introspection

Phew! I thought 1:45 p.m. would be a relatively peaceful time to visit my local McDonald’s. I was wrong.

Once I got past the man holding the door open for me, asking all passersby for change, and I stood in line, I do what I usually do as I wait at McDonald’s – study the faces of the employees; check out the general mood/visage of those in line; and, if I really have a lot of time, analyze the efficiency of what’s going on behind the counter. But there’s usually plenty going on in the first two categories to hold my interest.

If you’re starting to wonder, “ooookay… It’s no wonder Kate’s put on a few pounds, if she’s spending THAT much time at McDonald’s,” well, no – that’s more of a ‘lack of exercise’ issue. Which is more of a hot weather/too much commute/lack of time/oh, yeah, I’m somewhat lazy issue. I have been going to Mickey D’s more of late to take advantage of their iced coffee drinks. Those I’ve shared them with have agreed that they’re more like flavored water, but it’s a nice refreshing sort of flavored water. I’ve decided it’s a tasty occasional afternoon treat that won’t keep me wired until 1 a.m., like a Starbucks in the afternoon has been known to do. Today’s venture, though, involved the procurement of a Southwest grilled chicken salad, also a relative newcomer to the McD’s menu.

(I pause now to take a few bites.)

Mmmmm. If you’re a McDonald’s salad kind of person, and $5.50 won’t break you, and you haven’t tried it, you should!

Recently, my church (I notice when I go to the Web site that someone’s really keeping that puppy current. Way to go, ‘iTeam’!) has formed a Spiritual Formation group that has now split into two, so as to provide a smaller-group vibe. We’re welcome to go to either, or both, (or, of course, neither,) as schedules and interest allow. One appears to be more inward-directed right now, examining contemplative practices, and the other, which defies description a bit, is more about trying to live out Jesus’ principles in such a way that would leave little to regret when we’re, say, 64, and looking back on our lives. (Have I mentioned, by the way, how ridiculous Paul McCartney looks when plastered on a Starbucks gift card?) (How is it that I have mentioned Starbucks now twice in one post, which in no way was intended to be about Starbucks? Yikes.)

I love that our little church community is trying to be more intentional about spiritual formation, and is going about it in a creative, inclusive way (both approaches are hallmarks of this church, in my observation). I’ve been frustrated thus far by my lack of involvement in the past couple of weeks, since the groups split into two. It’s been disheartening to realize that I can’t even imagine what time of day or week would be ‘best for me.’ I’m hoping to soon find a way to regularly attend at least ONE of them regardless, though that isn’t the point I’m trying to make with this post.

My interpretation of someone else’s (who was there) interpretation of the ‘64/Jesus experiment’ group’s progress thus far is as follows: Start by reading a gospel from the NT and go to a graveyard – in this group’s case, Arlington National Cemetery. It just doesn’t get much graveyardy than that! – man, that sounds cool. A discussion afterward led to … you know what, I’m just going to cut and paste here. From the host's own mouth.

We had a nice time cooking together and catching up on life, and talking about our impressions from the graveyard walking and gospel-reading we've been doing. As we did so, a theme seemed to emerge: we've all been struck by just how engaged Jesus was with so many people. Sometimes superficially, and sometimes substantially, but seemingly quite intentionally at every turn. Too, we noted that though he certainly spent most of his time with the powerless and the poor, he also hung with some rich and powerful folks, and we spent some time pondering his enigmatic parable of the Shrewd Manager, and trying to see how we fit into this alternately wealthy and poor culture in Northern Virginia. As we continued to talk, we noted how we tend to notice roles, rather than people. To not know our neighbors, or our co-workers, or the people with whom we interact and live among every day. We talked about our tendency to objectify the people whose job it is to serve us, and to objectify those who we are tasked to serve. To gloss over people, rather than to really connect with them. So our experiment is this: once a day, to pause to see a person, and then to find a way to show them mercy. We plan to write down at least three of these encounters over the next two weeks, so that we can share them when we get together.

In a weird way, I find this terribly off-putting. Because it seems like, even before we started these groups, and even before I recently read that same host’s copy of “Nickel and Dimed” (though that hasn’t helped), my heart has been twisting with almost every interaction with those who, hm, what? Are working a minimum-wage job? Something like that. It’s absolutely the worst at McDonald’s, for some reason. My heart bleeds for those people as if they’re about to be carted off to a concentration camp. It’s completely bizarre, and, no, I’m not pregnant or otherwise ‘hormonally challenged.’ I just find myself watching them, wishing I could do something for them (almost all are foreign, of various nationalities), wanting to reach out to them. Wanting to make their day happier. And so I try to at least smile at them in a genuine fashion, which might be rare enough indeed in their daily experience. But I fear that merely being a more efficient customer is the greatest way to bless them. And that doesn’t feel at all satisfying.

I don’t know what this is about. Sheesh. Those people are grown-ups. Younger than me, for the most part, but still grown-ups. One imagines they took the job of their own volition, though I’m not going to pretend they turned down a bank teller’s job to do so. So what’s my problem? “success guilt”? Is this something God’s doing in my heart, or is it just going haywire?
By the way – I have little fantasies sometimes about being able to work somewhere like, say, a bookstore, or a coffee shop, making almost no money. So it’s not like I look down on the type of work they’re doing. And, yeah, I know that in my fantasy, I do it because it seems like it would be sort of fun, not because I was desperately trying to make ends meet by holding three such jobs with no health insurance, for example.

This has happened occasionally before. I still remember a Bedouin I saw in the Jordan desert from whom I didn’t buy a $5 bracelet (if only I’d had such restraint during the rest of the trip), and I just couldn’t shake his beseeching face from my mind for weeks afterward. Why? He was trying to SELL ME something. He wasn’t even lying paralyzed in the road, begging, or in any number of more dire situations. Etc. It’s probably partly because I might have rebuffed his sale efforts more forcefully? Sick as I was of being seen as a walking dollar sign, after two weeks in Israel and Jordan?

The only explanation I can come up with, in the McDonald’s-type example, is the dreaded Mommy Syndrome. Give it what name you will. But once you become a mother (or, I daresay, an involved parent of either stripe), the world will never look the same. Now, instead of being full of human obstacles (though it still seems that way, sometimes), it’s more often full of other mommies’ kids. Small or grown up, that’s what they all are. And sometimes, it’s just too darned painful to realize that. It just about breaks my heart.

Why? You might still be asking. I don’t know. Maybe God IS doing something to my heart. I just find it odd that it seems to be so directionless.

And so, no, I don’t want to write a paper about three people with whom I have an otherwise mundane interaction. Or maybe, this is my paper? I will end up offering to adopt (or something) whatever poor individual is under such scrutiny, and that’s maybe not exactly the point of the assignment. I don’t think they want my pity, nor are they remotely pitiful.
I did miss the original discussion that spawned the assignment, so maybe I’m gigantically missing the point. If so, I would love to be told that.

Maybe it’s time for an honest analysis of where I don’t measure up to the life of Jesus. (yes, Ha! Ha! All nine thousand ways.) But maybe the approach I need to take right now is merely a different one. Maybe I should actually attend one of these here meetings instead of blathering on and on about it, from second-hand information, on my blog. Now, there’s a thought.

Or maybe I should just go with the introspective group, for now. :)

Starbucks! (third time’s a charm.)

mundane, and loving it

Hi -- sorry I haven't written lately. How are you? I am fine. :)



We Maisels are enjoying a few days of relative quiet. Matt survived a bachelor party in Baltimore on Saturday night, and I managed not to ask too many questions when he got back.

Matt's dad is moving into the basement (yes, finally) the first (full) weekend in July, so we're kinda gearing up for that. Which specifically means that Matt's planning to destroy a corner of the basement, so as to build a bathroom there. Again, I am trying not to ask too many questions. I might just avoid the basement entirely until the project is complete. But then Matt's dad will be here, so ... okay. No basement for awhile. Perhaps I'll have to sneak in a few ping-pong games before the weekend while I still can.

A few more photos for you:


Matt and Lizzy, jamming in our basement. Coincidentally, in the corner that soon will be wrecked and re-made as a bathroom. (Matt is pleased with the chord his hand is making here. 'It looks good in pictures!')













Matt and Lizzy, earlier that day, at a wine festival in approximately 90-degree weather: (this is about 20 minutes before Lizzy crashed. Unfortunately, we had neglected to bring a stroller, so I left and brought her home. I'm a heat wimp, so I did not mind.)












Here's our house (in the background) during a block party:




Write when you can. We miss you!
Love,
Kate

inside my head

In a conversation with my husband last night (which I'll go into in another post), Matt gently tried to say, in not quite these words, that I'm a very traditional -- one might say, rigid -- thinker. That I'm not so good at thinking outside the box. (I will relay the subject matter of that conversation in a subsequent post.) And, he's right. It's one of those things I started realizing about myself probably not until my mid-to-late 20s. Which isn't to say 'buck the rules!' 'anarchy! YESSSS!' I'm not talking about stuff like that. I mean, different ways of coming at something; different approaches aside from the traditional.

I've been trying to improve on this, when the opportunity arises. But it's almost always a conscious effort. I'm in awe of people for whom it comes naturally. Maybe it's partly some sort of insecurity holdover? I don't think of myself as being insecure most of the time, but every once in awhile I'll remember the girl in jr. high (me, if that's unclear) who wouldn't ever do her hair differently, lest it attract attention and perhaps scorn, and wonder if any part of that still resides in there somewhere.

I'm saying all this now because I kind of wish I'd thought of this before I paid (mumblemumble) to get my wedding dress cleaned.

but keep in mind that my dear husband is the one who likes everything in a room to match, AND have a function, whereas I'm much more eclectic. That's not to say I pull off the eclecticness with any sort of success ... I just don't care if I achieve, and in fact, kind of don't want, matchiness. I wonder what he'll say when I finally pull out of storage all of the European knick-knacks I rounded up over the 19 months I was in Germany...

wascally wabbits

I’ve been going through one of those “not much to say that I should be putting out for the whole world to see” phases. Yet I’d also like to have a blog that actually gets updated now and then.
I have a few friends – parents of young children; coincidence? – who generally don’t do a lot of pontificating on their blogs, but are quite good about posting photos of themselves and children and what they’re up to. It's a nice snapshot into their lives.
I do like actual words – perhaps you’ve noticed – but I’m going to allow myself the luxury now and then of going with what they say about pictures and a thousand words. But just now and then. You’re not completely free of my yammering!

Today’s photo moment: I’ve mentioned the wild bunnies that live in the hedge that borders our backyard fence. We see at least one in the yard as we pull up in the evening, more often than not. Lizzy and Matt have been leaving carrots out for them now and then. This Sunday, we actually got to see them eating the carrots. Which led to lots of cuteness from Lizzy and bunnies.

There’s one!

(Lizzy and Matt are sitting on our front step there. Which, with any luck, will be replaced by a full-on porch within the next couple of years.)

Here’s Lizzy taking a photo of them with her own digital camera (which currently has no other photos on it, because she’s developed a fondness for deleting the photos, as well as taking them):

And here’s a close-up of the bunny/carrot cuteness:


I can't decide who's cuter. But only one of these little critters will still let me cuddle her (sometimes), so I guess she'll remain number one in my heart.

we're inspirational!

A movie called "Knocked Up" came out recently. Brought to you by the people responsible for "The 40-Year-Old Virgin." Which was, I must say, the sweetest/crudest combo I never thought possible. Sweet crude, baby. Sounds like oil.
One of Matt's friends e-mailed their friend net at large to say that Matt and I should sue. It's the Matt and Kate story! I told my mom that, and she said Matt should be offended -- that it's basically Shrek having a one-night stand with a supermodel. (wait, I saw that movie. It was called 'Shrek.')
Apparently, Matt's friend added: "Yeah. The part about this movie that was different is that the woman didn't then try to run off to Germany with the baby." Cute. Guess we'll have to hold off on that lawsuit. Nothing like a big fat reminder of the stupidest thing you ever tried to do.

Thank the Lord for stiff international kidnapping laws... Or my life might be very different right now. Just another reminder that sometimes we don't get what we think we want. And Hallelujah for that.

Fortunately, there are plenty of other silly summer movies I would rather see before this one. Movies that (I hope) won't leave me cringing throughout.

So far this summer, flickage I have seen:

SHREK 3: Might have been a lot funnier, had I not read about or seen 99 percent of the jokes before entering the theater. Perils of the job, I suppose.
SPIDER-MAN 3: Not bad. I loved Emo Spidey, as I might have already mentioned. And the scenes between Peter and Mary Jane (though I hate Kirsten Dunst in this role, or any other in which she is not supposed to be high on weed, because she always looks like she is) were touching and felt genuine to me. The criminals were over the top, and dispatched a bit perfunctorily for me. But I'll have to own it someday just for the 'Bad Spidey' parts. Hilarious! Also, who'dve known that Bryce Dallas Howard could look so hot?
PIRATES 3: The usual mish-mash of plot blowing past my ears as I try to ignore those distractions (as well as Keira Knightley's weird underbite) and focus on how delightfully wacky most of the characters are, and how lush and awesome are the visuals. Orlando Bloom is even starting to make me forget his elvin days. Amazing.

UP NEXT: Probably Ocean's 13. And the Bourne Ultimatum. Because I just can't get enough of Movies No. 3.

heckuva guy

You want to know another way in which Matt is totally great? Well, okay. I'll tell you.

One of the awesome things we inherited with the house was a ping-pong table in the basement. (the basement itself was exciting enough!) I cut my teeth (probably literally, but I really don't remember) on ping-pong when I was a kid. We always had a table at my parents' house, as well as I can remember. We bought my grandpa's pool table when I lived in Ephrata (teen years), so we had to move the ping-pong table outside, exposing it to the elements. The outdoor ping-pong table was wicked challenging -- it warped all funny each winter (we replaced it every few years), so you'd get all kinds of unexpected bounces. Maybe that explains a thing or two about how I play... Hm. Hadn't considered that before.

Matt is such a darling that he always lets me win! Some men I've encountered have giant egos, where women's superiority in any area is concerned, but he is so secure in his ping-pongitude that he has never bested me in this area. Whenever the game gets tight, he graciously sails a return over the end of the table, or completely whiffs when trying to contact the ball with his paddle. He even accepts my trash-talking with a shake of the head and a frown of mock-concentration. And the scores! The scores! Usually something like 21-7, or 21-6. He even allowed a skunking a few nights ago (7-0). Not even close. And he always comes back for more! It's almost to the point where I believe he's actually trying. Almost.

I'm a lucky woman.

(yet another) sign

that Matt and I are meant to be:

We each, independently, purchased Blake Lewis' version of Bon Jovi's "You Give Love A Bad Name." It's generally agreed to be the most innovative and best of his American Idol performances. (he's the runner-up this season, for the 98 percent of you who are too cool to know this -- and I'm not being sarcastic with that.)
(yes, Mike, he was the cool beatboxer guy.)

So, yes, that means:
1) We both watch American Idol.
2) We both (without telling the other person) wished to download the song.
3) We both actually DID do so -- and PAID for it.
4) We are out ninety-nine hard-earned cents that could have gone toward, I don't know, a Gwen Stefani song or something.
Are we silly, or what?

It's a good thing the season is over. For the last few weeks of the show, Lizzy was imitating the annoying slide up the musical scale that signals the return of the show from commercial.
She was just about reduced to tears last night when I informed her that, no, she couldn't watch TV. Mommy's last must-see show of the sweeps season (House) was on.
Bad Mommy!!!

we did it!!!

House: SOLD.
SOLD, I tell you!!!
Matt just came from closing. It is a done deal.
woo HOO.

living in Disneyland

Our little Wild Kingdom scenes continued to unfold this weekend as Lizzy and I watched Mommy and Daddy bluejay teaching their wee jays how to fly yesterday. It was pretty darned cute. I could spot two of the five – we weren’t really ‘allowed’ to go anywhere near the nest, so I couldn’t tell if the other three chickies were still up there, but I suspect they were because Mom and Dad were intent on only two spots in the yard. There, the little still-fuzzy birdies sat. They’re only two weeks old! I can’t believe they’re already at the ‘learning to fly’ stage. They grow so fast… Sniff… But it’s just as well, because Lizzy was out on the trampoline with her Grandma Connie on Saturday, and the daddy dive-bombed her, as we were warned he would if we allowed the jays to nest on her playground equipment. In the ‘egg’ phase, the parents would grudgingly depart the nest to let us see what was going on. Even after the birdies hatched, we could scare them away for a look. But the parental instinct kicked in hard-core after a couple of days. They wouldn’t leave for anything. I could be close enough to reach out and stroke the parent on the nest (but didn’t dare, because I value my fingers), and they would glare and give us a warning croak. And now, they won’t let us off of the deck without an attack.

As the slower of the birds sat, not looking very willing to learn, a squirrel happened by, looking for nuts, we think. Both Mommy and Daddy bird swooped and dived and drove the poor thing under the deck. That little baby bird wouldn’t do anything until one of the parents flew in to sit next to him. Then he’d strain his little neck and flap his little wings piteously, as if to say, “I’m TRYING, can’t you see! But I just don’t think I can move from this spot, actually!” They would cluck encouragingly at him, and go back across the yard (about 30 or so feet away) to the fence, where I think they were trying to get him to follow. “If you want to be with us, you’re going to have to figure out how to get over here!” The other little birdie seemed to be having more success. He was taking short hops and getting those wings going, if not quite flying yet.

I was giving Lizzy a running narration of the events. “Mommy is saying, ‘c’mon, honey! You can do it! Just flap your wings like this!’” Lizzy said, “But how do you KNOW they’re saying that?” “Isn’t it obvious?” I said. Wow. She’s a fact-checker, that one. My little skeptic.

We also saw a little chipmunk scurrying around at one point, and a robin family feeding their nest of babies up high – we can’t see into it, but we can tell that’s what they’re doing. The bluejays and the robins seemed to have an understanding. That’s all I can figure. But the squirrels clearly weren’t in on the deal.

On Friday, I stayed home with Lizzy (the usual day care closure the Friday before Memorial Day), and we took a long walk and then hung out with our friends down the street. Lizzy and Ethan and Keenan donned swimsuits and played in the kiddie pool and sprinklers. The play somehow morphed into plant watering, and then full-on car washing. Dee just shrugged and got them a bucket and some sponges. Hey – who are WE to stand in the way of a couple of clean cars? From the bottom of the windows down, anyway. As they washed, they sang a short refrain from a song Ethan picked up somewhere – “We will, we will, ROCK YOU.” “We will, we will, ROCK YOU.” Lizzy joined right in – at times, Ethan would do the ‘we will’ part, and Lizzy chimed in on the ‘ROCK YOU’s.
I said to Dee, “at least it’s not ‘Fat Bottomed Girls’.”

Dee and I were joking about the discrepancies between the various, er, wildlife experiences at her house and mine. Granted, a bluejay divebombing is no treat, but for the most part, it’s all Snow White-ish cute little animal time up at the end of Sovereign. We have our wee bunnies, our nesting bluejays and robins, our chipmunk, our fuzzy wuzzy caterpillars. Somewhat of a fantasyland of friendly animals.

Dee and Sam apparently live in Adventureland. Or perhaps Frontierland. I think they probably think I’m a total nature wimp, at this point. Whatever brave front I had put up thus far came crumbling down this past week. First, Dee and I went running through the woods adjacent to their property. We had a good little workout. When we got back, Sam or Dee said merrily, “Don’t forget to check for ticks!” Um. Then there’s the copperhead snake that lives in their crawlspace.

But the Big Momma of Kate Willies came when I went into their backyard to toss an apple core into their too-cool compost bin. For reasons too boring to explain, I was by myself – Keenan was asleep upstairs. Lizzy was with Dee, in their van, picking up Ethan from preschool. I marveled at the awesomeness of the compost bin, flipped up the lid, and … just about freaking lost it when I saw the size of the spider that stared back at me (they have eight eyes, you know. Or is it more…). Okay, I don’t know if it was staring back at me, but it probably was! Dude. No one will EVER believe me when I describe this monstrosity. No one apparently has seen it but Sam, who would probably meet up with Bigfoot himself with mild curiosity and zero fear. “Oh, yeah. The Big Guy’s been living back there for decades, I hear. I’ve only seen him a few times, but he’s a smelly one.” Because, when I say, “spider,” what I mean is, “tarantula.” “sentient being that might well eat rodents.” So help me, so help me. The abdomen was flatter, but THAT WAS THE ONLY DIFFERENCE between it and a tarantula. Big ol’ hairy thick legs, big ol’ stripey body, big ol’ … geez, I’m creeping myself out again, just thinking about it. And it was sitting next to a big ol’ nest, as well.

Mothra spiders attack D.C. suburb! Residents flee in terror!

Naturally, when Dee returned a few minutes later, the stupid spider was gone. As was the last of my credibility.
When Sam came home a few hours later, he said, “Oh, yeah. It’s a wolf spider. A little smaller than my hand, I guess. That’s about as big as they get. Its bite is mildly poisonous, but it won’t kill you or anything.” Dude, I’m not worried about its BITE. It’s just … why does the size matter? I don’t know, but I keep hearing that it does. And in this case… Let’s just say, I’ve been face to face with black widows before, and yeah, they’re freaky. But this one will remain in the memory for a long time. The photos of wolf spiders I later Googled were nothing compared to this monster. Those were merely spiders. This thing ... words just don't do it justice.

Copperhead snake vs. freakazoid wolf spider. Cage match! I honestly do not know which would win.

party people

Lizzy and I are going to no fewer than three parties tomorrow. One of a school friend, in Ashburn (finally! Evidence that someone else at the day care doesn't live in Arlington! We're grateful), one who's a daughter of daddy's friend, in Manassas, and then a neighborhood block party that so happens to be held right at the bottom of our driveway. I've heard from a couple of neighbors that the previous occupants never attended the party, and somehow required entrance or exit at the height of the festivities, effectively requiring the seas to part, with difficulty. It's nice having such low standards to live up to as neighbors. Matt and I can manage to at least attend the occasional party. Hooray!
Lizzy and I were actually invited to a fourth party, but we decided, c'mon -- enough is enough! The baby shower can happen without us. Somehow.

In the interests of time -- I'm helping my boss with a project this week, because we have no one on vacation for the first time in two months, so we had to come up with SOMETHING time-consuming to do -- I'll tack on this excerpt from a friendly e-mail earlier today to Dottie:

The bluejay birdies on Lizzy's play equipment hatched. They nested on what amounts to a perfect viewing platform, yet they don’t have the consideration to move along when we want to view the babies! Unbelievable. I never see the birds feeding their chickies (five of six seem to have hatched), but the babies continue to grow. I know this because they’re too big to fully conceal (though the bird gets REALLY fluffed up when I come around; it’s interesting), and I see babies poking out from underneath. That CANNOT be comfortable for them! And I can tell they’re still alive, and bigger. So they must be getting SOME food. Maybe in the early morning?
Lizzy played sick yesterday. She threw up real good in the car Wednesday evening on the way home – she told us that morning that she was sick, but she seemed fine (no fever) and so we didn’t believe her, and she seemed to do fine at school all day – so Matt stayed home with her yesterday. They jumped and bounced and kicked and played, some with Ethan, the good friend and neighbor, and then when I got home (at nearly 8! I hate the non-HOV commuting options), we all – Ethan’s parents, and another friend named Jackie – imbibed margaritas and had fajitas. Lots of fun. A good almost-ending to my week.
I’m trying to lean on Matt to patch up the squirrel holes (wherever they are) in the attic this weekend. I am paranoid about Squrrels II: The Return. Which could, I suppose, happen any time – I hear they have two nestfuls per summer season. Yes, unlikely to be soon, but I want no chances taken.

Have a great weekend, y'all. Only five hours of must-see prime-time sweeps viewing left! In Matt's words, 'after next week, I get my wife back.'