Assulting that Pride

I'm exceedingly mindful of my faults.
I once read a book wherein the main character lamented that her faults were so obvious to herself, that she did not need to have them pointed out by others. When they were, she'd go home and cry. I totally get that.
Living alone is a great way to live in denial. My kids are aware of my faults, of course, but they can't do much about them, and they don't really confront me very often.
Falling in love, though, is a fantastic way to face all the uglies within.
This is a good man, my Tim. I am horrified to find that I have so much in the way of flaws to offer him. In order to give him more and more of me, I find that I can't just give him what's been prettied up and made presentable. It's all mixed up with those parts that are bad. So, I offer to this man I dearly love, a gift that is ridiculous and absurd.
It's rather like crushed dandelions in the grubby hand of a child, though somewhat less endearing.
We go to God that way, too. Here is the Perfect Creator of all, and He wants to have all of you and me. So I give Him....what? My attendance at church? Some pretty prayers? Maybe. Mostly, I give Him my broken heart, and the desire to be what I am not. It's a rather small offering to One Who Loves me so well.
I am seeing this with Tim. In truth, I am learning quite a few things about Who God is, and how He loves me, from my relationship with this man. Tim is so generous, and so very good. He wants more of me, and I set out to give it, only to find that I'm handing him something shoddy. He always accepts it like I do those grubby dandelions, as though it's a pot of gold.
God does that, too. He doesn't require us to be anything but what we are. His main desire is the interaction that sincere relationship is. He wants to commune with you and me, even just as we are.
It's easier when it's God, though, because I know that I can't hurt him the way I can hurt flesh-and-blood. My faults are a danger to Tim, and to his children and mine. They are reality, though, and a large part of what I have to give. That breaks my heart.
Yet, I see so clearly that this is an important part of life. I have been blissfully able to ignore the effects of such upon others, because no one has been close enough. Even my best friends can get some distance, when they need to. They can back away, and I can ignore, and we all live happily.
But no more.
God knows I want to be better. So does Tim, I think. I wish I had more beauty to give; more that is worthy of this love.

The day of His birth

Today is Michael's real, real birthday. I've spent the national deficit on him in Under Armour and sushi.I also bought him two lacrosse balls, which served as fodder for any number of tasteless jokes. Because my boys are classy.

The fourteenth birthday is the END of the 14th year, and not the beginning. That tall child of mine is embarking upon his 15th year. Freaky.

I worked a ton today, (which is to say, 6 hours),and though lots of things have happened over the past few days, I can think of no glib way to recount the events to you.
Mostly, it's been very busy, and now I want a nap. Except it's bed time, so I want a good night's sleep, on top of a nap. That would be indulgent.

We've had movies, and family get-togethers, and indoor rock climbing.

My favorite part of the weekend was sitting next to Tim in church. Really. In church, he continuously situates himself so that we are touching. He'll put his arm around my shoulders, or hold my hand, or sit with his shoulder and arm pressed against my shoulder and arm. I know it's very young-love-ish. I don't care, though, it's very romantic. I like being romantic in church, because I'm worshiping God and also very aware of Tim, all at the same time. It's too bad there are so many people around us at a time like that.

When you eat too much sushi, the full feeling sneaks up on you. It snuck up on Michael, and he is having loud 14-year-old hiccups in the office here, while waiting for his turn on the computer. He's nothing if not refined.

Don is chuckling about the noises emanating from his brother. He ate too much, too. We would be a very happy fat-family. Both of the boys are thin as a rail, though. How is that possible?

There is nothing further that I can add to this riveting post. My brainwave activity has been radically reduced due to digestion and over-exertion.
I'm going to bed. Michael should be on MySpace in two seconds, flat.

Rockin 14th birthday

It's 7:49, and Michael just decided that he and his buddy want to go to the movies. This would not be a problem, except that the next round at the theatres doesn't begin for two hours. In two hours, I'll be in bed.
For two weeks I've been asking what he'd like to do for his birthday. "I dunno." Now, all of a sudden, it's occurred to him. Only, now it's a little late. It's very annoying. His birthday is Monday, but tonight his buddy is over to hang out and eat everything in my kitchen. They're singing like very large operatic women in the other room....and moving this way. I'll bet they want the computer................

For rememberance

My thoughts ran philosophical today.

I don't know anything about Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, save it's name.
It occurred to me to wonder today, if people who suffer from that, face the irrational expectation of continued horrific occurrences during the course of everyday life.

I have a friend who has lived in a heightened state of anxiety for years. Her troubles spring from the victimization of her beloved child, and the ensuing court battles. She's dealt with alarming financial difficulties, custody battles, and emotional fallout from the central tragedy of their lives. I'll bet she stands in bewilderment at the mundane irritations of skinned knees, and dinnertime telemarketers. Her nerves must always be braced for the next horror, because horror is what she knows.

There was a time when my life was a daily series of shocks that were so mind numbing as to become .....common. My husband pulled a loaded weapon on a child. Went to jail. Had an affair with a heroin addict. Built a meth lab. My car was re-poed. The business went down in a haze of local news coverage. The house began foreclosure. All this and more!
When every morning is the set of a new, and stunningly-cruel measure of nightmare, how is a person supposed to think?
One does what one must.
The human being is surprisingly resilient in such cases.
It's when life goes back to what ought to be normal, that such a person wonders how to live.
There is no real problem among such minor irritations as the price of gasoline, or being late for work. Someone who has lived through Chernobyl, is always expecting the Next Horror to explode into their world. How can one relax?
It takes years, in my experience.
One day, I was sitting my the fireplace, with my two children. We were reading, as I recall. It just hit me like a bolt of epiphany that I was happy. I had been for some time, and I didn't remember when it had started, but there it was. Life had become normal.
I never, ever, want to forget what it's like, though. Bombs crushing every vestige of my life, and a shattering of my world that leaves me shell-shocked. I need to remember that precisely because I am happy. It mattered. It has everything to do with who I am today. Others need to know that in the face of such things, God is Good. And life is worth getting back to normal for.

Momma said there'd be days like these

You know how sometimes you toss and turn and cry all night until you finally fall asleep at 2 am because you're really stressed about something that you've been thinking about only now it finally came to a head? Then you wake up sleep deprived and anxious and you can't really get your mind off of it so you think of little else all day long and you get nothing productive done as a result? And after all that you finally are able to resolve the issue to a point where you realize that you really shouldn't have lost sleep over it in the first place but you did and now no amount of caffeine will make up for the loss of sleep? Plus also you find that you are quite hungry and all you want to do is go to bed and read your book except that you have to be in 47 different places consecutively so you end up in the car for three hours non stop?

I hate it when that happens.

But, as Scarlett says, "Tomorrow is another day."
Or as Annie says, "The sun'll come out tomorrow."
Who else has great "tomorrow" quotes?

Me and Mr Right

It's been, all-in-all, quite a satisfactory weekend.

Mr Right and I went to see Mercy Me in concert on Friday evening. He picked me up for our date at 8pm, which we were both chuckling about. In truth, we're usually home from our dates around 8, not just leaving the house. He brought me home at 11:30, which is most certainly the latest we've ever been out. We are seriously very much too old. You know you're too old for dating when your kids start calling to find out where you are, and why you are not home yet, and if you are making good choices.

Yesterday, I took Mr Right's daughter to explore the possibilities of indoor rock climbing. I think I could really get into that as a sport. I am really not in that pitiful of physical shape, but, I found that 20 feet in the air, my arms gave out from exertion. The fellow who was coaching me told me what coaches always tell you so you won't despair, "You're just using different muscles." Translation: "You are a wimp."

Today, I did a load of laundry. This is the closest thing to productivity that I can point to for the weekend. In celebration, I am going to the movies. Mr Right and I are taking the various younglings to see Bedtime Stories at the cheap theatres.

This week is Spring break around here. This has little or no bearing on the outlook in my house. The boys are going to continue to slave away at their schoolwork, and I am planning to slave away at working and mothering. There's lacrosse practice to keep us busy in the evenings.
Speaking of lacrosse....did I tell you that Michael scored his first goal? He is playing "middie" this year, and he's totally The Bomb. His first game was on Wednesday, and they won. Of course. I am such a lacrrose mom. Go, LaX!
Also? This is the last week that Michael will ever be 13. Not because I am going to kill him, but because he is about to round the corner to 14. Aren't I too young to have a 14-year-old?

Since that's all I know, I am now going to turn the computer back to my MySpace-Addicted 13-year-old.

A Quiz, I wrote it myself

Here is an opportunity to test your skills:

When a woman wears her ugly sweats, and doesn't bother with make-up, she is
A. worrying about her NCAA picks
B. tending towards homicide
C. PMSing
D. B and C

When a woman weeps for an hour over an imagined slight, she is
A. concerned about the Packers potential draft picks
B. PMSing
C. out of sushi
D. B and C

When a woman huddles into the darkness of her closet to rock in the fetal position while sucking her thumb, she is
A. concentrating on which power tool to buy with her tax return
B. PMSing
C. bloated right out of every pair of jeans she owns
D. B and C

When a woman thinks about seizing the family pet and stuffing him in the trunk of her car to secretly dispose of in a remote location, she is
A. interested in switching cable companies
B. PMSing
C. Kara
D. B and C

When a woman throws the children's Math book across the kitchen while loudly proclaiming an end to her homeschooling career and threatening to call her best friend to help her dispose of incriminating evidence involving empty cartons of chocolate ice cream and Pink Floyd cassette tapes, she is
A. unhappy with her 401k performance
B. PMSing
C. thinking of running away.
D. B and C

When a woman, who is loved magnificently by the most sensitive, tender-hearted, thoughtful man on earth begins to entertain the suspicion that he doesn't really love her at all, and he is probably thinking that she is fat and ugly RIGHT THIS MINUTE, and he is never ever really going to ride in on his white horse to carry her away to happily ever after, she is,
A. just like every other ungrateful wench
B. PMSing
C. currently pointing a loaded gun at the guy who picked 'A'
D. B and C


If you answered "A" to any of the above questions, then you are very likely male. This is a terminal diagnosis, and there is no treatment currently available.

If you answered "D" on every one, then, girlfriend, meet me for some sushi. And also chocolate. You are buying.

A weekend in Sin Valley

I am such a lame blogger.
Seriously, how do you people stand me?

I am a lame phone-call-returner, too. I am always in the middle of something, so I never answer my phone. It's in my purse, or in the car, or in the other room, anyway. I do not check my messages very often....about once a week. I do have a home phone, but no answering machine. Do not dial my number in an emergency. I hate the phone.
Between the land line and the cell phone, I pay a large percentage of my income for something I hate, and rarely use. I am a loser.

The biggest News Flash in my world is the Family Reunion that is brewing. It is going to take place at a place in Nevada, because we are avid gamblers. Not really. It is in Nevada, but only because that allows us all to travel approximately equal distance. Plus, also, My sister can gamble (Hi Dani!).
This Family Reunion came up fairly suddenly, and it's probably my mother's fault. I try to blame most things on her (Love you momma). My Grandparents, Great Aunt, and various and sundry cousins, nieces, and sisters, all will be there. It is a momentous occasion. If you want to buy me a new camera for the occasion, you just fire me an email, and I'll give you my mailing address.

Jenn, are you going to hop a flight? "Yes" is the right answer.
Jessi? You are coming, right? Girls...you must come.
You know you want to. Everybody's doing it.
MUST. Because I said so.

It's in a month. The countdown is on.
Oh, there is bound to be excitement, drama, intrigue! It is my family, after all.

Patience, Grasshopper

I have never been afflicted with Patience. I am a woman of action, and I prefer to keep things moving.
It was with some trepidation, then, that I decided to explore the topic from a biblical standpoint. Since I was in a rush, I absorbed a great deal in a short amount of time.
Endurance.
Perseverance.
Steadfastness.
They suck.

I learned a couple things, that I may, or may not, apply.

One, is that Patience, like Courage, can only be applied when you don't feel it. When you are scared, but you do when you ought to anyway: That's courage. When you want to get out of a particular situation, yet you chose to remain: that's patience.
Webster said that patience is when you continue without complaining, which seems to be the hard part.

Two. In the bible, patience is frequently addressed hand-in-hand with anger. It occurs to me that the two are related. I'm pretty smart at making connections that are obvious. When I allow myself to grow impatient, I am basically feeling that an injustice, of sorts, has been done me. My reaction can then fall under a variety of names, "Frustration" "Irritation" "Impatience". They are fancy words for anger.

I don't think this situation is moving fast enough, or I don't have what I want, and so, like a two-year-old, I throw a little fit. It's very lady-like.

But, there's really not much choice, is there? Therein lies the rub. One can bitch and moan, or one can exalt in contentment. As my Mother says, "You can make this easy, or you can make this hard," but you have to do it.

And so, with the authors of Scripture, we find that the progression of trials, is as constant as the seasons.
Trials bring opportunity for perseverance, Perseverance works proven character, this takes one further up the ladder toward maturity. And the beat goes on.
Trials also provide opportunity for irritation, which breads a particular character all it's own.
You see what I mean by saying that there's really no choice?

In which I discuss food, friends, and, surprisingly, Tim

If you are what you eat, then I am dead fish and seaweed, because this has been the week of the formerly-wet menu.
I have eaten sushi twice and trout once, and I am eagerly anticipating another lunch date, for yet more sushi. Because, for a poverty stricken single mom in a depressed economy, I sure eat out a lot.

I am also still neither sick, nor well. I am sort of scratchy in my voice, and taking large quantities of Vitamin AirBorne. But it's still no more than a threat. I refuse to admit that I have any sort of a cold. Tim's got a heck of a cold, though, poor guy. No man should be that good-looking when he feels so rotten. He walked in oozing attitude this evening.
I said, "Gosh how do you feel?"
"Terrible. Thanks for asking." He's always polite, even when grumpy.
"Are you 'terrible' because of something specific? Or just 'terrible' on principle?" I thoughtfully asked him.
"Principle."
"Well, then, at least you can admit it." I commented.
But, though he always seems to be a man who sticks to his principles, he certainly didn't stick to the 'terrible' very well. He was laughing and making macabre jokes about his own death. He can be quite amusing, what with the dry sense of humor, and the virus.

Today I saw my friend Jessie and her baby girl.

Jessie is one of those from the Old Group. The Old Group is a cult of sisterhood that evolved from a rather innocent beginning. A bible study, truth be told.
Years ago, when dinosaurs walked the earth, and I was married, I met on a weekly basis with a group of women. We would study our bibles, and discuss our lives, and mostly confide the darker sides of ourselves. We made casseroles when one among us had a baby....which was frequently. We cleaned one another's homes, helped each other move, and fumbled through some really devastating times. We laughed a lot. Cried quite a bit, too. We ate frequently, hid the children during a tornado, and partied on the Island. Ah, good times. We did all this, and more, for 10 years. Every. Single. Week. Well, not the tornado, that only happened once.

The result is, as I irreverently called it, a Cult of Sisterhood to rival the Ya-Yas. (If you aren't familiar with the Ya-Yas, then you need to get the movie right this instant. It's The Divine Secrets of the Ya Ya Sisterhood, and it was written about us. Only we have more bible, and less hard liquor. Well, more bible, anyway.)
So, as I was saying, I saw Jessie today. And while I was at her house, Heidi called from Virginia. Heidi is in the cult, too.
(Are you girls going to be mad at me for calling it a 'cult'? Remember the time we really were called that by the pastor's wife at my church? Oh, that was almost very funny! Perhaps I shall save that indelicate story for another day.)
I am now so far from the original idea of the story, that I have no idea where I was really going with it. Except, I like Jessie a lot. Heidi's great, too. So are the rest of ya'all. Group hug! I raise my NyQuil to salute you, my friends.

Shut up, already.

I am something of a clothes horse, a fact adroitly proclaimed by my colorized closet.
When I shop, which I do far more frequently than my current economic statues would seem to allow, I always go for the 'M' and the 'L'.
For some reason, my self image is that of a rather plump person. I have been that, from time to time, it's true.
The other day, I was browsing the sale racks at Kohl's, where I found two items I liked very well, in size 'S.' I bought them without trying them on.
They fit.
I stood in silent wonder, staring into my mirror at home.
"If I am an 'S', I said to my reflection, "then my clothing options have expanded exponentially."
You see, I keep the clothes I like, even when they do not fit, because they are likely to fit again at some point in the future. (Do you suppose Oprah keeps all of her various sizes as she grows and shrinks?) All these tiny clothes are boxed up on the top of my overstuffed closet.
Or, were, until today.
This morning I am wearing a pair of pants, size 5. I bought them on sale at WalMart, (where all the classy people shop), years ago. They have hung in my closet, unused as a sign of hope. They are simple and unusually well-made, for WalMart. I heart them.
I am looking in the mirror this morning almost as frequently as my teen aged son. I am not nearly as delighted with the reflection, as I am with the number on my tag.
5. Who wears a 5? American girls under the age of 14, or Chinese adult women. Or, maybe Kara.
Who's annoyingly proud of herself?

I don't know about you, but I think this means that I should go shopping for some new clothes. To add to my closet. Because I am an 'S.'
Ok, I'll shut up now.

Celibacy, drugs, and rock n roll

I got carded tonight.
Buying cough syrup.

I rolled my eyes somewhat, at the cashier, and then stated, rather than asked, "You're kidding."

"Kids nowadays are gettin' high off it." This cashier had missed her calling, she needed to have the name "Alice," and be employed in a diner somewhere. Her hair was poorly dyed at home, and the eye makeup was not working for her.

I tried very hard not to roll my eyes again. "No kid needs to get high off of Robitussin. There are far more suitable substances available, without the hideous cherry flavor."

She told me, "They make that Meth from it."

"Yes," I told her,"I've seen the recipe." A revelation that did little to dispel her fears. "This is ridiculous, I only need succor from a persistent virus."

She required my birth date, and graciously consented to sell me the controlled substance.

My liver seems to be holding up well, despite the assault that cough syrup provides. I've bravely decided that a cold glass of white wine would ease my suffering sufficiently to compensate for the risk to my internal organs. I've always been courageous in that way.

This merry virus seems to be both infectious and quick. Everyone I've spoken with in the past few days drops to their sick-bed within 24 hours.
I'm still fighting it with regular Airborne, and cold medicine for good measure. In truth, it has not grasped hold of me firmly, but continues to dance at the back of my throat, looking for opportunity to pounce. I'm not quite sick, and not quite well.

As we left the aptly called "drugstore," I told the boys, "Just say 'no' to cough syrup."
As if they need to be told that. Neither one will swallow the stuff, no matter how sick they feel.
Perhaps I should employ reverse psychology. I'll tell them that the stuff is dangerous, and apt to get them high. Then it will have more appeal.

"Hey little boy, want some candy?"

Here She Comes, Again

There is noting quite like awaking at 5:30 am to put a spring in your step.
Coffee, though, is the Great Equalizer. It makes one feel rested until nearly noon, if administered in large quantities.
Today is looking a bit long-ish from here. The house is less than clean, and there is a list of duties that will pull me hither and thither until the sun goes down. Which? Sounds a little like a Country Western tune.

The whole daylight saving thing means that the sun is in evidence until 7:30 around here. This has the welcome effect of extending my quotient of daily alertness well into evening. Which is a boon. During the winter months, I am ready for bed by 5, and can barely keep awake for dinner. During the daylight months, I need far less sleep. Summer's a comin'. And the livin' is easy.
Which? Brings to mind Porgy and Bess.

Usually, I get really excited about the Summer at about this point in the year. Summer has often meant leisurely days at the local puddle with Kara. There's SPF 30, picnic lunches, and bugspray.
Tim's pool is also a delightful possibility. There is no need of bugspray, there. And he will refill our drinks while we bake in the sun. And perhaps he'll cook for us on the grille.
This year is unclear to me as yet. Like looking into one of those swirly-foggy crystal balls (which I do so much of). I wonder if I'm going to be working much? Or if we'll still be trying to get thru Math and History? Or if I'll have any time at all for lounging in the sun? Summer's only fun if it's a break from real life. If I have to continue with real life, while everyone else is having fun, I'm going to get grumpy.
Which doesn't bring to mind any songs at all.

Speaking of songs,
wouldn't it be amusing to compose an entire blog post with song titles? You know, in my spare time.
It's a Hard Knock life, for us.
But don't worry, be happy.
The sun will come out Tomorrow.

Oh dear. I'm annoying even myself.

My Rich Uncle

Uncle Sam, that is.
He sent me some money, only I don't think it's enough. Do you get a tax refund? It's quite convienient. Besides paying bills, I have a list of things I'd like to spend money on, and very few things on my list are frivolous. I want to buy light bulbs, and vacuum bags, and fence posts to replace the broken ones. And bark for the flowerbeds. I want the expensive vitamins that I like so well, and some decent hair product.
What I really need to do is put the lot of it in the bank in anticipation of next month's bills. The work I am doing is woefully inadequate to cover my current expenses. How many bills can you really pay on ten hours a week?

In other, less financial news:
The bipolar weather continues. There's a bit of snow on the ground from yesterday's impressive little storm. The sun is shining again, and one wonders whether Spring or Winter will dominate the day.

My son is ill. He hates Airborne, and won't take it. Instead, he is burning up on the couch, feeling miserable.

Ok, I really can't put off my day any longer. I need to go to my two hours of work de jour. Have a lovely day, friends.

Velour, and more

I did something today that I thought I'd never do.
You know those jogging suits made of velour? The kind you would never jog in? I wore one in public with no shirt on underneath. Don't get excited, it's perfectly modest. I just have never worn it this way, because I am always nervous that the zipper will creep down unbeknownst to me, and reveal an eye-full to the roving masses. It occurred to me that two things have become true.
#1 I have no eye-full.
#2 The roving masses aren't looking at me.
It's possible that numbers one and two are related.
So, I threw the velour ensemble on my tired self, and ran to Albertson's to stimulate the economy.
My tax return has come to visit. It won't stay long, no doubt, but I appreciate it while it's here. One thing I do when I have money, is I fill my wine rack. It has three spots on it, so it's not like it takes a fortune.
I don't know why I bought wine today, as I am not going to drink any, out of respect for my liver. My liver is anticipating the need to process NyQuil this evening before bed. I don't wish to ask too much of this vital organ. Lest it become un-vital.
NyQuil was lovingly suggested to me by the man I'm in love with. I believe he will also be tipping back a blue shot o' the wonder drug tonight. I've infected him. I acquired an aggressive virus on Friday, and it tried very hard to make me quite ill. I fought back with large quantities of Airborne, and have emerged more or less victorious.
In truth, I felt like I was swallowing shards of glass on Friday. By Saturday, I felt like remaining upright was too great an effort. Today, I woke shaky and a tad bit dizzy, but vastly improved. The NyQuil is to attend what congestion there is, so that healthful sleep can do for me what the Airborne cannot.

Airborne is the best invention since antibiotics. Seriously.



The week was a long one. Have I told you about the uproar on the fringes of my world?
One Very Dear Friend was in town due to her brother's trial. The charge was horribly serious, and would have been a heartbreak for this dear family. He was found Not Guilty, but the worry made for lots of prayer and sleepless nights.
Another Friend's father Died behind the wheel of his truck, completely unexpectedly. Her family has all come to town to honor his life.
Then, of course there was the evening in the emergency room with Patsy's girls.
Top that off with a bit of sickness.
I'm glad this week's behind me.

The upside to the week I've had is that I've had numerous excuses to speak with several Very Dear Friends.

Oh, and since we're not remotely on the subject:

I am reading this book.
It's a book that I can not, in good conscience, recommend to you. It's fantastic, though mildly scandalous. The first couple books in the series are more than mildly scandalous, they are shockingly so. But, I read them years ago, and so can't be held responsible. The statute of limitations is out on that.
Suffice it to say, that I have buried myself in books #5 and now #6 of the series for weeks now. It's sweet escapism. You want to know what they are, don't you? I'm not telling.
You'll judge me.

Now, that's a lot to say.
If I'd blog on a more regualr schedule, perhaps I wouldn't bore you with endless drivel once or twice a week. I could bore you with mindless drivel daily. Just the thought is exciting, eh?

Sushi on speed-dial, and ER

We women are a complex breed. We nave needs that defy logic, financial ability, and even, occasionally, ourselves. This is no news flash.
Women need chocolate.
Red wine.
Romance.
Sushi.
A really nice handbag.
If you are not getting these things, and you are female, then You Are Grumpy. Everyone else knows it, I am just tellin' ya.

You need different things, if you are male. Dr. Laura says you need food, fornication, and football. Or something along those lines. Actually, I believe she says something more like "food, sex, and a hobby" but I like my way better. It's possible that you are grumpy, too.

The good news, around here, is that I choose what is best for my family. I have sushi on speed dial.
The unfortunate side to this is that my children also have a taste for the finer things in life, and they steal my sushi.
Last night, for instance.
Last night was a wonderful evening with people I care about, but it was a different evening than I had envisioned. The plan was that I'd grab sushi, meet Kara at my house. We'd enjoy wine, and food, and candlelight and music. We're very romantic, Kara and I.

As I pulled in to the sushi place, I got a frantic call from another friend who needed me to meet her daughter at the emergency room. Which I was happy to do.
Parenthetically......I love when really close friends can call on me for crisis moments in their lives. In order to have that kind of relationship, one must invest years. You basically earn the right to have that kind of drop-everything kind of love. This particular friend has earned the right...in spades.

So, I called Kara, who met me at the emergency room (dropped everything, though I rather expect it was for the sushi). She took the children (all three of them), and she also took the sushi. She came back to my messy house with the music and wine and children. Love her. I went to the emergency room.

The point of my story changed, didn't it? That's because I began it last night before I left the house, and I'm finishing this morning. I could go round and round about the doctors, the bad TV in the hospital, and the fact that my children ate my food whilst I was away. They didn't eat all of it, but they were tempted to. Aren't children supposed to loath raw Japanese fish? There was some left when I got home, so I managed my fix after all.

Anyway, I'm not really going to try any harder to blend my trains of thought, because it just isn't working.

The ER turned out ok. I think she's going to grow up quite happily, and go on to great things.

All about Passion

A long time ago, a friend of mine noted with amusement that I crack myself up. This was a true observation.
It's not so much that I laugh at my own jokes, though I certainly tend to do that. It's more that I find private amusement in the way my brain puts together various information. I'm one of those people who can spend an afternoon in my own company, and have all the benefits of a social event.
It's very fun to be me.
It's also true that other people do not seem to do this, and I can't image why not.
Perhaps it's a dearth of material.
My mind is a jumble of music, literature, and disorganized mental notes. These randomly intersect from the slightest provocation, inducing the most comical associations.
Perhaps I am crazy.
The amusement, though, adds a pleasant backdrop for the mundane details of life. If one has to function on this planet, one ought to chuckle a bit.
It's curious to me how very much emotion is woven into the way we humans function.
Tim and I have been looking at the Bible to see what it has to say on the topic of emotion. We pick different topics, each week, to study from a biblical perspective, then we enjoy a robust discussion on our findings.
Emotion looks to be on every page, in one form or another.
My beginning question, as I set off on this little exercise, was "Is emotion primarily human, or is it primarily divine?"
The more I read, the more I think that emotion is primarily divine. The bible portrays God as possessing and displaying a rich variety of powerful emotion. Is it possible that He created us to also display this, as a way of showing us something about Himself?
Another question that I am considering as I read, is "Women look to be far more emotional than men; does Scripture indicate that this is so?" And you know what? I don't think it is! Maybe it's different in your Bible, (I rather doubt it), but the men on the pages in mine seem to be passionate in the extreme. They love, hate, worry, and fear quite a lot. You have King David as a prime example, what with all his poetry and music. But he's not the only example, not by a long shot.
Even Jesus, who is displayed in the Ultimate Sacrifice; what He does there is referred to as the "Passion." We're told that He does that "for the joy set before Him."
Emotion is such a large part of each event in my day, save, perhaps, scrubbing toilets and washing laundry. I am thrilled to find that my mind naturally defaults to amusement or delight. Part of that is personality, of course, and mine makes it easier. But there's more to it than that, I think.
How frequently does despair or fear touch the fringes of life? Too often, I confess. I wish it were otherwise. But I do see, from this study of mine, that you and I have some responsibility to control the material which impacts those associations in our mind and heart. "Garbage in, garbage out," as they say. It's where we choose to focus. What am I allowing myself to ruminate on, to dwell on within the confines of my thoughts? The answer to that question plays an integral part in the emotional impact upon me of those events in my day.
Will I crack-up?
Or will I crack?
I suppose that depends upon what I've trained my mind to do.

Val Said

I may not always log into facebook, but I see every single comment that people leave for me there. Yes, I do. They are delivered to my inbox with that immortalized drone, "You've got mail!"
Val, whom I used to clown with ever so long ago, (have I told you that story?), says to write more and add pictures. Then perhaps I can be just like Pioneer Woman.
So, I looked at the photos available in my computer. And there are not really any that are riveting.

That first one up there is an old one, so you can see how I've aged. Nice lipstick, eh?
See the boys? They were children there. Small enough to spank. Not that I would ever use such a primitive.....oh, wait.....you already know me better than that. I should probably beat them now, come to think of it. One is currently drowning out my lovely music by blaring his amplifier and bass guitar in the other room. The other is pouting over the fact that I won't allow him any more time on his PSP.




Here I am looking flamboyant and very Christian, indeed. Like a tele-evangelist's wife, what with the animal print and the wig and the wine.
Who's wine could this be? How did it ever get into my hand?

And, here's a look you don't see every day. Have you ever seen me silent enough to pass as a mime? I believe I mentioned a penchant for costumes.



Speaking of costumes...did I ever tell you about the day that Meichelle invited me over for tea? I wore a hat and gloves, and also a cape.


On that whimsical, albeit narcissistic note, I shall bid you a very good night.

Book this face

Why do I get sucked in to computer things?
I've had this facebook account for a long time. I got it because my son wanted one, and I thought I should keep an eye on him. Do I? No.
I have a number of friends who use facebook to communicate on a regular basis. But, it embodies all I dislike about shallow,small-talk. I hate shallow,small-talk.
Yet, I keep going back.
I finally put my entire real name on my profile, and now the teeming masses from my past are calling me their "friends."
They are not my friends.
I knew them in high school, or met them years ago.
I only have a few real friends. Ok, maybe a bit more than a few. I'm blessed. But I do not call every Tom, Dick, and Harry my "friend." Do people say "Tom, Dick, and Harry" anymore? Perhaps they do not.
I have a MySpace thingy, too. I can't ever figure out what to do with it, though. It's for computer savy people, and there are always ads on it that I find offensive. I don;t really use that account.
Mostly, the blog-realm works for me. I can talk if I want to, without telling you what I am doing "right now". Because, right now? I am typing. Could you not figure that out?

Well, it's Sunday morning, and I should see about pulling myself together. I have company coming this afternoon. Real friends are coming over, since Heidi is coming into town. Maybe I'll take a picture or two. Don't get your hopes up, though, I probably won't.