Raging, Ranting, Raving, and Rhapsodizing

Testing

2011-11-30T00:52:00.001-05:00

If you've heard more than 5 sermons in your life, you've probably heard the orange analogy. When you squeeze and orange, of course orange juice comes out. When you squeeze a Christian, Christ should come out. There are many areas in my life that, when pressed, produce beautiful things like trust and faith and love. But being a mother has put pressure on me in a different way, and and when I'm pressed I wish that patience and kindness and gentleness and self-control is what came out. More often than not I see the exact opposite flow forth.

I am an emotional person, and I know that's how God made me. The wonderful benefit is that I empathize without trying, love deeply, and have a unique understanding of my heavenly father's big soft heart. The downside is that I tend to view everything through the lens of how I'm feeling at any given moment and lead with my emotions. My head is full of drama.

So many times I've had to put Isabella down and walk out of the room feeling completely overcome with emotion, adrenaline pumping through my system. That fight or flight thing is no joke. Every parent has had this kind of moment, I just feel like I have an inordinate amount of them, and I just don't know how to step back and settle. I have lots of good ideas now, but they all disappear when I'm caught in the moment, baby screaming uncontrollably in the back of the car while I'm stuck in traffic and can do nothing else but yell and cry and beat my dashboard. Not that I've ever done that.

A dear friend was telling me today that sometimes God continues to give us circumstances that push us until we are able to overcome them. We encounter the same challenge again and again precisely because it's such a issue for us. For her, it's money and the ability to trust in God's provision. For me, it's a hot temper and the ability to find my peace in Him. Here's the thing- God is merciful to us. He never gives us an "F" on a test... He simply allows us to retake it. Again and again and again. As many times as it takes to truly understand the material.

I feel like I've been taking the same test every day for the last 10 months. How do I pass it? Next time I feel the wave of adrenaline rushing towards me, how do I get on top of it instead of sucked under it?

On Shaving My Head

2011-11-01T00:20:00.001-04:00

About 4 months ago, I shaved my head. I had long curly hair at the time, and shaved it clean off, to about an eighth of an inch long. A friend who had recently done the same thing told me, "if it's really in your heart to do this, you won't regret it for a second." And I haven't. I give the same advice to everyone who asks me about it, or says wistfully, "It looks great on you, but I could never pull that off."

long red hair- shortly before I cut it off

When people asked me why I did it, I had a standard answer. Isabella is always pulling my hair, I don't have time to shower every day so it looks nice, this is easier and faster, I haven't seen my natural color in 10 years. Which is all true, but I was motivated by something much deeper.

When Izzy was tiny, I would read to her while she nursed. One book I chose (because it was the only book I could reach on my sister's bookcase from where I was sitting): Captivating- Unveiling the Mystery of a Woman's Soul by Stasi Eldredge (the partner book to Wild At Heart). I had avoided this book for years because everyone and their mom has done a bible study on it but, for lack of any other options, cracked the spine and started reading. I was hooked after the first chapter.

As I read, God did a massive work in my heart. He began to show me that, because of my history of sexual abuse, my view of femininity was incredibly distorted. I've always equated sexuality with femininity. I've thought of beauty as something dangerous. Thus, I've spent most of my life alternately giving the middle finger to anything stereotypically feminine and secretly desiring being objectified. I've written diatribes on this blog about being catcalled at while at the same feeling in my heart of hearts validated by the behavior.

My hair has always been an expression of this confusion over my femininity. Most people who know me would say that I don't care what anyone thinks of me, that I'm a nonconformist and that I do whatever I want, societal expectations be damned. But everything I've done with my hair has been in hopes that I would be perceived a certain way- it's been every color under the sun, long and short and straight and curly and everything in between. I was desperate for someone to tell me who I was.

I'm not saying there's anything wrong with expressing yourself with your hair- it's fun- but I did it to make myself into a certain person. I've been goth and emo and punk and hippie and pin-up and flapper and although it often does change the way people perceive me, it hasn't helped me accept myself.

Stephen cutting my hair before
we taking clippers to it

So when I shaved my head, I started fresh. I cut off all of my striving, all of my needing other people to tell me who to be. And I'll never forget the way I felt when I looked at myself in the mirror for the first time, curly locks laying around my feet. I felt beautiful- really beautiful- for the first time in my entire life. I felt settled, comfortable in my own skin, imperfections and all. Suddenly the things I dreamed of doing seemed possible. Suddenly I felt comfortable in any situation, sure of myself, and not desiring validation from anyone.

It seems counterintuitive to get rid of one of the things society tells women they need in order to realize your worth and power and beauty as a woman, but isn't that just how God works?

Me with 9 month old Isabella

On Double Standards

2011-10-29T17:18:00.003-04:00

I don't like to talk politics for two reasons. First, it's just not something I'm super passionate about. There are many other things I'd prefer to discuss. Secondly, most of my friends are conservative republicans, and while I describe myself as unaffiliated, I tend to lean to the left. Sharing my political views has often made me the recipient of scorn, anger, and rejection. And there are many other things I'd prefer to do than get yelled at because I buy into the whole global warming scam, or whatever.

Today I saw this car parked in a parking lot.

Bumper stickers from left to right read:

"fuck your tea party"

"Your prejudice is your own. Don't blame God."

"GOD is NOT a republican"

"Focus on your own family"

"When do I get to vote on YOUR marriage?"

My point here isn't to talk about each individual issue. What stood out to me was the overarching theme and the hypocrisy that's regarded as acceptable so long as it's directed at a certain group.

I couldn't help but put myself in this person's position and wonder why they feel this way, wonder what he or she might be thinking. "How dare you tell me how to live my life or try to force your values on my family. How dare you tell me that your way is better, that it's the only way. How dare you tell me how lost I am." I get it. But at the same time they seem to be saying some of the same things. "Your way is wrong. My way is right." Offering up the reminder, "judge not lest ye be judged" while in the same breath saying "fuck anyone who challenges my point of view," as our Hyundai Sonata puts it.

What a double standard. And I'm not just talking about the left or the non-religious, I hear this attitude from conservatives and religious people all the time. It's easy to talk about love and tolerance and an open discussion until you're confronted by the people that you feel hated by, and then it's ok to retaliate in kind. But that just doesn't work.

I'm not saying people shouldn't stand up for their rights and values and what they believe in. I'm not saying they don't have every right to voice their opinions. But there's a big difference between respectful political discourse (even when only one party is respectful) and retaliating against those who challenge you. Look at how Martin Luther King, Jr. did it. Look at how Ghandi did it. Look at how Jesus did it. And then explain why fighting hate with more hate is a better way.

Remember Westboro Baptist Church? God, I look forward to the day that no one remembers who they are. I won't post any pictures of their signs, you can google them if you have to. Anyway, I remember seeing a news spot about a gay and lesbian rights group that set up a booth across the street from where Westboro was picketing, and they were taking donations to support their cause. I'll never forget the guy they interviewed- not just his words but the tone of his voice, the look on his face. It wasn't hatred, or anger, neither was it submission or shame. He didn't have an unkind word to say about the people who were shouting in the background, he just explained that he was trying to make good out of an ugly situation. He decided to fight hate with peace, and his organization raised an absurd amount of money that day.

No matter what you believe in, you won't get anywhere with mere words. It's time to start backing them up with actions. Don't want to be judged? Believe everyone has a right to their opinion? Think everyone has equal value? Then live it yourself, even- no, especially- when it's not easy. As I stated in my last post, the times it's hardest to stick to your values are the times it's most important.

On My Worst Moments

2011-10-27T17:52:00.001-04:00

I love being a mom. I really do, but I didn't at first. I really struggled for the first 6 months to find an inner peace, a steady place every day, and I often felt overwhelmed and unhappy. I watched other moms cope with the challenges of a new baby, watched them adapt beautifully (or at least appear to) and wondered, "why is this so hard for me?" I've always felt somehow lacking as a woman and for months, motherhood was another confirmation of my feminine inferiority. I felt guilty every time someone said to me, "Isn't it fun?" or "Don't you love it?" and answered a meek "oh, yeah" but inside felt a resounding "NO!" I finally decided to drop my pride, ask for help, and be authentic with the people who love me. I received in return many listening ears, much understanding, and plenty of support.

The last few months have been vastly more enjoyable, ever better and better. I'm finally feeling that I'm a competent mother, able to handle the many and varied challenges, able to adapt.

I practice what I've been calling "intentional parenting." It's the same way I treat Stephen. We've always believed in being intentional with one another, never doing or saying anything casually or thoughtlessly or out of routine, quick to repent when we do, talking about everything, and I'm happy to say it's given us a rock solid marriage. I suppose I could call it "intentional relating" just as easily; it simply means I approach every day and every interaction with purpose.

I wake up every morning with the higher calling of not only meeting Isabella's basic needs- feeding her, clothing her, keeping her safe- but sowing into her heart and spirit the messages and values that Stephen and I have determined are most important.

That she is abundantly loved, of exceptional worth, and highly honored.

That we deeply value her heart, needs, desires, thoughts, and emotions.

That she is strong, beautiful, tender, intelligent, powerful, bold, and capable of doing absolutely anything she sets her mind to.

That Stephen and I are a safe place for her to run to when she's unsure.

That we deeply value our relationship with her.

I try to give my daughter more than the minimum. I try to pour everything I have into her, and I truly love doing it. The things I set aside for her benefit are not even worth mentioning, because she's worth my time and energy.

I work for this every day, and I'm covered by grace when I fail. But at nighttime, everything that I value so much during the daylight hours seems to go out the window. Lack of sleep is like a mental illness for me. I'm not kidding. I feel like I turn into a totally different person.

I don't know (nor do I particularly want to know) if this is normal, but Isabella often wakes up to nurse 3 or 4 times a night. Even at 9 months old it's rare for her to make it longer than 5 hours at a time. I'll usually get up and nurse her and she'll fall right back to sleep, no big deal. But sometimes she just can't get settled back down, and no matter how many times I bounce her to sleep and set her gently in her crib and pat her back for what feels like an eternity, she just wakes back up and I lose my temper so hard I think I'll never find it again. I would never, ever hurt my daughter but I definitely know what it feels like to kind of want to a little tiny bit, in some deep dark corner of my heart. Instead, I slam doors and stomp around and curse like mad and get so worked up that even when Stephen finally gets her back to sleep I'm too full of adrenaline to get back to sleep.

Then as I lay awake in bed with my heart pounding feeling like a werewolf slowly returning to human form, God speaks to me in a firm but gentle voice. He reminds me who I am, what He made me for, that I'm better than this. He reminds me of the commitments I've made as a parent, and that I'll look back at this challenging season as a moment in time, a mere heartbeat in the journey of my child's life. And then I remember that every nighttime waking where I respond to Isabella and don't leave her alone to cry in a dark room, I've taken another brick and cemented it into the foundation of her heart, building the knowledge that her needs are important and that Mommy and Daddy are people to be trusted.

And in the morning I apologize to Isabella and ask her forgiveness for losing my temper, for not being gentle and loving and patient with her. I thank her for being patient with me and giving me grace. I tell her I'm going to work on this issue in my heart and I tell her how much she means to me. I know, she's only 9 months old... that's why it's so important I start humbling myself now, while it's still relatively easy. We want to cultivate a culture of honor in our home, and it happens day in and day out, over time. With humility. With intention.

I'm slowly realizing that the moments it's hardest to honor and love are the moments it's most important to do so. This is how character is built.

Under Pressure

2011-10-18T00:31:00.001-04:00

I don’t know what’s gotten intoIsabella over the last few days. She’s barely napped during the day, is difficult to get to sleep in theevening, and is waking up a lot during the night. Classic teething symptoms aside from there being no sign ofteeth emerging. Anyway, I wastrying to put her down for a nap today, she was fighting it and I was gettingreally frustrated.

We absolutely don’t believe inletting our daughter “cry it out” but sometimes I need to take a couple minutesto regain my composure when she’s having a hard time. So I put her down in her crib, said “I love you,” and leftthe room. I sat down at the diningroom table for a minute or two to take a break and tried to breathe deeply.

Isabella’s cries were gettingreally insistent and I decided not to push it. If she’s really not ready for a nap, I’m not going to try toforce her. One of the things I’velearned during the last nine months is that I can’t control my child- or anyoneelse- no matter how much I want to.

I went in, picked her up, andcarried her out of her bedroom and into the living room. Her room was dark so I couldn’t reallysee her when I picked her up, but when I got her into the light and looked ather face, I was completely horrified.

Isabella’s cheeks, chin, mouth,hands, and shirt were covered in blood. The expression on her face was undeniable fear. I was an absolute disaster… thankfully Stephen was home, heheld her while I cleaned her off with a rag and finally managed to pry hermouth open. The blood was coming froma cut on the inside of her upper lip- probably from her own teeth. When I went back into her room I foundthat her comforter was bloody, too.

I feel wretched, My little girl hurt herself and neededme. She was crying for me and Icouldn’t tell the difference between “I’m frustrated and tired” crying and “I’mhurt and bleeding alone in a dark room please help me” crying. She didn’t have to wait more than 90seconds for me… but that’s still a long time for a baby in pain.

I’m thankful she wasn’t seriouslyhurt, I just hate that she was scared and I didn’t come for her rightaway. I hate that when I realizedshe was bleeding I couldn’t stop freaking out and get my head on straight anddo something about it, all I saw was bright red blood all over my baby's sweet little cheeks. I just keptsaying “oh my god oh my god my little girl, I’m so sorry oh my god,” whileStephen tried to reassure me (reassure me) that everything wasok. And it is now... minor injury, minor incident.

But seriously... is this me as a mom underpressure? I’m terrible at it.

Taking a New Direction

2011-10-10T17:31:00.001-04:00

I actually wrote this post on Saturday but didn't publish it till today (Monday) and of course, the sermon on Sunday was about dreaming, using Abraham as the example. When God gave Abraham His promise, everything that Abraham did from that point on was intentional toward this dream. God has given me a dream during the last few months so I'm going to take a cue from Abe and turn my sights in a new direction.

Dreaming can be scary. It can be a risk. What if my dreams don't come true? What if I fail? What if I get my hopes up and end up getting disappointed? But I'm in a season of risk taking and big dreams, where God has invited me to dream with Him- not just to dream His dreams for me, but to dream my own dreams for myself.

If allowing yourself to dream is risky, then certainly sharing your dreams with others is the most dangerous thing you can do. Then, if I fail, I fail publicly. By sharing my dreams, I am acknowledging them. By sharing my dreams, I'm making myself accountable for them. By sharing my dreams, I'm making myself vulnerable. By sharing my dreams, I'm making them more real.

But I've decided it's time to share one of my dreams... a dream that's so close to my heart that I was barely able to whisper it to myself for months, that I've only just begun to have the courage to speak about to my most trusted friends.

I've decided I want to be a midwife. Not just I want to... I have to. I need to. I know this is a calling on my life and nothing will stand in my way to get there.

I'm still surprised by this dream. I remember, a few years ago, having a conversation with my sister-in-law Kelli. She told me she wished she could have another baby because she thought childbirth was so magical and amazing and powerful and she loved it so much. She told me all about the birthing suite she'd wanted that had a tub and a birth ball and all kinds of weird birthing equipment in it. I remember thinking, "Good Lord... this woman is crazypants." I maintained that when (if ever) I had a baby, I wanted them to knock me out so I could just wake up and have a baby in my arms. Because childbirth is hard and it's gross and I'm not going to do it.

Nearly 4 years later, I was blessed to have a drug free waterbirth with Isabella (joyfully attended by Kelli)... how far I've come. It's amazing how much your perspective can change through a little education. I've always been the kind of person that hates being to be told what to do, hates doing what everyone else is doing, and if you try to say I can't do something I'm damn straight going to do exactly that, so when I became pregnant and learned that the way you're "supposed" to have a baby is strapped to a bed in a hospital, hooked up to drugs, with nurses and doctors telling you what to do, and a 30% chance of a cesarean, I said hell no, there's got to be another way, and immediately began researching.

I discovered a whole world where pregnancy and labor aren't viewed as conditions to be treated, but a normal and healthy part of a woman's life; where the woman has control over her care; where parents are educated about labor and delivery. The midwives I met with took all the time I needed at every appointment, they made sure I fully understood all of my options and everything that was happening in my body and soul. I felt personally invested in. By my last postnatal checkup I was ready to have another baby just because I didn't want to say goodbye to the amazing nurses and nurse-widwives who had cared for me for nearly a year.

My passion for the midwifery model of care has only grown. When I'm around pregnant women, I have to restrain myself from drowning them with information, and when I have an open door to share about pregnancy, birth, breastfeeding... I leap through it. Right now, writing this article, I'm holding back... I could write and write and write. I just love this world. I had an incredible experience and I deeply desire to bring other women into the same understanding and joy that my midwives were able to lead me to.

The thing is... I want to be a certified nurse-midwife. That's a Bachelor's Degree in nursing (4 years) and a Master's in Midwifery (2 years). We're talking 6 years minimum of schooling... and I have a child. I'll definitely have more. Obviously I'm not going to school full-time, at least not right away, and I would be surprised if I finish in 10 years. The idea of ten years of schooling is profoundly intimidating to me. By that time I'll be 36.

My dear friend Annie put it in perspective for me: "The fact is, you're going to be 36 one way or another. Would you rather be 36 and done -or almost done- with your degree, or 36 and wishing you had started?" It's not like 36 is old... it just feels like a long time from now. It sounds like a lot of work, being a wife and a mom and a student. But I've set my mind on it. I'm sharing it you-with whoever felt like reading this post- and I'm going to do it.

Defining Moments

2011-09-12T15:49:00.003-04:00

I vividly remember my last birthday party. I was in 4th or 5th grade.

I had excitedly prepared for the day... invited all my friends, received RSVPs, planned games, picked out favors and decorations and snacks. I even hand-made little place tags for each friend we were expecting. And then, no one came. Well, I think 1 or 2 people came, out of 10 or more that said they would be there. I have this very clear memory of sitting at the table on our back porch surrounded by empty place settings and streamers, looking at the names I had written and decorated on each of those stupid place tags. I vowed to never have another birthday party. It was 15 years ago, but every time I think about it, it still burns the way it did that day. It was a defining moment in my life.

Since then I've had many more situations that seemed to confirm what I felt the day of the failed birthday party: people don't actually like me. In junior high I had another defining moment. My best friend told me she needed to take a week-long break from our friendship. Our group of friends were informed of the break and everyone decided to hang with her, so for a week I sat alone on the bus, alone at lunch, alone in class. If you knew me in junior high you know I was already a weird kid, but my friends were weird too, so it was ok. Now I was weird and alone.

In high school I embraced my new identity and purposefully isolated myself... but that's a subject worthy of several independent posts. The point is, since the birthday party, I've had this crippling lack of self-esteem. I've always seen myself as this awkward, unlikable person. Even now, as an adult, I have an idea in the back of my mind that while I may exchange pleasantries and small talk with my peers, people mostly tolerate me. They talk to me when I'm around but no one really cares. It makes me terrified to reach out to people. It's exactly why I've always been so guarded, so eager to show everyone that I don't need them, and, consequently, how I learned to be such a good listener (by turning conversations away from myself).

Last week, Thursday, was my 26th birthday. Early in the week I was on facebook looking at pictures from a friend's recent surprise birthday party. I thought to myself, "No one has ever thrown me a surprise party. Of course, no one ever will."

Stephen told me to get dressed up for a fancy birthday dinner Friday night. We were to swing by a friend's house because they were giving us a gift certificate to a nice restaurant. The door opened, and standing in the living room were a large group of people... whose faces I recognized... even my sister was there. For a second I honestly wondered whose party we had accidentally crashed. Even after they all yelled "Surprise!" it took me 15 or 20 seconds to process the situation. This is for me? What? Why?

It was a wine and cheese party, so everyone was dressed up. I found out later that Stephen didn't remember to put the party together until the last minute, so these people had less than a week's notice and STILL came. Because, as it turns out, I am NOT a giant inconvenience. In a moment years and years of rejection and abandonment, both real and perceived, just broke off of me. Literally. Gone.

My little girl's heart was broken on a birthday, a day that is supposed to be a celebration of who I am. And that little girl's heart was healed on a birthday. God took this traumatic event and fully redeemed it.

I was telling Stephen all this after I'd had time to process everything, and tearfully asked him, "Did you have any idea this party would be so powerful and significant for me?" He nodded back, started to tear up himself. I just can't get over how amazing my husband is for doing this for me; because of him I will look back on my 26th birthday party as one of the defining moments of my life.

Pride and Parenting

2011-08-19T16:21:00.002-04:00

I was so blessed by the response to my last blog post. It felt like a big risk hitting the "publish" button, but it was liberating and I haven't regretted it.

Several people told me that they didn't realize I was having a hard time making the many adjustments to motherhood, and although my post wasn't strictly about those adjustments but more about my own insecurities, it made me think about how these adjustments would have been so much easier if I weren't so self-concious. Of course no one knew what a hard time I was (and sometimes still am) having. I don't tell anyone. Of course, I share things like, "I'm tired," or "You know, it's a big change," or the slightly less vague, "It's amazing how frustrated you can be with a baby in the middle of the night."

I think everyone has an unhealthy way they get validated by people that stems from their secret self-doubts. Two of my biggest insecurities are that I'm stupid and that I'm weak, so it's incredibly important to me that people think I'm intelligent and capable of taking care of everything on my own. Most people who know me would describe me as intelligent and strong... but being smart doesn't mean you have to know everything, and being strong doesn't mean you never need help.

The times I feel most vulnerable are when I'm admitting, "I don't know," or "I can't do it on my own." And anyone who has ever spent any time with a baby knows you spend a lot of time saying these exact things.

It's funny how being pregnant and having a baby somehow make you public property. People touch your pregnant belly and offer up their pregnancy and birth stories. I finally learned to stop people and ask, "Am I going to feel encouraged by this story? No? Then sorry, I don't want to hear it." Carrying around a baby is no different. I've never gone anywhere with Isabella without having multiple strangers stop me to ask about her. Normally it's nice stuff like, "Wow, all that hair!" and "What bright eyes!" Sometimes, though, my response to an inane question (is she sleeping through the night? Is she eating solid food yet? etc.) opens a door for me to receive unsolicited parenting advice.

A few weeks ago a Home Depot employee actually followed me around the store, suggesting that I give Isabella rice cereal before bed because she'll sleep all night. The other day an older lady that goes to my church told me that if Izzy bites while nursing, to flick her foot. ("It just shocks them!") And I can't tell you how many people have suggested some form of "sleep training" to cause my little girl to nap on my schedule and sleep through the night. Well-meaning interluders, the lot of them, but we have informed and specific reasons not to take much of the traditional parenting advice to heart.

I'm realizing though that my problem isn't that people are giving me advice... it's that I feel like it's necessary to tell them why I don't agree with them... essentially, how right I am, how put together I am. It's pride, and that's all there is to it. I could just say, "That's an interesting suggestion, thanks." Or the more direct but still polite, "Thanks, but I'm not sure that method is for me." People really are just trying to be helpful. But instead I shoot people down in order to affirm that I do in fact have my shit together, and I don't need or want your advice.

Motherhood makes you the target of a constant barrage of unsolicited advice... it's not just me. It's like this for everyone. And I need to realize that A) it's no reflection on me personally or my capabilities as a parent, and B) listening politely to someone's suggestions doesn't mean I have to take their advice. Maybe they can go home feeling purposeful because they were a huge help to a new mom, and I can go home and do whatever I intended to do in the first place. And... here's the really scary one: C) Maybe... just maybe... someone out there knows more than I do about this whole baby thing, and I could learn something new if I would just listen once in a while.

Bored with Base Camp

2011-08-12T00:44:00.000-04:00

The great Mitch Hedberg (may he rest in peace) had a joke about mountain climbing. "I want to climb a mountain- not so I can get to the top- cause I want to hang out at base camp. That seems fun as shit. You sleep in a colorful tent, you grow a beard, you drink hot chocolate, you walk around. People ask you, 'Hey, you goin to the top?' 'Soon.'" (I couldn't find audio of this joke... oh well, enjoy this compilation instead and consider this your warning that while the material is clean Mitch seasons his comedy with plenty of f-bombs.)

I feel like this is how I live my life. Waiting for something to happen. Wasting my time. Making excuses. Missing out. Truthfully, I rarely live in the present moment. I often find myself thinking, "Tomorrow I'll make that change, achieve that goal, deepen that friendship, pursue that dream."

I'm not sure why I'm sitting out on the fringes watching other people live. I think it's because I'm scared. The mountain of life can be a dangerous place. There are real risks involved, like relationships and rejection and failure. Being open, authentic, present, and vulnerable with people... it's just not safe. What if they don't like me? What if I don't fit in? What if people see my weaknesses? What will they think of me? What if I share my heart and they don't care?

In order to preserve myself, I've alienated myself. I don't reach out to people. I don't cultivate relationships very well. I don't share myself unless I'm asked, and even then I give little. I don't ask for help when I need it. As long as I live in this little bubble, I can't get hurt. I watch people who are truly living, who are willing to share their heart and passion, people who are taking risks. I hate watching the real mountaineers setting off up the trail because I'm intimidated by their courage and jealous of their adventure.

Since Isabella was born, I've felt especially isolated and desperately in need of a real support network... of friends who know me deeply and love me, who will celebrate the joys of life with me and help me through the tough times. Friends that I can support and encourage in return.

Normally I would journal all of this and not tell anyone about my life changing resolutions to stop hiding, and then lose my motivation and be disappointed because I failed again. So I guess I'm sharing all of this as a way to say, I'm picking up my pack and taking those first steps up the trail, and I could use a little companionship along the way. Hope to see you on the mountain...

I'm a Feminist and I Do Housework because I Love My Husband

2011-07-27T16:53:00.000-04:00

I haven't posted anything on here for quite a while. That's because I'm very busy these days taking care of 6 month old Isabella. And when I'm not taking care of her, I'm trying to maintain the business I've worked so hard to build. And if there isn't writing to be done, there are the endless piles of laundry which seem to be reproducing. And while I'm parenting, working, and cleaning, I'm finding a little bit of time here and there to take care of myself.

Much to our joy, Stephen recently got a job after 15 months of searching and waiting. And while he still works from home and it's more flexible than most jobs, he works hard and is usually in his office all day, so I'm sort of on my own on weekdays. It also means that a lot of the work for my business that he had been taking care of is now falling to me, and I'm feeling the added pressure. It's been a sore spot for us lately... I feel like I work more than he does. I'm certainly balancing more things at once than he is. But then I realize that Stephen gets far less time with our daughter than I do, and even less time to take care of himself.

Recently Time magazine published a story about how working dads and stay at home moms work pretty equal amounts, albeit in often different ways. But just yesterday, I read an excerpt from Think: Straight Talk For Women To Stay Smart In A Dumbed-Down World by Lisa Bloom suggesting that women should be hiring someone else to do our housework, and women who do it themselves are stuck in the 50s, and that we have "no excuse" for this ignorance. (You can read it here.)

The suggestion that I'm an unenlightened and powerless domestic slave, or worse, oppressed by my overbearing misogynistic husband because I'm not spending our hard earned money paying someone else to do a job I could easily do myself, is simply infuriating.

Do you know why I do housework? Because saying "I love you" in Stephen's love language means acts of service. Popularized by author Gary Chapman, there are 5 love languages: physical touch, quality time, gifts, words of affirmation, and acts of service. Most people find that they naturally communicate and receive love using mainly one or two of these languages. When Stephen sees dishes in the sink and just cleans them, or brings me a cup of coffee without me asking, or voluntarily cleans up a mess that someone else made, he's showing love. Just like when I give a giant hug or launch into a long winded soliloquy praising all your minutest qualities, I'm showing love. Because my thing is touch and words (lots of words).

Even though our languages are a little different, we try to speak each other's language regularly. So, although cleaning doesn't come naturally to me, and in fact goes totally against my nature, I do it because I love when Stephen emerges from his office and sees that I've vacuumed up the astonishing amount of ever accumulating dog fur, and his appreciation is obvious on his face.

I enjoy making my husband happy because I love him, and that doesn't mean that I think we should go back to the good ol' days when women couldn't vote.

How dare I complain about that?

2011-05-28T00:34:00.002-04:00

After reading a wretched blog post about motherhood, I felt totally discouraged and bummed out. The author insists that she loves her life, though she just wants it to be "more about her." She says she's made a living from pointing out our culture's double standards (which I agree do exist), but my guess is that writing these diatribes are mostly her way of dealing with the craziness of her life. And I'm sure she congratulates herself on being "brutally but refreshingly honest" or some BS like that. But who am I to talk? My blog basically exists for the purpose of complaining as a coping mechanism.

Then I read this truly lovely post shared via a friend on facebook, and it was a breath of fresh air. And it made me examine my own heart.

I don't love every second of motherhood. Admittedly, there have been a lot of seconds so far that I haven't loved. If I'm honest, I had a handful of moments (mostly during the first 6 weeks when everything blended into a hazy, sleepless fog) that I wondered, "Is there an undo button?!?" I've had a series of identity crises as the fabric of my daily experience is transformed into something utterly unfamiliar.

But my incredible daughter is almost 5 months old now, and we've had millions of brilliant, glorious, wonderful seconds, and those far outweigh the bad ones. I have a tendency to focus on the negative, so I have to be intentional about cherishing and remembering every beautiful moment with Isabella.

Every smile, every grin. Every tiny sigh, every big old yawn. Every time her eyes light up when I walk in. Every morning that she wakes up and scoots across the bed towards me. Every time she makes that sad little pouty face that would be funny if she wasn't being so completely serious about it. Every time her little pudgy hands reach up to touch my face or grab my hair. Every sweet sound she makes. These are the things that make motherhood worth all the sacrifice- so worth it that complaining about what I'm giving up almost seems trivial.

What an honor, what a privilege it is to be a parent. What a massive responsibility it is to care for, guide, and lead another human being into healthy adulthood. I sometimes feel that I'm spending an inordinate amount of time managing Izzy's mood, changing diapers, and being fussed at, rather than simply enjoying her. But she's not here simply for my enjoyment. What I'm doing is not solving a temporary problem or trying to satiate her so I can go back to bed.

It's far more meaningful and enduring than that. She's learning that when she has a need, it's met; her parents are trustworthy, and she is deeply valued and unconditionally loved. Through Stephen and I, Isabella should experience the Father's abiding love, indefatigable patience, and prevailing grace. I get to love her every day, and in return, she's teaching me how to do it better. How dare I complain about that?

How to Talk to a Pregnant Woman

2011-01-03T15:33:00.000-05:00

I've been pregnant for 39 weeks now. Over the last few days I've had a handful of people pay me truly lovely compliments, and continued comments from my friends, family, and fabulous husband have helped me maintain emotional balance throughout the process.

Unfortunately, I've also gotten my share of insensitive (or just plain rude) comments along the way, as pretty much every pregnant woman has. Here are a few things people have actually said to me, and my suggestions for how to make them sound more like the compliments I trust they were originally intended to be:

Actual Comment: "That's quite a bulge."

No. It's really not. A bulge is excess fat that hangs over your too-tight pants because you're trying to pretend you're still a size 8 even though you're a 12. A belly is a sweet, gently rounded abdomen that is accommodating the miracle of life within. A bulge is gross. A belly is cute. We want to have a baby belly.

Suggested Alternative: "Looks like baby is growing wonderfully!"

Actual Comment: "WOW! You must be having twins!"

Why, because I'm enormous? Really. Thanks. Would you like to comment on my crazy-hormone-acne, as well? Or how about the arm flab I just noticed the other day? I could show you my new stretch mark, if you wanted. I mean, as long as you're reassuring me about all my insecurities.

Suggested Alternative: Shut up. If your only comment on her pregnancy and upcoming bundle of joy is related to her overwhelming size, I promise, she doesn't want to hear about it.

Actual Comment: "How do you feel?"

Ok, there's nothing inherently wrong with this question. My problem is with people who ask "How do you feel?" in the tone of voice you would use when addressing someone who just fractured their leg in six places or found out they have terminal cancer. The woman you are speaking to is pregnant, not critically injured or ill. Whether she's feeling great or not, she doesn't need your pity. She could probably benefit from your encouragement, though.

Suggested Alternative: Same phrasing, but try it without projecting your bummer expectations about pregnancy on the recipient.

Actual Comment: "You'd better hurry up and have that baby!"

This was a month before my due date. Turns out, she had me confused with another pregnant lady and thought I had passed my due date already. An honest mistake. However, had I been approaching 42 weeks as she'd thought, the comment probably would only have served to make me feel more pressured and anxious about the fact that I still hadn't had a baby.

Suggested Alternative: "I bet you're excited to meet your baby!"

Actual comment: "You look so big/huge/tired/fat/ready to pop!"

A growing belly is the sign of a healthy pregnancy. We want to get bigger, and most of the preggers ladies I've met are delighted with the process. But consider- just for a moment- how your phrasing will sound to the woman you're talking to. As I continue to be the recipient of these kinds of comments, I'm increasingly tempted to respond with things like, "Aww, so are you!" and "You barely fit into that top!" But I keep them to myself, and then write blog posts about them later.

Suggested Alternative: "You look so beautiful/healthy/amazing/incredible/glowing!" (This one, using any of the suggested words or any derivation of them, is always safe. ALWAYS.)

Actual Comment: "You're still pregnant."

Trust me on this one. If it feels to you like she's been carrying a baby for a long time, it doesn't feel like it's been any less time to her.

Suggested Alternative: "So, when are you due?" (Again, another one that's always safe.)

Actual Comment: "That shirt's workin hard."

Alright, this one doesn't bother me, but only because my husband says it to me. It's a line from Juno. We think it's funny.

Suggested Alternative: I do not recommend trying this on anyone but your best friend who has also seen Juno and liked it and would definitely remember the line.

In any conversation with a pregnant woman, carefully consider your relationship with her and your level of intimacy before saying something you can't take back. My close friends and family can make comments and ask questions that acquaintances would never get away with. And if you are so socially awkward that you don't know the difference between preggers small talk and asking if her nipples are weird now, maybe you shouldn't be talking to her at all.

What about you, moms and mothers-to-be? What unbelievable or humorous-now-but-not-so-much-at-the-time comments did you receive during pregnancy?

Conversations With My Sister: on Paula Deen

2010-10-22T11:26:00.000-04:00

My sister, Amy, and I have a time-honored tradition of trash-talking the magazine covers displayed near the checkout aisle at grocery stores. Especially the ones featuring well-known 'homemaking celebrities.' I've always thought Martha Stewart looked downright sinister. But that's a subject worthy of it's own post. Today I wanted to talk a little about Paula Deen.

She's always creeped me out, but I've never been able to put my finger on exactly why. She's doesn't seem as malevolent as Martha, just... not right. Her piercing blue eyes, oddly perfect hair, and intense close-up photographs on the cover on her magazine just give me the jibblies. Amy texted me a photograph of her the other day. That same day, I read a little article about her and had to share the news with Amy.

Our text conversation went as follows:

Me: Fun fact about Paula Deen: apparently she was agoraphobic for 20 years. Since she never left her house, she taught herself to cook. So, no wonder she has crazy face. She had virtually no human contact for like 2 decades.

Amy: Wow. That explains so much. :)

Me: I wonder if she talked to the food as she was slicing and sauteing. Shiver.

Amy: That's a creepy creepy image.

Me: Let it really sink in. It gets worse.

Amy: Like a sociopath. Speaking gently, almost reassuringly as she decapitates. Shudder.

Me: That's the funniest/most disturbing thing I've ever heard!!!

Amy: It might be the most disturbing thing I've ever written. I need to get that image out of my head.

Not sure you believe me? See for yourself.

Paula with a few unfortunate victims

That Guy at the Gym

2010-09-11T13:58:00.004-04:00

I've belonged to two gyms and used multiple apartment complex facilities, and it seems like this guy is everywhere. If you've ever been to a gym, you've probably seen him. And he probably made your workout uncomfortable. Who is he?

Grunting Unnecessarily Guy

Let me start out by saying that I consider all gym grunting unnecessary and disgusting. It's why I've actually chosen on several occasions to skip my workout because I've forgotten my iPod... I'd prefer not to hear what you sound like in the bathroom. But some guys grunt while lifting significant amounts of weight, and that I don't mind as much. Grunting Unnecessarily Guy is that one dude who is benching less than I can but thinks he's in an iron man competition, and sounds like it.

The Former Bodybuilder

I think there's at least one of these guys working out at every gym in America. He's usually really buff with a substantial beer-gut. He's trying to relive his glory days while coping with a rapidly slowing metabolism. He's never heard of cardio. He's wearing sweat-pants (possibly cut-off at a modest length), black athletic shoes, and an old Gold's Gym sweater he purchased while Miami Vice was still on the air that's been cut into a deep tank top that shows a little side-man-boob and an alarming amount of pit hair.

The Guy Who Doesn't Actually Work Out

He stands near various pieces of equipment, occasionally doing a set but mostly chugging gatorade and stretching so as to show off his chest. He checks himself out the mirrors almost as often as he imagines you are checking him out. You know who I'm talking about.

The Guy Who Might Live at the Gym

Whether you go to gym for a workout in the early morning, over your lunch break, in the middle of the day, or right before closing... he's there. Whether you go on a Sunday or a Tuesday or a Friday... he's there. Regardless of when you visit, he's always wearing the same thing. He's on a first name basis with every single employee. He may or may not have a job. Which begs the question, how does he afford his gym membership? Which makes you think he might be sneaking into a storage closet to sleep every night.

Junkers

This was the nickname Stephen and I had for this short dude who belonged to our gym in South Carolina, and I've seen the same kind of guy in other facilities. Junkers is always wearing the same pair of wildly inappropriate, super-tight spandex shorts.

Lower-Back Tattoo Guy

Ok, maybe you haven't seen him at your gym, but I saw him once at our gym, swimming laps. He got out of the pool wearing speedo shorts- the kind that end right above the knee but are so low cut at the waist you practically need a bikini wax to wear them. He strutted over to the chair where his towel was. I was just thinking that he was kind of good looking when he turned around. And there it was. A tramp stamp. A small tribal tattoo, about 3 inches across, right on his lower back. I'm now sure that he bought the speedo specifically to show it off, because regular swim trunks would have covered it up. As soon as I saw it, all thoughts of hotness vanished instantly.

That One Guy in Yoga Class

He shows up alone. He keeps his socks on during class. He picks a spot right behind you. He looks around the room during downward dog pose. He also smells funny.

The Guy Who Comes to Yoga Class Because His Girlfriend is Making Him

He shows up with his girlfriend and looks embarrassed when some other guys see him walk into the yoga studio. He keeps his socks on during class. He makes little jokes and comments and gets scolded by his girlfriend. Someone farts during child's pose and he laughs and gets scolded by his girlfriend. He looks around the room during downward dog pose and gets scolded by his girlfriend. He also smells funny.

Stephen kindly made a few contributions:

The Guy Who Walks Around Naked in the Locker Room

He's all nonchalant about it, but everyone knows that he could have put his boxers on a long time ago. He's really well-built and is obviously showing off. Everyone makes a concerted effort to keep their eyes from settling at waist level. The mirrors make this difficult.

The Other Guy Who Walks Around Naked in the Locker Room

Unlike the first guy, he isn't well-built or tan. He's usually older. He just hasn't gotten dressed because he doesn't care anymore. We still can't decide which guy is worse.

Have you seen That Guy at the Gym? Tell me about it in the comments.

This is Why I Never Bake

2010-08-11T21:53:00.006-04:00

I was struggling through writing a post for my business blog the other day and ended up learning an important rule about how to improve my process, my writing, and definitely my productivity. Although I'm going to talk about writing specifically, I think this rule is applicable to any creative process. It won't force you to make significant changes to the way you work. It won't take a lot of extra time. It won't leave you feeling frustrated. Best of all, it's super easy, even natural.

Am I starting to sound like an infomercial? I feel like it...

Do you frequently re-read the last sentence you wrote and pull out your hair as you bemoan your inadequacies as a writer?

Yes, I realize she's wearing pantyhose on her head.
That doesn't make any sense. I don't care.

Do you often devolve into tears because you can't think of the exact perfect synonym?

Please take this from me-
I don't deserve it if I can't come up
with another word for "picturesque."

Do you suffer from such intense writer's block that you fantasize about devouring your computer in a fit of rage?

Not, that's not me. I use a MacBook!

Infomercial aside, here's the rule:

Don't edit while you write. (Obviously, I haven't edited this at all. Otherwise I probably wouldn't have posted it.)

Or, if you prefer: Don't critique your work while you're still in the process of creating it. You can easily get so distracted fixing it up as you go that you don't get anywhere. You're too "close to the project," as they say in the corporate world. Lately, I've been trying something new: focusing on just getting my thoughts down on paper (or keyboard, whatever), jumbled and nonsensical as they may sometimes be. Then, I let it rest. Often overnight. I come back to it later and re-read it and commence with the hair-pulling and sobbing if necessary.

Good writing is like baking bread (not that I would know... I've never baked bread in my life, this is based on baking here-say and conjecture). You mix all the ingredients together and let it rise for a while. Then you come back to it and... well, maybe you made crappy bread, and it's too late now. But that's why writing is better than baking, because you can take stuff out if it doesn't taste good. But now I'm mixing metaphors.

I promise you, creative types, that you'll start producing better work if you let it occur naturally, organically, in it's raw form, and come back to it after you've let your right brain rest a little.

The Real Owner of the House

2010-07-29T19:44:00.034-04:00

Stephen and I are currently living in a third story one-bedroom apartment which is purportedly 900 square feet, but I don't believe it for a second. Some college kids live in the building across from ours, and they frequently sit on their porch at 3am ~~drinking, smoking, and arguing loudly~~ enjoying college life. Our "home office" is spread across the apartment, at various times encompassing the couches, dining room table, porch, and bedroom. On top of that, we have a baby coming in January, who at the moment would probably have to live in our walk in closet. So, yeah. We're kind of looking for a new place.

Stephen is all over Craig's List looking for houses or condos to rent. A few weeks ago, we found a great one. In a really nice part of town. Well within our budget. Three bedrooms. Fenced backyard. Garage. Excitement! Could it be real?

Stephen emailed the lister, who wrote back right away. She explained that she was currently working for the Red Cross, living in Western Africa, and really wanted renters that would take good care of her home. Some of the phrasing made us wonder... it could have been written by someone who was in a hurry, or on a blackberry. Or, it could have been written by someone who doesn't speak English as a first language... someone who might not necessarily feel compelled to be totally honest with us. But that didn't occur to us until after we filled out the application and sent it back to her.

That night, we went with my family to drive by the place and check it out. The lawn was trimmed, the flowers were tended, and there was a car parked in the driveway. "I thought it was vacant?" we wondered aloud. "Maybe she has current renters," my mom suggested. Suspicious, Stephen went to the door to try and talk to the tenants.

Unsurprisingly, the "tenant" is actually the "owner" who is, in fact, considering renting it out... but hasn't listed it yet. You can imagine her surprise when she found out she was living in West Africa and trying to rent her house for nearly a third of her actual mortgage.

If we hadn't figured it out by then, we would have after reading the next email from West Africa lady. She was so excited to find some good renters for her home who would take wonderful care of it. "Rest assured," she wrote, "I am the real owner of the house." Oh, well then! I feel better now. Because I'm sure you wouldn't say that if it weren't true! "Send me the deposit and first month's rent and I will mail you the paperwork and keys to the property." That fast, huh? Wow. This process is so unbelievably easy!

Stephen decided to mess with her a little, writing her a response absolutely drenched in sarcasm. He thanked her for reassuring us of her true identity and commented that she must have hired some landscapers as the lawn looked well-taken care of. He said we were so appreciative of her flexibility that we wanted to send her two months of rent at once, and where is her nearest Western Union? He told her how impressed we are that she's devoting her time to the Red Cross, telling her "your heart must be as big as your lies." We figured after that, we wouldn't hear from her again. Wrong.

She wrote back gushing over how happy she was to have some great renters, and telling us how to send her the money. Blah blah blah. It seemed evident she had missed the acrimonious tone in the previous message, making further screwing less entertaining. We were bored with the project and went back to looking for an actual homeowner to rent from. We told her we'd send the money right away, and then promptly forgot about her.

I'm Going to Tri

2010-07-15T13:34:00.000-04:00

My good friend Stephanie, who is also pregnant and due about a 6 weeks before me, invited me to do a mini triathlon with her. I breathlessly accepted. A co-worker of my dad's commented, "Most pregnant women get cravings... she's doing a triathlon?" It's a 2 mile run, 5 mile bike, and 250 meter swim. I've always wanted to do a triathlon... I grew up cycling, and I took up running a little over a year ago. The only thing stopping me was swimming. Dreaded swimming.

I was raised in Denver. We don't have big lakes- at least not many that are warm enough or clean enough to swim in. We don't have big rivers. We definitely don't have an ocean. The point is, Colorado kids don't really need to know how to swim any better than doing the doggie paddle at the local pool. For most of us, swimming means splashing around in the shallows and jumping into/struggling awkwardly out of the deep end.

I was always jealous of my friends who lived in "planned developments" because they had sunny community pools that were accessed through a magical little card. My parent's neighborhood isn't governed by an HOA and thus does not have a community pool, so if we wanted to swim, we had to go somewhere that cost actual money. If you've ever met my dad you know that means that we didn't get to the pool much.

So, I could swim well enough to keep from drowning... but it's not pretty. Ask me to swim from one end of a pool to the other, and ten minutes later you would have found me only half-way, clinging to the edge of the pool, coughing up water.

This is the same way I got into running. After several pathetically failed attempts, I felt defeated... and needed vengeance. Nothing motivates me so effectively as sweet, sweet retribution. If you tell me I can't do something, I set off to do exactly that.

This triathlon has provided a perfect excuse for me to start training. I agreed to do it around the middle of June, and the event is July 31st. That means I've been training constantly to go from gurgling, choking, and gasping my way through half a lap to swimming ten laps. With no breaks. In about a month. While pregnant. I can totally do that. What, you think I can't? Because I am.

Now that I think about it, this swimming thing could have something to do with the fact that my body is shedding fat...

Pregnancy is Weird

2010-07-14T18:43:00.008-04:00

I've been assured by medical professionals, experienced moms, and my husband (who isn't nearly as qualified to give pregnancy advice- but he's very reassuring) that what I'm going through is totally normal and nothing to worry about. But, every day, I find a new thing that doesn't seem to fit in with what I expected pregnancy would be like.

I haven't gained a pound since getting pregnant. In fact, I actually lost weight during my first trimester. Over the last month, I've come back up to my pre-preggers weight, and I've been holding steady. This is especially confusing considering the many changes to my (typically uber-healthy) eating habits, including but not limited to:

Switching from skim to full-fat milk
Switching to full-fat cottage cheese, yogurt, cheese, sour cream, etc.
Eating a LOT more dairy... like, a LOT
Consuming eggs like they're going out of style
Choosing red meat over chicken or fish whenever I have the chance
Eating like a hobbit; you will find me in the kitchen rummaging through the cupboards or refrigerator at least once an hour, stuffing food into my mouth.
The feeling that I am justified in eating an ice cream sunday every time I drive by Sonic.
The fact that I act on that feeling at least 50% of the time.

I've lost two inches around my waist. I'm confounded by this. Lately, when I look in the mirror, I have a hard time finding my waist. But the numbers don't lie. 2 inches. Gone. What the what?
I've also lost two inches around my hips. But I know for a fact that my pants are tighter around my hips than they were three months ago. I'm mystified.
I've gained two inches around my tummy. Yes, the baby bump is clearly visible and getting more obvious day by day. Yet, I haven't gained weight. Not. A. Single. Pound.

I've always thought of pregnancy as a time when you gain weight. So far, most of my pregnancy has been different than what I expected- in the best ways- but I'm just befuddled by this. I can't remember a time in my adult life when I felt better or healthier than I do now. Is that normal?

Whatever it is, I like it. But I'm still confused.

Employment is Overrated

2010-07-06T11:16:00.001-04:00

I haven't talked about this much, but I feel like talking about it today.

A few months ago I wrote about our third wedding anniversary. What I didn't share was that, on our anniversary, Stephen was laid off from his job. I didn't talk about it because I wasn't worried about it- God will provide for our needs, and He has- and it was beside the point. Although the event has had a major effect on our finances, it hasn't changed much else, except that Stephen is home during the day now. Which means more hiking, biking, and making babies quality time together.

He's been looking for a new job since it happened. In fact, he had been looking for work since December... the job sucked and he was ready for something new. When his boss gave him the news, Stephen actually struggled to hide his smile. Anyway, he's been on unemployment for a while, and we just applied for pregnancy medicaid. Not a problem for me... I figure I've been giving my money to the government long enough that I might as well get some of it back. For Stephen, as a conservative, these were challenging decisions to make, and he can't wait to get off government aid.

Anyway, the most amazing thing about the past few months has been our finances- things have been tight, but we've been able to pay every single bill. God has provided for us every step of the way, and we haven't had a moment of doubt, thinking, "how will we pay for this?" In fact, my business has been booming- I've been enjoying my best month ever since I started the business last year, and now Stephen is working with me until he finds a "regular" job.

Then, only a few months later we discovered I was pregnant (although, this was no surprise). Our first thought was "God must be moving to do something incredible for us, because this would generally be considered horrendous timing."

Many Christians have this idea that God puts us in uncertain situations, delights in watching us squirm uncomfortably, and then dramatically comes through for us at the very last second. But through this process God has shown me that this is not his heart for us. Rather, he uses the uncertain situations in my life to draw me into Him. What I'm supposed to be feeling is not doubt or discomfort, but excitement and hopeful expectation in the certainty of God's promises.

I've gotten to a point of not caring about the details, but knowing that God will provide for our material needs. I'm not asking Him "how?" and "when?" My heart is settled in His goodness, and I haven't worried about it. Honestly, I haven't even thought about it outside of mere curiosity over what will happen next.

And I think this is exactly where God wants us; not dominated by doubt and anxiety and fear, we're free to live in genuine relationship with Him... not for what He can provide for us in a given circumstance, but for who He is.

Sounds of a Uterus

2010-06-30T13:56:00.002-04:00

I had my first prenatal appointment yesterday. They say you're supposed to have your first appointment between 10 and 12 weeks, and I just slipped in under the 12 week mark. I wouldn't have, except that we finally got our medicaid coverage. I figured, what will they tell me? "You're pregnant." Well, great. I know that already. But I got something so much better yesterday!

We decided to go with Mountain Midwifery Center, a birthing center that has come highly recommended by nearly all of my mom-type friends, and I couldn't be more thrilled. We toured the facility on Monday and then got to spend nearly an hour with a certified nurse-midwife yesterday. In sharp contrast to a regular doctor's office where your visits last 10-20 minutes and you are little more than a name on a chart, we'll get extra visits that last as long as they need to for us to feel comfortable and get to know each staff member well.

So, when we went in I was 11 weeks and 5 days pregnant. After much thorough discussion on my health, it was finally time for the much-anticipated event: finding the heartbeat. Aubre, the wonderful nurse-midwife who saw us, informed us that you almost never hear the heartbeat until the end of the 13th week, and don't worry if we can't hear it, everything is fine, it's just too early. As she squirted the cold blue gel on my belly and began moving the dealie around, she commented that she'd be really surprised if we heard anything today. We heard my heartbeat, and we heard a lot of indiscriminate whooshing, but no baby beat. In case you were wondering, my uterus sounds like wind blowing through an empty cave. I was considering how oddly appropriate this picture was when... it happened.

I think she was about the give up when the slightest tilt of the device moved us out of the wind, and suddenly all the whooshing gave way to a tiny, faster-than-fast heartbeat. I recognized it immediately. Aubre's jaw dropped in surprise, and unable to restrain myself, I made some noise of astonishment, and my stomach moved, and we lost it. She managed to find it again for another few seconds, but I giggled and we lost it again.

Somehow, it all feels real to me now. Obviously, I know I'm pregnant- there's no doubt about that. After 3 separate tests, a rapidly growing appetite (and belly), and the delightful fact that I haven't touched my tampons in three months, I feel certain about it. But something changed when I heard that heartbeat- I remember thinking, "Oh my gosh- you're really real!" I suddenly connected with the person living inside me, and I will never, ever forget the moment I first heard my child's heartbeat.

Were You Born in a Gym?

2010-06-26T16:09:00.002-04:00

For three months we've been debating about whether to do a home birth or go to a birthing center, since I'm not considering a hospital birth. Much of this decision hinges on what kind of home we'll be living in in January.

You see, I'd love to do a home birth. I've heard great things about the individualized level of care you get from a midwife. They visit you in your home, take as much time with you as you need, and get personally involved in your life. However, the thought of having a baby in our (not large) apartment isn't my favorite thought. There's probably plenty of room, but I'm honestly concerned with bothering our neighbors. Never had a baby before, but I'm under the impression that it's not exactly a quiet affair. And as we don't know if we'll be in a house or an apartment, it's tough to decide right now.

That's why I've been leaning toward a birthing center, but I'm a little disappointed about this.

Then, I had a thought. It happened this morning while Stephen and I were working out. One great thing about our apartment complex is the full-service gym in the clubhouse. There were some meat heads doing free weights when we came in, and I suddenly remembered why I never, ever, ever go to the gym without my iPod. While I was listening to the three of them grunt and moan and breathe heavily and generally make unnecessary noises for twenty minutes, this brilliant idea occurred to me.

Why don't I just give birth in the gym? No one would notice... because it almost always sounds like someone is pushing out a baby in our gym, anyway.

Big News!

2010-06-24T13:45:00.002-04:00

You may remember a post a post a few months ago in which I decried Facebook's irritating advertising tactics, specifically, them deciding it was time for me to have a baby.

You see, Facebook advertising works on two principles: your demographic (age, sex, location, etc.) and what they know about you based on your bio, wall posts, etc. So, FB knows I am a female living in Colorado between the ages of 18 and 30. They also know what kind of music and books and movies and activities I like. Thus, I usually get ads encouraging me to get pregnant, buy hiking boots, and go to Coldplay concerts.

What I'm saying is that, at the time of the aforementioned post, FB had no idea that Stephen and I were, in fact, very much hoping to get one of those cute little plus signs on a pee stick (but not because FB told me to). On Mother's Day, I happily got such a result and have been celebrating ever since. We went about personally sharing the good news with family and close friends.

My due date is set at January 12th, and both my nephews are certain that there's a girl growing in my rapidly expanding belly. We had a great conversation with my 4 year old nephew, wherein he explained how he knew the sex of my baby:

Us: How did you know it was a girl?
Him: I just knew... I saw her.
Us: Awesome. How did you see her?
Him: (in a 'don't be silly!' tone of voice) I had an x-ray!
Us: Wow. Did she wave at you?
Him: No.
Us: What was she doing?
Him: Nothing. She didn't see me... she wasn't looking at me.

Obviously, a lot of things are changing right now. One thing that hasn't changed much is my Facebook experience. They've been pitching pregnancy at me for at least a year. But as soon as they found out via an announcement on my wall, the ads got worse. Just now I logged on and on the sidebar were three ads: A gender predictor, a week-by-week pregnancy guide, and an invitation to join some mommy networking group. Every time I log on, I'm greeted by pregnant bellies and baby pictures and blah blah blah.

So, I'm beyond thrilled that we'll soon be welcoming the newest member of our family. I'm two weeks away from my second trimester, I feel wonderful, and I'm having a lot of fun. But there's a little part of me, deep down inside, that can't help but feel like Facebook won.

Three Years Ago Today...

2010-04-07T18:52:00.007-04:00

Today, dear readers, my husband and I celebrate three spectacular years of marriage, and look forward to many more.

And I'm not just saying that. It has been wholly and completely phenomenal. At the risk of sounding cheesy, let me brag on my handsome husband for a moment. Stephen makes everything more fun; he's honest and completely trustworthy; he's unflinchingly supported everything I've wanted to do; he doesn't take himself too seriously; he puts me before himself and always has my best in mind. We're happy together, and our relationship has been easy. And I think a lot of people, whether single, dating, engaged, or married, really need to hear something positive about the institution of marriage.

So, if you will permit me, I'd like to share my point of view on matrimony. Many an engaged or newly married couple has heard some part or variation of this diatribe speech, as I give it regularly and without invitation. Subsequently, many a couple has remarked how refreshing it is to hear a success story; we're lucky enough to have some great examples in our lives of happy and functional married couples, whom we've tried our best to emulate.

When you are engaged or newly married, a host of well-intentioned family, friends, and even total strangers will make it their business to share with you all manner of advice, suggestions, and personal experiences in order to prepare you for the road ahead. In my case (and I suspect in many others), more often than not this advice tended toward discouragement; this, I contend, is human nature. I think when people have a negative experience they almost relish the chance to project it onto someone else, that they might justify it to themselves, thereby making their experience normal.

Whether from these well meaning friends and family, from strangers, from sitcoms and movies, from books, or even from sermons in church, many of us grow up expecting all kinds of ridiculous things about relationships, weddings, marriage, and even gender roles, like:

The wedding will be stressful. You probably won't remember it.
The first year will definitely suck. Hard.
Having kids will make everything suck harder.
Look out for the seven year slump.
Don't expect to love each other or even like each other all the time. It comes and goes, you know.
Women will be controlling and manipulative, and will nag their husbands mercilessly.
Men are terrified of commitment, so if you manage to snag one, he'll be emotionally distant and probably unfaithful.
Essentially, marriage is a series of fights, one long struggle, full of sacrifice and disappointment.

Ok, so maybe I'm being kind of dramatic about it, but seriously- I've heard this kind of crap proffered 'helpfully' by fellow Christians, and we're the ones that go on and on about the sanctity of marriage. We've also been told on multiple occasions, "Oh, of course you're still in love. You're just newlyweds." Psssh... no wonder half of us get divorced. That kind of relationship is boring and hopeless.

I'm happy to tell you that it doesn't have to be like that! You and your spouse get to decide for yourselves what your relationship will look like. I'm proud to say that Stephen and I have never in three years had a fight that we didn't completely resolve within half an hour... that's a legacy we intend to uphold. We communicate about everything, keep no secrets and harbor no bitterness, have no unspoken expectations. We've been intentional about the way we treat, talk to, and talk about the other. We act in humility, rather than pride. And it's been easy. It's been so easy that we sometimes feel guilty and embarrassed talking with other couples for whom it hasn't been easy.

I'm not saying it'll be sunshine and lollipops for everyone. All I'm saying is this: don't let anyone tell you what your relationship is going to look like. Sure, sometimes I've had a long day and treating Stephen with love and respect is more a decision than something I just do instinctively. I'm sure challenges will come up in our lives together. We'll have the added responsibilities of kids, we'll have tight budgets, we'll have stressful circumstances. But Stephen and I have settled internally that we aren't going to let any outside factors determine the quality or working of our relationship. So, here's to many more years of better and better!

Art for the Glory of God

2010-03-30T13:01:00.001-04:00

I want to give a quick shout out to a dear, beloved friend of mine who has launched a blog. Please check her out!

Liz Downing is one of my very best friends. When we met in 2006 (is that right, Liz?), we found we had a great deal in common and developed a fast friendship. Liz is so many things- artist, worshipper, devoted friend, student, and teacher. During the years I've had the pleasure of counting Liz as my friend, I've never seen her pursue anything with less than a wholehearted passion. She dives completely into everything she does.

Liz's blog, Art for the Glory of God, is a forum for her to share her artwork (paintings, pastels, sketches, and whatever else she's working on) with anyone who is interested. She's incredibly talented- just take a look at her work! Liz is a constant encouragement and inspiration to me, both in the beautiful pieces she creates and in the way she lives her life.

I believe there is glory in working hard, doing all things in excellence and joy. Liz exemplifies this lifestyle and it shows in her artwork! Check her out today, and keep up with her on the blogroll to the right.

Facebook to Rachel: Your Biological Clock is Ticking!

2010-03-17T18:55:00.006-04:00

Facebook is pimping me out for advertising revenue. And they're doing it to you, too.

My profile page and wall make absolutely no reference to babies, motherhood, or anything remotely related to babies and motherhood, nor should they. I am not a mother, and I don't have the natural affection for babies which is typical in women my age.

On the contrary, I'm quite uncomfortable with them- when someone hands me their baby, I hold it awkwardly a few feet in front of me wondering how long I will be in this precarious situation, and what one discusses with a baby, and am always distraught when the baby begins to wail. While other women coo and grin at babies, I feel strangely vulnerable as they fix me with a fishy gaze. Don't get me wrong... I don't have any particular grievance against babies, I'm just not baby crazy. I tell myself it will change when I have my own someday.

But I think Facebook and the advertising conglomerates really want me to get going on the whole procreation thing. Every time I log on, the ads on the sidebar are all about:

babies
baby products
pregnancy
motherhood
parenting
related products, magazines, supplements, clothing, toys
and more babies

Every advertisement (with the exception of one vaguely unsettling ad with a giant Asian baby) features photos of smiling, chubby babies, glowing preggers women, or beaming new mothers holding their clean, not-screaming baby (while their hair and makeup looks fabulous). And they want my uterus to ache as I think, "I could be that happy... if only I had a baby!"

No matter how many times I tell FB to get rid of the baby ads because they are irrelevant or even offensive, they persist. You see, my ovaries not only have reproductive power... they also have exponential purchasing power. My ovaries are a highly sought-after target market. My ovaries are a lucrative key demographic. Advertisers are sure that with sufficient time and persistence, their not-so-subliminal message will hit a nerve in women of the proper age, and we will be driven, masses of us, to bear offspring and purchase pampers. I don't think you could ask for a warmer market, yet we are the socio-economic segment that advertisers pursue with the most vigilance.

Today, I logged on, and there on the sidebar was an ad encouraging me to "Make a Baby!" I was vexed and mildly offended for a moment until I realized it was for an application which allows you to upload pictures of "you and your love" to see what your offspring will look like. It might actually work if the baby in the picture wasn't a creepy manchild with a somehow-it's-just-not-quite-right kind of face. Directly below it was an ad for pampers. Groan.

Facebook is messing with me.

*Addendum: I posted this yesterday... Today, I got a letter for a special offer on National Geographic KIDS. Et Tu, NG?

VOIP

2010-02-12T17:29:00.005-05:00

We've all heard of multi-level marketing (MLM) companies and pyramid schemes, promising you and your family financial freedom for eternity and your own island and your own yacht to get to the island and probably some girls in bikinis who live on the island. Maybe you've even known a few individuals that were enterprising enough to sign on to one of these programs. Liberty International, headed by CEO Randy Jeffers, is the parent company for many of these ~~scams~~ reputable companies, and today, I learned something extremely noteworthy about him that I felt I needed to share with you.

We happen to know a few people who have gotten involved with Jeffers' new 'business opportunity', a company called WOW mobile that (of course) promises you free everything for life if you get people to sign up under you, causing distributors to alienate all their friends for free wireless service.

We've been told that at meetings for these new distributors, Randy Jeffers is claiming to be the inventor of VoIP. NO, no, not Voice over Internet Protocol, the family of technologies that revolutionized wireless communications a few years ago. VOIP, the noise a robot makes as it turns its enemy into a pile of steaming ash with its powerful robot laser vision.

An awesome robot disintegrates a pyramid scheme using laser vision, which was probably also invented by Randy Jeffers. (art credit: me)

You see, Stephen and I have done some extensive digging on the history of Voice over Internet Protocol, and can't find a single reference to Randy Jeffers or Liberty International! So, one can only assume that he must have had an important role in developing VOIP, the quintessential robot sound effect. I wonder what other robot sound effects Jeffers has pioneered? The man is a genius, and God bless him.

Facebook Rap Battle: Dominate!

2010-02-11T14:43:00.002-05:00

My illustrious husband is the master of improvisational silly songs, spontaneous ironic raps, and situational humor. Many of his ridiculous songs and raps have worked their way into our regular 'vocabulary', like the one my little nephews like to sing to the tune of twinkle twinkle little star, "tickle tickle little feet, they are sweaty and they stink."

We're also a big fan of facebook games, like the time we got friends to comment about "Things you can say about your furniture but not your spouse". So last night Stephen had the brilliant idea to start a rap battle on his facebook status, inviting friends to "pretend you are a rapper writing your first song. It's all about bragging... what you got, gangsta?"

Of course, he roped me into it... I love hip hop but I'm straight up white. Ask me to spit some rhymes on the spot, and I would probably just spit. But writing... ahh, this is where I feel comfortable. So I sat down to write my first rap, and I found it was actually kind of a fun writing exercise. (Having said that, I'm fully aware of how lame it sounds. Street cred = gone) Anyway, here it is:

Yo, I'm a hippie green babe and I eat granola, You know I got more lines than Emile Zola. I try to shop at Whole Foods when our budget allows, don't eat a lot of meat, got to save them cows. Boys, let me drop some knowledge, I'ma show you how.

This is how I roll, on my own two feet. Ain't got no carbon footprint, got your prius beat. When you see me struttin on my way to the store, you know I'm bringing my own bags, ya'll, I'm green hardcore.

I'm always wearing flip flops, rain or shine. Even when it's snowy, dude you know I don't whine. I'm a Denver hippie girl, granola through and through, politically moderate, son, you know how I do. Don't wear no makeup cause I'm natural, but I always shave my pits cause that's just ... no one wants to see that....

I'm out.

The Christmas Card Issue

2009-12-24T11:10:00.001-05:00

Stephen and I, like many of you, have been receiving Christmas cards over the past few weeks. I myself never send them out. It's just something I don't think of. But if I did, I would make a point of addressing each envelope the way I like to receive them.

When Stephen and I got married, I was hesitant to take his last name. Honestly, one of the reasons* I did is that it's much simpler to spell than my maiden name. I'm very proud of my maiden name, and I'm very much my own person, so it was difficult to change a part of what used to identify me. So on our wedding day, I was insistent that our pastor introduce us a certain way. I drilled him about it for weeks so that he would remember. Because, on my wedding day, I didn't want to become Mrs. Stephen LastName. I'm becoming his wife, but I'm retaining my identity and individuality. So my pastor introduced us as Mr. and Mrs. Stephen and Rachel LastName.

This is something I'm pretty passionate about, and the Christmas card thing always brings it out of me again. A few people (those not of my generation) have sent cards addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Stephen Lastname. I know it was considered proper back in the day... but why can't we just be Stephen and Rachel? Why do I have to lose my first name, too? Every time I get a card addressed this way, I feel like feminism never happened. My husband would never relegate me to an extension of himself- why does it seem like so many other people do?

Christmas is about celebrating the birth of Christ, who is the true source of my identity, and no one can take that away from me. I look past the envelope and appreciate the card and the thought behind it. It's not even the individuals that sent the ill-addressed card that I'm offended by. It's the whole concept of "Mr. and Mrs. Man" that offends me. Thankfully, this concept seems to be on its way out.

Sort of a strange thing to write about on Christmas Eve... it's just where my mind is this morning.

*Mostly, I took Stephen's name because I love him, wanted to honor him, and I believe in biblical submission to my husband. This means he does everything with my best interests in mind and puts me before himself, so when I defer to him I can trust him to make wise choices for us. It does NOT mean that he treats me like shit, takes advantage of me, or acts as my ruler and master. Ephesians 5:22 says, "Wives, submit to your husbands as to the Lord..." But a few verses later, Paul instructs husbands to love their wives as Christ loved the church, who gave himself up for us: "...husbands ought to love their wives as their own bodies." Lots of people know that Christians believe the wife has to submit and respect her husband. What most of them don't realize is that he has to sacrifice himself and love his wife unconditionally. The wonderful thing is, I married a man who really lives this way.

I guess this post turned out to be more Christmas appropriate than I originally planned. Jesus was born for the sole purpose of dying for you. He gave up His throne, became a man, and lived a perfect life, just so He could die and rise again. He did this because He loves you (YOU!) and He wants you (yes, YOU!) to be with him forever. He's not pointing His finger at you, or shaking His head in disappointment, or angry about the things you've done wrong. Maybe that's what your dad did... but Jesus isn't like any other man! He's 100% filled with unconditional, unchanging love for you. I hope you encounter the real Jesus this Christmas.

Pet Peeves: only a fraction of my l o n g list

2009-12-13T01:37:00.006-05:00

If you've been following my blog for very long, you will understand why the name is so appropriate. One of my (many) talents lies in always being able to find something to complain about. It makes me feel better. And I often contradict myself, which I accept and am ok with. Stephen has on multiple occasions reacted with surprise when I declare my vehement love/hatred of a certain thing. "But a few weeks ago, you said the opposite!" I'm given to passionate diatribes which match my feelings at that moment.

However, many of my pet peeves have remained the same since I developed a personality. As a writer, unsurprisingly many of the things that make me crazier than a monkey in a knife fight have to do with words.

Shortening words
For a while I thought only teenagers said things like "whatevs" and "phenom", but in the recent months I've heard adults use this kind of language, and not in an ironic way. I realize I might be stepping on some toes here, as a handful of friends and family members have embraced this sophomoric slang vocabulary. But seriously, everyone. If you're over 19 and you don't wear skinny jeans, I promise people are laughing at you. Or at least whispering behind your back.

Adding "-y" or "-ies" to the end of words (often to children)
For example, "Did you get an ouchies?" (this doesn't even make sense!) or "I'll pour you more juicy." I find this infuriating and not in the least cute and charming. Children can comprehend long before they can form sensible responses and relate them to you, and they certainly won't be forming sensible anythings with their parents talking like this all the time.

Text language
I lament the gradual deterioration of the written word in today's society, and I place the blame squarely on text messaging. I frequently receive text messages from well educated adults who use "4" and "u" and other abominations in place of actual words. This, I cannot forgive. I can bury it deep inside me and try my best to cover the alarming twitch I seem to be developing. But when language (I hesitate to even call it that) like this is used in more legitimate mediums of communication, like email... well, don't be surprised if you never hear from me again. I can't take the risk of my twitch* becoming permanent.

Excessive exclamation marks
I always say that exclamation marks are like garlic, to be used thoughtfully and carefully and never ever overdone. Now, I like garlic as much, or almost probably more, than the average person. This is probably why my husband always chuckles quietly to himself when I recite my wise exclamation mark adage. But that's beside the point. Women are overwhelmingly the common abusers of this potent form of punctuation. When reading, say, a facebook status in which 80% of the sentences end in one or more exclamation points, you almost have to read it with the mental voice of a 17 year old Twilight fangirl with ADD. And that's just tiring.

Unnecessary quotation marks
This is less of a pet peeve than it is a source of mild amusement. I like to read The "Blog" of "Unnecessary" Quotation Marks, but after a page or two of posts, I go from laughing to chuckling to glowering silently to growling and clenching my teeth. You see these amateurish signs everywhere from gas station bathrooms to office breakrooms that say things like "Please" don't take my soda from the fridge, or whatever. I can't decide if you're quoting from another sign or you mean it sarcastically.

People who put periods at end of questions
This is where my opinions really get heated. Questions with no punctuation whatsoever on the end just make me disappointed. But questions with a period at the end make me angry. If you've taken the time to push the period key, you most certainly have the time to put a question mark. For some reason, executives and important business types think they are exempt from this rule, and unfortunately, recipients of emails from these people are often left scratching their heads and wondering how someone with such questionable** communication skills managed to gain hold of such lofty responsibilities.

The word Irregardless
I maintain that this is not a word. Dictionary.com will ask if you meant "regardless", and even Merriam-Webster, while acknowledging that it is a word (psh, what do they know?) will suggest you don't use it. This is a perfect example of mass ignorance creating reality: if enough people continually use a non-word, eventually the standard conforms to idiocy. This isn't meant to be social commentary. Just throwing it out there.

The word Disorientate; -ed; -ing
I realize that this is an actual word, used mostly in the UK, but it still sounds so wrong to me every time Bear Grylls says "disorientating" instead of "disorienting". No amount of hot British accent can remedy the downright weird feeling always I get.

* If you notice it, please, try not stare. I'm sensitive about it.
** Questionable! Ha! Get it?
.

Studies in Machismo

2009-11-09T17:40:00.003-05:00

Today we will be examining one of the more useful tools of the male chauvinist: the catcall. I'm sure I won't be alone in saying that I find this practice infuriating and demeaning, and it's unclear to me as to whether these are the objectives of the catcaller. However, a few recent instances have proven to be so humorous to me that I just wanted to sit down with the poor misguided chauvinist and instruct him in the art of objectifying my kind. And that's sad.

My cirumstances make me a prime target for catcalling: My husband and I are a one-car family, and as I work from home, he usually takes the car. Thus, I frequently walk along major roads to visit grocery stores, coffee shops, etc. My favorite form of exercise is running, which I often do outdoors at a park a few blocks from our home. On top of all that, I am a female between the ages of 13 and 73, free from major deformities or religious doctrines requiring me to wear a burka. So I've experienced my fair share of come-ons, to which I've historically responded with anything from an icy gaze to a direct physical threat.

Situation 1: A week ago, I was coming home from a run. A young gentleman was sitting at a bus stop across the street and whistled at me. Now, we're all familiar with the traditional two-toned wolf-whistle. The one that says, "damn, sexy!" Right? This kid gave me the two-toned "Hey, I'm trying to get your attention" whistle, the way you do at someone you know who's trying to find you at a crowded bar. Naturally, I paid no heed to his first attempt, assuming that someone nearby was trying to call their dog or something. So he tried it again, exactly the same way (at least we can admire his persistence). So I turned toward him, and he gave me the barely perceptible chin nod, indicating that he's too cool to wave but wants me to know it was him. I thought it was so funny and sad that no one ever explained to this poor kid how to whistle at a girl, I didn't even flip him off. I just shook my head with disappointment and ran on.

Situation 2: This afternoon I was crossing a major road, carrying a bag of groceries, and talking on my phone. A guy leaned out of the passenger window of a nearby car stopped at the light and whistled at me. Again, not the familiar wolf-whistle, but instead a single whistle, starting low and ascending. What is that? I ignored it, and you just know he sat back down in the car, confused and defeated, saying to his friend, "why didn't it work?"

Situation 3: Later, I was walking along the sidewalk and an SUV passed me by. Just a few seconds after going past me, he honked, but it was too late. He had just barely passed me already. That's worse than the ignorance of the other guys- that's just laziness, and it's not gonna get you a date. Today's woman is busy, busy, busy, and she doesn't have time to turn around to appreciate your gesture, so you've got to stay on top of your game.

These suckers are doing it all wrong, and that's a shame. But at least we can learn something from their unfortunate mistakes. First, learn how to perform a traditional wolf-whistle, so as to leave no doubt in the mind of the recipient regarding your intention. A louder, more effective whistle can be accomplished by placing the thumb and pointer finger between your lips- that way women from long distances will hear and come to you. Second, you can't lose your focus for one second. Always be on the lookout for attractive women to hassle, because your opportunity will have passed you by before you know it. Especially when your opportunity is a pedestrian minding her own business and you are traveling at even relatively high speeds in a vehicle. Third, take some cues from all of all the star-crossed couples you know who met and fell instantly in love after he honked at her while she was walking a cross walk in front of his car. Exactly. I haven't met any either. So, maybe, stop being a giant douchebag.

CoSEM: Staying in Shape While People Gather to Watch Us With Curiosity/Amusement!*

2009-08-27T17:10:00.011-04:00

I had a little miscommunication this morning with my sister-in-law about what time exactly I was supposed to meet them at the park. Obviously, before leaving (early, as it turns out), I thought it prudent to leave my phone at home, causing me to miss subsequent calls from said sister-in-law trying to tell me "See you at 9:30!". But I've found a silver lining in the cloud of our misunderstanding. Since I was at the park early, I was lucky enough to see the Corp of Stroller-Exercising-Mothers**. Have you heard of this? It's a thing. A scheduled, organized thing. If you haven't personally witnessed this curiosity, you are unfortunate indeed.

Before I make fun of them, let me say this: I actually think it's fantastic. So many women have a baby and then get fat and bored, but not these gals. They all looked great, including one very preggo mama, and I think having your children involved is fun and sets a good example for them. In fact, were I in possession of a small child and an all-terrain stroller, I would have joined them. It really looked fun! But they have to know they make quite a spectacle.

There's a weird, slightly unsettling sameness about 2 dozen 20 and 30 somethings, all dressed similarly in their brightly colored spandex exercise outfits, baseball caps, and smart ponytails, with strollers, doing the same motions simultaneously. Picture this: a whole mess of strollers stand on the grass. Near them stands the woman who is obviously presiding over the session, shouting at her charges. The women are leaping and bounding-almost frolicking- across the field, they are lunge-walking back, they are walking sideways like crabs, they are shuffling backwards and trying not to bump into each other. Meanwhile, a little boy is chasing another through the sprinklers nearby, wielding a long stick, and one mother is forced to leave the festivities to discipline her charge.

Later I turned down onto the main paved path, and there they were, all gathered along the edge of the grass, jumping up and down. Then they started walking, and I can't even begin to describe what they were doing... the best approximation I can give is women's boot camp meets the Ministry of Silly Walks. The whole ensemble is very amusing. At this point I tried to pass them- they were squatting sideways while walking- but while I was in the middle of the group, they started high-kick jogging. I got caught up in the middle of the group and couldn't get out, and the woman is shouting at them to "Kick higher! Higher!" I had to bite down on my lip to keep from laughing (because I don't want to be discouraging... or get the crap beat out of me by a bunch of postpartum babes).

You know, there's power in numbers. I have been known to lunge walk and do push-ups at the park, and I always feel self-conscious. I'm fully aware that I look strange, even if it is obvious that I'm working out. But with 20 or so comrades and our kids, I can put a serious look on my face and crab-walk to my heart's content.

* This may or may not be the official motto of CoSEM.

** I totally made up this name.

Take this job and... give it to me! Please!

2009-08-26T17:10:00.007-04:00

Wow, it's been a while since I've looked at this screen- the empty field of a new blog post. A little intimidating. A little hopeless. Lots of font choices.

I haven't written because, for a while, there was no time. And now, because I don't think I have anything interesting to write about. I've been on a lengthy, undesired hiatus from gainful employment, and whilst job-searching my way around the internets, stumbled upon several websites that pay by the article. I joined a couple as a freelance writer but every time I sit down to do my 500 word writing sample, I get stuck. So I thought maybe I should pick up my blog again and do some low-pressure writing... because 500 words on my favorite city to visit is so high-pressure. Blerg.

Moving on.

We've been back from South Carolina for almost 2 months. We're living in my Grandmother's basement till' September 10th, when our blessedly private apartment will become available. Stephen, of course, got a job right away. We were here a short 3 weeks when he got an offer one Thursday, and he started the following Monday. He likes it, and they pay him. It's really a lovely arrangement.

I, still unemployed, have made a job for myself out of applying for jobs. Every day I sit down at the computer and check craigslist and indeed.com for new job postings for receptionists and administrative assistants. There's LOTS of openings out there. The tricky thing? We only have one car. So I can either walk to work or work in the vicinity of Stephen's office, so we could drive together. The other tricky thing? Our neighborhood- and Stephen's new job- are not exactly at the epicenter of corporate America. Or even corporate Denver. So out of an average 30 or 40 new postings every day, 15 or so are in our part of town. I then have to weed through the sketchy ones ("send a photo of yourself with resume please") and the scammy ones (" WOrk from *HOmE* $100,000 a yEAr!!?!") and the just plain weird ones ("DO NOT send me a resume! I can't read a resume! I'm not a resume guy! Just tell me in a few paragraphs why you would like to be my assistant!"). That leaves me with a scant 3-5 postings I might be barely qualified for, which I dutifully apply for.

I also realized about a week ago that I had been sending my resume out with a word misspelled on it, and a major timeline mistake. Perhaps I could use it to my advantage.

Interviewer: What would you say your strengths are?

Me: Well, I'm very good at multi-tasking. For instance, did you know that I worked as a receptionist for two different companies at the same time? In different states? For, like, a year?

Interviewer: I see...

Me: I'm also an excellent proof-reader, and-

Interviewer: You misspelled the word "broad" right here. :::points to resume:::

Me: Oh yes, I'm also a liar.

Hopefully anyone who reads Rachel Resume 1.0 will be as lazy and ignorant as I was and not notice. Resume 2.0 has been in use for several days and I feel cautiously optimistic about it.

Updates will be posted as applicable, supposing I can apply myself to writing them.

Dyslexic Evangelicals

2008-11-30T10:22:00.002-05:00

Ok, I haven't written anything in a while, but I felt the urgent need to share this pie chart with you. Maybe this will tide you over till' I write something real.

On Our New President

2008-11-05T07:01:00.004-05:00

Everyone is freaking out about Obama having won the presidency. Some people are "yayy!!!" freaking out, and some people are "apocolypse" freaking out. But everyone I know has some kind of very strong emotion about it. Except me... I didn't get emotionally invested in this election, and I didn't fully decide to vote for McCain until a few weeks ago, so today is mostly another day. I'm not a political person.

So if you voted for Obama, congratulations! You may bathe in the glow of your victory. Mostly I'm not talking to you, though. Just try not to be too mean to those of us who didn't vote for him.

And if you voted for McCain, mourn for just a little while, wallow in your disappointment for a short time, and.... get over it. Life goes on, and if you are a believer like I am, than you ought to know that God can use whoever He wants to. You should also know that while you may live in America, you should consider yourself a citizen of another world, and that's where your treasure is, not here.

Start today by harnessing the power of your tongue that the Bible talks so abundantly about and speak life, not death. Speak encouragement and blessing. The power of life and death is in your tongue, so use it to do something other than complaining. Plus, it will make you feel a lot better. Really! It will!

I heard someone say once that Christians in this country think they're being persecuted if they don't get "their president" elected. I'd really like to believe we're not that selfish. I, for one, am going to move in the opposite spirit and praying for abundant life in Barack Obama's household. Join me!

The Firefighter Song: This one's for you, Lysie!

2008-10-15T19:36:00.006-04:00

After reading about how Annalyse checks blogs compulsively, I've decided to post something tonight even though I wasn't originally planning on it.

So some of you were asking about the firefighter song. Last week was fire prevention week at the preschool, so we talked about fires and firefighters. We even had a visit from a firetruck, which we had been hyping up as the typical red fire engine, and turned out to be white with blue stripes. Lame. Quite lame.

Anyway, a little girl from the other 3 year olds class came up to me last Friday and stated, "Ms. Rachel, I know a firefighter song and you don't know it."

"Would you sing it to me, Brooke? Please?" I asked. She obliged. I caught all but one line. "I really like it. If you sing it again, maybe I can try to sing along," I offered. She obliged again, and I did my best to learn it and copy the hand motions.

Still, I couldn't get that one line. I asked her to sing the first part again, and still didn't understand it. She finally got on the tips of her toes and, hanging onto my shoulder, sang it directly into my ear. I still have no idea what that line was... I'm pretty sure she doesn't know it either and just makes up something different every time.

I just pretended to understand her so she wouldn't feel frustrated and thanked her for teaching me the song.

"Ms. Rachel, now you know it," she said, "and you have to teach it to your mom." Leaving it at that, Brooke danced away to play with the other kids. I called after her that I would in fact teach it to my mom, but I don't think she heard me. So that evening, I called my mom, and I taught it to her. And now I feel I should teach it to you all, so you can teach it to your moms.

The Firefighter Song (to the tune of I'm a Little Teapot)

I'm a little firefighter, mumble mumble mumble*

here is my helmet (point to head), here is my hose (pretend to hold a hose)

When I see a fire, hear me shout (cup hands around mouth)

Turn on the water and put the fire out! (pretend to spray hose)

*this is the part I kept missing. Stephen says it should be "strong and brave", but that doesn't rhyme. Then again, neither does the rest of it.

Red or Blue Classroom

2008-10-11T12:19:00.006-04:00

My second week at work has been a lot better than my first. One of the other teachers unexpectedly left, and they asked me to fill in on Monday in her classroom. I told them I loved it so much I wanted to stay, thus, I am the new teacher for twelve wonderful 3 year olds. This is the age group I have had the most experience with in the past and it's my favorite age group to work with. I have had a phenomenal time getting to know them each individually and spending my days hanging out with them. And, I haven't been bitten even once.

In the midst of a political discussion last night in which I was a slightly reluctant participant, Stephen jokingly wondered aloud, "Do you talk about politics with your kids?"

"It's generally my policy not to talk about politics with anyone, if I can help it," I remarked. But when I thought about it, I realized our classroom, if I had to define it, would be pretty blue.

For the record, I myself am neither republican nor democrat. Anyway, here's one example: This happens in my classroom every day. Two children are doing a puzzle together. One child has a pile of puzzle pieces in front of him, the other has only one. They are having a decidedly uncivil disagreement about the purported "sharing" of said puzzle.

In a democratic classroom, the teacher says that there's plenty of puzzle pieces to go around and tells the child with the pile of pieces to please give some to the child with one piece so it's more fair. This is how I run my classroom (with some exception). I'm trying to teach our kids to be kind to others, but in the adult world we might call it redistribution of wealth.

In a republican classroom the teacher might suggest that the child with the pile of pieces has worked hard to get his share of the puzzle, and if you only have 1 piece, well, tough luck. Hopefully some of the other pieces will eventually trickle down to you through the natural process of preschool classroom economics.

I know, an oversimplification. I still think it's funny. And please, if you have some caustic, fiery rhetoric about one party or the other, write it on your own blog, not in the comments.

First Week!

2008-10-01T17:48:00.003-04:00

The prompts over at Three Word Wednesday are deliberate, intervene, and nourish. And since I don't feel like writing writing today, here's a regular post into which the prompts happened to fit quite conveniently:

My first week of work at my new job has been great. I share a classroom of toddlers (1 year olds) with another teacher; we have 3 girls and 5 boys. I have to get up a lot earlier than I usually do, and I work a lot more hours than I used to when I was at the Lutheran Church. But I come home feeling happy and energized, instead of drained and bored. I have fun all day and the hours fly by.

The only thing is that I don't know nearly enough about 1 year olds. I used to work with 3 year olds, and those 2 years in between means a world of difference. For example, one boy (I call him Bruiser) tugged on one of the girls arms (I call her Lovebug) and made her fall down. Now, I'm sure he didn't do it deliberately. Bruiser was trying to pull himself up- he's still learning to walk- but it started a pinching match between the two of them into which I had to intervene.

If it happened between a couple of 3 year olds, I would know how to handle the situation. I would know how to discipline Bruiser and I would assist reconciliation between them. But they're 1 year olds- they don't respond to or understand the same language that an older child would. I'm still not sure how to nourish and love all the kids in my class while keeping them all from hurting each other and crying all day. But I'm getting there.

I absolutely love watching the kids as they learn. One boy started stacking foam blocks one on top of the other yesterday, while all the others still revel in knocking them down. His eyes lit up when he saw what he had done. Another one doesn't like coloring, but sits at the table absolutely fascinated with the way the cap fits onto the marker. Another will repeat, or try to repeat, just about any word you ask him to. So I can't have two days alike- every day is a new and fresh experience for my kids, so every day is a new and fresh experience for me- even if I have to get up two hours earlier than I want.

Last Day!

2008-09-26T09:43:00.004-04:00

Today is my last day working for the Lutheran Church! That's right, folks, no more pulling my hair out all day because the pastor's kids won't stop screaming and wailing and he won't pay attention to them. No more awkward people divulging random and/or irrelevant information to me completely unprovoked. No more bored Lutherans complaining because I forgot to capitalize some word in the liturgy this week. No more spending my days in a hundred year old building that smells just slightly of mold. And I'd like to be able to say no more ignorant people spelling my name "Rachael", even after being repeatedly corrected, but I know better than that.

Starting Monday, I'm going to be working at a childcare center. I wasn't actually looking for a new job, but God literally dropped the opportunity into my lap, and I got hired on the spot. I'm not sure if they've decided what age group to put me with, or what my days are going to look like, or even exactly how much I'm going to be paid... come to think of it, I'm not sure of a lot of things. But I am sure that the Lord arranged this, so it's hard to be worried about it.

The Pastor brought me a going away present. A bottle of Great Divide IPA, which I don't really like (I'm more of a Guinness girl), but it was a very nice gesture. Stephen says I should put some food coloring in it when I drink it, and make comments like, "This chocolate stout tastes suspiciously like a pale ale."

Oh, the excitement!

Three Word Wednesday

2008-09-24T10:08:00.003-04:00

The prompts at Three Word Wednesday are:

dissolve
trinket
zest

Cheesecake

Judy used to be a passionate woman, full of joy and life. Everything was right, everything was sunny, and Judy felt it always would be. When Richard died, all of that changed. Her passion waned. Her once boundless enthusiasm dissolved slowly like some long lost trinket at the bottom of the sea, amidst the wreckage of a forgotten ship. The reality of the loss of her husband battered her like innumerable waves, and she felt that she would never love again. Eight years went by, and Judy kept mourning Richard, kept living life but not really living it, kept feeling sorry for herself.

Judy's fifty-sixth birthday found her standing alone in the self-help section at Barnes and Noble, wondering if any of the books could really help her find herself again. Judy began to feel eyes on her. Looking to her right, she saw him. A tall man of about 60, with more gray in his hair than brown, and well dressed. He was in the cooking section, holding open a cookbook. He noticed her looking back at him, and smiled.

"Maybe you can help me," he said open-endedly. Judy noticed his bare ring finger. She walked over to him, trying to appear casual. Her heart was fluttering, and she told herself that she was being silly and girlish.
"What are you making?"
"I thought I'd try my hand at a cheesecake. But I'm afraid I'm feeling a little overwhelmed." And he sounded overwhelmed. Judy glanced down at the recipe he held the book open to. New York Style.
"Any special occasion?" she searched, hoping against hope.
"No. I just needed to... well, I wanted to try something new. I've never baked anything," he half-muttered, and looked away.
After a moment, Judy said, "I happen to consider myself somewhat of an expert cheesecake baker, if you don't mind me saying so."
He grinned, and her eyes twinkled back at him. "I'd be honored to have the expert assist me. How about it?" he offered playfully.
"Well, come on, then," she laughed back as they made their way to the exit. "I like to add a little lemon zest in my cheesecake. Got any lemons?"
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Southernisms

2008-09-19T10:54:00.004-04:00

Since James recently did a post about Kiwiology (not kiwiology... since kiwi's can't talk, of course), I have decided to follow in a similar vein. I present: Southernisms. Admittedly South Carolina is not quite as exotic as New Zealand, and we definitely don't have any hobbits or belrogs or rings of infinite power, nonetheless, it is where I live. So here are some words and phrases I have heard used in regular conversation since moving here.

Bless Your/Her/His Heart: Usually said in a pitiful or condescending way. "The poor thing just ain't pretty, bless her heart."

Ya'll: You All. A Quintessential Southernism.

Ain't: Are Not. Another Southern classic which has spread nation wide.

Fixin' to: Preparing to. "I'm fixin' to make me some fried chicken."

Over/Down Yonder: Over there, wherever. "We're goin' down yonder to the Bob Evans."

Whenever: Used in place of "when", referring to a specific incident or day. "I was so proud whenever my boy graduated from college."

A Whole Mess Of: A LOT. "I've got myself a whole mess a' fried chicken, I tell you what."

Up Under: This phrase is utterly nonsensical. "I'm gonna hafta get up under the house to do some work."

Cute As A Bug's Ear: Cute. Really cute. Adorable, even. I didn't know bug's had ears, I thought they had sonar or vibration sense or something, but whatever. "Cute as a bug's sonar sense mechanism" doesn't roll off the tongue quite as nicely.

Useful As A Trap Door In A Canoe: If you can't figure this one out, I'm not explaining.

Slipperier Than Snot On A Doorknob: A lovely, refined way to describe something which is slippery, be it figurative or otherwise.

Bo': Dude. Bro. Man. Our friend Scott uses this one a lot and it still sounds weird to me.

I Done...: Used in place of the pronoun "I". "I done told ya, woman." One time I was grocery shopping and was buying a single can of beer to put in chili. The woman behind me in line shouted, "That ain't my beer! I done quit drinkin!"

Smack-Dab in the Middle: Another one that just doesn't make sense to me. What the crap is a smack-dab?

Hanker: I want. "I've got a hankerin for some fried chicken."

Dadgum: Damn.

Dagnabbit: Damnit.

Plumb: Completely. "I'm plumb wore out from workin up under the house and eatin all that there fried chicken."

That'll Learn Me (or Learn You): That'll teach me. "That'll learn you not to eat a whole mess a' fried chicken and then work up under the house, bo'."

In the Woodshed: You are in trouble and you're gonna get beat. You even get to pick your own switch, according to my friend Kristen.

Double Negatives (didn't nobody go, hadn't ought): "Didn't nobody learn nothin from this here dadgum post?".

Three Word Wednesday

2008-09-17T10:59:00.005-04:00

Thomg will be picking the 3 weekly words over at Three Word Wednesday, and I've decided to give it a shot. The word prompts are Agree, Execute, and Providence.

A Self-Made Man

A young man sits on the steps leading up to the yawning mouth of Robinson Hall. In this building, his fate awaits him. The economics department of Brown University is housed here, and Ahmed has classes soon. But still, he sits on the steps, unmoving. It’s a beautiful early fall day in Providence, Rhode Island, but the sun is dark in Ahmed’s eyes.

“Ahmed, Brown is a good school,” Father had told him.

“I’m just not sure it’s where I want to go, sir.” he replied, trying hard to keep his voice from trembling.

“Son, I did not have these opportunities,” Father said forcefully. “Allah blessed me, and I was able to come to this great country as a young man, and make myself what I am today. You will follow in my footsteps.”

“Insha’Allah, Father. But…” Ahmed swallowed hard. “I’ve been accepted to the School of American Ballet, and-”

“I will not hear of it!” his father roared. “You shame me, Ahmed. I have allowed this hobby, this deviation long enough. You are going to have a real education. You are going to have a respectable education.”

“Yes, father.” And so he had agreed, and something inside of him had died.

Ahmed still sat, an island of indifference in the sea of activity around him. He remembers the day of his audition. He and Mother had gone behind Father's back to the school; how nervous he had been, but he had dazzled them. They told him he was the most brilliant dancer they had seen that year. They told him his pas brisé and tours l’air were executed perfectly. They told him they hadn’t seen a more elegant arabesque yet. They told him his passion shone when he danced.

Now Ahmed drops his head into his hands and takes a deep breath. He raises his head and looks up at the sun drifting from behind a wisp of clouds. He grabs his book bag, slowly stands up, and strides away from Robinson Hall.
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Ninth Grade is Over

2008-09-12T09:27:00.007-04:00

I just saw a clip of the first interview Sarah Palin has done since being chosen as McCain's running mate. Everything I've been hearing about how inexperienced she is... this interview didn't really help to settle those questions. There were a couple times when you could tell she has absolutely no idea what the interviewer was talking about. I felt awkward for her.

One time in high school (ok, let's be honest... LOTS of times), I hadn't finished an assignment... I think I was supposed to have read a book for class. I remember the teacher called on me and asked a question about the title character of the book. I remember how intensely embarrassed I was; I remember stammering and stuttering and finally mumbling some BS that I had read on the back cover synopsis of the book. I remember how obvious it was that I hadn't read it. All those feelings came rushing back to me as I listened to Palin stumble her way through this interview.

Charlie Gibson of ABC News: Do you agree with the Bush Doctrine?
Sarah Palin: (long pause, fidgeting, etc.)... In what respect, Charlie?
Gibson: Well, what do you interpret it to be?
Palin: .... .....His worldview.
Gibson: The Bush Doctrine, enunciated September 2002, before the Iraq war.
Palin: I believe that what President Bush has attempted to do is rid this world of Islamic extremism. Terrorists who are hell bent on destroying our nation…
Gibson: The Bush Doctrine, as I understand it, is that we have the right of anticipatory self-defense, that we have the right to a preemptive strike against any other country that we think is going to attack us. Do you agree with that?
Palin: Charlie, if there is legitimate and enough intelligence that tells us that a strike is imminent against American people, we have every right to defend our country.

You know her handlers are backstage freaking out the whole time.
"Crap, crap crap! Didn't anyone explain our foreign policy to this woman?"
"NO, we thought you did!"
"Well, I thought YOU were going to!"
"Epic Crap."

Oh, CNN. I love to hate you. I hate to love you.

2008-09-10T18:13:00.002-04:00

I'm a Greyscale Kind of Girl

2008-09-05T10:26:00.010-04:00

I hate to categorize people. I'm very careful about the things I choose to define myself by and I try to be just as careful when identifying others.

Recently I was having a conversation with my psychologist friend and she used a term which I've found myself mentally referencing a lot lately: "black-and-white people", and conversely, "grey people". It's pretty self-explanatory. Black-and-white people tend to view the world in absolutes and (in my mind) also tend to be somewhat closed-minded. Grey people tend to take situations on a case by case basis and to see the grey areas. These are general terms- slippery terms- and I don't mean to say that one is better than the other. They're just rough appellations for part of the infinitely complex conditions of human relationship. With that in mind...

I'm a grey person (can you tell? no? the above paragraph took me half an hour). I believe in grey areas. I believe nothing is ever as simple as it seems; in my mind there's always more than one side to a story. I don't think opinions and experiences that differ with my own are any less valid. But there are a few black-and-white people in my life that I find endlessly frustrating. These people have a worldview that simply does not allow for the possibility on any opinion besides theirs. There are two ways with them: their way, and the wrong way. They are dogmatic in their convictions to the extent that they alienate others, making sweeping generalities and oversimplifications. There's no discussion with them, no free exchange of ideas, no civil agreement to disagree.

For example: I've known lots of non-Christians and for the most part we've been able to understand each other and respect each other. But I've known a few black-and-whites who will ask me about my faith, not for the purpose of gaining my perspective, or learning more about what we believe, but for the purpose of railing on me for being wrong or foolish or misguided or whatever they believe about Christianity because they've never given themselves the chance to hear one of us out. Maybe they saw a group of Christians (here, I'm using the term loosely) on the news, holding signs that say "god hates gays", and assumed that we're all that ignorant. We're not. Maybe they met a black-and-white Christian (haven't we all?) and assumed that we're all that imperious. We're not.

Anyway. I know I can't be the only one who has engaged in a "conversation" with a black-and-white type who happens to be very passionate about politics. So in this election season when tensions run high and November is on every one's mind and I still haven't decided for whom to cast my vote, I have decided to swear off of discussing the matter with that handful of people. I'm happy to listen to you with an open mind, and you ought to listen to me. If that's not going to happen, why should I bother with you?
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"I feel fun about it"

2008-08-30T19:27:00.005-04:00

Stephen and I took our nephews Liam (3) and Colin (2) to the zoo on Saturday. They're remarkable children (perhaps I'm a bit biased), and both of them emit a constant stream of hilarious one-liners and unexpectedly profound observations. I loved just listening to them talk to each other in the back seat of the car.

In the morning, we had just gotten in the car and were discussing which animals we were excited about seeing at the zoo, when the following exchange took place:

Liam: I want to see the lions.
Colin: I wanna see the... giraffes!
Rachel: Ooh! Boys, remember last time when we got to feed the giraffes?
Both: Yeah!
Stephen: Maybe we'll get to feed them today.
Rachel: Liam, how would you feel about getting to feed the giraffes?
Liam: (matter-of-factly) I would feel fun about it.
Rachel and Stephen: !!!!!

The phrase is genius. But even better was the way he said it perfectly clearly, casually, and without missing a beat. It's my new favorite expression.
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6 Random Things

2008-08-29T10:11:00.013-04:00

Melissa tagged me and that just always makes me feel so special! Here are the rules:

Post the rules on your blog
Write 6 random things about yourself
Tag 6 people at the end of your post
If you're tagged, DO IT and pass on the tag

1. I'm just a little bit OCD (aren't we all?). I've written about this before. One way my OCD manifests is in the consumption of colored candy. Because, unlike most people, I can't just eat a bag of skittles. I must organize the skittles as I go along. If I have a handful of colored candy, I try to pick off the superfluous candies of each color till' I have the same amount of each color. Or, I will eat them so that I end up with an ascending number of each color (1 orange, 2 red, 3 green, 4 yellow... etc). This makes it very difficult for me to enjoy candy in dark movie theatres.

2. Some people like to put on soothing music if they're trying to nap (like Enya or something). I, on the other hand, think the perfect napping music is Metallica. Nothing helps me to relax better than the Black Album. During high school my parents would sometimes find me asleep (while purportedly studying) on top of my books with thrash metal playing loudly in the background.

3. I love to bellydance.

4. My dear dear sister Amy and I have a lot of really strange expressions that are really just inside jokes but we often use them in regular conversation with other people. I wonder... do they think I just used a real word that they don't know the definition of but they're too embarrassed to ask because they want to look intelligent? Or do we just look crazy? Regardless, our favorite word is ZONINO, an expression of celebration or happiness. Best used in conjunction with some kind of wild hand gesture. Well... I feel that everything is best used with some kind of wild hand gesture.

5. I eat Kashi cereal every single morning. I bring a few servings in a zip-lock bag with me whenever we go for a weekend roadtrip, and the first thing I do whenever we visit Denver is go straight to Whole Foods and buy a box or two. I'm like an old lady who just can't handle breaking from her routine.

6. On stereo systems that have a numeric volume display, I insist on setting the volume on a multiple of 5. I usually have the volume in my car at 10, and sometimes when Stephen drives he will casually reach over and turn it up to 12 or 13. I then sit in the passenger seat slowly descending into madness until I simply cannot bear it anymore, and turn it up to 15. Ahh... that's better.

Sadly, I can't think of 6 people who read my blog regularly enough to get this, but here are my 4 tags:

Amy
Jennifer
Lysie
Thomg

Share your idiosyncrasies with us!
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Tedious.

2008-08-21T10:16:00.004-04:00

There are some people at the church doing construction work on the roof due to some hail damage we incurred recently. I should be more specific about what kind of people are here: men. Construction men. Construction men who were inexplicably given a key to my office. So I sit here in my isolated office which doesn't offer a view of the door, usually all alone, while a number of strange men have free access to my building.

Yesterday morning, one of them came in the the offices to use the restroom. He must not have realized I was here because he didn't bother to close the bathroom door. I had called out, "Good morning," because I thought it was the pastor, but Mr. Construction Man didn't hear me.

I heard him, though.
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Welcome to Beijing!

2008-08-06T12:46:00.003-04:00

source: punditkitchen

"Old Man"

2008-08-05T16:32:00.006-04:00

I promised to post some artwork, and as I've been lazy lately and haven't done a whole lot of new work, I thought I should post an older piece. This is an 18'' x 24'' pencil study I did (I spent a little over an hour) on a photograph from National Geographic. I actually had to take a picture of it with my digital camera because it was so big. It was a sort of liberating piece for me. I tend to be a perfectionist so working on something so big was a challenge: I could either obsess over details, or I could interpret the photograph and have fun with it. This ended up being one of my favorite drawings I've done.

Judah Ben-Hur

2008-07-23T11:01:00.009-04:00

Allow me to engage in a little well-intentioned nepotism. My dear cousin Annalyse is working on a very cool project which I am now going to shamelessly plug.

Lysie works for YWAM (Youth With A Mission) in Tampa, FL. She is the assistant to the couple who head up the Tampa missions base, Art and Ellen Sanborn. In 2002, they produced a play called Judah Ben-Hur which opened in Singapore to great reviews. Now they are working to get Judah Ben-Hur on Broadway.

This play is a unique way to bring the gospel to countries that do not allow religious groups to come in and work, because Christianity is discouraged or illegal (like China or many countries in the middle east). Normally, they couldn't just go into some of these places and talk about Jesus. But if they come in to produce a play that's been on Broadway (even a very Christian one), well then... that's American entertainment! When they did Judah Ben-Hur in Singapore (I think) some rather important people received Christ as a result of seeing it.

In order to get it on Broadway, the Sanborns have to show possible investors that there is sufficient interest. So here's a clip of the play... there are more on youtube. The more views they get, the better it looks when they present to investors, so please view the clips and forward on to people who would be interested. Also, pray that the team would have favor as they work to get funding. For more info check out their website.

I can't say I'm a big fan of Broadway plays, but I'm a big fan of bringing the gospel to people who have never had the chance to hear it. I'm an excited supporter of what Lysie has been working so hard on for many months, and hope to post updates on their coming successes!

Am I Good Enough?

2008-07-16T10:30:00.004-04:00

I've mentioned that I'm working on my business, but I don't think I've written about what I'm doing. My hope is to develop a business doing commissioned portraits. You give me a photograph, and I draw it, essentially. It's something I've always been good at and something I've always been passionate about. It's pretty wild to think that in high school I spent an unsettling majority of my time drawing, and now people would pay me money (real money!) for my work.

My first step is to build my portfolio, partly to have something to show off to potential customers, and partly to figure out how long it takes me to complete a piece. As I'm working on my portfolio, I'm realizing I need to challenge myself to do much more detailed work than I have before. My audience is no longer myself and whoever I might show my sketchbook to. Now I'm drawing for people who know the subject intimately- a mother, a husband, whatever. In other words, I'm going to be doing work that will be subject to a much more critical and discerning eye. Right now, my drawing is probably good enough to impress most people. But is it good enough that a mother will look at it and see her child? Or will she see a face that looks nice but just isn't quite right?

Honestly, I have doubts from time to time if I'm good enough to produce art for that audience. And it's scary to put so much of yourself on a piece of paper and then "put it out there" to be criticized and possibly rejected. This is so new for me and I just don't know what to expect. But the more time I spend on a piece, the better it gets. The more hours I spend working every week, the better my work gets. I'm looking at this as an opportunity to develop my skills and bring them to a new level of maturity.

A New Desk

2008-06-30T08:58:00.006-04:00

Wow. I haven't posted anything since February. That is ridiculous. Probably most of the people who used to read my blog stopped hoping for a new post a long time ago.

We've been in South Carolina since September of 2007, and I finally feel settled in. Getting involved with some groups and finally making some real friends has been the major factor in making this a home, but it was my new desk that made me realize it.

When we first saw the house, before we moved in, I was all excited about having my own room. It has a built-in bookshelf, lots of space for an easel and a desk and my art supplies, and great natural light during the whole day. When we moved in and Stephen began to work from home, the little studio we had envisioned for me became his office. Theoretically I could have used the space as well, but I'd have to do it around his schedule and share his space, and his desk is always covered with financial pamphlets and sticky notes. It was the most sensible place for Stephen's office, but I felt let down nonetheless. So if I want to sketch, I've been having to go sit at Starbucks to do it.

Recently the Lord spoke to us about my business and challenged me to devote myself more seriously to it. Stephen suggested getting a desk and setting it up in our "music room" (read: guest room with a drumset in the corner), so off we went to Office Depot. Now my desk is set up my office and it rocks. I didn't realize how badly I needed my OWN space- somewhere I could go and shut the door and keep it organized however I want and not worry if someone else is in there using the computer. Suddenly- I mean the second I sat down at my new desk- I realized I'm at home. Something in my soul just settled.

The other day I was reading a post from last July I had written about having to move down here. I wrote, "I believe intellectually in the joy I'll experience eventually, but I feel nothing but sorrow. I'm confused like I've been adrift at sea for weeks and I can't tell what's right or left or up or down anymore." I gave up so much to leave Denver and come here. The Lord directed us, and I was obedient, but I sacrificed a lot and went through a lot of pain. Having my studio turn into an office was an event that told me: "Living here is going to be even more complicated and disappointing than you thought." I eventually got over that feeling but a little tinge of disappointment remained. Getting my own desk in my own space ameliorated that disappointment and lifted a weight off my shoulders that I didn't entirely realize was there. Stephen even caught me using the h-word this morning: "I'm happy."

Upon reading that post from a year ago, I realized that the impossible has happened. God turned my ashes into gold. He took what seemed to me like death, and He made life out of it.

Awkward Moments with RachelRenae

2008-02-15T09:57:00.010-05:00

If the Pastor isn't here with his kids and his bad attitude, I'm usually all alone, which is fine with me. Every so often, though, one of the church members will stop by for one reason or another and our conversations are always so special (like, short-bus-special).

This church has been here for almost a century, and most of its members live on land that's been passed down through generations and only recently has been engulfed by the expansion of the city. Many of them live on streets that were named after their families, next to their brothers and sisters and parents and whoever. Apparently there's another Lutheran church here on land that the King of England once gave them, and they've been there longer than we've had a country. This isn't really important to my point, I just think it's just amazing.

Anyway, most of the people I've met are very nice, very Southern, and very slightly awkward. But there's one couple who are SUPER awkward. On the first day I met them, the wife introduced herself and explained that they were there to clean the church. I said, "Ok, great. I'm Rachel, it's nice to meet you." She responded, "I know who you are!" (like a teenage girl that's telling her parents something so obvious) and turned and walked away. Her husband just grinned, waved at me, and followed her. So. Wierd.

The husband has a strange quality that I can't describe. He has the unfortunate habit of standing and waiting for you to address him first, even if all he's saying is "I'm leaving now." I'm thinking of testing this out by not saying ANYTHING to him next time i see him, and timing how long it takes him to speak. He'll just stand there and grin until I ask him what he needs. This drives me crazy because I have a polite but very no-nonsense, right-to-the-point style of conversation while multi-tasking. His wife is exactly the opposite. She'll offer up all manner of information without so much as a word on my part.

Later that day, before they left, they came in to get a photocopy of something.
Her: So, are you from around here, Rachel?
Me: No, actually, I'm a Denver native. My husband's family is here.
Her: Where do you live?
Me: Oh, off of XXXXXXXX street.
Her: What developement?
Me: (why is she asking me this?) Honestly, I can't remember the name.
Her: My son lives in a different developement. On XXXXX street. You know, it's in between this developement and... no, what's the other one called? You know, it's accross from another developement... (she rattled on for at least a minute as if this was a matter of life and death if she doens't tell me what developement her son and his family live in.)
Me: (totally bored with the conversation) Yeah, um, I think I've driven past it.
Her: Of course, him and his wife, now, they've been there for XX years, and they like it, you know. Ok. You have a nice day, now. (she walks away)

A different day, she stopped by for some reason and popped into my office. No "beautiful day, isn't it?", no "good morning". She begins as if we're already in the midst of a verbal exchange, and ends it as abruptly as she began it.
Her: Now, name and name -well, that's my daughter, of course, and her husband. Have you met daughter yet?
Me: No, I haven't. (so confused)
Her: Well, her and her husband have child and other child. Have you met them?
Me: No, but I've seen the names.
Her: I'm going to take daughter to a concert. You know, I think it would just be real nice for her to go out. Kenny... Kenny... What's his last name?
Me: ... uhh... (shrugs shoulders)
Her: Anyway, he's playing with another guy, and that girl, you know her? And Kenny... Chesney. Kenny Chesney, you know him?
Me: Actually, I hate country music. (I do not mince words.)
Her: Oh, well I'm not such a big fan myself, but it's so nice to get out of the house from time to time, you know, but he's pretty good, and I can really get into the music, you know. I really think you would like him! And...
Me: No, I mean I really, really can't tolerate country music at all.
Her: Well, I just think it's real nice just to get out the house sometimes, you know, and she really likes Kenny Chesney, and this other girl... now what is her name? You know her, the blond girl. Real cute.
Me: .... (at a total loss) That sounds nice.
Awkward silence. She absentmindedly runs her hand through her sensible, short gray hair.
Her: Yeah, I didn't do much with my hair today, I just ran a brush through it...... alright, then, Rachel, I suppose I may be speakin' to you later. (and she's gone)

I sat in stunned silence for a few moments. I wasn't sure what had just happened. I'm still not sure.

The Ladies

2008-01-18T10:31:00.000-05:00

I work part-time as the secretary for a small church. It's a nice job- I've got flexible hours, only work 4 days a week, and it allows me to be autonomous and creative. Sometimes I get the chance to write or edit material for church publications, which I love doing. It may not be the most stimulating job I've ever had, but it's not something I dread every morning. (Plus, I get to wear jeans!)

You know I'm not the complaining type (pause as laughter subsides...), but there is one facet of my job which makes it very stressful. The pastor of the church brings his 3 small daughters to work with him. Evidently, childcare is not something within his family's budget, but I'm getting to the point that I'd almost offer to pay for it myself. When I interviewed for the job, I was asked if I like kids, to which I responded that I do, very much (a true statement). She told me that the pastor brings his kids to the office "every once in a while" (a true but very misleading statement).

In reality, he brings 3 or his 4 kids to the office probably 2 or 3 days every week. He has twin girls, a year and a half old- we'll call them red fish and blue fish. He also has a 3 year old girl- we'll call her the tornado. He also has a son who is school-aged and who, on the one occasion I met him, showed me his transformer toy and spoke elaborately about it as he manipulated it, and then tossed it on my desk and ran off. Both the older children have noticeable speech impediments, and from what I've seen, all three of the girls are well behind where they ought to be for their age, developmentally speaking.

They tear around the office, dig through the trash, put things in the toilets, put things in their mouths, and make a general mess, yelling and screaming and crying all the while. I was wholly unprepared for what was about to happen the first time he brought them in. By the time they were gone, I had glue and marker all over my desk, parts of my printer were dismantled, there was probably a whole muffins' worth of crumbs distributed evenly over my floor, a ripped up kids book on the floor, and colored on paper glued onto my other desk. Probably every 2 or 3 minutes (throughout the whole day), one of the twins will erupt spontaneously into a kind of shrieking/crying that... there's just a quality to this crying that cannot be put into words... it's unthinkable, indescribable. It HURTS to listen to. The tornado is constantly pushing the twins, taking things from them, of locking them out of rooms. Every afternoon, when it's time to go, the tornado throws herself on the ground and throws a dramatic-full-on-losing-her-little-three-year-old-mind-fit.

I believe I'm certainly warranted a level of displeasure in having to tolerate this at work, but surprisingly, I really do like these kids. Their behavior is simply a manifestly obvious result of the very bad parenting that they receive, and every day I like the pastor I work for less and less. I'm agitated by the crying, the screaming, the mess every day and often go home with headaches, but it's worse for me to have to listen to the way dad talks to his little girls all day. It really disturbs me. I speak more kindly to my dog that this guy does to his own flesh and blood.

Just today, he was sweeping the hallway. Red Fish stood unmoving in front of him, smiling and pointing and him. Does he kindly ask her to move, or tenderly scoot her out of the way, or (gasp!) take this opportunity to love on his child? Of course not. "Move," he says (she does not). "Red Fish, move!" Suddenly another issue presents itself. Blue Fish has wandered into the men's room and is playing with the toilet brush. Does he issue a gentle admonishment? Does he laugh it off and explain that the bathrooms are not for playing in, helping her wash her hands? Not our guy. "NO!" he shouts, snatching the toilet brush from little blue, and stalks from the hallway, leaving her standing in the bathroom and staring after his retreating figure. In fact, he barely ever uses their names, referring to them collectively as "ladies", if he even refers to them at all. Just now one the babies knocked something off his desk. He'll responds with "No, no, no, no, no, blue fish!"

Seriously, I'm so mad just after proof reading this post that I don't know what to do with myself. Every day I come in with a fresh resolution that I'll find something, anything positive in this man's demeanor towards his children, and every day I go home frustrated because there's nothing.

Reality Check

2008-01-08T10:18:00.001-05:00

It has been 3 months since I've posted anything. You can see how my blogging has slowly tapered off since April when I got married, then got a new job, then moved to South Carolina. It's not like I've been too busy- I work 20 hours a week at a small church, and Stephen works the same or less in an average week. It's just that I haven't had anything to write about that didn't make me feel more depressed. Somehow, not blogging about my life for the past 3 months has helped me to avoid the reality that life is still here to live, in South Carolina just as in Colorado, whether I like it or not.

I was touched by the comments I've gotten on my last post wondering where I am and wishing me Merry Christmas. I'm still alive, and still, as always, in transition.

I spent several months anticipating our trip to Denver for Christmas, so a part of me felt that we were only living in our new house in a new city temporarily, and we would be getting back home soon. We were in Denver for 2 weeks over Christmas, which was sweet but surreal. Driving back to SC was like moving away all over again. Now that we're back, I can't escape the fact that THIS is supposed to be my home now.

And now I'm faced with two distinct options: I can either keep wasting my time and energy on missing everything I left behind, or I can embrace and make the most of what I have available to me here. The choice seems obvious to a rational person, but I'm still vacillating between the two.

I'm working another boring part time job which allows me copious amounts of time on the internet, and I had forgotten how cathartic this is for me, so hopefully I'll be back on here soon to tell you which of two options I'm going to go with.

I am Probably Ridiculous

2007-10-11T13:15:00.000-04:00

I've been a little busy. You know, homemaking and the like. I could talk about the social differences between Colorado and south Carolina. I could talk about our house, or about the weather here, or about all the things I've been doing. I could talk about how I'm coping. I could talk about our church search. But I'm not going to, that stuff can wait. So what's so important that it supersedes all the aforementioned topics? What's the most important thing I've learned since I moved here, that deserves its VERY OWN POST?

Spiders, ladies and gentlemen. Arachnids. Satan's little 8-legged minions. I have always been petrified of them.

When my sister and dad were still here, we spent a day in Charleston. On the College of Charleston campus, we saw a spider bigger than my palm. Amy and my dad were taking pictures of it and saying it was "cool" and "pretty" (that's what they want you to think!).
The first day in our new house, my dad came in from the garage and cheerfully announced, "You've got a garage spider!". Sure enough, there was a big sucker sitting right on the lid of our trash can.
The next day we took a walk in Harbison State Forest, and my dad nearly walked through a web several layers deep which was home to TWO large spiders. He did not think they were so "cool" this time.
Stephen went out of town later that week, and I alone. Now, our backyard is kind of wooded, and there's a cute little bench nestled between two trees. One night, around 11:30, I took Moses outside before bed (with my trusty flashlight), and thought "I'll sit in that bench while Moses does his thing". As I ambled towards the bench, I noticed the faintest gleam of light reflected in a single line of spider web, a little to my right. I swung the flashlight up and followed the line down, which connected to another line which formed a web about two feet wide. Dead Center sat a big fat spider, not 6 inches from my face. It would be a small understatement to say that my mental state dissolved rapidly into a fit of terror.
I'd like to take a moment to apologize to my new neighbors for screaming like a little girl.
Amy and I have a name for the foolishness that follows: Spider-Poking. It's that morbid fascination in us that wants to provoke the thing we're scared of. In scary movies, something like Spider-Poking is what makes the stupid, pretty girl go towards the strange noise even though the creepy music is playing. Spider-Poking is was made me blow on the spider (after I had mostly gotten done panicking). He tightened up but didn't move. I was not satisfied, so I got a stick and snapped a line of his web, which caused him to scuttle to a different location on his web and caused me to scream again, this time jumping up and down.
I said to myself,
"Self, this is madness! This has got to stop. I'm afraid!"
To which I replied... to myself,
"I'm afraid, too. But I'm afraid of what will happen if we DON'T stop!"
So I poked again. After that he moved so fast that I screamed three or four times successively, threw the branch away from me, and made a break for the back porch.
I'd like to take another moment to apologize to my neighbors again. It's probably really annoying that I was doing that at, like, midnight.

My theory here is that the spiders are patiently plotting my demise. They are systematically eliminating the places I can go (the garage, the backyard) and thereby eliminating my escape routes. This theory was confirmed a few days ago when Stephen found a spider on the door to the back porch. It's only a matter of time till they cut off the front door route, and then I'll be trapped in the house. Then, I believe, they'll trap me in a small room by the same process of elimination.
Everyone tells me that they're harmless, or that I'm bigger than them. But they have all the advantages! 4 times as many legs, ability to see in the dark, ability to hide unnoticed in corners and crevices, and sheer creepiness. I'm trying to think of a defense strategy. So far my main tactics have been unsuccessful (screaming, running away, screaming some more) but calling for Stephen usually works. My plans call for further development.

Also, we are having lovely weather today.

They seemed a very foolish 4 teeth to me

2007-09-11T10:47:00.001-04:00

Yesterday was my last day at work. I went straight home and to the dentist immediately thereafter in order to pay the man 800 dollars to take 4 of my teeth out. I was so nervous, but I don't remember anything but feeling a sharp poke in my arm from the IV, and then slowly waking up, hearing unfamiliar voices and feeling very confused. Then I heard Stephen's voice and I knew whatever was going on must be ok. I made a groggy attempt to reach my hand out to him and he held my hand and kept talking to me. I slept the whole way home. I remember hearing Stephen saying he was going to the store, and later hearing him say that he brought me a special treat- coconut chicken soup from our favorite Thai restaurant (if you're ever in Denver, please please ask me for directions to this place!).

I slept 4 or 5 hours yesterday afternoon, and another 10 last night. Surprisingly I'm barely swollen at all and I'm not too sore, though my mouth smells like something crawled down my throat and died, and tastes much, much worse. I was allowed to drink a sip of water yesterday morning with my birth control and I brushed my teeth, but I wasn't allowed to eat or drink anything else before the surgery, including gum. I haven't been allowed to brush my teeth since the surgery, until at least 3 today, and my mouth is a foul, terrible place right now. I can't imagine that eating my Thai food is going to improve the situation much, though it's going to be delicious.

I think I might take a Vicodin and go back to sleep. The sooner this is over, the sooner I *get to* start packing. Yippee.

How to piss me off

2007-09-06T21:22:00.000-04:00

My company has hired a woman to take my position next week when I quit, and they have her working the front desk with me to get the hang of things. Given her complete lack of communication skills, it is my opinion that this woman might be a better fit at a fast food restaurant or the shady billing department for Royal Prestige. This woman's name is Chong Mi. She is an interrupter, and an over-talker. She is a conversation usurper (she will take over any conversation and turn herself into the new subject). She talks about herself all day, and she talks TO herself all day. And not like mumbling-under-her-breath talking to herself, either. She just talks out loud in a normal voice, seemingly to no one in particular, and occasionally glances at me to see if I'm listening (I'm not). She also does this thing where if she thinks she's said something kind of funny, she'll pause for a few moments and then say in a slightly higher-pitched voice "I was like...(insert previous comment)!! AHAHAHA!" Chong Mi is driving me CRAZY.

You know when there's a random fly in your house and is just nonchalantly buzzing around, landing on things and playing dumb while you sneak up on it then flying away at the last second? And then buzzing around your head, taunting you? Always BUZZING?!? Chong Mi is like that fly.

I'm just going to walk you through a few of our typical "conversations".

EXHIBIT A
Chong Mi: So, is your husband going to do most of the packing?
Rachel: Well, Stephen is actually working right up to-
Chong Mi: Yeah, My husband isn't a packer. I did most of our packing myself! Ahahahaha! Yeah, he just sat around! Hahaha!

EXHIBIT B
The phone rings. I page Sherry and tell her she has a call on 803. Sherry tries to pick up 801, and the caller hangs up. The phone rings again and Sherry picks up the right line.

Rachel: I think Sherry picked up the wrong line. I guess the caller got tired of waiting and hung up.
Chong Mi: Yeah, maybe.

60 Seconds Later

Chong Mi (in revelatory tone): OH! I know what must have happened. I bet Sherry picked up the wrong line. Ha! Well, there we go.
Rachel: Stunned silence

EXHIBIT C:
Chong Mi overheard me talking to someone about Moses- I was worried because he was sick (he's fine now).

Chong Mi: So, is your dog ok? What did the vet say?
Rachel: He's not sure. They want to run some bloodwork and take some X-Rays. They think-
Chong Mi: Oh, yeah I had this cat once that was just so FUNNY- haha- but she was sick and she was really old, and they wanted me to pay 800 dollars for surgery for her, and they weren't sure if she would even live, so we had to put her down, and it was really hard. So I know EXACTLY how you feel. ***nods assuringly***
Rachel: Stunned silence

EXHIBIT D
Stephen stops by the office in the morning, and I feel obligated to introduce him to the bane of my sanity.

Rachel (grudginly): Chong Mi, this is my husband, Stephen.
Stephen (shaking Chong Mi's hand): Hi, it's nice to meet you.
Chong Mi (shaking Stephen's hand): Hi! Good luck with South Carolina!
Stephen: Oh, um. Thanks.
Rachel: Increasingly irritated silence

EXHIBIT E
Dawn walks past the desk and initiates a conversation with Rachel regarding the upcoming move.

Dawn: Well, it sounds like it's going to be a big change for you! I lived down south for a while, and it's very different there.
Rachel: Oh really? Where down South, exactly?
Chong Mi: Yeah, I lived in Tennessee for 6 months and I went crazy! You know, it's so bible belt. And the bugs! Oh my gosh, but I lived in a small town, and I had my little girl with me. But you know (assumes intellectual tone and lectures about the cultural atmosphere in whatever podunk town she lived in for a solid 5 minutes).

I think you get the idea. Chong Mi breaks all my conversation rules which are reasonable and should not have to be explained as they are really only common courtesy.

CONDUCTING A SUCCESFUL CONVERSATION WITH RACHEL
1. Don't interrupt me.
2. Stop thinking about what you're going to say when you stop hearing the sound of my voice.
3. Respond with something relevant. A few ways to do this are
a) make a comment which reflects the feelings I just described (That must have been hard for you.)
b) share a story or situation which ties in to the one I just described (You know, my brother once did something similar...)
c) A genuine facial expression, laughter, or other non-verbal communication tool
4. Under no circumstances shall you overtalk me by speaking louder and louder until I finally give up.
5. Don't do that asking-a-question-because-you-want-me-to-ask-you-the-same-question thing (example: What are you doing this weekend? Oh cool... uh-huh... Well I'M going to this awesome concert...). If you want to tell me what YOU are doing this weekend, please come right to the point and stop wasting my time with ingenuine conversation.
6. Don't fish for compliments.

There. Rules that are applicable to me, but really, to everyone. This stuff is universal, people.

Oh, I love technology, but not as much as you, you see...

2007-08-29T14:04:00.000-04:00

Right now I'm working at a computer learning center. Part of what we do is send our instructors to company sites to train their employees, and typically the people who took the class fill out a little paper evaluation. Part of what I do is enter those evaluations into our system so we have them digitally. (This, ladies and gentleman, is what we call busy work).

We just sent 5 or 6 of our instructors to run some classes for Weld County School District (Weld County teachers were strongly recommended but not required to attend classes like Word, Outlook, and PowerPoint). As I've been entering the evaluations from this particular session, I've chiefly noticed two things:

Teachers make giant smiley faces in all the comment sections, as compared to everyone else who... well, don't.
Teachers make excellent and consistent smileys.

But there was one evaluation which stood out to me this morning. Iris (who identified herself as an English teacher, big surprise) felt led to pen a lengthy paragraph about the demise of education and the rise of technology in the little section marked "Comments/Suggestions to improve your experience?" I was baffled and moved by her (somewhat misdirected) eloquence, and sad that this little Microsoft Vista evaluation form, that probably only I will ever read, would be her only forum. So I have decided to share Iris' comments/suggestions with you all. Perhaps it will inspire you. Perhaps it will challenge you. And perhaps... it will make you laugh.

"I am sad that great literature and the newest technology are truly moving in opposite directions. We are now forever handcuffed to technology while the great foundations of our historical, literary, and artistic past continue to die protesting but quiet deaths. We have inherited fragmented education (thank you, technology!) where students no longer read complete novels but instead, they jump on spark notes... and text messaging continues to erode essay writing. There is a price tag..."

I just don't know what else I can add to this. I was so surprised to find such lofty language and such passionate expression in so simple (and, it could be argued, inappropriate) a setting that much of its seriousness was diluted by the sheer random humor of it.

Wildly emotive comments? Spontaneous, dramatic suggestions? Do share.

My life explained in little yellow pills

2007-08-27T13:25:00.000-04:00

I started a new pack of birth control today. Maybe you didn't want to know that, but let me explain. 1 pack is 4 weeks long, exactly 28 days. It struck me as I was staring at the neat little rows of round yellow pills that I would be taking the last few pills in South Carolina.

Let me walk you through the unfolding of the event which I have been simultaneously dreading and eagerly anticipating. You follow the first row, day by day, to pills 4 and 5 (thursday and friday), when Stephen and I will be camping in Aspen to see Ben Harper and Nickel Creek in concert. We planned this months ago.

Jump down to the second row and follow the little pills all the way to the end. Second to the last pill (September 8th) is my 22nd birthday. 3 months ago I insisted that we stay here AT LEAST until I had celebrated my birthday with my family. Sunday my parents are throwing a going-away party for us and my dad is frantically trying to finish a painting project he's been working on nonchalantly for a long time.

Next row. Pill number 3 is my last day at work. Pills 4-7 I'll be cleaning and packing and crying. Sunday I'm singing on the worship team for the very last time at the church I've been in since I was 10 years old.

And now, the last row. Pill number 2 is Stephen's last day. Third pill in this row is moving day. My dad and sister are going to spend pills 3-5 driving down to our new house with us and helping us get settled. By the last two pills of this pack, I'll be living in South Carolina. If we could jump to the next pack, we'd see Amy and my Dad flying back home on the second pill, and me being in transition for 26 more pills.

It sucks.

2007-07-31T17:15:00.000-04:00

Since the move is imminent, I decided yesterday to tell the other receptionist who runs the desk with me (Sandi), and my manager. They'll need time to replace me and I just couldn't hold it in anymore. I really enjoy the other receptionist and felt guilty not telling her. We have a lot of fun together.

This morning I came in and within half an hour 4 people asked me about moving. I never asked Sandi to keep it quiet- I always assume pople understand my need for privacy and operate on the same standards, but people never do. Sandi is outgoing and loves to talk and is really sad to see me go, and I think she talked toeveryone in our office about it.

All day people drifted past the the front desk, casually prying into a subject which is simultanesouly devastating and exhilerating to me; it is deeply personal. They don't mean anything by it, it's just conversation, confirming office gossip, but I'm overwhelmed already and the last thing I need is to answer the same questions over and over all day.

"Yeah, it's a really great career oportunity..."
"We'll be closer to our little nephews..."
"My husband's family is down there, so at least we'll know people..."
"Of course, it's bittersweet..."
"Yes, South Carolina IS very pretty..."

It all sounds so hollow. What I keep wanting to say is that it's none of your goddamn business, and get out of my face. I believe intellectually in the joy I'll experience eventually, but I feel nothing but sorrow. I'm confused like I've been adrift at sea for weeks and I can't tell what's right or left or up or down anymore.

I went to the doctor today and told the receptionist we were moving in about a month when she asked me to schedule my next checkup. She said, "Oh, cool. That will be fun!" I wanted to pound my fists on her desk and yell at everyone in the lobby. "WHY DOES EVERYONE KEEP SAYING THAT?!?!?! Look at my eyes and tell me again!"

Then the doctor asked me to schedule a vaccine, and I had to tell her that I won't be here long enough to receive the full series. When asked about our reasons for leaving, I gave one of my standard answers, "My husband's family lives down there." She asked where my family lives, and I told her how I'm a fifth generation Colorado native, and that almost all my family is here still. She responds, "Wow, that sounds hard for you." Understatement of the century. I'm mourning and grieving and weeping inside. I want someone to mourn with me, to look me in the eyes and say something sincere. To hell with "good luck". Good luck doensn't mean anything. I want to know that my heart is understood. Someone tell me it DOES suck, and it IS painful, and it's HARD to see how beauty will come of my ashes.

I'm getting tired of being in transition

2007-07-13T08:36:00.000-04:00

Let me summarize the last few weeks thus:

I got in a fender bender, my fault.

Our deductible is $1000.

The auto-body shop is going to have my car for 2-3 weeks and Stephen and I have one car left between us, so I have to learn to drive a stick shift and it's frustrating.

It's beginning to sink in that we're moving in 2 months. All I'm going to have is Stephen, Moses, and Stephen's family (who I enjoy, but it's not the same as having my family).

I've been pissed off at God for a few weeks and I didn't talk to Him for a while. Now I'm entering a period of getting very real with Him. It's a long story.

I've been battling depression and losing. I'm depressed because we're in debt and we have to pay 1000 bucks for my stupid mistake, and because soon I'm leaving everything I know and love and I'm afraid to be alone, and because it's really, really hard to live without God and I'm completed exhausted from trying to pull myself out of bed everyday.

So, I'm sorry to everyone who reads my blog. I've been a little preoccupied and I haven't been writing because I've reasoned that you probably don't want to read about the shit, you want to read the funny sarcastic stuff I usually write. But I keep trying and I can't write anything genuine that's good and happy and funny right now. So I'm just going to write about the shit because it's making me sick to internalize it. If you want to read about it, keep coming back. Maybe along the way I'll discover something good about the last month; a sparkle in the waste.

Adventures in coffee

2007-06-21T17:49:00.000-04:00

When I worked downtown, it was hard to walk a block without seeing some kind of coffee shop. It was even harder not to go into said coffee shop for a drink. If it was warm out, I would convince myself that nothing could be finer than an iced coffee and sweet syrupy beverage; if it was cold, I would justify that the thing I really needed was a piping hot espresso or chocolate concoction. I should do commercials for Starbucks.

But since I got my new job, I haven't had that same luxury. Along my drive and near my office there's not a single conveniently located Starbucks, Peaberry's, or little independently owned coffee shop. I can't just drop in, I have to go well out of my way and leave for work at least 15 minutes earlier than usual.

The other day I decided not to take the highway and saw, to my great delight, a Peaberry's. I said to myself, "Myself, a small iced americano is just exactly what you need to start your day off right." So I went in and ordered my usual a small(taking care to designate it as a small, not a tall) iced americano with room. Any coffee elitist knows that just the perfect amount of heavy whipping cream elevates this beverage from an iced espresso drink to a little piece of heaven on earth.

Thus, when the barista delivered my drink onto the table and called out it's name (as they do) despite the fact that I'm the only one in the store and I'm standing right there, I requested heavy whipping cream and was met with an incredulous "What?".

"Heavy whipping cream," I repeated. She looked at me like I had a green face. "You know, to put in the drink..." I offered, now unsure of myself. She reached for the whipped cream, and I waved it away with my hands. "You don't have heavy whipping cream?" I asked, in disbelief.

"We have half-and-half," she suggested, indicating the serve-yourself table full of sugar packets and stir-straws.

"But... no heavy whipping cream?" I waved my hands around uncertainly hoping to convey exactly what I meant by heavy whipping cream, in case the words hadn't quite communicated my desire clearly. She shrugged. I suited myself to a few packets of raw sugar and some milk, and it was the worst Americano I've ever had. I ended up throwing most of it out and my mouth tasted like ass all morning.

The moral of my story is this: don't try to order anything at Peaberry's if you're cherishing any hopes of adding heavy whipping cream to it, because they just don't have any.

Father's Day

2007-06-14T18:42:00.000-04:00

These are the two most important men in my life. Stephen and my dad (it should be obvious which one is which).

Sunday is father's day. According to the commericals I start to see around father's day every year, what my dad wants is
a) a tie
b) an electric razor
c) a phone
d) golf stuff
e) tasteless ugly clothing from Sears or something

But my father
a) doesn't wear ties and doesn't really know how to tie one very well anyway
b) has a razor, and giving a guy a razor as a present make you the biggest douchebag ever
c) has a phone and always leaves it in the car and can't remember his voicemail password
d) doesn't play golf
e) is tall and thin and hard to shop for, and a pair of fugly ass jean shorts just doesn't say "I love you and appreciate all the sacrifices you've made so I could have the opportunities I've had", despite what the commercials say.

My dad is a rocket scientist (seriously) and a drummer- he's brilliant but forgetful, practical and systematic, and he has a dark sense of humor. He doesn't like organized sports, hence my superbowl post, but I got my passion for hiking and skiing and being in the mountains from him.

He can always depend on a bar or two of dark chocolate for birthdays, christmas, etc. He eats this chocolate bar piece by tiny piece over a period of a few weeks and if you take even a secret nibble of his precious chocolate he'll notice. But chocolate doesn't seem like quite enough this year.

I suppose I'm reaching an age where I can be friends with my dad. I'm finding out about all the things he did for our family that went unnoticed in my childhood ignorance. I'm enjoying his company even more. He's an honorable, faithful man who's always provided for me, loved me, and encouraged me. He and I are very close and we have a great relationship, but we didn't used to. The healing and restoration God had done between us is beyond words. How can a chocolate bar convey that?

Crazy Maxine

2007-06-07T12:28:00.000-04:00

I don't even know where to start with Maxine. She walked into my office this morning and I had a terrible sense of foreboding the minute I saw her.

(I work at a computer learning center now and we do classes for all kinds of programs and certifications.)

I was already aggravated because my keyboard won't connect to my computer, and my company cancelled a class without contacting the students to tell them. People keep coming in for the class- I'm standing awkwardly next to the desk while one of the instructors crawls UNDER the desk, messing with wiring, and there's only so much apologizing I can do for the incompetency of other people and still sound genuine.

So Maxine announces the class she's here for. I tell her the class has been cancelled. Maxine freaks out. I look at the roster. Her name is not on it, which I inform her. "ExCUSE me." she says as she shoves a piece of paper toward me with a bunch of course titles on it. This paper neither proves nor disproves her enrollment. She calls her sales rep. I'm finally able to get on the computer and I pull up the system for student enrollments. I call her over.

Me: Your paper here shows 15 different courses. Our system only shows you enrolled for 3, as you can see...
Crazy Maxine: I'm enrolled for this class :::points at paper:::
Me: Well, I'm not sure why it says that... You're NOT enrolled, see? You're name isn't in the class roster and the class isn't on your account.
Crazy Maxine: Well, who's going to reimburse me for the gas I spent getting here? I drove half an hour.
Me: Well, the problem is that you're not actually enrolled in the class-
Crazy Maxine: Nobody called to tell me it was cancelled. I want to be reimbursed.
Me: Nobody called you because our system doesn't show your name in the class- you're not signed up for this course.

This goes on for a good 10 minutes and concludes with Maxine declaring "I'm not leaving till' I get reimbursed." She calls her rep again, who puts her through to her manager, who puts her through to their manager. They tell her they can't reimburse her for the gas, as she's not enrolled in the class. She puts it on speaker phone. She says, "I'm here for a class. What am I supposed to do now?" The manager says, "Well, what you do now is really up to you... the class is cancelled..." Long story short, she stays in my lobby for an hour and 45 minutes throwing a series of fits, like a 4 year old that hasn't gotten her way. She switches between calling the manager and hassling me.

Then another student shows up for the class, REALLY late. Maxine says, "It's ridiculous. I'm fighting them on this. I'm getting my gas reimbursed. You should do the same thing!", like we're communists and she's a noble capitalist, alone on her quest for justice. The other student heartily agrees. I think about throwing the candy bowl at Maxine's head. She and the other student exchange numbers and even hug each other in the hallway. They trade horror stories about the drive (detours, traffic, gas prices! Oh, the humanity!). The other student leaves, having joined the revolution, with high and lofty hopes of gas reimbursement.

Maxine returns to my desk to re-issue her request for gas reimbursement for the 20th time. I tell her I can't help her. Maxine repeats "Well, I'm here for class. What should I do?" I repress suggesting she take a walk on the interstate. Maxine calls the manager again and finally leaves, walking (hopefully) out of my life forever.

Maybe I'll write a song about her. Insolent, self-entitled, crazy Maxine.

Stayin Alive

2007-06-06T13:16:00.000-04:00

Holy Crap. I've been gone for a while- not actually gone, just mentally gone.

I started a new job a few weeks ago- I'm an actual employee (not a contractor like before), and it's great. I only work till' 1 but I'm always really busy, so my blogging-at-work freedom is no more. I thought having my afternoons off would give me time to blog, but I'm always doing chores or being outside. After spending my morning on a computer, I'm not especially drawn to get back on my laptop at home.

However, this week I am working full-time hours filling in at one of our company's other offices, and I'm bored bored bored. BORED, I tell you! So I decided to blog. I tried to sign on and I got an error message about cookies. Seeing as how my cookies usually burn, I decided not to pursue the issue but rather to try and sneak into blogger without the cookies finding out by signing in on a comments page instead of a main page, which worked somehow, but is entirely beside the point. So, here I am. Alive, and doing OK.

I've been in sort of a dark place lately. After much prayer and discussion (and crying, all by me), Stephen and I have decided to move away from Denver. He's going to join his dad's business, so by the end of the year, we'll be living 1500 miles away from everything I know and love.

I'm torn about it. I know in my heart of hearts that this is the right decision for us and that God is definately leading us to take this course. But I grew up in Denver and I always thought I would raise my kids there. I like just getting in my car and being in the mountains in under an hour. I like living 10 minutes away from my parents. This is my home- I'm heartbroken about leaving. I lost sleep for 2 or 3 nights after we first talked about it, but now I have a peace. But that doesn't mean I'm happy about it. It's been pretty heavy on my mind, and that's mostly why I haven't posted lately.

Anyway, now that I know how to trick my computer into letting me blog at work, I'll probably post more today and tomorrow. I'm so BORED!

I Guess I'm a Little Confused

2007-05-11T10:24:00.000-04:00

Careers I have seriously considered, am still considering, or have pursued:

Early Childhood Education Teacher
College History, English, or Theology Professor
Artist
Graphic Designer
One of those people who sets up the window displays at Barnes and Noble
Editor
Singer/Songwriter
Recording Artist
Just plain writer
Tattoo Artist
Owner of a Flower Shop
Chef
Race Car Driver
Stunt Car Driver
Climb Everest (OK, it's not really a career, but I've always wanted to do it)
Mountaineering Expedition Leader?
Interior Designer
Stay at Home Mom
Model
Astronomer
Cosmetologist
Massage Therapist
Psychologist
Missionary (to someplace in Asia/South America)
Clothing Designer
Any job at Google (I'm always trying to figure out if there's a way to make this happen because it would be SO GROOVY to work at Google.)
Fitness Trainer
Bartender

Lack of direction, much? I have no idea what I want to do. Number 18 is the only one I'm entirely sure about.

Here are a few jobs that I don't think I would be good at:

Electrician
Mathematician (I have troubles with simple addition)
Professional Speaker (Why is this different than recording artist? I'd rather eat worms than speak in front of a large group of people, but I'm completely comfortable singing in front of them. WHY?)
Politician of any kind (I have too much integrity for politics, which is to say, I have some integrity, which is too much for politics)
Lawyer (see previous)
Linebacker
VJ
DJ
Matchmaker
Watchmaker
Bird Watcher
Bob Ross
Mob Boss
That dude from MTV- what's his name? The guy from jackass, and he has his own show now. You know who I'm talking about.
Advice Columnist
Exotic Dancer (I can barely stand in heels- how could I dance in them? Answer: awkwardly.)
Your Company's Computer Guy
Bouncer
Accountant
Receptionist (.......)

I'm a daisy bouquet today

2007-05-09T17:14:00.000-04:00

Since I have to let people in because our doors are locked now, I thought it would be interesting to keep track of how many times I got up. In the first hour of my work day, I got up 12 times. I lost count around lunch but I think the total is 47 or 48. And 47 or 48 times, I've feigned a chuckle (in a progressively less convincing manner) to variations on the following jokes/comments: (What I wanted to say. My actual answer.)

You sure are getting your exercise!
Are you calling me fat? You insensitive, chauvinist pig! :::cries::: Haha, yeah.
Wow, that must be inconvenient for you.
You're damn right it is! Thanks for pointing it out! Haha, yeah.
Keeping the riff-raff out, huh?
I don't know how you slipped past me. Don't make me call the cops. Haha, yeah.
Don't you like me?
Come to think of it, no. Not at all, in fact. Hahaha.
What's wrong with the door?
What's wrong with your face? We're keeping it locked for security reasons.
Don't they have a button for you to open the door?
Frickin A! Of course not! No.

But they finally did get me a button, basically in time for me to start my other job. Thanks, guys. 'Preciate it. They also thought it necessary to get a phone for our lobby so on the rare occasion that I leave the desk for a moment and someone happens to come up to the doors, they can call someone. This is a good idea in theory. However, our security guy (an ex-FBI agent) decided it would be better for the phone to automatically ring the phone on my desk. Which means the visitor who is stuck in the lobby because I'm not at my desk to let them in can call... me... at my desk... while I'm in the bathroom. FBI, whatever. No one has ever accused our government of having common sense.

But I don't want to complain.

....

..........

I guess I can't think of anything else to talk about, then. Aren't I just a bundle of spring flowers?

I am not alone

2007-05-08T13:49:00.000-04:00

Look at It, Sitting There in That Box, Plotting, Plotting...

Man: Styrofoam... Just thinking of it sends chills up and down my spine. Man, I hate that stuff.

Overheard by: aaron

via Overheard Everywhere, Apr 15, 2007

39 more hours and I'm free

2007-05-07T17:27:00.000-04:00

Now our card reading system is completely down. If I wasn't quitting before, I sure would now.

In the Spirit of Peace...

2007-05-03T09:56:00.000-04:00

Today, the first Thursday of May, is the National Day of Prayer. Congress defined this day as a day when "all Americans, regardless of faith, are asked to come together and pray in their own way". I think it's very cool, in light of a few recent tragedies in this country, and given that I firmly believe in the power of prayer. I also think it's a lovely way to bring together different denominations and even different religions, if it's approached the right way. I see it as an opportunity to cultivate peace and unity.

Additionally, today is celebrated by many atheists, agnostics, and secularists as the National Day of Reason. Nationaldayofreason.org says this is "an appropriate response to the... annual abuse of the constitution (National Day of Prayer)". In order to "effect positive change", celebrators of this day donate blood. I think this is very cool because it's a practical thing to do that benefits real people. You often hear people talking about their good will, but less often you see people actually demonstrating altruism.

Maybe you've noticed the new book I'm reading, The Language of God by Francis S. Collins. Collins is a born-again Christian, a converted skeptic, and as a renowned physician and geneticist, Collins was also the leader of the Human Genome Project (which was completed in 2003). His book has provided a fascinating perspective for me- raised as an agnostic, Collins didn't develop any sort of religious belief at all until he was a med student and encountered a woman whose faith gave her hope even though her cancer would take her life in a matter of months. Collins became aware of his total ignorance on the subject of faith and decided to find out the truth for himself, eventually becoming a Christian. For Collins, facts came before faith.

Faith and spirituality have always been a part of my life. I was raised in a wholly Christian family, going to church every Sunday since I can remember. I was a ninth grader when I decided that 'my parent's religion' just didn't do it for me, and I sought out other faiths like Buddhism, Hinduism, and Wicca, ultimately coming to the conclusion that none of them filled the emptiness inside me. Eventually, after a period of hopelessness, I realized that Jesus satisfied that longing and suddenly He was my own, not just my parent's. But science has never been something I've sought out. I'm a feeler more than an analyzer. For me, faith came before facts. But now I'm becoming aware of my staggering ignorance in most fields of science.

You see, Collins is a firm believer not only in Jesus and His work on the cross, but in the theory of evolution. Some of you Christians out there probably cringe at the idea, just like I did. The average Christian is raised to vehemently oppose evolution- Darwin is a name nearly on par with Hitler, and the man who expresses an adherence to his works is thought to be blaspheming. But Collins presents a good case for it and reconciles his scientific convictions with his spiritual ones in a way that is clear and sensible. Since when did Reason and Faith become mortal enemies? Why does there have to be so much enmity between Intellectualism and Salvation? How did Science and Theology become polar opposites?

In any case, I am done believing things because I heard my pastor or my dad or my Sunday school teacher say it. I don't want to be an ignorant person, blindly staking claim on things I don't understand, taking a zealous stand on things I've never even tried to understand. After all, the Earth turned out to be a round body which revolves around the sun. The Church was ready to throw Galileo in prison 375 years ago, but his discoveries are now undisputed by the religious and secular alike. I am a Christian and a reasonable person, and I intend to learn what I can so I can make informed decisions that are compatible with both my faith and my intelligence. As Collins puts it in Language, "A believer need not fear that this investigation will dethrone the divine; if God is truly Almighty, He will hardly be threatened by our puny efforts to understand the workings of His natural world."

I didn't realize this morning that today was the Day of Prayer or Reason, but I'll be praying today (really, shouldn't I be praying every day?), and I plan on giving blood, if not today then tomorrow.

Happy Day of Prayer and Reason!

Stephen: Bomb Squad Expert (In Training)

2007-05-02T11:07:00.000-04:00

We had our first married fight.

It happened during the biological and emotional hurricane women politely refer to as "that time of the month", so things didn't look good for Stephen from the outset.

It should have been a simple resolution.

"It hurt my feelings when you did that, because of the following reasons."
"I'm sorry. I didn't realize. I won't do that again."
"Thanks. I'm sorry I didn't tell you that in the first place."
"That's ok."

That's how it normally goes, when I possess the ability to coherently communicate my thoughts and feelings. But we went in circles, accomplishing nothing, for at least an hour. The whole thing was ridiculous. By the time we stopped, I couldn't really remember what we were talking about.

Stephen said he felt like he was trying to dismantle a bomb. So the new rule about arguing while I'm TMSing is:

Step 1: Cautiously offer me chocolate. (cheese also is an acceptable peace offering)
Step 2: Suggest a bath. Light candles. (optional)
Step 3: Get the hell out of the house for at least an hour.
Step 4: Return to a relaxed and less volatile Rachel who probably will have appreciated your thoughtfulness, realized her own error, and likely will apologize immediately.
Step 5: Make up.

Rachel Facts

2007-05-01T17:02:00.000-04:00

Here is my response to Beth's open-ended tag-post. Seven little-known facts about me:

1. I have to keep my food organized on my plate. For example, if I'm eating rice, chicken, and salad, each of those three things will be separated on my plate by a minimum of 3/4 an inch. I'll constantly push the rice back into a neat pile and try desperately to keep the salad dressing from spreading. And while most people will declare themselves finished while there is still 7 grains of rice, a cucumber slice, and a tiny shred of chicken left on their plate, I literally eat every bit, unless I decide I can't finish, in which case I will leave my unfinished food in their respective sections.

2. When the clock reads 1:11, 2:22, 3:33, 4:44, or 5:55, I kiss the wall and make a wish. This is a compulsive thing- I can't help it, though I have learned how to make it a bit more discreet. I will often kiss the tips of the first two fingers on my right hand and touch the wall (or window, if I'm driving), but I have to hold my fingers on the wall for a few extra seconds in order to make up for it not being an actual kiss. The wall behind my desk at work has little grubby fingerprints on it.

3. If I'm playing solitaire and someone points out a move I could make, I have to end that game immediately and begin a new one.

4. I cannot stand to have my belly button touched. Being poked in my belly button or in it's general vicinity makes me feel like throwing up. Stephen nearly learned this the hard way when he playfully poked my stomach and accidentally caught me directly in the belly button. We were at the airport on our way home from the disastrous tropical leg of our honeymoon. Thankfully, I didn't vomit, but everything about my face must have indicated that I was about to because Stephen backed up pretty quick.

5. I need both sides of my body to be balanced. I mostly notice this when I'm being forced to stand still, waiting in a line or something. I start to feel like I'm putting more weight on my left foot than on my right, so I shift to my right foot, but then that side feels heavier, and I just drive myself crazy trying to achieve a balance.

6. I cannot burp. At all. The closest I can get to a burp is a sort of gurgling noise. Furthermore, this matter has always distressed me. I greatly desire this ability which God saw fit not to bless me with. First, it is a gastronomic relief (or so I have heard). But mostly, it is funny.

7. Loathe. Detest. Abhor. I can't find words strong enough to fully describe the way I feel about packing styrofoam. The noise it makes, the way it feels on your hands... I got goosebumps just writing that. In short, it gives me the jibblies.

A special note: blogger's spell check does not like the word jibblies, but it offers wobblies as a possible substitute. According to Miriam-Webster:
Wobbly is a noun meaning: a member of the Industrial Workers of the World

Hahaha!

Wedding Pictures!

2007-05-01T13:17:00.000-04:00

Ok, here's the deal. The professional photos we got for our wedding and reception are posted on a personal page on our photographers website. I could post that link here, but I feel funny about making my very intimate wedding day images public to any and all freaks and creeps who may stumble onto my blog. But I want to share them, so if you want to see the pictures, just shoot me an email and if I know who you are I'll reply back with the link. Easy!

In case the link doesn't work: rachelrenae123@gmail.com

The Bane of My Workday

2007-04-30T12:25:00.000-04:00

I got a new job. It's much closer to home, great hours, and about the same pay. It's a smallish company, rather than an international corporation. I gave my 2 weeks notice and, but I'm beginning to feel like I made a mistake. I should have just quit my current job, effective immediately, so I could have been working at this new company today.

Let me explain the situation, here. The Oil & Gas Company I work for occupies 4 floors in a high-rise. All the doors are locked except the main doors in front of my desk, which unlock in the morning and lock again in the evening. Everyone has access cards to get around, but the people on my floor are used to not needing them and therefore don't carry them (or don't know where they are). We recently installed a new card reading system which:

1) was very expensive
2) will be obsolete when we move buildings in a few months
3) didn't frickin work at all for the first week and a half
4) necessitated the creation and distribution of new access cards for the several hundred employees who office in the building

Therefore:

1) meant nothing to me. They obviously have enough money to cover it.
2) is just stupid
3) I had to listen to everyone whine and complain because they had to get off the elevator at reception and take one flight of stairs to get to their own floor because their cards don't work, etc. I would have helpfully offered that they could use the exercise but it occurred to me that this may not actually be considered helpful by the recipient of such a well-intentioned comment. It would have been funny, though.
4) was the biggest inconvenience ever.

Now, the aftermath. Some people do not know how to use email and thus have not received the 5 or 6 emails I have sent reminding them to pick up their cards (Is this difficult? Walk down the hall to my desk and I'll just hand you the card. It's that easy, guys.). Many of the cards which have already been distributed have not been activated, forcing me to track down these individuals and obtain a tiny 5 digit number from the card so it can be activated. My own cards have supposedly been "activated" at least 3 times, but I think office services is lying to me.

In a stroke of brilliance, the company has seen fit to issue a new policy: My main lobby doors are to remain locked during business hours.

I'll repeat that. From now on, the main lobby doors stay locked during business hours. It's a ridiculous policy, in my opinion, but I'll get over it. The thing that I hate is how I have to get up and open the doors every time someone needs to get in, ie, every 2 minutes. This looks unprofessional and, more importantly, is extremely inconvenient for me. If I'm opening the door and the phone rings, I miss the call. If I'm answering the phone and someone comes to the doors, they just sit there and wait, gazing at me with a expression of hurt, looking through the glass like orphans at a candy shop store front, longing to go inside but knowing that they'll never be able to.

Furthermore, I'm having to tell everyone the same thing, over and over. "Sorry, but you have to carry your cards with you now. It's [my stupid company] policy to keep these doors locked during business hours. And no, I don't know why." I hate repeating myself, especially when there's a sign on the door that says the same thing. What I'm thinking is; "Are you illiterate, fool?!? (gestures wildly at sign) Now begone, with you! Your endless questions and accusations are as a poison to my soul! (weeps)" All that to say, I can't get out of here fast enough.

In other news, I got my hair cut yesterday and it's really cute. I'd promise to post a picture, but we all know I can't be trusted. But I have figured out HOW to post pictures from the camera. It's all about the WHEN now, so I promise I'll do it... sometime... in the future. You know, whenever. Eventually, ish.

Our Pot Dealer

2007-04-27T09:39:00.000-04:00

Stephen and I were not engaged for very long. 5 months, ish. But somehow, they found out.

I probably filled out some form on a bridal website, and soon my yahoo email was completely filled with "special offers" and "not junk email" from legitimate and shady companies alike (them). One shady company that somehow got ahold of my info is Royal Prestige (Please, click the link. The opening montage of women dancing with cookware is not to be missed). I got a voicemail one day from a mumbly woman with the tonal expression, personality, and enthusiasm of a slug.

"Good afternoon, Andrea. This is *mumbling* calling from *mumbling*. You and your husband, er, fiancee, have won a vacation *mumbling* a shopping spree for 1000 dollars. That's right, 1000 dollars. Please call *barely discernable phone number* to redeem your prize. Thank you, uhh... Oh, I'm sorry, Rachel. Thank you Rachel."

Great. So I called and got the same woman who left the voicemail. No surprise, she sounded exactly the same live as she did on a voicemail.
Me: "How did I win?"
Gastropod: "We drew your name at random and-"
Me: "No, I mean I didn't sign up for a contest. How did I win?"
Gastropod: "*mumbling*" (I decide to let it go. I can't understand her anyway)
Me: "Ok, so what's the catch? You're not just giving away vacations, here."
Gastropod: "We do ask that you come to a cookware presentation. There's no obligation to buy. You can schedule it *mumbling* at the Marriott."
Me: Alright, fine.

So that was that. We went to the presentation and these pots and pans were pretty amazing. Non-porous metal. Heats quickly and evenly. Won't burn food. Retains moisture and all the vitamins and minerals found in your food. A healthy, easy, effective cooking system. Lifetime guarantee. The lids are rigged with a little spring encased in a hard plastic that whistle when your food reaches a certain temperature (the highest temperature at which said vitamins and minerals are retained). So we bought them and got out free vacation deal. The "1000 dollar shopping spree" turned out to be an online coupon to be used for bridal party gifts and the like (we didn't use it).

We got our pans, and we were so excited. Very soon after using them we discovered they didn't work quite the same way as we were led to believe, be it due to the actual crappiness of the cookware, or the crappiness of our range, or both. The took half an hour to heat up. The nifty little plastic whistle springs kept melting. They burned our food like crazy. In short, these pans suck.

Last night I stuck the large pan on the stove to heat up for the required ridiculous amount of time so I could boil noodles for dinner. I stuck the lid on, otherwise it takes even longer. I sat on the couch and watched the Simpsons. Stephen got home, and we both noticed a smell. Coming from the kitchen. Like burning plastic.

The little plastic whistle had melted AGAIN, and burned onto the bottom of the pot, and I opened the lid, and black smoke poured from the pan like someone was doing voodoo inside it. We were both running around breathing through the collars of our shirts, hacking and coughing, trying to open doors and windows and keep the smoke away from the smoke detector. I got the pot outside and put it on the grill and poured water in it so it would stop smoking. At this point I noticed the inside of our pan was rainbow colored, like an oil stain in a parking lot. That's not natural.

Neither of us could breathe in the house so we turned on all the fans and left the windows open and went out to dinner. When we got back the air had cleared, but now our large pot has melted plastic in the bottom of it and I'm pretty sure we both inhaled some toxic fumes. Plus, we missed The Office because we couldn't stay in the house.

So I'd like to say a big F*** YOU to Royal Prestige.

#%*&!!!

2007-04-27T09:36:00.000-04:00

I have only 3 letters to share this morning:

TMS.

grumble

The Honeymooners: It's Over!

2007-04-25T14:01:00.000-04:00

We left the next morning. As we were walking back and forth, trying to finalize everything, we were approached numerous times by RCI agents and I was proud of Stephen for "just saying no". They took forever trying to refund our food money so we sat in the lobby joking about warning away the arriving visitors; "Run, while you still can! Get out, if you know what's good for you! Don't eat the sausage!" All in all, we only stayed one full day, and less than 48 hours total.

Stephen wanted to buy some quality cigars for himself and one of his groomsmen so we asked the taxi driver if we could stop. Taxi Man drove past several gift shops and a building labeled "Cigar Factory" before stopping in front of his buddy's shop. Stephen was expecting a great deal like a friend of his had gotten, a box of 25 Cohibas for 30 bucks (Cohibas sell for $25 a piece stateside). The shop owner showed us a box of 25 for 125 bucks, not the deal we were hoping for. Finally he showed us a box of 10 for 60 bucks. We checked our money. We had 34 dollars between us. We had also gotten pesos, just enough to pay our driver. I handed him the 34 dollars. He counted it.

Shop Owner: It's not enough. (points at box) 60.
Me: Oh, Ok. Well, Sorry. (reaches for money in his hand)
SO: (yanks hand back) Well, maybe I give it to you for 50.
Stephen: Sorry, that's all we have. 34. (reaches for money again)
SO: (withdrawing money again) Well... maybe, 40? You got 40?
Me: no, no, that's ALL our Money. 34.
SO: You get rest in pesos, yeah? Driver brings extra back to me, ok?
Me: We don't have enough.
Stephen: We have enough to pay our driver. We don't have extra.
SO: Oh, yeah, ok. You just give the rest in pesos, ok? Taxi Driver will bring back to me, yeah?
(This repeats itself 3 or 4 times. SO even gets a calculator to show how many pesos we should send back to him. Stephen explains that a friend found them for much cheaper, and the SO offers helpfully that "that not the real thing".)
ME: Ok, we got enough pesos to pay the taxi for taking us to the airport, and NO MORE. 34 Dollars, that's IT.
Stephen: That's all we have.

When the guy realized it was 34 bucks or nothin, he reluctantly let the box of cigars go for a reduced (yeah, right) price. Stephen jokes about how we had to pay $70 to the cab driver; "If your buddy wants to share some of HIS money with you, that's fine, but we're NOT giving you ANY EXTRA MONEY." The cool thing about this Taxi Man, though, was that he listened to great music. When a new song came on he would tap at his radio and announce "Salsa" or "Meringue", and maybe dance a little, to further indicate what kind of music it was. We even heard a Shakira song.

We had to pay $100 each to change our flight, which, as it turned out, was less than they were supposed to charge us. It took them at least half an hour to charge our card (this is typical in the D. R., we decided) and we took off around 3.

We got to Atlanta and were supposed to fly out at 8:15. We got Qdoba (which was such a delight after the food we ate at the resort) and went to wait at our gate, 45 minutes early. I began to realize just how terrible my legs really looked. Only the tops of my thighs and knees were burned. People are often prone to use hyperbole when describing sunburn: "I was bright red!" People, I am not exaggerating here: RED is exactly the color of the tops of my thighs and knees. RED. As in, Red Lobster. Red Fire Engine. Red Tomato. Red Rachel.

I talked to my dad and reported the situation, and he reserved a nice place in Estes Park for us. So Stephen and I got to talking and lost track of time. Suddenly, I wondered why they weren't boarding yet. My clock said 8:11. Now, this is the icing on the bad honeymoon cake: apparently, they changed the gate without making an announcement, and we had to get from Terminal E to Terminal A in 4 minutes. I can only imagine that we were quite the spectacle running down the walkways, both wearing brown shorts and light blue shirts. Stephen told me just to get to the gate as fast as I could and he'd wait for me. Stephen used to be a runner, and he looked pretty cool dodging between people at a full run. I, as you should know, would rather wrestle a grizzly bear than run a quarter mile, and I made a pathetic show of trying to keep up, panting so hard I'm in tears. Pretend you're walking down terminal A, when a dude in brown in blue darts past you with a hurried, "excuse me!" Just when you're recovering from the surprise, you have an odd sense of de ja vu, except this time it's a woman who looks like she's about to pass out and whose thighs are bright red on the front and white on the back.

We weren't the only ones to miss the flight, which I suppose can be expected when you fail to announce a gate change. We got a different flight about and hour and a half later and got home past midnight after paying a cab almost 30 dollars to drive us literally 3 minutes to the friends house where our car was parked. And let me tell you, there's nothing more romantic than coming home to a tiny, slightly fusty apartment which is absolutely packed with wedding gifts, and suddenly remembering that the bed has no sheets on it because they are in the washing machine.

We spent the next three nights at a cabin in Estes Park that had a kitchen and a hot tub in very suite. It's a modest little place with typical mountainy decor (pine cones, elk, hardwood, etc.) that could best be described as "cute" (which is GREAT), but our resort in the D.R. made this place look positively glamorous. We did dinners, a wine tasting, shopping, horseback riding, and just chilling out. We got the chance to reflect on the tropical disaster we'd survived, and decided that the honeymoon was, on the whole, a success. Stephen told a friend, "If honeymoons are for getting to know each other really well and facing adversity together, we had the best honeymoon ever."

The Honeymooners: One Full Day

2007-04-24T13:00:00.000-04:00

The next day started innocently enough. Shower. Try to do something with my unruly hair. Get dressed. Head to breakfast. Eat a mediocre meal. Stephen suggests we try this weird tea that sort of smells like like a porta-potty when you put the bag in hot water so I don't drink it.

Unbeknownst to us, the bracelets we were wearing in order to gain access to the many all-inclusive benefits available to us at this fabulous resort were given to us with a secret purpose. Ours were gold colored, making us clearly identifiable as non-members of the timeshare, RCI. So RCI hires guys to just sort of wander around the resort, near the cafeteria and the bar areas, waiting to snag non-members such as ourselves in order to lure them away to a meeting with an RCI agent. They offer promises of a "free gift" and "tour".

We were surprised when one stuck himself directly in our way as we left the cafeteria that morning, shoved his hand out in the typical American handshake greeting (which is very unnatural for Dominicans), and said "Hello!!" far too enthusiastically.

Us: Uhh, hi... (we both shake his hand)
Him: My name is something something and where are you from???
Stephen: We're from Colorado. (I'm sceptical. I'm not saying anything.)
Him: something... work for RCI... something?
Stephen: What?
Him: I'm a guy who works for RCI... something come to a meeting this morning? Something free gift for you. Invitation something in your welcome packet.
(We exchange puzzled glances)
Stephen: I don't think we got a welcome packet. Anyway, we just finished eating, so...
Him: Well maybe you just come round this way tomorrow around 9, yes?
Stephen: Sure, we'll be here all week. We'll stop by. (Lies)

Really the conversation was longer than that but I was so confused by a) his accent, b) his affected enthusiasm, c) the fact that Stephen kept talking to him even after it became obvious that he was just hustling us, and I don't remember it word for word. The thing is, when Stephen was in the D.R. the first time, he was just hanging out with regular people who were genuine and nice and honest, so every time we talked to one of these guys, he was waiting for a sparkle of honesty somewhere in their fakey insincere demeanor, but it never happened.

After that we decided to chill on the beach and read. We put sunscreen on, changed into swimsuits and headed out. At the bar another RCI guy spotted us. He told us we wanted a Puerto Plata tour (which we would get if we went to the meeting, I guess). Stephen said "No, we don't." The guy said, "I think you do, you want a tour..." I decided to crush this man's efforts once and for all by interjecting, "We don't want a tour. We're on our honeymoon. We're getting drinks and towels and going to the beach. Goodbye." I took Stephen by the hand and left the guy mumbling after us.

We had a great afternoon at the beach, while it lasted. I drank a little more than I should have considering the heat and the fact that I hadn't eaten or drank much water. We played in the ocean for a while but we both hurt our feet and got out (Stephen tripped and cut his foot, I stepped on something and got a splinter thing in the ball of my foot). We went back to the hotel room and took a nap. Honestly the rest of the afternoon and evening is a complete blur to me because I came down with food poisoning. I think I told Stephen I was dizzy and I think he helped me walk with him to the cafeteria hoping I just needed to eat. I took a pile of lettuce and some rice and ate 2 or 3 of the pieces of lettuce. The smell of all that food made me feel even more queasy and Stephen must have decided I needed to go back to the room. I felt a little better after throwing up in the bushes but Stephen made me take Pepto Bismol when I started to feel sick again.

By this time I had an impressive sunburn revealing itself on my back, shoulders, chest, stomach, thighs, and scalp, despite the fact that I had sunscreen on. So I'm dizzy, too burned to move, can't walk on one foot (reference my injury diagram, above), and can't walk at all on the slippery hotel room floor. Stephen went to buy some aloe vera but returned fuming when he discovered the outrageous prices. I think that's when he decided he wanted to go home. I decided when I was retching in the bushes. Enough is enough!

The Honeymooners: Tuesday's Harbingers?

2007-04-23T15:48:00.000-04:00

I don't know where to begin with our first afternoon (Monday afternoon) at the resort. After we shelled out seventy dollars for Speedy's cab ride, it got crap, crappy, and crappier.

crappy thing 1: They overcharged us by one day for the all-inclusive food deal. Not a huge deal, but it took 20 or 30 minutes for them to put $80 back on the card.

crappy thing 2: We walked into our suite and into the bedroom and saw 2 twin beds. Let me say it again: TWO. BEDS. Separated by a bedside table. Think I Love Lucy- but I bet even Lucy and Ricky shared a bed on their honeymoon. Seriously? 2 tiny beds? ?!?!? Come on, Luperon Beach Resort. That sucks.

crappy thing 3: The floors in our suite were all tile. This means that within 5 minutes of opening the windows and balcony doors, the humidity made the floors completely wet and slippery. This led us to discover a functional use for the superfluous bed: the comforter was spread out on the floor as a rug so we wouldn't slip and break ourselves.

crappy thing 4: The beach. I was thrilled and overjoyed it because the only other time I've seen the ocean (aside from when I was too young to remember) was when Stephen proposed to me in South Carolina. The prospect of SWIMMING in the ocean was almost too much for me to handle. We quickly discovered that it wasn't all it was cracked up to be. The beach itself looks innocent enough, but along this particular stretch of beach, enormous rocks hide just beneath the surface and you end up tripping over them as soon as you get waist deep in the water. Stephen indulged me till' I got tired of this game and we went to go eat dinner.

crappy thing 5: The "restaurant" was in fact more of a buffet. You pick up your own plate, slop out some food , sit at some random table squished between the lady with cankles and the family with 4 unruly children, and eat. This food is kept out in troughs for several hours during meal times, in open air. You narrow down exactly WHAT you will slop onto your plate by choosing from the following categories: "acceptable", "questionable", or "dear god, what IS that?" I'm sorry, but if you don't have a menu, you're not a restaurant.

crappy thing 6: When you picture a beach resort, you probably think of Pina Coladas and Strawberry Daiquiris. As all-inclusive guests, we could have whatever we wanted from the bar. The thing is, the drinks come in disappointing little plastic cups similar to the one you'd use to serve your 5 year old milk, and I don't think our drinks came with much more alcohol than a glass of milk might. For me, pretty glasses are half the fun of mixed drinks. And I need some alcohol in me if I'm going to spend all day surrounded by fat, sunburned, speedo'd men in their late 50s. We started asking for our drinks with double shots- hey, we're paying 80 bucks a day! We want our money's worth!

crappy thing 7: Our building was very near the main bar area where they apparently have live music and karaoke late into the night. Enough said.

crappy thing 8: Crappy thing 7 is even crappier when you already can't sleep because it's sweltering hot. It's even hotter because you're sharing a tiny bed with your husband (we would not sleep in separate beds on principal. It's our frickin honeymoon, we are sleeping in the same bed.) and he can't sleep either and neither of us ate very well that evening. Again, enough said. Things 1-8 make for serious mood ruiners.

The Honeymooners: Arriving Alive

2007-04-23T11:10:00.000-04:00

We held hands mostly to comfort each other. Dominican driving is terrifying for someone who is used to American driving. It would be an understatement to say it takes some getting used to.

They have lanes (in a fashion) and they drive on the same sides we do in the US, but the general rule of thumb is "if your car fits, it's legal". At first, I was mildly alarmed at how fast Speedy was driving, but I speed too, after all. Then, I was mildly alarmed at how close Speedy passed other cars and mopeds. Then, I was mildly amused by the number of people/amount of random crap that Dominicans are able to fit onto a moped. We saw one moped with 3 people on it. We saw a guy on a moped somehow managing to carry a large metal gas canister while navigating heavy traffic. Another person was carrying a large bundle of some kind of grain. I'm not sure if I could adequately describe the circus that was our drive from the airport to the resort. Vehicles pass each other into oncoming traffic, on blind turns, and while driving up hills. Cars pass mopeds, pedestrians, and each other within inches. Everyone tailgates each other.

It's a mess, but somehow, it works, and you do get used to it. Dominicans grow up driving like this. They go everywhere driving like this. It's a completely different set of expectations there. Dominicans don't get angry when someone is driving 6 inches behind them at 40 miles an hour, or when someone swings out and passes them with 4 inches between them. They don't seem frightened when they're passing on a bend and suddenly a truck is approaching in the opposite lane. They just squeeze back into the right lane. People just make room for each other.

The country is gorgeous. They have dramatic peaks, I would guess 5 or 6 thousand feet high, covered with green to the very tip. The place smells exotic. Everything is lush and growing. The towns are bright and vibrant. The cities we drove through were absolutely bursting with life and energy.

We finally made it to the resort and checked in. (it turned out that *17 dollars* was actually *seventy dollars* and we had to give the driver almost all our cash) My aunt and uncle are members of a timeshare called RCI and as a wedding present offered us a week's stay at one of the all inclusive locations. We chose Luperon Beach Resort- the pictures of the place were beautiful, the reviews sounded great, the amenities were many (restaurant on site, all kinds of activities, beach side location, etc), and we had a good overall impression. Stephen spent time in the D.R. a few years ago and loved it, and I've heard so much about it, I wanted to experience it first hand. All it would cost us was $80 a day for all the food and drink we could want. Everything was perfect. We got our luggage back, we made it to the resort alive, the weather was fabulous- we had a week ahead of us to chill and enjoy each other.

(sorry for not posting this weekend. I wanted to but didn't have time. I'll post like crazy today!)

The Honeymooners: Puerto Plata Airport

2007-04-20T14:40:00.000-04:00

Our seats on the plane were exit row seats, so they were a) cool because we had tons of leg room and b) crappy because the view from our window was the wing and the engine. I showed Stephen the safety procedures, pointed to the people in the pictures, and quoted Fight Club for at least the third time in 2 days; "Calm as Hindu Cows."

We get off the plane and are immediately met with a sensation I've never really experienced, having lived in Colorado my whole life: Humidity. LOTS of it. There was a little quartet playing salsa music as we exited the terminal. We got to the baggage claim area and waited. And waited. And waited some more. Soon there was only 5 or 6 of us waiting. Still no bags. At this point I am rapidly accelerating into a state of panic. I almost began to cry. Not so much because I wanted my Tiva flip-flops or because I spent a good $150 dollars on lingerie that I would never wear and Stephen would never see, but because nothing seemed more hopeless than the prospect of wearing my stank frickin khakis for another week.

Picture Puerto Plata baggage claim: There are 6, maybe 8 airport employees visible. There are 2 of those rotating stations where you pick up luggage, neither of them are loaded or moving. There is a money exchange station with 2 people working. There is a desk against the wall with a computer on it. There are a bunch of unclaimed bags sitting in a pile (which we checked, with no luck). Across the room is the D.R.'s customs area (4 dudes who look at your bags), open doors, and beyond, waiting taxi drivers framed by swaying palm trees and open skies.

We go to the single desk and talk to a guy who speaks minimal English and ask him where the Delta desk is. He taps his desk and says "This is". Troubling. He takes our baggage claims tickets, mumbles, and messes on the computer for about 10 minutes. Remember, I'm still rapidly approaching a full-blown episode here. I'm chewing my bottom lip, fidgeting with anything and everything I can find, stamping impatiently, and basically doing everything in my power to keep from HAVING an episode. CAN NOTHING GO RIGHT???

Suddenly he said something and I was jolted from my little reverie by Stephen's voice announcing three very important words, "He found them." Turns out, our baggage managed to make the flight we missed and made it into the D.R. despite the supposedly very rigid rules about international baggage, and They had been keeping them in a locked holding area. It turns out Delta had been lying about our bags stopping in Atlanta, being in Atlanta, and being on our flight. One thing I've learned from this trip is that airlines and politicians have a fundamental trait in common: they're all liars.

I could have kissed that little Dominican man (but kissed Stephen instead). My panic was replaced with ecstasy. We got in the taxi that the resort sent for us (they told us on the phone the day before that it would cost $17, payable in American dollars) and got on our way- the trip was supposed to be an hour and a half. The taxi driver had a stuffed Speedy Gonzales hanging from the rear view mirror of his van (which sort of reminded me of the blue line). Our taxi driver sort of resembled Speedy Gonzales. I opened the window, it started to rain. I breathed in the humid island air. "Finally," I thought, "Our honeymoon can actually start". Stephen and I held hands.

The Honeymooners: Atlanta, I'll love you forever.

2007-04-19T15:33:00.000-04:00

In Atlanta our first order of business was to find our luggage that Delta promised would be there. But Delta lied, ladies and gentleman. After we trusted them, Delta betrayed us. However, I fell instantly in love with Atlanta and with all of Georgia and everyone who lives there. Completely contrary to our NY experience, every single person we talked to was POLITE and SMILED and NICE just to be nice and seemed genuinely interested in helping us out. So if you happen to be a reader from the peach state, let me just say: I love you. A lot. Like, more than I hate New York, I love you.

Anyway, we were assured our luggage was in the dubious "international holding area" mysteriously located "downstairs" and would be put on our flight to the D.R. the next day when we boarded. We settled for 2 Delta overnight care packages which contained a tiny toothbrush, tube of toothpaste, small stick of deodorant just barely this side of opaque, enormous one-size-fits-all Delta t-shirt, and a hairbrush like the kind I used to see little girls using on their barbies. We rented a car (a surprisingly fun-to-ride-in P.T. Cruiser which had omniniftitious* cooling/heating vents on the dashboard that I played with for a full 10 minutes upon getting in the car) and headed to the hotel. As a side note, the hip-hop/rap/R&B radio station in Atlanta plays WAY better music than Denver's.

I was expecting a motel near the airport: cheap, convenient. What Stephen had actually booked was a room at the Grand Hyatt, downtown Atlanta. They upgraded us to the honeymoon suite for FREE. (Atlanta, Seriously. I love you. All of you.) When we walked in, there was a bottle of champagne resting in a bucket of ice next to two glasses, along with a dish set with giant chocolate dipped strawberries and white chocolate shavings. I melted.

We decided to go to a nice restaurant for dinner but, as we didn't have our luggage, we didn't have any clothes to wear except the ones we'd worn all night and all day which looked decent enough for a nice restaurant but were becoming progressively stank. We went anyway, to Atlanta Fish Market, and our waiter sounded like Barry White. He was totally cool just like everyone else in Atlanta. (Atlanta, have I ever told you you're my hero? You're everything I would like to be.)

In the morning Stephen goes, "Babe, I love that shirt. You just look so good in it... I think you should wear it again today." "Yeah?" I responded, "I think I will. It's my new favorite shirt. And I like those jeans you've got. You should wear them again, too." At this point our clothes were legitimately stank, which prompted Stephen to soak his boxers in the sink and then iron them dry. ("This cleans them how?" I wondered, but Stephen explained that were "wrinkly". Huh.)

We got to take free breakfast stuffs from the restaurant downstairs in the morning and made our way hazily to the airport in some famous Atlanta traffic. We got completely lost trying to find the rental car place but a sweet girl at the store stayed on the phone with me and helped us find our way. ( I can fly higher than an eagle, Atlanta, for you are the wind beneath my wings...) The morning went without incident and the very beautiful lady at our gate told us she was sure our luggage was already on the plane, but she would double check.

We got on the plane, again with this hope and false sense of security we were fast becoming accustomed to, all excited to FINALLY be tasting that sweet ocean air in a matter of hours. It's only uphill from here, right?

*omniniftitious: Adj. Possessing the quality of complete niftiness, I.E., Totally Nifty**

**This is in fact not a real word. I made it up in 11th grade during English class and since I went to a small school the English teacher put it on a vocab test as a joke. Please start using it in your regular rotation.

The Honeymooners: LaGuardia

2007-04-18T16:53:00.000-04:00

I'll just start off with some basic info. We were to fly Frontier to New York City, then switch to Delta to fly to Atlanta, then the Dominican Republic. We had troubles from the beginning with our baggage since we were flying international and switching airlines, but Frontier said "No problem, we'll handle it," and checked our baggage all the way to our final destination. So Stephen and I got coffee and hunkered down to wait, all excited for tropical breezes and sex on the beach (I mean the drink, come on guys). I also remember at this point that the cute new flat shoes I had worn to dinner were beginning to be uncomfortable, but I thought "Oh well, I'll be barefoot on the sand by tomorrow afternoon."

We were scheduled to leave Denver at 12:30 am and arrive at the above mentioned airport (I shall not utter the name again) at 6:00 am, local time. Since it was a cold, snowy, and ICY evening, Frontier (logically) decided to wait till we were all boarded and 15 minutes past take-off time to de-ice the plane. We didn't get to New York till 6:40, and then we sat on the ground for what seemed like forever waiting for a gate.

Ever been through LaGuardia Airport in New York, NY? This is possibly the most inconvenient, ill conceived airport ever designed by man.

First this short little New Yorker with a big mouth wouldn't step two feet back in front of her seat so Stephen and I could slip past her and run to catch out flight that left in 10 minutes. "I don't care. I've got places to go, too. I'm in a hurry and I want to go home and I don't give a damn about you." We were both astonished by this attitude and I actually argued with her a little (when Stephen tells the story he says I beat the crap out of her).

Anyway, we get out, we run like mad. This airport actually has the terminals in separate buildings and there are 2 buses (literally, 2 single buses, not lines) that go between them. The RED line and the BLUE line. The red line came first, and the sign said it would take us to Delta. We get on the bus and the driver begins the following exchange:

Driver Dude: (without looking up) Where you goin?
Us: Delta Airlines.
Dude: You need the blue line. This da red line.
Us: Oh... But the sign-
Dude: I'm da red line. You need da blue line for Delta. (Stephen exits bus. I am not satisfied by this reiterated and ultimately ineffectual explanation.)
Me: Are you sure? (Points at sign)
Dude: This is ma job, lady.
Me: (Glowers at him and exits bus)

5 minutes later (By the way, it was FREEZING in NY), the BLUE line shows up. The thing is older than God and makes this terrifying noise when the doors close, when the doors open, when it accelerates, when it slows down, when it stops, and when it makes turns, but the driver is cordial enough and takes us to the correct terminal.

Obviously, we missed our connection. We spent the following 2 or 3 hours going back and forth between Delta and Frontier (in separate buildings, naturally) being told contradictory things about rescheduling our flight, where our baggage would be, etc. Frontier says "No, we can't do that, go to the Delta desk." Delta says "No, you'll have to have Frontier do that for you, we can't." No one exhibited any effort to help us find a solution or track down our baggage. We got nasty attitude and plain rudeness from every agent and representative we talked to. This is service? We were treated like an inconvenience at each desk and office.

In the end, we could get to Atlanta that day, but the sad reality was that we wouldn't make it to the D.R. that day. 2 flights go daily to the airport we were trying to reach, and we would miss both of them. I think I cried the entire morning. I was devastated, Stephen was livid. On our last exasperated visit to the Delta desk, the girl asked "Well? What do you want to do?" Stephen and I exchanged glances and he answered, "We want to get the hell out of New York."

This might be an unfair blanket statement based on my circumstances and the very short amount of time I spent there, but we didn't meet a single person with any discernible compassion or sense of human decency. From now on I won't hesitate to go out of my way to help someone out.

Our flight to Atlanta didn't leave for another hour, so we got some "yogurt" and I sat at our gate while Stephen paced the walkway, on his phone, trying to book a hotel in Atlanta. We were assured that our bags would stop in Atlanta because Delta can get an enormous fine for letting international luggage cross borders without their owners on the flight. So we sat down again, tired and slightly less excited but still ready for those sandy beaches the next day.

The Honeymooners: The Big Day

2007-04-17T15:54:00.000-04:00

As I said, it was perfect (My only complaint was that it was snowing, but it really was beautiful). My mom and I stopped at Devil's Food in Wash Park for this amazing Jasmine tea that I just can't get enough of. My girls all looked fabulous, though one of my... uh, less endowed bridesmaids was having trouble keeping her strapless dress up and was forced to use safety pins in some rather personal areas. My Grandmother made my dress and veil and I felt beautiful with it on. I looked exactly like I had always imagined.

We had a time of worship before the wedding party marched in, so we got to worship in the balcony so the boys couldn't see us. My good friend John (I've known John since I was 11!! A big thank you for being a part of my wedding!!!) led worship on his guitar, with his brother on the keys (the kid has GIFT), our buddy Sandy on the bass, and the father of the bride himself on the drumset (he sounded great).

There's nothing that compares to the feeling I got when we entered the sanctuary and I saw Stephen standing at the other end of the aisle, grinning like he'd never laid eyes on me before. It was a sweet moment. I kept seeing familiar faces in the pews and I'm the kind of person that drops everything and runs to hug someone she hasn't seen in a while, so this was an exercise in restraint for me, more than anything. Our pastor's charge was short, sweet, and very good. Stephen's vows were lovely, and I managed to spit mine out without stumbling over more than 4 words.

Then, the surprise. After the vows and rings, our pastor told Stephen I had a surprise for him and handed me the mic. You see, I decided to follow in the footsteps of my pastors wife and surprise my husband to be by singing a song at the wedding. Thing is, I decided to be even more foolish and sing it A Capella. The song was "Our Love is Here to Stay", by George and Ira Gershwin (the rendition I did was more like Natalie Cole's). It's a beautiful, classic, jazzy song and the lyrics said exactly what I wanted to say. As I took the mic from my pastor, my mind was racing. "Holy crap holy crap what the HELL am I THINKING?????" I mumbled something about being very nervous and careened right into my surprise.

As I coughed up the first line, "It's very clear..." suddenly, it was. Here I am, in front of a church full of people who love me, looking into the eyes of the man I adore, doing the only thing I've ever felt comfortable doing. Why should I be nervous? I belted out the rest of the song, and Stephen even cried as he mouthed the words of the chorus along with me.

We did communion and a sand ceremony during which Stephen secretly arranged to have John play one of my favorite songs on his guitar (that was wonderful, Stephen). Basically we had 2 colors of sand (blue for him, green for me) and one big vase. We poured the sand into the vase to symbolize our unity, but the jars were awkward shapes so Stephen's poured slower than mine resulting in a good 2 inches of blue sand on top. Later John mentioned this suggestively to Stephen and Stephen responded "Yeah, I start slow but I finish strong". They laughed, as boys do. This is practically my brother Stephen is talking to. Embarrassing.

The reception was fun, fun, fun with dancing and pictures and so much delicious looking food that I didn't get to eat. My dad danced with me when "Play That Funky Music, White Boy" came on. The silly things men do for their daughters. The first thing my cousin David asked me when I walked in was "Which one of your friends will dance with me? Oh, and congratulations!"

We thought we lost our digital camera, found it, and went to Morton's Steakhouse for delicious food and drink and the most bizarre menu presentation. They actually wheeled a cart to our table with a live lobster on it.

Next, our plane leaves at 12:30 am and the fun begins.

Think Before You Give!

2007-04-17T11:25:00.000-04:00

I'm back! Thanks for all your sweet comments and the such! (Kelli, it was wonderful to have you guys here! I wish we could have spent more time.)

We had a fabulous wedding day. Everything went perfectly and we had a blast. The honeymoon was sort of a series of disasters, but we ended up laughing about the whole thing and having fun anyway. It's a long, ridiculous story, and I feel in order to do justice to that story I'll be posting it in a series. That series will be titled (what else?): "The Honeymooners". You can check back every day for new episodes. Also, since we have a digital camera now, I'll try to post pictures as soon as Stephen and I figure out how to hook the camera up to the laptop.

Couples typically register for gifts somewhere; we did Bed Bath & Beyond and Target. Pretty standard. There are unwritten rules concerning this practice and I now see it's is my duty to inform the public at large of these rules.

If you are invited to a wedding, you usually fall into 2 different groups: General Admission and Special Privileges. If you are immediate family or close friends that are in regular contact (at least once a week-ie, you know them well) with the bride and/or groom, you can count yourself in the Special Privileges group. If you are anyone else, you are General Admission. Don't take this personally. G.A. just means it's customary for you to give the couple a gift they registered for, or money. You know that part of the invitation advising where the couple is registered? It's not so much a suggestion as it is a polite way of saying "Please don't buy us some random thing you thought we might like even though you the last time we talked was at the Christmas party 2 years ago." If you're in the S.P. group, feel free to use your intimate knowledge of the bride and/or groom to get something meaningful or useful, even if they didn't register for it.

Stephen's aunt (God bless the woman, she really is a cool lady and I can't wait to meet her) gave us something we definitely didn't register for. It reminds me a little of book reports and science projects I did in junior high. You know, you get the posterboard display that folds open and stands up, and you put graphs and pictures and whatever on it. That's kind of what Stephen's aunt got us. It's from hallmark, and it's a stand up photo display that's called something like "Our Love Story"...um, it's hard to describe. It's a nice idea, but... super cheesy... it's NOT our style. A blender or some hand towels would have been more useful and just as sweet.

Stephen and I drink wine, thus, we registered for wine glasses, which we received along with 2 bottles of wine. Our good friend Liz gave us martini glasses and a bottle of vodka, which I thought was a clever idea that reflected something I mentioned in passing during a conversation, and since Liz has special privileges, it was cool to get stuff we didn't register for from her.

Next rule: NO regifting, period (unless you happen to have the exact item the couple registered for and you happen to not need or want said item and said item happens to be in new condition). 2 of Stephen's friends (R&M) just got married 4 months ago. We like them but never hang out. We saw R&M at their wedding and again at someone else's wedding- in other words, they are General Admission. Now, R&M got us martini glasses and a bottle of vodka. Odd. We didn't register for that. Our suspicion is that they got the glasses for their wedding and regifted us. One word, people: TACKY. Now we have 8 martini glasses, 2 bottles of vodka, and we don't drink martinis often.

Here's the next rule. A bunch of people made out checks to "Stephen and Rachel (last name)". Now, I haven't changed my name yet (I'm going to, but it takes time). The thing is, if the check says Stephen and Rachel, we BOTH have to sign for them to deposit it. If it says Stephen or Rachel, only one of us has to. The other other thing is, I can't sign them. My name is still Rachel Maiden, not Rachel Married. What if I wasn't planning on changing my name? Could we not cash those checks? So, checks made out to the married couple: cute at the time, but frickin inconvenient when we want to pay off our credit cards.

I know it's the thought that counts, blah blah blah, but we've spent more time at the bank and running around from home furnishing store to home furnishing store that we have at home with each other. Newlyweds don't want to spend their first day home together driving from Target to Target trying exchange plates. I'm just saying.

An End, A Beginning

2007-04-07T03:06:00.000-04:00

Well, it is currently "the big day". It's 1:09, saturday morning, and I JUST finished writing my vows. Nothing like the last minute, hey? I had them in my head for a while but I just got inspiration and wrote them out. I also went to the spa, did my nails, and packed for the honeymoon. Basically I'm bringing:

flip flops
shorts/skirts
tank tops
swimsuits
lingerie

We're headed to the caribbean! Our flight leaves at, like, midnight, so we're just going out to dinner after the reception.

Everyone toasted us at our rehearsal dinner. John was really sweet, and Stephen's sister Kelli brought down the house with funny stories about Stephen as a kid. My dad passed around a photo album of child Rachel (including one shot of me, maybe 2 years old, SHIRTLESS, sitting on his lap while he played his drumset). Then he cried. He almost cried durng the rehearsal every time he put my hands in Stephen's. We're both going to fall apart during the daddy daughter dance (Nat King Cole and Natalie Cole, Unforgettable). My dad sure is crazy about me. I'm one lucky girl. Tomorrow is a beautiful, amazing day, but in a way, a very sad day. I have to leave my daddy's house and name and my childhood behind and begin a new household with my new husband. My dad and I have been through a lot together, some really really terrible years, and increasingly we've enjoyed a beautiful relationship.

I have a surprise for Stephen and I'd write about it here but I'm not sure if he'll read my blog in the next 9 hours, so I won't say anything till' later. I won't be blogging till next Monday or Tuesday! Mel has mono so pray she doesn't pass out on the stage!!

Holy crap I still can't beleive this is happening. Far Out.

Also keep in mind that it's the middle of the night here, so sorry about this post. Really. Sorry. Post.

If it's wrong, why does it feel so right?

2007-04-03T09:40:00.000-04:00

We all know how I love coffee. I obviously have stopped sharing the intimate financial details of my coffee spending- It couldn't possibly be 2 months since I purchased a cup o' legal addictive stimulant. I've just gotten lazy about it and, honestly, I've been spending less.

But there's an irresistible little coffee shop called Aviano that serves up a latte like you've never tasted. Aviano caters to the intelligent, trendy, indie crowd, has interesting art exhibits, and all the baristas have tattoos and/or piercings (i.e. I was born to drink coffee from this place). They make beautiful drinks with a pretty flowery thing from the foam and espresso and I always feel guilty taking the first sip because I ruin it.

Truth be told, I feel guilty setting foot in Aviano at all. The brother of one of Stephen's friends used to work for this coffee shop and the owner screwed him over. Fired him for no reason, called the cops when the dude came in the get his last paycheck. So we stopped going there (something in me died that day). It's not been a problem as we're almost never in that neighborhood, but Aviano is ridiculously convenient for me if I happen to be driving to work rather than riding the train, which I am doing all this week. I think God thinks it's funny to play with my emotions. It would have been better if I had not tasted this heavenly latte in the first place.

I did something bad today, guys.

Right this very moment... I am drinking a heavenly latte from the forbidden coffee shop... and it is ecstasy. I did it first when Stephen was on his business trip a few weeks ago... I drove to work every day so I could get home a little earlier to play with Moses. Which means I drove past Aviano every day... which means I broke the rules every day. I told him, of course. I'm the worst secret keeper in the world. This just shows how the wiles of a woman can crack a man's resolve: the other night, Stephen suggested we go to Aviano after dinner. What have I done?

122 hours.

2007-04-02T11:08:00.000-04:00

We're getting close now- 5 days.

Our Pastor called us up for prayer on Sunday and the reaction of the church was amazing.

"Before I begin the message... Stephen and Rachel are getting married in a week and I'd like to pray for them. Where are they? (at this point the entire section behind us waved their hands and pointed at us)... oh- Would you two come up here, please?"

Upon hearing our names a handful of people hooted and hollered and clapped. By the time we got up to the front the ENTIRE CHURCH was laughing and applauding and shouting. It felt wonderful.

It's not a really big church and most people know us. I've been in this church since I was 11 and I've been singing on the worship team since I was 17 or 18. Stephen's also on the team- he's a drummer- so most people recognize us because we're both on stage at least once a month. It was just incredible how exuberant everyone was. After church my Pastor's wife saw me and looked like she was going to cry. "You just grew up too fast!! So fast! But it's going to be such a beautiful day." she said as she hugged me.

It's becoming more surreal every day. We went on Friday to get our marriage license but it all could have been ruined because I was stupid enough to have my knife in my purse. Passing through security at the Clerk and Recorder's Office, the deadpan security guard said "You've got a knife in your purse, ma'am." My minds eye shot to an image of my knife, earrings, and handful of change sitting on the bookshelf back at Stephen's house.

"No, I carry a knife but I don't have it with me today," I said. She made me empty my purse and, sure enough, there it was at the very bottom. I took it out and handed it to her. She fooled with it for a moment but couldn't figure out how to open it. I opened it for her and showed her the release and handed it to her. She fooled with it some more but couldn't close it. She handed it back to me blade first (stupid woman) and I showed her a few times how to open and close it. She tried again with minimal success and announced, "Yep, this is a switchblade. I can't hold this for you." (Switchblades are illegal in Colorado and I don't own one. It's just a pocket knife.)

For crap sake, lady. If you can't even open it, how are you supposed to know what kind of a knife it is? The thing is an inch and a half long and opens about a third of the way in a "V" shape when you press the release. It's pretty dull and it's only good for utility purposes. And by law, a knife like that with a blade 3 inches long or less is not considered a concealed weapon and it's my LEGAL RIGHT to carry it around if I want to, but I didn't want to a cause a big scene. She was "kind enough" not to confiscate it and let me put it out in the car. Hassle. Grumble.

I Saw Sparks

2007-04-02T10:04:00.000-04:00

On Wednesday I was riding the light rail home after writing my last post, filled with sadness. The route I was on goes through a very industrial area of Denver and through some ghetto neighborhoods. I was just looking at the landscape as we sped along, and all I could see was ugliness and waste. My eyes drifted down to the ground and I felt even more melancholy looking and the rocks and bits of trash strewn about. Is there no beauty in this world?

Then I noticed something else. Some of the rocks had bits of mica in them so that at a certain angle the sun would shine on them and reflect the light. Each little spark happened so fast and faded away just as quickly, but there were so many, and at such a great speed it was like this sea of rocks- this waste- was sparkling.

There's a lot of ugliness in this life. We live in a fallen, imperfect world. But I'm finding that if I look at life from the right angle there's a lot of beauty, too. Over the last few days I keep seeing those little explosions of light happening.

I saw a very pretty woman stop to give some money to a bum- and more importantly, to pause and really look at him- when every single other person had passed him without even acknowledging his existence. I saw a young father being sweet to his little girl at the light rail station. I saw a woman's face light up when her husband walked in the door of a restaurant to meet her. Every single morning since I started working here a year ago the FedEx delivery guy has walked in with a smile on his face and a nice thing to say.

These things seem rather insignificant in the grand scheme but when you string them all together the world starts to look a lot brighter.

I Am Not Satisfied

2007-03-28T12:49:00.000-04:00

6 months ago a 53 year old man entered a Castle Rock area high school and made national news. For whatever reason, he chose Platte Canyon High as his target and took a classroom of students hostage, waving a .40 glock in the air and claiming (falsely, it turned out) to have explosives in his backpack. He ended up letting all but 7 female students go and kept the remaining 7 hostage for several hours, during which time he sexually assaulted them and used them to communicate with officers outside the room.

I won't relate the whole story, as most people have heard the story. He fatally shot Emily Keyes and then shot himself. The police fired 3 shots, 1 to his head and 2 to his shoulder, but it was the self-inflicted GSW that ended up killing him. I'm not sure how much national coverage this is getting, but yesterday the police have made public a previously unreleased report, including the gunman's suicide letter.

I read the letter and had mixed feelings. I went back and forth between sympathy for the pathetic shell of a human being he had become and rage for the abominable crimes he chose to commit for, seemingly, no reason.

It's obvious that he's severely depressed and disturbed. He talked about childhood trauma, and I could relate. He expressed love for his family, sorrow for putting them through difficulties in the wake of "the bad things that are about to happen", and a last wish that they would just get along. It dawned on me that this man was merely human.

On the other hand, the letter is 14 pages long. It's not like this was a last minute thing. He appeared to have wrote it over several days and the letter gave a chilling impression of his steely resolve of will. Also he went on about a Harley dealership that supposedly cheated him on some bike parts and even wrote, "If things go as planned, I will try to make someone at the HD shop pay!". He called and threatened a woman at the dealership several times. Then he wrote her name on a dealership business card and put it into Emily's wallet. Was this supposed to be some bizarre form of retribution? In his entire letter, this man didn't apologize a single time to his victims or their families, or even express regret for what he he did (though he apologized numerous times to his siblings). Is this because things didn't go as planned? Did he mean to do what he did? Did it get out of hand, did he get desperate? What were his intentions?

We learn a little about his intentions from the contents of his backpack, which he threatened contained explosives sufficient to destroy the school. In reality he was carrying a stun gun, knives, rope, duct tape, handcuffs, and a several sexual aides. Sick monster. I'll be harsh about this: if you're miserable and want to kill yourself, fine. It's a selfish thing to do, it's a permanent solution to a temporary problem, but ultimately, everyone else keeps on living, finding closure in their own way. What this man did was so much worse of a tragedy because he took along a young woman who had just begun to live, and traumatized another 6.

It all seems so pointless and confusing. First Columbine, now this? I was surprised by a statement released by Emily's family. They expressed deep appreciation for the way the police handled the situation and praised the 6 young women escaped the classroom that day. Those 6 will have to be very brave, and very strong, and I pray for them and for Emily's family often.

It makes me profoundly sad to face the reality that this is the world we live in. This is the world that I will bring my children into, where individuals have free will to commit violent purposeless acts and very bad things often happen to innocent people. It's hard to find hope in that reality. I don't want to apply a simplistic, sugary, Christiany 'God-is-in-control" sentiment. That's a cliche answer to a cliche question and I'm not satisfied by it.

O LORD, how long shall I cry, and You will not hear?
Even cry out to You, “Violence!” and You will not save. Why do You show me
iniquity, and cause me to see trouble? For plundering and violence are before
me; there is strife, and contention arises. Therefore the law is
powerless, and justice never goes forth. For the wicked surround the
righteous; therefore perverse judgment proceeds.

Habakkuk 1:2-4

She Wants To Move

2007-03-27T18:41:00.000-04:00

Great Goodness. I'm not meant to sit at a desk for 9 hours a day. I don't think anyone is meant to, but there are those of you who can handle it. I am NOT one of those. I get cabin fever sitting in front of this computer all day long. There's only so long I can play sudoku and check the news before I start to lose it.

Then I get home but somehow doing nothing all day makes you feel exhausted so I never feel like doing anything.

I bought new tennis shoes a few months ago. "I like your shoes", said my friend John. "Thanks, they're trail running shoes" I replied. "Oh, do you trail run?" He said excitedly. HA! I say all the time that I'd rather die than run a mile. It turns out that John wants to start trail running this summer, and I made a deal with him that I would, too. Maybe trail running would be more interesting than running in the city? (Stephen warned me that this would come back to bite me in the butt).

Well, now I've decided that I will start getting up early to go for a run in the mornings (read: drag myself out of warm, comfy bed to walk mostly and work up to running eventually). I just can't bear this endless stillness. Sometimes I dance to the light rail station. If you happen to see some crazy freak girl dancing down 17th street, say hi to me, or maybe give me a dollar.

Hopefully These Are The Last Crappy Camera Phone Pictures I'll Ever Post

2007-03-26T12:30:00.000-04:00

I'm always posting lame camera phone pictures and saying "I'll have a digital soon, sorry, sorry." (Example: pictures of Moses, below!)

We were gonna buy one for Christmas, rather than do Christmas presents, and we didn't.

Yesterday I told Stephen that I really want to buy one in time for the honeymoon. Stephen pointed out that we don't have money for a camera. I told him we probably wouldn't end up taking pictures if all we brought was a crappy disposable (a true statement). He suggested we borrow my parents digital camera. I countered with the always effective "But..."

"This is the opposite of getting out of debt," he said. "Where do we have $300 just lying around?" While my next point was going to be something along the lines of how quality digital images that capture the sweet memories of our honeymoon and the early romantic days of our marriage being worth the money, I knew he was right and wisely kept my mouth shut.

15 minutes later we were heading out to see if Moses would be into playing frisbee (he was most decidedly NOT), me still feeling dissappointed. Stephen stopped at the mailbox and came back to the car with a handful of envelopes. As we opened them I was more and more amazed and eventually reduced to tears. In 3 cards alone we got 320 dollars, more than enough to cover the camera we ended up buying.

Getting married is a lucrative affair. I told Stephen we should get married more often.

Grandiloquence Makes My Day More Enjoyable

2007-03-22T13:10:00.000-04:00

An old man (Bill, evidently) is sitting, reading a magazine, making strange ol' man noises, and making my entire lobby smell like chai. I don't think it's actually chai- the smell must come from some odd combination of various old-man hygiene products. He is here to deliver food from some deli. he is wearing a blue collar shirt with a very bright red, pink, and silver striped tie.

When he came in, he strode up to my desk and declared in disbelief (in sort of a brooklynish accent), "You're not the same lady!" while removing his ill-adjusted monocles, as if to get a better look at me and ascertain that his statement was accurate.

Though the statement begs clarification, I knew what he meant. Someone always fills in for me when I'm on a break, at lunch, gone, or running the mail room for the unreliable guy whose job it's supposed to be. Tuesday was one of those days and Cindy the Temp filled in for me, and thus the source of Chai-Bill's confusion is revealed.

Anyway, "You're not the same lady!", he said. I thought, "In fact, I am, sir. I am the same lady I have always been and ever will be. I know you're just trying to be friendly, oh man who smells like chai, but I feel compelled to correct you on this point. You must be more specific."

Perhaps a better way to pose his query would have been, "You, most esteemed and lovely receptionist, are dissimilar in every way to the lass I confabulated with, here at this very desk, not 48 hours ago. Pray, sweet gentlewoman, make plain this wonder to me, and pacify this old man's bewilderment, that he may have peace in old age!"

"Discipline", pish-posh!

2007-03-21T17:52:00.000-04:00

You may notice that I have updated my "What I'm listening to..." item on the sidebar. You may also notice that it is Christina Aguilera's new album. Furthermore, depending on how well you know me, you may notice that this is a strange, even disturbing development.

Take a peek at my music collection and you'll see everything from Metallica to Ella Fitzgerald. I love R&B, hip-hop, hard rock, punk, jazz, and especially the blues. I can even listen to non-twangy country every once in a while (we'll call it folk). But I'm not generally inclined to listen anything that could be qualified as "pop", which most certainly includes Ms. Aguilera.

In fact, I used to hate her. The whole sexed-up, dirty-nasty-naughty-girl image... I just thought she was tacky and provocative for the hell of it. But I've gone and bought her album now, in part because she's changed her image a bit and looks really classy. Mostly, I bought it because I realized that Christina Aguilera might be one of the most incredible female vocalists on the planet.

I told Stephen that she's good for me to listen to in the car. I can't get distracted by singing along because I can't even hope to keep up with her. When I first listened to it I kept rewinding the track to listen to her runs over and over again. She's got a huge range and remarkable control.

I love to listen to it, but every time I end up feeling like "Why can't I do that?!?". Though, I don't really practice. I just sing along with my music in my car and then expect to have the same range, control, and flexibility when I get in front of the mic on Sunday morning. Here's something I've come to admit about myself: I am monumentally lazy. I just want to be good at everything without really having to work at it. I bought a guitar last summer and I could count the number of times I've played it in the last 6 months on one hand- I avoid practice because I suck, I suck because I don't practice, etc. My dad recognizes this trait in me (he should, it exhibited itself through the duration of my youth through academic failure), so for Christmas he's paying for a voice lesson course. But we've been busy with the wedding, so I'm not starting it till' after the honeymoon.

So instead of complaining and feeling like crap for not being good enough to sing what I hear in my mind, I'm going to start practising. I want to develop my skill, not belittle it. Yeah, it sounds great now, but so has every other commitment to some kind of discipline that I've ever made.

Highlights from the weekend

2007-03-19T12:46:00.000-04:00

Someone said something about a hangover? Sorry to disappoint, but I don't have a funny story about snowboarding hungover. I felt great on Saturday (due to the fact that I'm mostly German, I'm told). In fact, it was the best day I've had all season. At 55 degrees, we didn't need wool or layers or coats. I'm not saying it was bikini weather at Keystone this weekend, but it was gorgeous.

On the sunnier side of the mountain the snow had a wonderful quality... stick with me, you who do not cook: it was like gliding through that delicious mixture of melted butter and granulated sugar that is so necessary for good cookies. On the other side of the mountain, it was like cutting through soft frosting.

Stephen and I, being the wild young party animals that we are, spent the remainder of Saturday celebrating St. Patrick's Day by cleaning, doing the dishes, grocery shopping, bathing Moses, and folding laundry.

An added bonus to the evening- the dryer at Stephen's place is broken because it is at least a half century old and of late has been making an increasingly violent and alarming noise when in use. Conveniently we discovered this after I ran a full load of clothes and linens in the washing machine. (These are presumably still in the washing machine, undried, as it were. Crapalicious.)

Sunday found us at our very last premarital counseling session discussing conflict, sex, and finances. For those of you counting, we're 19 days away from the big day. People keep asking me if I'm excited (That's a stupid question, isn't it?), but for the first time in 5 months of being engaged I'm actually nervous. Getting married is a marvelous, psychotic thing.

It's midnight give me a break

2007-03-17T02:05:00.000-04:00

A glass of wine, 2 1/2 margaritas, a plate full of Indian food, and an evening of time spent with good friends. I've had a bit too much to drink (read: I'm concentrating really, really hard on hitting the right keys). Going snowboarding early tomorrow morning (in fitting boots and new snobaord- it's supposed to be 55 degrees tomorrow, so no coat). Need to sleep. Talking like Captain Kirk for some reason?

More later.

There's a difference between child-like and childish

2007-03-12T10:05:00.000-04:00

A guy on the train this morning wouldn't quit staring at me. I guess he thought I was cute. Every time I looked up from my book he would be looking at me, sometimes giving me a sheepish smile. It wasn't so much creepy as it was annoying. It makes it hard to read when dude across the aisle is glancing in my direction every 23 seconds. I almost feel sort of bad for him- he was probably a nice guy that was too shy to start a conversation with a pretty girl. Meanwhile I was trying to make my ring conspicuous.

We both got off at the same stop (convenient) and when we stood up he said quietly, "Have a nice day." I said, "You too" and smiled at him but what I almost said was "I'm at least 4 inches taller than you, pygmy man."

I'm so mature.

Not yet...

2007-03-09T16:00:00.000-05:00

This post is dedicated to Melissa and Beth.

Melissa wants a house, a home, that she can make her own. I've been excited for her while she'd shared her thrill at the idea of this dream finally becoming a reality. Recently they found out that her husband's post isn't as certain as they thought, making the purchase of a house very unwise- and they've decided not to do it. My heart was grieved when I read that post.

Everyone has hopes and dreams, things they've clung to for long years. In turn, everyone knows the pain of hope deferred or dreams unfulfilled. This post is about a house, but I'm really talking about that thing your heart desires that you just can't have, or can't have yet. Yet is a tremendous word for just 3 letters.

Beth yearns for a house to own also. I loved the comment she left quoting Deuteronomy 6:10-11. (forgive me, but I love the New King James Version)

So shall it be, when the Lord your God brings you into the land which He swore to your fathers... to give you large and beautiful cities which you did not build, houses full of all good things, which you did not fill, hewn-out wells which you did not dig, vineyards and olive trees which you did not plant.

It's easy to see other people in their hour of doubt and be able to realize rationally that their hope isn't gone. When you're a step removed from the intensity of their disappointment, it's easy to look at the whole situation and see that things will be alright (you know, to see the forest AND the trees). I remember when my very serious boyfriend of 3 years broke my heart and left me for someone else, I was devastated. My hopes were for security and safety, and suddenly I felt alone, vulnerable, without a future. My friends and family were removed from the intensity of sadness and loss I felt and assured me time and time again that life would get better and "God's got better things in mind for you". Now, 29 days away from my wedding, it turns out that they were right, though I couldn't perceive it then- I have security, a future, and many things I had settled not to hope for- a man who cherishes me and serves me in love. But I digress. My point is that when you're adrift in the stirred up passions left in the wake of an emotional blow, it's easy to lose sight of hope. But God's plans are not for your destruction, but for your blessing and prosperity. Whether you see it or not, God is really planning something better.

No eye has seen, no ear has heard, no mind has conceived what God has prepared for those who love Him. ~1 Corinthians 2:9 NIV

I would be amiss if I didn't include the NKJV of this verse. It's so beautiful:

Eye has not seen, nor ear heard, nor have entered into the heart of man the things which God has prepared for those who love Him.

A woman who I greatly respect once told me "You're not dreaming big enough. Don't limit God by dreaming so small!".

I want to speak encouragement that you really, truly- you'll look back on this season of waiting and disappointment and be thankful for it. I also want to encourage you to be honest with God. Heartbroken? Angry? Furious? Tell Him. He wants your sincerity. He's a God with emotions and He made us emotional for a reason. Just don't be afraid to dream big-the fulfillment may come unlooked for. Hey, I finally got my car!

Thank God my guardian angels are smarter than me

2007-03-09T10:38:00.000-05:00

Again with the car.

I had a scare on my way home last night. I've been driving instead of taking the train all week because Stephen's out of town and I'm staying at his place to take care of our dog. The train takes me half an hour longer and by the time I'm home, the daylight is gone. No time to play at the park! Last night at the junction of two highways a guy in a huge Chevy cut across 5 lanes of rush-hour traffic so he could make the exit I was taking. Of course, he had to get behind me.

When people are tailgating me, I tap my brakes, and they back off or change lanes. Previously this was done in my behemoth of a car. I will never do this again, certainly not in the veritable shrimp of a vehicle I am now driving (don't misread me- I love the shrimp!!). When I break-checked the guy, he backed up to a respectable distance... then floored it and charged right up to my bumper. I really thought he was going to slam into me. From that point on until we ended up turning different directions, he drove so close behind me that I couldn't see any sunlight through my rear window. All I could see was the hood of this guy's enormous truck and the Chevy logo in the center of his grill. I couldn't even see his face. I never got to see his license plate number. He was driving literally inches from my back bumper. On top of that, I've never driven a car this small- my perspective is way different so low to the ground, and I think that made it scarier.

It was stupid for me to provoke him like that- I should have known he was a manic, he almost caused a pileup when he swerved across the highway to the exit ramp. I yelled a lot of things I don't want to repeat and flipped him off numerous times, but the second I walked in the door of the apartment I broke down and cried on the floor. Meanwhile Moses was trying desperately to figure out what was wrong with me, walking in circles around me, nosing and pawing at me and trying to lick my face- actually, it was Mo that made me feel better. He finally laid down alongside me and submitted to being hugged and cried on for a few minutes. I love my dog.