Basking

I’ve had time today to be home. To really be home on a gorgeous fall day. This has included sweatpants and slippers, coffee, paper-reading, baking, sewing, homework. It has been glorious. I am grateful for my cozy home, and I decided to bask in it. I lit candles that I usually only light when I have company. I turned my music up really loud. I plugged in the wine bottle filled with white lights that dad made me—again, something I usually save for company—I don’t want to waste electricity after all.

I got to thinking about how so often, my home becomes just a house. During the week, I can sometimes leave at 7am not to return until 11pm. My house becomes just a filling station for sleep, food, laundry. Oh yes, and a car wash—shower. I grab the receipt for all of the above on the way out the door, knowing I’ll be back for more, as needed.

I do this with God too. I get busy. Talking with him or spending any amount of time with him becomes a rushed transaction. More Saturday night, God—don’t you worry—I’ll be at church then! I don’t bask in Him enough. Unlike my house though which is pretty immobile, God goes with us all day everyday, so there’s really no excuse. My prof was recently talking about how he thinks daily living—driving to work, talking to a friend, eating dinner—should be a form of prayer or worshipping God. It’s a hard concept to grasp because so often we set parameters and timeframes around such things. Prayer happens for x amount of minutes before bed or in the morning. Likewise, worship happens for the first 40 minutes of church on such and such day.

I want to be with God all the time though, in the way I was at home today. Basking in him in my sweatpants and slippers. Really enjoying his peace and hope.

Delicious ambiguity

When I moved to California, a dear friend gave me a magnet with the following quote on it (thanks, HL):

“Some stories don’t have a clear beginning, middle and end. Life is about not knowing, having to change, taking the moment and making the best of it, without knowing what’s going to happen next. Delicious ambiguity...”
--Gilda Radner

Honestly, ambiguity tastes pretty awful to me sometimes! But this quote, still on my fridge, is a great reminder that try as we might, we simply cannot know what’s going to happen. I ended a very special relationship not knowing what it meant for my future, but believing at that moment, I needed to change. I moved to California alone not knowing what lay ahead, but confident that God was directing me—shoving me—west at that point in time. I quit a job not exactly knowing how I was going to get by financially for awhile, but knowing I needed to do it. These decisions, and there are many more, were made with lots of tears, mainly fearful tears because I was so unsure of what tomorrow would or could look like.

This morning I read 1 Corinthians 2 and was reassured by Paul’s words to the Corinthians. He says honestly,

"When I came to you, brothers, I did not come with eloquence or superior wisdom as I proclaimed to you the testimony about God. For I resolved to know nothing while I was with you except Jesus Christ and him crucified. I came to you in weakness and fear, and with much trembling. My message and my preaching were not with wise and persuasive words, but with a demonstration of the Spirit's power, so that your faith might not rest on men's wisdom, but on God's power."

The last few words hit me. He talks of a faith that rests not on my own wisdom but on God’s power. I think if we believe and rest in God’s power rather than our own, the unknown, the ambiguity, can become... delicious rather than scary.

Loud=Good

Sometimes I think a day’s goodness can be foreshadowed by how loudly one sings in the car on the way to work. On mornings when I can’t bring myself to open my mouth—even to my current fav tune—I know it’s going to be a rough day. Sometimes I start singing along but then just can’t continue. Those days will be OK, but may need a little extra caffeine. Today, however—Friday! Pay day! Day before I-get-to-sleep-in day!—is going to be a very very good day. In fact my throat may even be a little sore from belting out James Morrison on the drive in.

How loud did you sing this morning?

The weak will be strong

I recently had a funny conversation with some coworkers about Clifton’s Strengthfinders. This is the personality test that gives you your top 5 “strengths.” We got to laughing about how great a job Clifton does at spinning! So, for example, you can be really unmotivated and downright lazy. But Clifton may say you’re free-spirited and can’t be confined by responsibilities...or some such nonsense.

This conversation caused me to go back and look at what my “strengths” are (I had to take the test before grad school).

One of mine is ACHIEVER (begotten from mom). Clifton tells me that I feel as if every day starts at zero: “By the end of the day you must achieve something tangible in order to feel good about yourself. And by 'every day' you mean every single day-workdays, weekends, vacations. No matter how much you may feel you deserve a day of rest, if the day passes without some form of achievement, no matter how small, you will feel dissatisfied. You have an internal fire burning inside you.”

An internal fire? Yes. Yes I have that. It’s called stress! Often unnecessary stress! And I’m not sure that being unable to relax while on vacation is a good thing...a strength?! I was recently in San Diego for a few days of relaxation and had to check my work email! I mean, I make lists on SATURDAYS just so that I can feel good in checking things off that list.

Another strength is DISCIPLINE. For the record, I was the only person in my class with this “Strength” and this one also comes from mom. Thanks, mom. Clifton tells me that I need precision: “Faced with the inherent messiness of life, you want to feel in control. The routines, the timelines, the structure, all of these help create this feeling of control. Lacking this theme of Discipline, others may sometimes resent your need for order, but there need not be conflict.”

In other words, I have OCD! And I’m resented! GREAT! My underwear has to match. I need lists for pretty much darn near everything. Supposedly as a child, I wouldn’t leave for school until I made my bed (I ENJOYED making my bed). In class or church, I really need to sit in the same general spot or vicinity every time or else I feel weird. If I’m writing a letter (or another list), I have to fight the urge to completely start over if I make a mistake. Please don’t resent me.

Although not a strength of mine, another one I find very humorous is SIGNIFICANCE. Clifton says people with this "strength" want to be very important in the eyes of others. They want to be recognized. Sounds like the kind of person I’d like to hang out with!

Ok. I know people sometimes put a lot of stock into these tests, and I agree that they can be at times extremely helpful in learning how to better work and cooperate with each other. And self-awareness is a good thing. I get it. I’m just sayin’ though...Clifton, whach you be smokin’?

One phone call from our knees

Early Sunday morning, my friend got a phone call. One of the players on his high school football team had been killed in a car accident the night before. No alcohol or drugs were involved. Just four high school boys goofing off after a celebratory football victory over their rivals Saturday afternoon.

For some reason, Mat Kearney (songwriter/singer) and his current hit single “Closer to Love” instantly came to mind. The opening lines...

She got the call today
One out of the gray
And when the smoke cleared
It took her breath away

She said she didn't believe
It could happen to me
I guess we're all one phone call from our knees

Every time I hear the song, I’m creeped out a bit. I find myself wondering what that phone call could be for me. What are the things that could bring me to my knees? That could take my breath away? When my friend relayed the tragic story, I envisioned the football player’s parents receiving their phone call, falling to their knees in their kitchen, wailing.

Kearney's song continues...

If every building falls
And all the stars fade
We'll still be singing this song
The one they can't take away

I'm gonna get there soon
She's gonna be there too
Cryin' in her room
Prayin' oh, Lord come through

We're gonna get there soon

Oh, it's your light
Oh, it's your way
Pull me out of the dark
Just to shoulder the weight
Cryin' out now
From so far away
You pull me closer to love
Closer to love

In an interview with "Radio Free Chicago" just prior to the release of this song’s album, Mat, a devout Christian, talked about writing for the album "City of Black and White."

He said, "I’ve finally landed in a community and invited in friends to join along. There are songs about stuff you can only write about by sticking around, getting roots—heartbreak, loss, acceptance."

After receiving the phone call Sunday morning, my friend went to the house of the football player who had died. He said that there were more than 250 friends and parents of friends from the Christian high school that this boy had attended. There they laughed, cried, prayed, hugged, and just were...together...there. He said it was amazing how this Christian community pulled together--to "shoulder the weight" of a knee-buckling phone call. And the community encouraged each other to draw closer to God. Closer to Love.

How do I love San Diego?

Let me count thy ways...

Abby, friend of all friends

Honey’s, best muffins in town, and of course, Cesar with a wink and a compliment

HOME, where cute guy works and awesome clothes are sold

Swami’s beach, one of the best places to chill on this earth

6454 Kinglet Way, home away from home, family away from family

Grif, always happy to see me

Lucy, the only dog I love

Golden Spoon, sweet Fro-Yo

The Lagoon

And to all of the above: hold on! Here I come!

Lane change

Someone just told me that when driving in Germany, you can always change lanes. There are not as many people. It’s not as crowded, as say Minneapolis/St. Paul. Now, I’m guessing you’d still probably want to glance in your rearview mirror before scooting on over, but…

I thought about that this morning as I very slowly merged into stop-and-go traffic on 94. Once I was safely in the furthest right lane, I knew I’d be there for awhile, until traffic let up and I could move over into the left lanes.

It’s a metaphor for life though. We get stuck in the traffic—materialism, greed, success, peer pressure—around us. We can’t change lanes. We can’t hear or see or feel God perhaps directing us on which lane we should be in.

Yesterday a coworker’s husband called her before she left for work. He and their two boys had been in a bad accident. Stopped in traffic, they had been hit from behind. Momentarily, her life flashed before her eyes. She saw and felt what it would be to lose…to lose greatly. She said she stared out her front window blankly after her husband assured her that everyone was OK. And there, suddenly in the silence, Psalm 46:10 came to mind.

“Be still and know that I am God.”

She said life has been too raucous lately. There’s been too much going on. Scheduling nightmares. Busy family members coming and going. Dinners eaten on the run. Arguments over silly stuff. And a traffic accident reminded her to be still and know something. Know that He is God.

I don’t want to be stuck in traffic. I want to change lanes when God’s putting on my blinker--when He wants me to know something.

Double doors busted down

I wanna run through the halls of my high school
I wanna scream at the
Top of my lungs
I just found out there's no such thing as the real world
Just a lie you've got to rise above

I just can't wait til my 10 year reunion
I'm gonna bust down the double doors
And when I stand on these tables before you
You will know what all this time was for
--John Mayer, No Such Thing

Well, John, I don’t need to wait any longer. I busted down the double doors at a Marriott Hotel last night for my 10-year high school reunion.

As I got ready and waited for my girlfriend to pick me up, I felt old and wondered perhaps if I shouldn’t have paid $50 for an event to which you’re supposed to wear “dressy casual” (oxymoron?) and awkwardness is guaranteed. And as she dropped me off later I knew I shouldn’t have paid the $50. But I smiled because the evening affirmed something else I knew--I definitely chose the right friends.

Thinkin' on thinkin'

My eyes won’t stay shut, so at 5a.m. on this chilly, rainy Thursday morning in Minnesota, I find myself sipping coffee, doing laundry, and working on a paper about how faith should or should not tie into theology.

Not normal. Not normal ‘tall.

The book I’m reading says that “there is a theological prerogative belonging not only to an elite academic priesthood, guardians of the sanctuaries of learning, but to all God’s people.” So, in other words, not just those of us crazies in grad school learning and thinking about God should be learning and thinking about God.

As classes started back up this fall, I had a conversation with someone. She asked what class I was taking. I told her systematic theology 1, not to be confused with 2 or 3. She asked what we study in those classes, and her eyebrows went up as I quickly tried to tell her. She proceeded to tell me that she doesn’t like to think about “that stuff.”

Now, I should share a few things about this person. She is great, and has such a strong faith. She’s a wonderful encourager, but at times, her comments on God have rung a little hollow to my ears. They’re the ones Christians sometimes fall into the rut of saying. “God has a plan.” “Things will work out according to God’s will.” Etc. etc.

How and why though? What do those things even mean? What is God’s will exactly? Maybe I believe those things or can believe those things, but I need to know some things! Too many things have happened in my life and the life of so many close to me causing me to wonder about God’s plan. To wonder. To question. To seek more information.

When this woman told me that she doesn’t like to think about stuff though, I was momentarily caught off guard. Should I not be worrying about “this stuff”? Should I just be believin’? My conclusion: No. I don’t think that’s faith, or at least a growing faith. Which is great news because the book I’m reading is titled Faith Thinking, which is what I’ll keep on doing (even if it is 5 a.m.).

Interestingly though, the only reason I'm faith thinking now is because I had faith first. That came first--strong or weak or little or bedraggled. Then the thinking.

Excuse me, but do you have a butt?

I kindly told the man to show me his butts.

Last weekend, I walked into one of those Halloween stores that only pops up in the few weeks preceding Oct. 31. My brother and I had come up with this costume idea for a couple, who will remain anonymous, and the costume involved fake butts. To be helpful, I decided I’d swing into this store and check on prices. So when I entered the disturbing store and saw ceiling-to-floor, wall-to-wall Halloween paraphernalia, I took up Frankenstein’s offer to help me find what I was looking for.

Yes, please show me your butts.

Not cracking a smile—I suppose...he IS Frankenstein—he turned on his heels, and I understood that I was to follow him. He took me to the body-part aisle. And there they were. Three different, potential butts. "Here you go," Frankenstein said displaying them as though he was Vanna White with three vowels. "Uh, thanks," I timidly responded, as the people next to me, considering fake boobs (what? what costume is that for?!) looked at me. So, I called the person who would ultimately be wearing this costume to tell her the price. For only $7.99 you can get a real nice butt, I told her.

"Well, what does it look like?" she asked me. Really? Was I going to describe a butt to her over the phone in public?

I nearly told her to go into the bathroom, unzip...nevermind. Instead, I did proceed to describe the differences among the three butts. "Well, one is rounder, firmer. The other looks like it'd fall off easily..." etc. etc.

And now she's not even going to use a fake butt for the costume.

Believing to understand

In Mark 9, a father brings his sick son—mute because of seizures since birth—to Jesus. He says to Jesus: "IF you can do something, then do it!" Jesus kindly replies, "um, there are no IFs among Christians. Anything can happen." The father then cried out, "Ok I believe, but please forgive my unbelief."

True that, I want to tell the father! I hear him on the unbelief thing.

St. Anselm once said that we don’t try to understand so that we’ll believe, but rather that we believe so that we’ll understand.

I’ve been thinking a lot about this in the past few weeks in starting back to class. And it’s true. Understanding doesn’t bring belief. I have more questions now than I did before starting seminary. And yet, oddly enough, I believe more wholeheartedly, more desperately. I feel the belief I do have is allowing me to unroll the canvas and see the portrait. It makes more sense, even if the colors aren't all painted in. But, oh how often I still use “if.”

Do NOT throw your trash out the window!

I can't believe I forgot to tell you this...

On Saturday, while driving with a friend--actually crawling through traffic in the wake of the Gophers game--on 94, we saw the most disturbing, disheartening display of humanity.

Out of this guy's car window came a large, flying fast-food bag. As the bag made its way to the ground, the square, cardboard hamburger holder fell out, as did a scrunched-up napkin. And there the bag of garbage landed on the freeway, to be run over, smooshed, and dragged by oncoming cars.

I wanted to do something, but what? Yell something out the window? Stop traffic and pick up the bag--to make a point! My friend said there's a huge fine for throwing your Mickey D's bag out the window, so does one call the police with a license plate number? And then they search for that car, eventually knocking on this gentleman's door with a ticket? What was I to do?!

We settled for nasty looks in his direction as we passed him. I'd post his license plate number so you could do the same...if only I remembered it now.

You go girl

On Sunday I ran in the Twin Cities’ 10-miler, in conjunction with the marathon. To help pass the 20 minutes before the race started, I decided to wait in the long porta-potty line, even though I really didn’t have to go to the bathroom. I struck up a conversation with the woman behind me. She didn’t really have to go either, but she thought she may as well, even though she had a Go Girl.

After chatting for some time, she proudly showed me what she was carrying in the inside pocket of her shorts: a Go Girl. A device, which looks like a distorted funnel, through which females can go to the bathroom supposedly quickly and easily while in places where there may not be a toilet (or maybe there is but you’re bad at squatting). Now, as soon as she showed me this, the questions wouldn’t stop. How much did she pay for that? Where exactly did she presume to use this along our 10-mile race through the heart of the Twin Cities? Aren’t there laws against public urination? And after you get done using it...what do you do with it? Shake it out and put it back in your pocket? Bring it home and throw in dishwasher? I was so confused. But we were up to the front of the line, so as we exchanged pleasantries on how nice it was to briefly chat and wished each other luck in the run, I said "You Go Girl!"

Our conversation did not solely focus on urination though. We talked about where we live. Me in Maple Grove. She in New Brighton. Where we work. And as soon as I stated my place of employment, her eyes lit up. She proceeded to tell me that it’s where she got her master’s a few years ago. That she had always done public school—from grade school on up to undergrad. And what a blessing it was to have a Christian educational experience. That it was so crazy and great to have professors who not only cared that you were learning what you were supposed to be learning in class, but who also prayed for you and the things going on in your life outside of class. I then shared with her what I’m going to school for. And suddenly she said, you know though, I just always cringe when I come to the part where Christ dies for us.

Um, come again?

She continued: Him dying on the cross just makes me so uncomfortable, and I feel so bad. I just want to skip that part, but I know I can’t.

Huh. Interesting.

I’ve come back to that comment a number of times since Sunday morning. My initial thought was, but Christ dying is GOOD news! It should be happy thought. He died for YOU! Don’t skip that part! But I wonder if sometimes for me the lilies of Easter Sunday overpower the brutality of the cross. Maybe I actually DO skip over the cross. Give me an empty tomb, but not the grave.

I always feel a bit uncomfortable when people do nice things for me. I never want to put people out or have them go out of their way on my account! So, I even felt a little guilty that some friends got up early to come stand in the cold and cheer me on my 10-mile race. It seems strange then that my first reaction to Karen’s—her name was Karen—comment was not one of agreement—yes, I know, I feel so bad too!— but rather, what are you talking about?

Maybe I need a little more of Karen’s perspective, and she needs a little more of mine. God doesn’t want us living unhappy, guilt-ridden lives, but I also think a healthy dose of discomfort every now and then in remembering what He did might be a good thing.

You Go Girl.

Cribbin' it

I’m working on a crib sheet at work, not the kind that babies sleep on. So, I asked my boss why we call it a “crib sheet.” He said because it’s like a little cheat sheet. I said I know what it is, but why is it that?! (Do I sound like a three year old?) How the heck did it come to be called a “crib” sheet?

I did some research. And after sifting through many links to Babies R Us and Pottery Barn for Kids, here’s what I found:

Originally in the 1600s, crib—or cribbe—was Olde English for “manger or fodder bin” (what is a fodder bin? I also ask) At some point, I guess mangers started being used for children. Maybe Jesus started that fad. Crib was also used to refer to a basket, which somehow led people to start using crib as a verb meaning “to steal.” Use your basket and steal.

So, it’s believed that our current slang use of the word (the one referring to cheating of some sort, not the one in Pimp my Crib) comes from this. We’ll often refer to “crib sheets” as a form or plagiarizing or stealing information. Like, a student uses his or her crib sheet—cheat sheet—on the test. But, that still isn’t what I’m working on at work. I’m working on a completely legal, helpful piece of information!

Also, there are nine different noun forms of “crib.” A person could take their crib (basket), go to someone’s crib (house), and crib (steal) a teddy bear from the baby’s crib (barred bed for little ones). And if your British or Australian, after doing this you could take a rest with your cribbed (stolen) teddy bear and eat your crib (snack).

Taters for thought

Yesterday my jeaned knees found themselves in some Green Isle, Minn., mud. My hands in a large bucket of dirty water, scrubbing potatoes. I was harvesting spuds in a small farming town just outside of the cities on a gloriously sunny warm late-September Saturday afternoon. A friend and I drove out to volunteer a few hours of a our time to an organization called Hands for Harvest which plants and harvests a variety of potatoes for local food banks. City girls, our noses needed a few minutes to accommodate the smell of manure. We threw our hair up, put our old tennies on, and as quick learners…we dug right in. Literally.

The process: the potatoes need to be dug up; then sorted between worm-infested, too small, too green, sliced up by potato harvester tractor (not the technical name) and good; the good ones are washed in large buckets of water by hand; these are then brought to and laid out upon a large trailer bed to dry; once dry someone does one final sorting and puts them in boxes, readying them for the food banks and shelves. We did some washing, and then some final sorting and boxing.

Two things struck me.

First, I originally learned of Hands for Harvest a few months ago when I was told that a recent grad of my school had started up this cool organization, and I might want to write a story on it. So I did, and it appeared in a school publication. Last weekend, while sipping my coffee and reading the local newspaper, I came across another story about this graduate and his organization. The Star Tribune had picked it up as well. And then, lo and behold, there was a small segment on KARE-11 last week too. And yesterday, a reporter from the Mankato Free Press was in the fields gathering stories and photos to run a story in today's paper.

Now, what they're doing is very cool. I mean, I, too, wrote a story on it. But it hit me that such a simple, kind thing should be so news-worthy. They're planting potatoes, picking them, and giving them to people who need them. It's not rocket science. It's just kind and generous. And when coupled with large numbers of people and time...it's news. I just wish it wasn't news. I wish it was more commonplace to give. My friend and I discussed what would happen if everybody gave just one hour of their time a week. What would that look like? What would happen?

Second. We were told to only wash and sort and box the good potatoes. If one was more than 1/3 green, put it aside. If one was super small--too small to peel--leave in the field because it can be used as seed perhaps for next year. If one was sliced or hacked by the potato machine tractor thingy, put aside. Only the best ones were to be given to the food banks. I found myself thinking...if people are hungry, pretty sure they can just cut off the bad section of the potato. Or they can eat a slightly green one even if it maybe doesn't taste as good. I mean, they shouldn't be picky! After all the picky of potatoes we've been doing! We're not going to waste potatoes! Well, turns out, they're not being wasted. The family running the organization takes the not-good-but-still-edible potatoes for themselves. Volunteers are also welcome to take the iffy ones. And the rest of the questionables the family brings in to their church to give to friends. They're not wasted, and I was humbled. Of course we should give the best to the needy. Of course we should take the bad ones. How could I have thought otherwise? With so many taters, I saw the good ones to spare and keep, but Hands for Harvest sees the good ones to give.

Fester not

No matter how beautiful a sunset, there is always something eery and discomforting to me about the ocean. I don’t like its unending-ness—both in length and depth. And often the waves seem mad to me rather than gentle and rolling, as they are for others.

My friend, however, born and bred in So-Cal, thinks me and my land of 10,000 lakes are crazy. She’ll take the ocean any ole’ day over a lake—a body of water that she believes “festers.” It sits there, she says, motionless, festering, brooding, if you will. And that is just downright disgusting, and she doesn’t like to think about swimming in such grossness.

Well, I’ll admit sometimes our lakes do fester. In fact, right now, late in the season with uncanny warm temps, some parts of the lake I run around are spotted with multi-colored algae. And if the wind is blowing just right, it smells. And yes, this would be sick to swim in.

But something I love about lakes is there ability to be absolutely still—so still that they become mirrors for their surroundings. It doesn’t happen often. A boat, ducks, wind—weak or strong—can all upset the water. But sometimes, like tonight, the lake by my house, becomes so still, flat, and calm, that it replicates the trees and shoreline on its surface. You almost can’t decipher the real from the reflection.

I stopped running halfway through my lake route tonight, staring at the water’s stillness and thinking. Thinking how we, as Christians, are to reflect God, and how we, as Christians, rarely reflect God. Like lakes, we get waves when life blows stress, hardship, or pain our way. We grow white caps, curled over in our own self-pity. Or we create ripples when difficult people decide to swim in our waters. And those walking around us don’t see a reflection of God, but rather something that “festers”!

We'll never reflect God perfectly, but we can get closer with some help. One night when Jesus was on a boat with his disciples, there was a “furious storm…so that the waves swept over the boat.” The disciples freaked out and Jesus said, “ 'You of little faith, why are you so afraid?'...then he rebuked the winds and the waves, and it was completely calm.”
Matthew 8:23-26

Cure for a man

A few nights ago I sat across from a guy. He was giving me a manicure. It’s not his only job. He also does ventilation duct work, but it’s been slow-going in that business of late, and he needs more money. He comes from a family of 11 children. He’s smack dab in the middle with five older siblings, and five younger. His parents arranged his marriage when they thought he was ready to move out. He married their preferred girl, moved into his in-laws' house, and now has a nine-and-half-month old daughter. And although he'd like to move out, he won't leave his in-laws stranded. They can't speak English and need his help for the simplest of things.

I was touched by his familial commitment.

So, did it work? The marriage, I mean. I asked him.

He shrugged. It’s ok. What can you do now? He chuckled.

You can NOT have married her, I thought to myself, letting my eyes wander up to the flat screen TV bearing closed captioning of HGTV. But it was now his turn for the questioning.

Him: You have family?

Me: Of my own? Like children? No.
I mean, my mom and grandma were on either side of me. I definitely had family.

Him: No husband?

Me: No.

Him: You live at home with parents then?

Me: No.

Him: You live alone?

Me: Yes.

Him: You go online?


I knew exactly what he meant. He was asking if I was internet dating. I mean, I go online all the time. Facebook, blog, hotmail. But that’s not what he was asking.
Me: No.

Him: Your parents. They sometimes know what’s best. Maybe they pick someone.

I laughed. I’ve seen how that works. I’ve experienced that. They’ve tried. I had images of mom and dad laying in bed, dad with his crossword puzzle in front of him. Mom with a pad of paper and pencil in hand...arranging my marriage. She'd ask dad for input. Dad would "say, sure, that sounds good."
Me: No.

Him: It didn’t work out?

Me: No.

Him: Your grandma. She pick someone out?

Me: No.

Him: You go to church with your family?

Me: No. We all go to different churches.

Him: My family all goes to church together. We’re Catholic. Big families. It happens. Maybe your grandma find someone at her church.

I didn't say anything. I smiled and looked at grandma. No.

Him: You go to D&B? Dave & Buster’s?

Once. Many years ago. In California. I never want to go back.
Me: No.

Him: Maybe you should. Lots of guys.

I'm going to find a guy at Dave & Buster's? And he's SERIOUS! So serious that it was endearing!
Me: No, I don’t think so.

It went quiet for a bit. And then...his conclusion:

So, maybe it is that you’re too picky.

Alright, bud, BUSTER. Finish up that pinky nail! I've had just about enough.

I went in for a manicure and got a cure for a man!
The cure? Mom. Dad. Grandma. If those three fail, then go to Dave. He can do something. And if not him, definitely Buster.
Who knew?

Girls and guys

There was great squealing and high-pitched shrills of excitement. There were bright colors, and magazine pages of extremely attractive men. Bright leggings. Green eye shadow. Hot pink shower caddies. Boxes of Easy Mac. Digital cameras flashing. And did I mention the squealing?

It was the girls’ wing in one of the freshman dorms on campus during Welcome Week. I had brought in a photographer to shoot move-in festivities. As he followed me down the female hallway, he looked at me with raised eyebrows. He could either have been wanting to know if it was OK that he—a man—was on the floor. Or he could have been wanting to know what the heck I was making him do...entering this cave of femininity! Either way, I beckoned him to keep following. I asked the squealing girls if any of them would be willing to let us take some photos of them in their new room. The response? 10 girls jumping up and down excitedly. We willSUREcometoourroomWEJUSTDECORATEDlemmeputmybethelsweatshirtonMETOOpickus.

Disentangling ourselves after much photo-taking to do, we moved to the boys’ side. It was quiet. I heard the whir of a window fan. The majority of the floor had already hit the dining center for dinner, but at the end of the hall was one open door. We peered into the dark room. There, slouched on the couch with massive headphones on, not talking, were two freshman guys lit only by the glow of a huge flat screen TV. Their bodies were connected to the massive square in front of them by cords and controllers. Their fingers were flying, and thousands of sci-fi, action-packed DVDs built a fortress around them. Uh. Suddenly, I felt out of place, wondering what I was making us do! Can we take your picture? I asked the boys. I mean after you've hit the jackpot, or killed the enemy, or drank the the secret elixir, or whatever you do on those video games. They looked at each other, shrugged, and said—or grunted—sure.

The pictures turned out very different.
Girls and guys are very different.

Off and on, on and off

Sometimes off means on and on means off.
What’s up or down with that?!

You can say “the siren went off.” What you mean is that the siren turned on—it was going, it was blaring. It wasn’t off at all.

You can tell someone to “turn the light off.” But at the same time, you could tell someone “The light went off.” And what you mean is that the light started blinking or it turned on. It wasn’t off at all.

My fire alarm went off this morning as I was getting out the shower. I mean to say that it turned on...it started REEEP REEEEP REEEEEEEPing as I tried to shut it off as soon as possible so as not to bother the neighbors. And for crying out loud, there was no smoke anyways! Why was it on?

Sometimes I wish my brain would go off. Or on.

Necessity?

I stood in the store aisle last night, contemplating my own potential purchase, when I heard a woman a few feet away say, “I really think this is a necessity.”

Really? I glanced over to see what this necessity was, but she had two teenage boys with her, muttering to themselves and rolling their eyes, and kicking the bottom shelf of the aisle. They were obstructing my view. Although I couldn’t see what it was, the woman was holding a box of something. A need, supposedly.

“No, I really do. I really think this is a necessity,” she said again in all seriousness.

Her boys were not listening or caring, so I had half a mind to pitch in and give her a little of the attention she was wanting. But instead I moved a few feet closer in hopes of seeing this necessity. I mean, maybe I needed it tpo? Unfortunately, I still couldn’t get a good look, without making it obvious that I was looking.

And a third time. “I really think this is a necessity.”

WHAT? WHAT? WHAT is the necessity? Through the corner of my eye I saw her put it into her cart and slowly begin moving my direction. At just the right time, I turned around as though I needed to look at the other side of the aisle. Completely satisfied that she was purchasing her need, and with her boys trudging behind her, she pushed her cart past me.

And there. In all its red-boxed glory. I saw the necessity: A funnel cake maker.