Food Warehouse of rings. Except for the inexpensive part of Shoppers. I wasn't worried about the lack of insurance policy, because I can get that through my homeowner's, and blahblahblah okay pressing on for the benefit of those who have actually read ths far.
So we've been fretting about this for a month or two. We find another jeweler (a friend's recommendation) who tried to scout out the ring and get hold of the same thing from the manufacturer. But the ring's mislabeled -- the manufacturer doesn't have a ring like it on its Web site, and the ID number of the ring doesn't match any style that they sell. So this guy describes the ring to the manufacturer (he went to the first store to check it out), and the manufacturer says they'll make another and ship it over. Matt rubs hands gleefully over getting a deal (he hopes). Kate feels guilty about shafting the first jewelry store. (Kate is crap at business transactions of any kind. As a child, I ran a killer lemonade stand, but as an adult, I can't stand business propositions.)
Then, the "deal" guy doesn't call back. And doesn't call back and doesn't call back. When Matt is able to reach him, he claims not to have received the ring yet, but he'll let us know! He never does. The capper came last week when a lady put Matt on hold for 15 minutes, until Matt's guy gets unbusy, during which Matt's guy left for his long weekend. They told Matt they'd have the ring by Christmas. Then they suggested, perhaps new year's. (Matt wasn't going to propose then; it just sounded like a nifty deadline. But they don't know that.) Clearly, they blew both of those. So now Matt doesn't know whether to go with the sure, more expensive thing, or hope that a) this guy DOES get the ring together sometime, and b) actually has the right ring.
Because, as Matt knew and Kate discovered, Kate does care. Kate cares very much. She just didn't know it.
At this point, I'm quite tempted not to trust my judgment on anything. (referring more to the earlier part of this post) But life doesn't really give you that option so much, so I'm just trying to apply it to the humility pile and press on as best I/we know how. And, as I said regarding the Christmas tree decorating, it's just nice to know that there's someone corporeal (there's God, obviously, too) to lean on and throw ideas around with. And be with. Because sometimes -- just sometimes -- Matt does know best. And when he doesn't, hey, that's cool, too, because then I get to be right! YESSSSSSSS.
I'll let you know (obviously) how that whole ring thing goes.
It's been funny, talking about future plans -- when/how/if? to have a wedding, etc. -- when we aren't even engaged. But that's the life we've made together. And so far, it's been pretty fun, all things considered.
(but I don't recommend doing it this way... Things are "supposed" to be the way they are for a reason. There. Moment of hypocrisy over.)
And, for all the folks whom apparently I have misled as to my age -- I AM THIRTY-FOUR. So, I have been having serious baby fever lately, too. Lots to get resolved in the next year or two.
BLOG FROM HOME. Yes, ladies and gents. In honor of the new year, I'll actually make use of the fact that we've had the internet at home for several months now.
I've been thinking about the fact that some of my friends who read this haven't known me for long, and might be curious about some bits of recent history that maybe you don't come right out and ask about in the three minutes that you might talk to me after our church service. Likewise, there are other, older friends who might be curious about how recent events are -- or aren't? -- progressing. So, though I urge one and all to ask anything they'd like, because honestly, I have no secrets anymore, I'm going to try to assuage potential curiosity a little.
If you are all too familiar with the first story, perhaps the second story will be of some interest. Or not. It's certainly not on par with tales and concerns of starving people in Africa, or even overcrowded people in Manassas, but it's what's been on my mind, so I suppose that alone gives it some small degree of import.
And, I wouldn't blame you at all if you skipped this entire thing, because I'm mostly done with it (skipping back up to warn you), and it's REALLY LONG. Sorry. No offense taken if you don't bother. Think of it more as a reference material, if you like.
The obvious: Matt and I are together now, and we have a three-year-old. Since I'm not a big fan of having kids out of wedlock, nor living with a guy I'm dating, it's a bit odd that I've done (or are doing) both. By way of explanation, not excuse -- Matt and I were dating. I got pregnant. I didn't want to rush into a marriage that I was totally not sure about, and in fact I had serious doubts. Mostly due to Matt's lack of, er, being on the same page spiritually, I guess. He was different than me, which was of course a large part of the attraction at first, but eventually there comes a time where I had to maturely assess what was up with us. And, as I got pregnant, clearly all was not right anyway. Then there's the bit of psychoanalysis you can apply, if you like, regarding the fact that Kate rarely HAS ever dated a Christian -- could it be some sort of fear of things working out for the long term? But let's skip lightly over these details and get to my point -- I didn't want to get married right away. Matt did. He was ready to have a family, and live up to this responsibility that we'd created. I just needed to be "sure." Heh, as if such a thing were possible... But, nonetheless, I had to CHOOSE it, somehow. So I gave myself an arbitrary deadline -- June 2003. I had Lizzy in November of 2002, and wanted to make sure I wasn't deciding anything based on hormones or stress or sleeplessness or convenience or anything I'd regret. In that time, poor Matt tried to be as supportive as he knew how, and was doing all the great daddy stuff, and gently asking now and then if there was any chance we could be together.
(here's the part that's really embarrassing)
Then I got back in touch with this guy I dated before I moved to D.C. He still loved me, and we decided to get back together, long-distance. And he's a CHRISTIAN. So, you know, it must be "meant to be." And a really nice guy. We traveled through Europe a lot and he was a lot of fun to spend time with while I was in Germany.
I totally blindsided Matt with this info., and he sadly moved all of his stuff out of my one-bedroom apartment, where he'd been sleeping on the couch for about nine months, and we traded Lizzy back and forth for the next, oh, year or so. Which, need I say, was horrible. The big things -- is he feeding her good food? Will he hear her if she wakes up in the night? Will he remember everything she needs for day care the next morning? Will he drive her safely during that long commute from Manassas to Rosslyn, when it's just the two of them in the car? -- to the minor stuff -- do I have an outfit I don't necessarily like too much that I can put her in, because Matt will be picking her up, and i don't want something I really like disappearing until it's too small for her any more? are haunting us daily.
So the old/new boyfriend/sort of fiance guy actually gets a job here and moves. And I realize preeeetty much as soon as I see him at the airport that I've made a huge mistake. I'm fond of him. He's a very dear man. But by no means am I in love with this guy. And, in the ensuing weeks, I realize that, in fact, he is driving me nuts. I start picking fights when he discusses how we will be merging and arranging our finances, etc. I start resenting the fact that he doesn't know EXACTLY how Lizzy's and my daily lives are set; how things work as a part-time single mom. Though he is eager -- far too eager -- to learn and help. In short -- it's bad, bad, bad. So we break up, about six or seven weeks after he moves here to be with us forever.
Ugh.
But don't feel too bad for him; he met someone about a month later and very recently married her. So, God works in mysterious ways. Or, the guy was really REALLY ready to get married. Or both. Depending on your level of cynicism. As for me, I just wish him well, and it's scary how little I care. A sign that all is well juuust as it is. And that's good, because we still work in the same office... Yikes.
So, I'm free of men! Of pressure! Of someone telling me how to balance my checkbook. It feels GREAT. I don't need a man! I am a strong and independent woman, blah blah blah. And while that's all well and good, Matt sneaks under my radar again. (Darn him!!) I think the news that ex-loverboy was moving to town sounded the death knell for him for any hope of us getting back together, so he let his guard down, and we actually talked when we called each other out of necessity to work out who had Lizzy when or whatever. So he sort of let me in again. Told me what he was up to and stuff. And I told him I wondered if I was making a mistake with the other guy.
When Fiance Guy and I broke up, it wasn't too long before I remembered why Matt was so attractive to me in the first place. He and I have a connection that I've never had with another guy before. He really 'gets' me. And oddly, he has incredible insights into stuff - perhaps all the more because he IS on the "outside" of stuff like religion or church-going. He's very funny, and he thinks I am, too. And I feel so comfortable with him. And so secure. And he is SUCH a great daddy. Something that you can get a feel for before you marry a guy and have kids, but really -- do you KNOW? I would have guessed that he would be, but there's something about seeing it.
And Lizzy loves her daddy so, so much. I'm not back with him (since August '04) because of Lizzy, or for her sake. But it's a huge bonus.
Last winter, we looked for a house -- technically, I bought it, but Matt helps pay the mortgage. It wasn't something I really sought God's will about. I think because I was afraid he would say no. Which, yeah, is dumb. But the apartment I was in was getting way too small, noisy, etc. We needed more. So we lost our fabulous location (Rosslyn), and gained a long, stressful commute, but man are the weekends nice! We avoid the car at all costs.
So here we are, back together, with a three-year-old, co-habitating. What are we up to? And the answer is: Trying to figure out how to get married without spending any money. :) (I joke, but, then again, I don't.) And, just trying to figure out how this works for us, when we started everything backwards. We know it's ridiculous to be where we are and not be married. And the great temptation, at least for me, is to just go to the justice of the peace, or the courthouse, or wherever one gets hitched without any hoopla, and GET IT OVER WITH, already. This has been The Topic between us (around various house repair concerns, etc.) over the past six months or more.
And at this point, we still don't know. Yes, it would be fun to have some event to which my friends could come. But at this point, I have a lot of friends who live all over the place! And I really don't need a Princess Day, where I get to wear a big dress and be the center of attention. Seriously. I don't. There's something about having a princess of my own who is the center of every day's attention that makes me a little more pragmatic about all this.
So on to the last part of my gigantic post, which totally contradicts the above point about not wanting to spend any money on anything unnecessary...
THE RING
The ex-fiance guy was EXTREMELY practical. He also fancied himself to be quite a romantic, but it was apparently a different sort of romantic than I am. I'm pretty practical, in general. I mean, I'll blow money here and there -- I'm a big fan of Starbucks, for example -- but I am not too keen on being told that I need to have 18 red roses in February, or my significant other doesn't love me, and oh yes, that'll be $65. I have more of a, 'oh! you remembered when I off-handedly told you that Hugh Laurie wrote a book, and you ordered it for me off Amazon for Christmas? That is incredibly sweet!' kind of a sense of appreciation. Anyway, this guy thought it best if I didn't have an engagement ring. Two things in his defense: He had just climbed out of a mountain of college debt and didn't want to take on any more, and I told him that this notion was fine. Because, as I said, I'm practical. I don't need a ring!
Except that, of course, I kind of did want one. Nothing big and fancy. But, um, I like rings. And I like the idea that my husband-to-be would like to put a symbol on my hand that I was his, and that we were getting married. I know. Feminists everywhere are spinning in their graves. But I think it's a cool symbol. And, also, probably, it's a neat excuse to get some nice bling.
So Matt, bless his heart, is okay with the ring concept. But a lot of how he operates (I guess this is relationships in general?) is to try to read between the lines of what I say, and guess what I REALLY think. I witnessed this dynamic occasionally between my parents as I was growing up, and almost without fail, it would result in us doing something NO ONE wanted to do. (usually, what restaurant to eat at, or once, unfortunately, which West End show to see in London.) I'm not a big fan of the game -- I'd rather take what the significant other says at face value and force him to deal with the consequences of what he said he wanted -- but it turns out, darn it, that Matt is usually right when he plays this guessing game of "what Kate's really thinking." In this case, I contended that I DIDN'T REALLY CARE what the ring looked like -- well, I had preferences, but it's not like I'm going to find the One Ring To Rule Them All, and sheeminey, let's just buy something and get ON with it! We don't have a lot of free time to waste. He said, no. You'll be wearing this for the rest of your life. You go out and find what you like! And report back.
Oh, I should mention also (remember, I'm not a romantic) that I wanted to be part of the selection process. A BIG part. Because Matt does have a sense of style and all that, but if I don't even know what I like, how's he gonna know? So I insisted, and I suspect he was rather relieved that he didn't have to guess at it all by himself.
So we go a few places together, I see something that seems okay, the salespeople try to shove it down our throats, we get turned off by the sales process and leave, and Matt doesn't see enough of a gleam in my eye to pull the trigger, anyway. Repeat process several times.
Finally, I go to Tyson's mall myself and check out a few places. And then I find it: The Ring I Love. It is sold at the only jewelry store ON THE PLANET that doesn't offer insurance of any kind, a cleaning service, nothing. And, oddly (but nicely), the salespeople don't work on commission, so they're kind and helpful, but don't really care whether you buy the thing or not. I take Matt in to see the ring. He also LOVES it. It costs, incidentally, as much as we said we wanted to spend -- for the setting alone. Pre-diamond. Whoops.
And they're not offering any deals, and they never have sales. It is apparently the Shoppers Food Warehouse of rings. Except for the inexpensive part of Shoppers. I wasn't worried about the lack of insurance policy, because I can get that through my homeowner's, and blahblahblah okay pressing on for the benefit of those who have actually read ths far.
So we've been fretting about this for a month or two. We find another jeweler (a friend's recommendation) who tried to scout out the ring and get hold of the same thing from the manufacturer. But the ring's mislabeled -- the manufacturer doesn't have a ring like it on its Web site, and the ID number of the ring doesn't match any style that they sell. So this guy describes the ring to the manufacturer (he went to the first store to check it out), and the manufacturer says they'll make another and ship it over. Matt rubs hands gleefully over getting a deal (he hopes). Kate feels guilty about shafting the first jewelry store. (Kate is crap at business transactions of any kind. As a child, I ran a killer lemonade stand, but as an adult, I can't stand business propositions.)
Then, the "deal" guy doesn't call back. And doesn't call back and doesn't call back. When Matt is able to reach him, he claims not to have received the ring yet, but he'll let us know! He never does. The capper came last week when a lady put Matt on hold for 15 minutes, until Matt's guy gets unbusy, during which Matt's guy left for his long weekend. They told Matt they'd have the ring by Christmas. Then they suggested, perhaps new year's. (Matt wasn't going to propose then; it just sounded like a nifty deadline. But they don't know that.) Clearly, they blew both of those. So now Matt doesn't know whether to go with the sure, more expensive thing, or hope that a) this guy DOES get the ring together sometime, and b) actually has the right ring.
Because, as Matt knew and Kate discovered, Kate does care. Kate cares very much. She just didn't know it.
At this point, I'm quite tempted not to trust my judgment on anything. (referring more to the earlier part of this post) But life doesn't really give you that option so much, so I'm just trying to apply it to the humility pile and press on as best I/we know how. And, as I said regarding the Christmas tree decorating, it's just nice to know that there's someone corporeal (there's God, obviously, too) to lean on and throw ideas around with. And be with. Because sometimes -- just sometimes -- Matt does know best. And when he doesn't, hey, that's cool, too, because then I get to be right! YESSSSSSSS.
I'll let you know (obviously) how that whole ring thing goes.
It's been funny, talking about future plans -- when/how/if? to have a wedding, etc. -- when we aren't even engaged. But that's the life we've made together. And so far, it's been pretty fun, all things considered.
(but I don't recommend doing it this way... Things are "supposed" to be the way they are for a reason. There. Moment of hypocrisy over.)
And, for all the folks whom apparently I have misled as to my age -- I AM THIRTY-FOUR. So, I have been having serious baby fever lately, too. Lots to get resolved in the next year or two.
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