A few nights ago, I interviewed a woman who has been working in a makeshift tent hospital in Haiti since the January earthquake. She has performed leg amputations. Delivered babies. Put protruding bones back into bodies. And gotten no more than five hours of sleep per night for two solid months.
I sat on my comfy couch in my warm living room and listened to her share stories. About how the patients at her hospital sleep outside because they’re traumatized. They had been buried in debris, and with recent aftershocks are terrified to sleep under a roof. About how one 10-year-old named Rosemond was pulled out from under his house three days after the quake only to discover that his mom and dad and three siblings had already died. He now vacillates between laughing and playing soccer with kids in the neighborhood--like a normal little boy--and sitting somberly in the corner, alone--like no boy should have to. His 8-year-old buddy at the hospital was amazingly reunited with his parents a few days ago. Rosemond sat in the shadows, quietly watching his friend joyously hug his momma.
I silently dabbed the tears forming in my eyes. As she told me about her average day, I couldn’t help but feel a little guilty. What am I doing for the good of humanity? What difference, really, am I making sitting in my office working on a computer? While she’s fixing a skull fracture, I’m running on a treadmill at the gym!?
An overwhelming sense of responsibility and guilt bubbled up inside of me. And it's happened before. It happened after I returned from planting gardens in South Africa for 10 days. It happened when I built homes in poverty-stricken Mexico for a weekend. I felt so bad for having so much and doing so little. I started feeling guilty about the simplest luxuries. Why do I get toothpaste when so many others can’t even get water? Why do I get to go to five different shoe stores to pick out the “perfect” boots, when so many others don’t have anything on their feet? I should be somewhere doing something helping lots of people.
And yet, logically, I know it can’t work. We can’t all drop what we’re doing and go help people in Haiti forever. In fact, we’d probably make things worse there!
At the end of the conversation, I asked my interviewee why she’s doing what she’s doing--why she intends to spend another month far from home, tending to others’ physical needs. After a few moments of silence, she said that being there right now is extremely overwhelming. There are too many people with too many needs, but she reminds herself each day that Jesus was not about quantity. He was about quality. He was about helping the one person in front of him at any given time.
I sat up a little straighter. That’s right. We are the hands and feet of Christ. And we can’t all be in the same place at the same time doing the same thing. Sometimes I think I should put those blinders on...the kind that horses wear? Or one of those silly white megaphone-looking things that dogs where. I can sometimes get so overwhelmed by the enormous size and quantity of humanity's problems that I am blind to the ways I can truly make a difference. Instead, I feel guilty for the ways I can't make a difference.
So, the question is: who’s in front of me? Right now. Right here. How can I help him or her--even if it means only getting five hours of sleep?
Wednesday, March 03, 2010
Friday, February 26, 2010
On BB
Here’s the thing with palm pilots and blackberrys and smartphones--and whatever other handheld devices from which you can email. It may be uber speedy for you to respond to my email via this device as you walk through the airport or sit down in your meeting or wait at the doctor's office. And you may actually think you're doing me a favor by responding so speedily. But, it takes ME three times longer to decipher your blackberry response than it would to read your email response. And they're supposed to increase or enhance our communication, but I think these devices might be doing the opposite.
“I need the numbers for chart.”
becomes
“I nee the nmbersfor chart..”
Say what?
This morning, receipt letter became rect letter. And the responder sent the accompanying message “hope comes through.”
I mean, it sounds like we're dealing with the morse code.
A friend of mine requested a meeting for something.
Instead of receiving “Everything ok? Sure thing, let’s meet.”
He got “What for?”
And then was stressing about the terseness. Did he offend? Was the recipient mad? Oh no, they’re just ordering a latte as they answer your request to meet tomorrow.
I ask about a lunch date.
The response I get: “I can do T the 12 at 2 or W the 13 at 1.”
Ok. Great. But Tuesday is not the 12th; it's the 13th. And I said I could do 1pm on the 12th and 2pm on the 13th. And this is all assuming that T is Tuesday, 12 is the date, and 2 is the time, etc.
And you know it’s bad when the responder takes the time to apologize for their blackberry usage.
“Sorry. Am on BB.”
“I need the numbers for chart.”
becomes
“I nee the nmbersfor chart..”
Say what?
This morning, receipt letter became rect letter. And the responder sent the accompanying message “hope comes through.”
I mean, it sounds like we're dealing with the morse code.
A friend of mine requested a meeting for something.
Instead of receiving “Everything ok? Sure thing, let’s meet.”
He got “What for?”
And then was stressing about the terseness. Did he offend? Was the recipient mad? Oh no, they’re just ordering a latte as they answer your request to meet tomorrow.
I ask about a lunch date.
The response I get: “I can do T the 12 at 2 or W the 13 at 1.”
Ok. Great. But Tuesday is not the 12th; it's the 13th. And I said I could do 1pm on the 12th and 2pm on the 13th. And this is all assuming that T is Tuesday, 12 is the date, and 2 is the time, etc.
And you know it’s bad when the responder takes the time to apologize for their blackberry usage.
“Sorry. Am on BB.”
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Chirp chirp
Crickets.
You know the sound...the sound of no response.
Whether it be to a verbal comment (surely awkward!), a text, an email or a voice message...it’s the sound of simply not answering.
Knock knock. Hello? Anyone there? Comprende?
Even if it’s not the response you want, an acknowledgement is always polite and considerate.
With some people though, the sound of crickets triggers concerns. I told a coworker yesterday that I was worried about another colleague. His lack of response to our request was extremely abnormal. He always responds—and responds quickly. I feared something was wrong. Sure enough, come to find out, his computer was one of 30 on campus that had been overtaken by a virus. He was in the process of recovering his hard drive. Additionally, his mother had been rushed to the emergency room the night before, and was still in the hospital. Yet, he was on our request. He had gotten it and was halfway through it.
A friend recently asked me what one was supposed to do when they keep praying, keep talking to God, and seemingly hear crickets?! Hello? God? You there? Listening?! When you’re asking for direction and you’re getting nada? I don’t really know what you do. But I think the crickets mean something’s up. God’s on it. He is one of those people who does respond. So if there’s some lag time, you can be sure something's up. He’s probably very very busy on something very very good.
Chirp Chirp.
You know the sound...the sound of no response.
Whether it be to a verbal comment (surely awkward!), a text, an email or a voice message...it’s the sound of simply not answering.
Knock knock. Hello? Anyone there? Comprende?
Even if it’s not the response you want, an acknowledgement is always polite and considerate.
With some people though, the sound of crickets triggers concerns. I told a coworker yesterday that I was worried about another colleague. His lack of response to our request was extremely abnormal. He always responds—and responds quickly. I feared something was wrong. Sure enough, come to find out, his computer was one of 30 on campus that had been overtaken by a virus. He was in the process of recovering his hard drive. Additionally, his mother had been rushed to the emergency room the night before, and was still in the hospital. Yet, he was on our request. He had gotten it and was halfway through it.
A friend recently asked me what one was supposed to do when they keep praying, keep talking to God, and seemingly hear crickets?! Hello? God? You there? Listening?! When you’re asking for direction and you’re getting nada? I don’t really know what you do. But I think the crickets mean something’s up. God’s on it. He is one of those people who does respond. So if there’s some lag time, you can be sure something's up. He’s probably very very busy on something very very good.
Chirp Chirp.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Fix the dent
Another request posted on my gym’s bulletin board...
Gym user: “Please fix the dent in the bathroom floor by the drain. I almost sprained my ankle.”
Gym employee response: “State law mandates a slight slope in the floor along with a drain to prevent flooding.”
Gym user: “Please fix the dent in the bathroom floor by the drain. I almost sprained my ankle.”
Gym employee response: “State law mandates a slight slope in the floor along with a drain to prevent flooding.”
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Hidden
I couldn’t find my black flats this morning, and, of course, I was in a hurry. I quickly went down the shelves in my closet, feeling in the dark for the soft suede. Each time I went down the same shelves coming up black flat-less (I skipped the top shelf because why would I put a pair of shoes I wear often on the very top shelf which I can barely reach?!), these shoes began to mean more and more.
What would I do without them?
I’d have to change pants!
And they’re so comfortable.
I can wear them with anything.
They’re pretty much like the greatest pair of shoes ever!
Where the heck are they?!
In reality, they’re not that special, not that expensive, and they’re all crusty now from the winter salt. I gave up and returned to the bathroom to finish getting ready. I’d resume the search later.
The other night in church, the pastor read the beginning of Colossians, Chapter 2. Paul’s talking: “My purpose is that you may be encouraged in heart and united in love—you’ll have the full riches of complete understanding, and know the mystery of God, namely Christ, in who are hidden all the treasures of wisdom and knowledge.”
I, not surprisingly, got hung up on things completely unrelated to what the pastor was saying. God…a mystery…in which treasures are hidden….Images of Disney’s version of the Swiss Family Robinson came to mind. Hidden treasures. Pirates.
Why hidden? Why does God need to be a mystery? I continued pondering this through much of the message—instead of listening to the message.
Hidden things are all the more precious when you seek and eventually find them. Think of gift shopping. We've all done the easy amazon.com order, which takes two clicks and two seconds. Useful, practical? Yes, maybe. But super personal or meaningful? Maybe not. But then there are those gifts for which you search high and low. You look everywhere for months. When you finally find it, it's the most amazing gift ever and you can't wait to give it away. I think maybe it's a little like God.
My own faith only gained meaning when I was forced to look for it, to question it. For me, God’s mystery is far from fully revealed. The whole treasure chest has not been opened, but God often pulls out pieces of sparkling treasure when I search for him. Glimpses of his amazing love and his crazy plan and his undeserved grace shimmer clearly through people placed in my path, opportunities put before me, and even challenges to overcome. He's going to take more than two clicks and two seconds though. You're going to have to look a little.
Anyways, by the time I found my black flats this morning—on the very top shelf, mind you—I could have kissed them.
What would I do without them?
I’d have to change pants!
And they’re so comfortable.
I can wear them with anything.
They’re pretty much like the greatest pair of shoes ever!
Where the heck are they?!
In reality, they’re not that special, not that expensive, and they’re all crusty now from the winter salt. I gave up and returned to the bathroom to finish getting ready. I’d resume the search later.
The other night in church, the pastor read the beginning of Colossians, Chapter 2. Paul’s talking: “My purpose is that you may be encouraged in heart and united in love—you’ll have the full riches of complete understanding, and know the mystery of God, namely Christ, in who are hidden all the treasures of wisdom and knowledge.”
I, not surprisingly, got hung up on things completely unrelated to what the pastor was saying. God…a mystery…in which treasures are hidden….Images of Disney’s version of the Swiss Family Robinson came to mind. Hidden treasures. Pirates.
Why hidden? Why does God need to be a mystery? I continued pondering this through much of the message—instead of listening to the message.
Hidden things are all the more precious when you seek and eventually find them. Think of gift shopping. We've all done the easy amazon.com order, which takes two clicks and two seconds. Useful, practical? Yes, maybe. But super personal or meaningful? Maybe not. But then there are those gifts for which you search high and low. You look everywhere for months. When you finally find it, it's the most amazing gift ever and you can't wait to give it away. I think maybe it's a little like God.
My own faith only gained meaning when I was forced to look for it, to question it. For me, God’s mystery is far from fully revealed. The whole treasure chest has not been opened, but God often pulls out pieces of sparkling treasure when I search for him. Glimpses of his amazing love and his crazy plan and his undeserved grace shimmer clearly through people placed in my path, opportunities put before me, and even challenges to overcome. He's going to take more than two clicks and two seconds though. You're going to have to look a little.
Anyways, by the time I found my black flats this morning—on the very top shelf, mind you—I could have kissed them.
Monday, February 15, 2010
Monday morning staredowns
This morning I sat on the bench in my entry way, staring out the front glass door, waiting for my dad and wishing I had taken a shower. Dad and I traded cars last night because the driver-side door handle just decided enough was enough. It snapped off, and I’m pretty sure it had a smirk on its face as it did it. So, dad was going to fix today on his day off. I realized last night though as I got home that I had left my garage door opener in my car; I’d have to go through the side door in the morning—I made a mental note.
I get up uber early this morning because I know I’m going into battle with traffic, yet again. With another 2 inches of fresh snow in the Twin Cities, the morning commute was sure to be a doozy. And the first piece of armor one can put on is to leave crazy, ridiculously early. I kind of want to pat myself on my back as I brush my teeth and start the shower: I didn’t press snooze ONCE! Take THAT traffic! Watch me beat you this morning!
I hop in the shower and immediately hop out like a madwoman. It’s freezing! What the? Towel wrapped around me, now shivering, I run downstairs and look. Yes. the water heater is still there. I stare at it. Yup. There it is. Right by the furnace. Looks good. I mean, really, what did I think I was going to do? I lean down, and turn the knob past the point where it says “Warning, May Cause Scalding.” I run back upstairs thinking to myself that scalding wouldn’t be so bad at that moment. So, I wait. Do more staring. This time I’m staring at my running water, as I wonder how much clean water I’m wasting when people in Haiti need it, and if my next quarterly bill is now going to be more than $58. Ok. Let’s try this again. I hop...NOPE. AH. FREEZING.
Fine. Traffic, not only am I going to beat you this morning, I’m going to kill you by a landslide because I just shaved like 25 minutes off my prep time without showering! I get ready, showerless, blowdrying my sweater before I put it on for warmth.
I am still smiling as I think of beating traffic and head out to my garage’s sidedoor. With my lunch bag, my work bag, my gym bag, and a gift bag for my friends who just had a baby in hand, I jiggle through my keys for the right one. Put it into the door. It won’t move. I stare at the lock. I’m staring again. Ok, I can do this, but at this point, the smile goes away. I run back inside, drop the bags off because I couldn’t just put them down on the walkway because they hadn’t plowed the fresh snow yet. Go back outside. Try the key again in both locks. They are frozen. The key will not budge either way in either lock. Frozen. Of course! I do some more staring at. the. lock...OPEN...PLEASE...before I relent and go back inside to call dad.
And as I plopped down on the bench in my entry way to wait, I had the strongest surge of desire for spring, for summer, for warmth. I also had the strongest surge of rage for winter. Suddenly, all of my problems were winter’s fault. I mean freezing cold water wouldn’t be that bad if it was 90 out! And my door handle may not have gotten so pissed if it wasn’t spending all of its time in below-zero weather. And my locks would surely not be frozen shut. Maybe I wouldn't need to blowdry my clothes for HEAT! I could go on and on. I started staring again. This time at the snow, willing it to disappear. The white landscape before me turned to luscious green. I could smell freshly cut grass. I had purple flowers hanging from my porch. My deck! I could see my deck. Oh, and a hint of fresh basil. Flip flops. Lawn chairs. Tank tops. Oh my gosh. I was in a desert seeing an oasis. Birds were chirping. The sun was shining on my face. I could smell sprinkler...
And then dad pulled up with de-icer and my janky car with the jerryrigged door handle.
I get up uber early this morning because I know I’m going into battle with traffic, yet again. With another 2 inches of fresh snow in the Twin Cities, the morning commute was sure to be a doozy. And the first piece of armor one can put on is to leave crazy, ridiculously early. I kind of want to pat myself on my back as I brush my teeth and start the shower: I didn’t press snooze ONCE! Take THAT traffic! Watch me beat you this morning!
I hop in the shower and immediately hop out like a madwoman. It’s freezing! What the? Towel wrapped around me, now shivering, I run downstairs and look. Yes. the water heater is still there. I stare at it. Yup. There it is. Right by the furnace. Looks good. I mean, really, what did I think I was going to do? I lean down, and turn the knob past the point where it says “Warning, May Cause Scalding.” I run back upstairs thinking to myself that scalding wouldn’t be so bad at that moment. So, I wait. Do more staring. This time I’m staring at my running water, as I wonder how much clean water I’m wasting when people in Haiti need it, and if my next quarterly bill is now going to be more than $58. Ok. Let’s try this again. I hop...NOPE. AH. FREEZING.
Fine. Traffic, not only am I going to beat you this morning, I’m going to kill you by a landslide because I just shaved like 25 minutes off my prep time without showering! I get ready, showerless, blowdrying my sweater before I put it on for warmth.
I am still smiling as I think of beating traffic and head out to my garage’s sidedoor. With my lunch bag, my work bag, my gym bag, and a gift bag for my friends who just had a baby in hand, I jiggle through my keys for the right one. Put it into the door. It won’t move. I stare at the lock. I’m staring again. Ok, I can do this, but at this point, the smile goes away. I run back inside, drop the bags off because I couldn’t just put them down on the walkway because they hadn’t plowed the fresh snow yet. Go back outside. Try the key again in both locks. They are frozen. The key will not budge either way in either lock. Frozen. Of course! I do some more staring at. the. lock...OPEN...PLEASE...before I relent and go back inside to call dad.
And as I plopped down on the bench in my entry way to wait, I had the strongest surge of desire for spring, for summer, for warmth. I also had the strongest surge of rage for winter. Suddenly, all of my problems were winter’s fault. I mean freezing cold water wouldn’t be that bad if it was 90 out! And my door handle may not have gotten so pissed if it wasn’t spending all of its time in below-zero weather. And my locks would surely not be frozen shut. Maybe I wouldn't need to blowdry my clothes for HEAT! I could go on and on. I started staring again. This time at the snow, willing it to disappear. The white landscape before me turned to luscious green. I could smell freshly cut grass. I had purple flowers hanging from my porch. My deck! I could see my deck. Oh, and a hint of fresh basil. Flip flops. Lawn chairs. Tank tops. Oh my gosh. I was in a desert seeing an oasis. Birds were chirping. The sun was shining on my face. I could smell sprinkler...
And then dad pulled up with de-icer and my janky car with the jerryrigged door handle.
Friday, February 12, 2010
Credit, please
"But it’s not our trash."
Pick it up.
"Even the cigarette butt?"
Pick it up.
It used to be the lamest day of the year for me. The Saturday that ended our vacation up north. For many years, my family, grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, rented out an entire resort for one week. I looked forward to it all year long. I counted down the days until we got to go to “the cabin” and spend seven whole days sunbathing, waterskiing, staying up late, eating skittles, fishing. Because we lived down south and people didn’t have cabins and lakes were strange phenomena, this was a big deal! The week passed by so quickly though; the end would always come so suddenly. It would be early Saturday morning, and we’d be packing up the car to go home. And I knew what that meant...I’d have to spend the afternoon at the laundromat with mom. Sick.
But part of leaving was heading down to the beach to pick up trash with Grandpa. We were to leave the resort in better condition than it was when we had arrived. That meant we were picking up others’ chip bags, because we, ourselves, were a pretty tidy bunch.
I can remember thinking though that the owners weren’t ever going to know that we had done this for them! We should leave a note: “Thanks for everything. We took it upon ourselves to clean up everyone else’s mess FOR YOU. No sweat. You’re welcome!” Give us some credit for being exceptional renters!
I was thinking about this earlier this week. About the things we do when no one’s looking or listening. Knowing there will be no recognition, we should still go the extra mile even though cutting corners would be so much easier.
And then this morning, I read Colossians 3 and smiled.
“Obey your earthly masters in everything; and do it, not only when their eye is on you and to win their favor, but with sincerity of heart and reverence for the Lord. Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as working for the Lord, not for men.” (22-23)
What a perfect reminder (and timely for me) that we do, in fact, get credit from the only place where it really matters! Someone is most definitely watching, and He is who we work for. Who we pick up others' trash for.
Pick it up.
"Even the cigarette butt?"
Pick it up.
It used to be the lamest day of the year for me. The Saturday that ended our vacation up north. For many years, my family, grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, rented out an entire resort for one week. I looked forward to it all year long. I counted down the days until we got to go to “the cabin” and spend seven whole days sunbathing, waterskiing, staying up late, eating skittles, fishing. Because we lived down south and people didn’t have cabins and lakes were strange phenomena, this was a big deal! The week passed by so quickly though; the end would always come so suddenly. It would be early Saturday morning, and we’d be packing up the car to go home. And I knew what that meant...I’d have to spend the afternoon at the laundromat with mom. Sick.
But part of leaving was heading down to the beach to pick up trash with Grandpa. We were to leave the resort in better condition than it was when we had arrived. That meant we were picking up others’ chip bags, because we, ourselves, were a pretty tidy bunch.
I can remember thinking though that the owners weren’t ever going to know that we had done this for them! We should leave a note: “Thanks for everything. We took it upon ourselves to clean up everyone else’s mess FOR YOU. No sweat. You’re welcome!” Give us some credit for being exceptional renters!
I was thinking about this earlier this week. About the things we do when no one’s looking or listening. Knowing there will be no recognition, we should still go the extra mile even though cutting corners would be so much easier.
And then this morning, I read Colossians 3 and smiled.
“Obey your earthly masters in everything; and do it, not only when their eye is on you and to win their favor, but with sincerity of heart and reverence for the Lord. Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as working for the Lord, not for men.” (22-23)
What a perfect reminder (and timely for me) that we do, in fact, get credit from the only place where it really matters! Someone is most definitely watching, and He is who we work for. Who we pick up others' trash for.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Bejeweled
Oh, February.
How I do love thee. You have bejeweled me every day on the way to work.
You fill my eyes with wonderfully bright red sparkly rubies. Every now and then these jewels dim, but mostly they just stay lit up, not moving. Thank you! There are so many pairs of them! They’re lovely. And they just encircle me. I cannot move.
And to the left, you offer shiny white little diamonds that go on forever and ever, as far as the eye can see. Again, thank you! So many pairs! I can hardly stand it.
Between these jewels are others who don’t seem as awe-filled as me. Their cranky, janky expressions and middle fingers seem to suggest that there are either too many jewels or the jewels are simply too bright for them so early in the morning.
How I do love thee. You have bejeweled me every day on the way to work.
You fill my eyes with wonderfully bright red sparkly rubies. Every now and then these jewels dim, but mostly they just stay lit up, not moving. Thank you! There are so many pairs of them! They’re lovely. And they just encircle me. I cannot move.
And to the left, you offer shiny white little diamonds that go on forever and ever, as far as the eye can see. Again, thank you! So many pairs! I can hardly stand it.
Between these jewels are others who don’t seem as awe-filled as me. Their cranky, janky expressions and middle fingers seem to suggest that there are either too many jewels or the jewels are simply too bright for them so early in the morning.
Tuesday, February 09, 2010
Check your margins
It's February 10, and I have not blogged in what, for me anyways, is a long time. And I must admit, I feel untethered by this, similar to how I feel when I go too many days without talking to my dear friend in Cali. The other morning, I left for work a bit earlier and found myself sitting behind a stopped schoolbus, and junior highers were getting on. Movement in my rearview mirror caught my eye. A boy with a very heavy backpack was running awkwardly to catch the bus. He passed my passenger side and did manage to get on the bus, but not before having to bend over and pick up his dropped cell phone in the snow.
That's me, I thought! That's how I've felt lately. Trying to catch up on life. Trying to catch up on homework, on work work, on working out, on home projects, on sleep, on returned phone calls! You know it's bad when 20 minutes of time at home seems like a really large chunk of time to get stuff done. Or when you hit up Caribou three days in a row for coffee because you've gotten home too late or been too tired to grind the beans you've got at home.
Dad emailed to check in on me recently and kindly suggested that I may need to consider building more margin into my life. Yes, that would be nice. If he could just go into Microsoft Word, click on the tools tab and show me how to set a fatter margin on my week, I'd greatly appreciate it.
I just don't think I do margins very well. I don't do white space. If my calendar is empty, I feel the need to fill it. I need to host a dinner. Meet someone for coffee. Work on my hobbies. Learn more. Life's short! So I fill and then wonder how I can possibly be so busy! That 20 minutes of time at home that I mentioned? Well, that's good for a quick shower, dishwasher emptying, mail getting, and throwing a load of laundry in. At least! I mean I could maybe even get a few pages of homework read. I can learn something!
The untethered feeling, I think, is what happens when life doesn't just seep out of the margins, because I actually prefer to fill my margins--I thrive on being busy. I think untetheredness is when life has actually gone through the margins and is now off the 8.5x11 sheet of paper on the floor somewhere.
Anyways, dad's right. A woman needs some margin, I suppose. Or maybe a woman just needs to keep life on the page. Keep a post on the blog for goodness sakes.
That's me, I thought! That's how I've felt lately. Trying to catch up on life. Trying to catch up on homework, on work work, on working out, on home projects, on sleep, on returned phone calls! You know it's bad when 20 minutes of time at home seems like a really large chunk of time to get stuff done. Or when you hit up Caribou three days in a row for coffee because you've gotten home too late or been too tired to grind the beans you've got at home.
Dad emailed to check in on me recently and kindly suggested that I may need to consider building more margin into my life. Yes, that would be nice. If he could just go into Microsoft Word, click on the tools tab and show me how to set a fatter margin on my week, I'd greatly appreciate it.
I just don't think I do margins very well. I don't do white space. If my calendar is empty, I feel the need to fill it. I need to host a dinner. Meet someone for coffee. Work on my hobbies. Learn more. Life's short! So I fill and then wonder how I can possibly be so busy! That 20 minutes of time at home that I mentioned? Well, that's good for a quick shower, dishwasher emptying, mail getting, and throwing a load of laundry in. At least! I mean I could maybe even get a few pages of homework read. I can learn something!
The untethered feeling, I think, is what happens when life doesn't just seep out of the margins, because I actually prefer to fill my margins--I thrive on being busy. I think untetheredness is when life has actually gone through the margins and is now off the 8.5x11 sheet of paper on the floor somewhere.
Anyways, dad's right. A woman needs some margin, I suppose. Or maybe a woman just needs to keep life on the page. Keep a post on the blog for goodness sakes.
Friday, January 29, 2010
Real rest
Jesus resumed talking to the people, but now tenderly. "The Father has given me all these things to do and say...No one knows the Son the way the Father does, nor the Father the way the Son does. But I'm not keeping it to myself; I'm ready to go over it line by line with anyone willing to listen.
"Are you tired? Worn out? Burned out on religion? Come to me. Get away with me and you'll recover your life. I'll show you how to take a real rest. Walk with me and work with me—watch how I do it. Learn the unforced rhythms of grace. I won't lay anything heavy or ill-fitting on you. Keep company with me and you'll learn to live freely and lightly."
Matthew 11:27-30 (The Message translation)
"Are you tired? Worn out? Burned out on religion? Come to me. Get away with me and you'll recover your life. I'll show you how to take a real rest. Walk with me and work with me—watch how I do it. Learn the unforced rhythms of grace. I won't lay anything heavy or ill-fitting on you. Keep company with me and you'll learn to live freely and lightly."
Matthew 11:27-30 (The Message translation)
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Janky
Janky.
It’s a word. An adjective. Did you know that? My friends in Cali use it frequently, and on a recent visit I asked them to please clarify its meaning! Janky? Never heard of it. Well, they promptly informed me that duh, it means like...ghetto. I would have put money on it not being in the dictionary. But turns out it is! It means “messed up, bad, inferior.” Once I found that out, I decided janky most definitely needed to become part of my regular vocabulary! I just needed to find some good uses for it.
So, the other night after class, I’m headed home, driving along 694, chatting with my mom on the cell, when all of a sudden my rear end starts making this horrid noise...the car’s rear end.
Me: Mom, can you hear that?!
Mom: Yes. what is it?!
Me: I DON’T KNOW.
Mom: Where are you?
Me: On the freeway.
Mom: Get off the freeway.
Me: Yes. I know. I will, I have to wait for exit!
I get off at next exit, and pull into the first parking lot, which happens to be an apartment complex.
Mom: Is it safe there?
Me: I DON’T KNOW! You just told me to get off the freeway and now you’re questioning my location. You want me on the road or in the parking lot?! Make up your mind!
So, anyways. I’m in heels and a skirt (of course). It’s 10:30pm (of course). It’s zero degrees out. Windchill well below zero (of course). I get out, walk around to the back of my car...and there...just casually chillin’ on the ground, as if that’s it exactly where it’s supposed to be, is half my car’s rear end. Ok. I exaggerate. It was the muffler and some other stuff. I don’t know. Whatever it was was dragging on the ground. I had to call dad (of course). (I mean, did you read my last post?!)
As I sat in my car waiting for my knight in shining armor (or at least his warmest Columbia jacket), the only word that came to mind was JANKY. JA-NKY!
Perfect usage!
It’s a word. An adjective. Did you know that? My friends in Cali use it frequently, and on a recent visit I asked them to please clarify its meaning! Janky? Never heard of it. Well, they promptly informed me that duh, it means like...ghetto. I would have put money on it not being in the dictionary. But turns out it is! It means “messed up, bad, inferior.” Once I found that out, I decided janky most definitely needed to become part of my regular vocabulary! I just needed to find some good uses for it.
So, the other night after class, I’m headed home, driving along 694, chatting with my mom on the cell, when all of a sudden my rear end starts making this horrid noise...the car’s rear end.
Me: Mom, can you hear that?!
Mom: Yes. what is it?!
Me: I DON’T KNOW.
Mom: Where are you?
Me: On the freeway.
Mom: Get off the freeway.
Me: Yes. I know. I will, I have to wait for exit!
I get off at next exit, and pull into the first parking lot, which happens to be an apartment complex.
Mom: Is it safe there?
Me: I DON’T KNOW! You just told me to get off the freeway and now you’re questioning my location. You want me on the road or in the parking lot?! Make up your mind!
So, anyways. I’m in heels and a skirt (of course). It’s 10:30pm (of course). It’s zero degrees out. Windchill well below zero (of course). I get out, walk around to the back of my car...and there...just casually chillin’ on the ground, as if that’s it exactly where it’s supposed to be, is half my car’s rear end. Ok. I exaggerate. It was the muffler and some other stuff. I don’t know. Whatever it was was dragging on the ground. I had to call dad (of course). (I mean, did you read my last post?!)
As I sat in my car waiting for my knight in shining armor (or at least his warmest Columbia jacket), the only word that came to mind was JANKY. JA-NKY!
Perfect usage!
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
I'm full
It’s just disappearing. The oil in my car.
Poof. Gone.
I’d feel better if there was a big puddle of oil on my garage floor, or if it was somehow seeping through the floorboards. At least I could pinpoint where it was going! But the oil goes in, and then a few days later, it’s gone.
I’m supposed to keep checking the oil levels, because I should not drive around without oil. But, I’m having a hard time doing that. It just doesn’t register. I don’t think about it. Or if I do, I think of a million reasons why I’m not going to check it right at that moment. The first reason is that nine times out of ten, I can’t even get my hood open. The second reason is that it’s 10 degrees below zero outside. The third reason is that I’m wearing a skirt and heels. The fourth reason is that I have the little genie-in-a-bottle light on my dashboard--that’s its job to tell me I need more oil!
So dad, always my knight in shining armor, checks my oil every time he sees me now (sometimes even when he doesn't see me). And I swear he just keeps an extra quart of oil always on hand so he can fill up my tank each time. And every time he does, I drive away feeling safe, or at least safer, because my tank is filled with oil.
But I realized that we live in a tiring state of refilling. We refill gas tanks, pantries, water bottles, savings accounts, prescriptions. We refill and refill and refill some more. It’s just neverending. I don’t want to think about that for too long. It's seriously tiring to think about!
So, this morning as I read a bit of Colossians, I got hung up on the word “fullness.” We are told that we “have been given fullness in Christ” (Col. 2:10). What a concept. To not have to refill? I actually can’t quite grasp it--to think that I have everything I need for life in Christ...
And then this got me thinking about the people in Haiti. I’m continually amazed. All of these people on the news: they have nothing (earthly, that is), and yet they reference faith or God as sustenance. Over and over again you hear that that is what’s getting them through. And I guess that’s fullness. When there’s nothing around you to refill anything...you’re still full in Christ.
And yes...I know. I need a new car.
Poof. Gone.
I’d feel better if there was a big puddle of oil on my garage floor, or if it was somehow seeping through the floorboards. At least I could pinpoint where it was going! But the oil goes in, and then a few days later, it’s gone.
I’m supposed to keep checking the oil levels, because I should not drive around without oil. But, I’m having a hard time doing that. It just doesn’t register. I don’t think about it. Or if I do, I think of a million reasons why I’m not going to check it right at that moment. The first reason is that nine times out of ten, I can’t even get my hood open. The second reason is that it’s 10 degrees below zero outside. The third reason is that I’m wearing a skirt and heels. The fourth reason is that I have the little genie-in-a-bottle light on my dashboard--that’s its job to tell me I need more oil!
So dad, always my knight in shining armor, checks my oil every time he sees me now (sometimes even when he doesn't see me). And I swear he just keeps an extra quart of oil always on hand so he can fill up my tank each time. And every time he does, I drive away feeling safe, or at least safer, because my tank is filled with oil.
But I realized that we live in a tiring state of refilling. We refill gas tanks, pantries, water bottles, savings accounts, prescriptions. We refill and refill and refill some more. It’s just neverending. I don’t want to think about that for too long. It's seriously tiring to think about!
So, this morning as I read a bit of Colossians, I got hung up on the word “fullness.” We are told that we “have been given fullness in Christ” (Col. 2:10). What a concept. To not have to refill? I actually can’t quite grasp it--to think that I have everything I need for life in Christ...
And then this got me thinking about the people in Haiti. I’m continually amazed. All of these people on the news: they have nothing (earthly, that is), and yet they reference faith or God as sustenance. Over and over again you hear that that is what’s getting them through. And I guess that’s fullness. When there’s nothing around you to refill anything...you’re still full in Christ.
And yes...I know. I need a new car.
Friday, January 22, 2010
Animals and taxes
Who loves Fridays? I do, I do. Especially because I can wear jeans and tennies to work. This morning, I helped stuff letters (tax info/receipts) into envelopes for an office mailing (a fabulously brainless task for a few minutes on a Friday!).
I learned that animals pay taxes, too.
Names on mailing list:
Babie Moose
(someone should have told mom and dad this one when I was born!)
Rusty Lyon
Address on mailing list:
Walking Horse Dr. (as opposed to running horse? or perhaps galloping?)
*If you should happen to know Babie or Rusty, I know that they are not, in fact, animals.
**To devoted readers who'd prefer I post every day...this is what you're gonna get sometimes! Rusty lions and baby meese.
***Happy Friday!
I learned that animals pay taxes, too.
Names on mailing list:
Babie Moose
(someone should have told mom and dad this one when I was born!)
Rusty Lyon
Address on mailing list:
Walking Horse Dr. (as opposed to running horse? or perhaps galloping?)
*If you should happen to know Babie or Rusty, I know that they are not, in fact, animals.
**To devoted readers who'd prefer I post every day...this is what you're gonna get sometimes! Rusty lions and baby meese.
***Happy Friday!
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
No sidebar life
In editing a few features for work recently, I’ve gone back to the different writers with the same comments/edits/suggestions.
Here’s what happens. They have an intriguing lead and as they conclude their lead, they tell the reader what he or she will learn if they continue. “Read on to hear how So and So is doing This.” “Learn how Such and Such is making a difference.” So, the reader excitedly continues on only to discover that what they were promised at the beginning didn’t happen. They didn’t hear about X, Y or Z. They didn’t hear from So and So, or if they did, it wasn’t what they were supposed to hear about.
Interestingly though, the necessary information hasn’t completely eluded the writers. It's not like they didn't get that info. It’s all there. They've just chosen to put it into sidebars. In editorial speak, these are chunks of text that are extra, frivolous. The feature can stand alone, so these sidebars are not necessary but they definitely spice it up. They're usually in little boxes on their own.
So, I’ve found myself pushing back, telling these particular writers that the info they’ve placed in sidebars is NOT supplementary. At least not if they want an engaging, interesting piece! Not if they want to follow through on what they promised the reader in the beginning. I’m encouraging them to go back and weave the interesting stuff throughout, which, I’ll be honest, is sometimes the hardest thing to do. You have to somehow mesh the factual—who, what, when, where why—with the emotional, personal, intriguing. It’s easier to separate.
If being a Christian were a feature article, how often do we say at the beginning that we’re Christian (I mean we do go to church on Sundays!), but then in our daily lives, line by line, we don’t live up to the claim that we’re Christ-followers? We decide to put things that should be woven throughout our days into sidebars. Spending time with the Lord--praying maybe--is just done at church. Being patient or honest is not necessary. It's nice sometimes, but c'mon, it's survival of the fittest in this culture!
As Christians, what do we claim, but then throw into a sidebar? How can we better weave joy and kindess into our life feature? How does God fit into our daily decisions? I think this would make for much more interesting reading! This reading, however, is not going to be sugar-coated. My previous editor used to challenge me by asking where "the messy factor" was. Meaning, it can't all be sweet and nice and positive. A good story is going to show the cons as well. It's going to raise the questions. So, as Christians, praying, or being honest or patient or showing self-control...or whatever may be in your sidebar is not going to make your life feature all smiley and nice. It's going to get messy. But at least you've followed through on what you claimed.
A friend was just telling me about how she visited her mom over the weekend. Her mom is in a nursing home and has been battling Alzheimers for years now. My friend visits her faithfully each week, even though she leaves crying each time because her own mom doesn't know who she is. The only glimpse of recognition comes when my friend hums or sings familiar hymns to her mom. So, my friend goes every week and sings hymns, hard though it may be. I walked away from the conversation teary-eyed and thought to myself...that is love and faithfulness not thrown in a sidebar.
Here’s what happens. They have an intriguing lead and as they conclude their lead, they tell the reader what he or she will learn if they continue. “Read on to hear how So and So is doing This.” “Learn how Such and Such is making a difference.” So, the reader excitedly continues on only to discover that what they were promised at the beginning didn’t happen. They didn’t hear about X, Y or Z. They didn’t hear from So and So, or if they did, it wasn’t what they were supposed to hear about.
Interestingly though, the necessary information hasn’t completely eluded the writers. It's not like they didn't get that info. It’s all there. They've just chosen to put it into sidebars. In editorial speak, these are chunks of text that are extra, frivolous. The feature can stand alone, so these sidebars are not necessary but they definitely spice it up. They're usually in little boxes on their own.
So, I’ve found myself pushing back, telling these particular writers that the info they’ve placed in sidebars is NOT supplementary. At least not if they want an engaging, interesting piece! Not if they want to follow through on what they promised the reader in the beginning. I’m encouraging them to go back and weave the interesting stuff throughout, which, I’ll be honest, is sometimes the hardest thing to do. You have to somehow mesh the factual—who, what, when, where why—with the emotional, personal, intriguing. It’s easier to separate.
If being a Christian were a feature article, how often do we say at the beginning that we’re Christian (I mean we do go to church on Sundays!), but then in our daily lives, line by line, we don’t live up to the claim that we’re Christ-followers? We decide to put things that should be woven throughout our days into sidebars. Spending time with the Lord--praying maybe--is just done at church. Being patient or honest is not necessary. It's nice sometimes, but c'mon, it's survival of the fittest in this culture!
As Christians, what do we claim, but then throw into a sidebar? How can we better weave joy and kindess into our life feature? How does God fit into our daily decisions? I think this would make for much more interesting reading! This reading, however, is not going to be sugar-coated. My previous editor used to challenge me by asking where "the messy factor" was. Meaning, it can't all be sweet and nice and positive. A good story is going to show the cons as well. It's going to raise the questions. So, as Christians, praying, or being honest or patient or showing self-control...or whatever may be in your sidebar is not going to make your life feature all smiley and nice. It's going to get messy. But at least you've followed through on what you claimed.
A friend was just telling me about how she visited her mom over the weekend. Her mom is in a nursing home and has been battling Alzheimers for years now. My friend visits her faithfully each week, even though she leaves crying each time because her own mom doesn't know who she is. The only glimpse of recognition comes when my friend hums or sings familiar hymns to her mom. So, my friend goes every week and sings hymns, hard though it may be. I walked away from the conversation teary-eyed and thought to myself...that is love and faithfulness not thrown in a sidebar.
Pink princess party
My best friends are Flounder and Sebastien. I comb my hair with a dinglehopper, and my boyfriend is Eric. I am Ariel. As in THE little mermaid.
What could have most certainly been an episode of "The Office," my office yesterday hosted its monthly birthday celebration for those with January birthdays (me included). The hosts (each with little girls of their own) opted for a Disney princess theme. Cinderella, Snow White, Sleeping Beauty, Jasmine, Ariel, and Belle puked pink all over the conference room (and you know how much I love pink). Tablecloths, tiaras (we had to wear), magic wands (we had to hold), paper plates, napkins, even a plastic purple princess oven--out of which was coming mini pink cheesecakes. Kudos to the hosts for the theme and originality. Good thing three women have birthdays in January.
Anyways, after we all got to take a "princess quiz"--answering questions like, which princess's parents are both still living, what were the names of Cinderella's fairy godmothers--one of the hosts told us that if we were curious, there was a Disney quiz you can take to find out which princess you are.
I found it, took it, and discovered that I am Ariel. Fitting, as I'm pretty sure I know all the words to "Under the Sea" and "Kiss the Girl," and The Little Mermaid was the only princess movie my brother would watch with me.
The quiz results said that I am:
Adventurous, romantic, and just a bit headstrong. Curiosity often lands me in some sticky predicaments. I set out to discover my own way of doing things and feel the need to spread my fins. Even though this independence is great, there are still times when I would rather enjoy childlike comforts rather than exert my assertiveness. I'm true to myself and determined to follow my heart. Wherever that may lead me.
In part, I think I'm Ariel because I said I like reggae music and I'm not such a fan of ballroom dancing. But whatever. I am independent and a bit headstrong. What are you?
What could have most certainly been an episode of "The Office," my office yesterday hosted its monthly birthday celebration for those with January birthdays (me included). The hosts (each with little girls of their own) opted for a Disney princess theme. Cinderella, Snow White, Sleeping Beauty, Jasmine, Ariel, and Belle puked pink all over the conference room (and you know how much I love pink). Tablecloths, tiaras (we had to wear), magic wands (we had to hold), paper plates, napkins, even a plastic purple princess oven--out of which was coming mini pink cheesecakes. Kudos to the hosts for the theme and originality. Good thing three women have birthdays in January.
Anyways, after we all got to take a "princess quiz"--answering questions like, which princess's parents are both still living, what were the names of Cinderella's fairy godmothers--one of the hosts told us that if we were curious, there was a Disney quiz you can take to find out which princess you are.
I found it, took it, and discovered that I am Ariel. Fitting, as I'm pretty sure I know all the words to "Under the Sea" and "Kiss the Girl," and The Little Mermaid was the only princess movie my brother would watch with me.
The quiz results said that I am:
Adventurous, romantic, and just a bit headstrong. Curiosity often lands me in some sticky predicaments. I set out to discover my own way of doing things and feel the need to spread my fins. Even though this independence is great, there are still times when I would rather enjoy childlike comforts rather than exert my assertiveness. I'm true to myself and determined to follow my heart. Wherever that may lead me.
In part, I think I'm Ariel because I said I like reggae music and I'm not such a fan of ballroom dancing. But whatever. I am independent and a bit headstrong. What are you?
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
29, a moose no more
My mom is tough. Nine months pregnant, she went to work on January 13, 1981, even though she had stomach cramps. She says she didn’t think much of them. (um, hello?) The cramps started getting more consistent throughout the day. She went home, and had spaghetti with dad for dinner before finally deciding that maybe they should go to the hospital at 8:50pm. They got behind a very slow driver on the way. I, on the other hand, was not slow. I had things to do! I arrived less than two hours later at 10:49pm. So nervous, dad put his hospital robe on backwards.
My parents lovingly referred to their daughter, their first offspring, as the moose of the nursery. At 8 pounds, 1 ounce, I was supposedly one full pound bigger than all the other babies in the nursery at that time. So, when friends and family visited, they just said look for the moose. The biggest baby. Nice.
They brought me home four days later, on a warm, 32-degree Minnesota winter day—clear, blue sky. My aunt and uncle came over to visit me, and dad left me to go buy a new stereo with the baby money. Classic.
I didn’t let mom and dad sleep through the night though until February 7. And I waited to smile until February 8—perhaps because I had just gotten a full night’s rest! Or because I was baptized that day. I was awake, but quiet during the service, which could be because my godfather’s knuckle was in or near my mouth the whole time. He was nervous I’d freak out (that wouldn't happen until a little later in life).
29 years later, my parents no longer call me moose. I can still keep them up at night for various reasons. Mom is still tough, and I still have so many things to do.
Thanks, mom and dad.
Source: hj’s baby book
My parents lovingly referred to their daughter, their first offspring, as the moose of the nursery. At 8 pounds, 1 ounce, I was supposedly one full pound bigger than all the other babies in the nursery at that time. So, when friends and family visited, they just said look for the moose. The biggest baby. Nice.
They brought me home four days later, on a warm, 32-degree Minnesota winter day—clear, blue sky. My aunt and uncle came over to visit me, and dad left me to go buy a new stereo with the baby money. Classic.
I didn’t let mom and dad sleep through the night though until February 7. And I waited to smile until February 8—perhaps because I had just gotten a full night’s rest! Or because I was baptized that day. I was awake, but quiet during the service, which could be because my godfather’s knuckle was in or near my mouth the whole time. He was nervous I’d freak out (that wouldn't happen until a little later in life).
29 years later, my parents no longer call me moose. I can still keep them up at night for various reasons. Mom is still tough, and I still have so many things to do.
Thanks, mom and dad.
Source: hj’s baby book
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Identity issues
It’s back to class. Let the winter session begin. I got my syllabus yesterday and discovered I had reading and writing due today (nothing like a little lead time). Anyways, the chapter I read was about our identity. Here’s really quick summary: Ask any anthropologist and they will tell you that everyone is constantly seeking an identity of some sort. We all want to know who we are and what we’re doing here. Also, ask any anthropologist and they will tell you that no one is ever satisfied. No matter what a person acquires—be it candy, job, spouse, success—that person always wants something more or different. We just do! We want something that ultimately this world in its finiteness just cannot afford. Enter God, say many anthropologists. He (God, not anthropologist) guarantees 100% satisfaction.
I was thinking that it’s an appropriate time to be reading about this because everyone is talking about their New Year’s resolutions. People want to save money. People want to spend money. People want to lose weight, spend more time at home, get organized. Whatever. We want things. And when we have those things, we’ll want more things. Are these the things by which we define ourselves? Are these our identity? And what happens when we can’t reach these goals or acquire these things?
Anyways, at the church I’ve been attending (yes, the one that sings The Black Eyed Peas), the pastor is slowly teaching through Colossians. We’re not very far. This past week we spent a lot of time on Colossians 1:24-25. This morning I decided to read Colossians 1 in The Message translation just to get a slightly different spin on that chunk of Scripture. The words were rather fitting and timely in light of my homework. Thought I’d share.
"We look at this Son and see God's original purpose in everything created. For everything, absolutely everything, above and below, visible and invisible, rank after rank after rank of angels—everything got started in him and finds its purpose in him. He was there before any of it came into existence and holds it all together right up to this moment. And when it comes to the church, he organizes and holds it together, like a head does a body.
He was supreme in the beginning and—leading the resurrection parade—he is supreme in the end. From beginning to end he's there, towering far above everything, everyone. So spacious is he, so roomy, that everything of God finds its proper place in him without crowding. Not only that, but all the broken and dislocated pieces of the universe—people and things, animals and atoms—get properly fixed and fit together in vibrant harmonies, all because of his death, his blood that poured down from the cross."
Colossians 1:15-20
I was thinking that it’s an appropriate time to be reading about this because everyone is talking about their New Year’s resolutions. People want to save money. People want to spend money. People want to lose weight, spend more time at home, get organized. Whatever. We want things. And when we have those things, we’ll want more things. Are these the things by which we define ourselves? Are these our identity? And what happens when we can’t reach these goals or acquire these things?
Anyways, at the church I’ve been attending (yes, the one that sings The Black Eyed Peas), the pastor is slowly teaching through Colossians. We’re not very far. This past week we spent a lot of time on Colossians 1:24-25. This morning I decided to read Colossians 1 in The Message translation just to get a slightly different spin on that chunk of Scripture. The words were rather fitting and timely in light of my homework. Thought I’d share.
"We look at this Son and see God's original purpose in everything created. For everything, absolutely everything, above and below, visible and invisible, rank after rank after rank of angels—everything got started in him and finds its purpose in him. He was there before any of it came into existence and holds it all together right up to this moment. And when it comes to the church, he organizes and holds it together, like a head does a body.
He was supreme in the beginning and—leading the resurrection parade—he is supreme in the end. From beginning to end he's there, towering far above everything, everyone. So spacious is he, so roomy, that everything of God finds its proper place in him without crowding. Not only that, but all the broken and dislocated pieces of the universe—people and things, animals and atoms—get properly fixed and fit together in vibrant harmonies, all because of his death, his blood that poured down from the cross."
Colossians 1:15-20
Saturday, January 09, 2010
Target in MN winter
Wear your big, ugly boots so that you won’t slip and fall on your arse carrying groceries out to the car. And it’s OK if one of your pant legs is half in and half out of your boot. Really. We all know the reason why: you’re also wearing gi-normous mittens that make you look like a penguin. These mittens make it extremely difficult to not only find your keys in your purse, but to also fix your pant legs. However, the penguin mittens are warm and will save your fingers. And I assure you…it doesn’t matter that your boots are brown and your mittens are black. This is about survival.
Then, wear your hat. Style schmyle. Color schmolor. Hair schmair. As you pick out your “fresh” produce, your fellow shopper will smile and nod at you even if you have the worst hat hair ever. And why? Because they have hat hair too. But you also both still have ears. Definitely worth smiling about.
Be sure to have a Kleenex in your coat pocket. I realize you won’t be able to get to it until you take your penguin mittens off, but it’s essential. You won’t realize that your nose is running into your mouth until you’ve been inside for a good 30 seconds and stuff starts to thaw. Then you’ll need your Kleenex.
Don’t walk to the door. Run (another reason you wore your good-snow-traction boots).
Coat. Just wear the biggest, heaviest one you got, and I prefer one with pockets to at least hold your penguin mittens, if not your hat, scarf, and Kleenex. If your pockets are not big enough for all these forms of protection, you’ll need a large enough purse or murse (man purse) to stuff them in. Some people think the small top front compartment of a grocery cart will do just fine holding your stuff. Not so. First, H1N1. Germs, people. And you cannot get to the Purell with your penguin mittens on. Second, there are big holes and slots in that cart. Inevitably your scarf will drag on the ground, and your hat will fall, probably into a sludge puddle made by someone else’s big boots while they compared the prices of salad dressings. On my last trip to Target, I saw a pair of nice black, leather gloves sitting on top the canned mushrooms. Owner nowhere in sight. That’s what happens when you don’t wear a big enough coat or bring a big enough purse to stash them in.
Only buy items that you can carry out to the car in one or two bags. You do NOT want to push a cart to your car, unless you enjoy trying to maneuver four wheels through a foot of nasty, gray sludge—which can no longer be called snow because it is gray and half salt—while wearing a scarf, a hat, boots, and penguin mittens and not breathing. Obviously you won’t be breathing because the whipping, frigid wind takes your breath away.
Plan ahead. If Target is not your last stop before going home, do NOT, I repeat do NOT buy bananas. They will turn black in sub-freezing temps in no time. Also, you’ll probably want to steer clear of milk. Feel free to stock up on frozen veggies and popsicles though. If you are going home, buy anything you want, but again, only enough to fill two bags!
Once your home and groceries are safely on the kitchen floor awaiting unpacking, you’ve taken off your hat, scarf, penguin mittens, and boots (which required you to sit down and grunt), do a little jig because you don’t have to go through the hassle of grocery shopping again for at least a few days! And the jig will get your blood—which froze again on the way home—flowing again.
It’s important to note that the above Target routine is much more enjoyable and slightly easier with a buddy (it means four bags instead of two). It’s also probably more important to note that the above routine is--I can only guess--impossible with kiddos. So either don’t have ’em or don’t feed ’em.
Then, wear your hat. Style schmyle. Color schmolor. Hair schmair. As you pick out your “fresh” produce, your fellow shopper will smile and nod at you even if you have the worst hat hair ever. And why? Because they have hat hair too. But you also both still have ears. Definitely worth smiling about.
Be sure to have a Kleenex in your coat pocket. I realize you won’t be able to get to it until you take your penguin mittens off, but it’s essential. You won’t realize that your nose is running into your mouth until you’ve been inside for a good 30 seconds and stuff starts to thaw. Then you’ll need your Kleenex.
Don’t walk to the door. Run (another reason you wore your good-snow-traction boots).
Coat. Just wear the biggest, heaviest one you got, and I prefer one with pockets to at least hold your penguin mittens, if not your hat, scarf, and Kleenex. If your pockets are not big enough for all these forms of protection, you’ll need a large enough purse or murse (man purse) to stuff them in. Some people think the small top front compartment of a grocery cart will do just fine holding your stuff. Not so. First, H1N1. Germs, people. And you cannot get to the Purell with your penguin mittens on. Second, there are big holes and slots in that cart. Inevitably your scarf will drag on the ground, and your hat will fall, probably into a sludge puddle made by someone else’s big boots while they compared the prices of salad dressings. On my last trip to Target, I saw a pair of nice black, leather gloves sitting on top the canned mushrooms. Owner nowhere in sight. That’s what happens when you don’t wear a big enough coat or bring a big enough purse to stash them in.
Only buy items that you can carry out to the car in one or two bags. You do NOT want to push a cart to your car, unless you enjoy trying to maneuver four wheels through a foot of nasty, gray sludge—which can no longer be called snow because it is gray and half salt—while wearing a scarf, a hat, boots, and penguin mittens and not breathing. Obviously you won’t be breathing because the whipping, frigid wind takes your breath away.
Plan ahead. If Target is not your last stop before going home, do NOT, I repeat do NOT buy bananas. They will turn black in sub-freezing temps in no time. Also, you’ll probably want to steer clear of milk. Feel free to stock up on frozen veggies and popsicles though. If you are going home, buy anything you want, but again, only enough to fill two bags!
Once your home and groceries are safely on the kitchen floor awaiting unpacking, you’ve taken off your hat, scarf, penguin mittens, and boots (which required you to sit down and grunt), do a little jig because you don’t have to go through the hassle of grocery shopping again for at least a few days! And the jig will get your blood—which froze again on the way home—flowing again.
It’s important to note that the above Target routine is much more enjoyable and slightly easier with a buddy (it means four bags instead of two). It’s also probably more important to note that the above routine is--I can only guess--impossible with kiddos. So either don’t have ’em or don’t feed ’em.
Friday, January 08, 2010
Cater to ME, part II
A fellow gym member responded on a bright sticky note:
"I happen to like the music, and I’m 46 years old. That’s between 30 and 70."
And the gym responded by saying due to the myriad music preferences (they didn't use the word "myriad," but they should have), they would keep their current station on. If other music is desired, one must bring his or her own.
No. Really?
*If lost, read yesterday's Cater to ME.
"I happen to like the music, and I’m 46 years old. That’s between 30 and 70."
And the gym responded by saying due to the myriad music preferences (they didn't use the word "myriad," but they should have), they would keep their current station on. If other music is desired, one must bring his or her own.
No. Really?
*If lost, read yesterday's Cater to ME.
Thursday, January 07, 2010
Cater to ME
There’s a bulletin board up at my gym, and as a gym member you can tack up a comment or question--good or bad. A mystery gym employee then will respond with an answer, also tacking it up on the board. Some of the banter is quite humorous. Yesterday morning as I filled my water bottle at the water fountain, I saw a new comment, still answer-less.
Comment: “Most of us who use this gym are between the ages of 30 and 70. Please cater to our music preferences!”
Huh? What exactly would those preferences be? I mean, that’s 40 years! I don’t understand. That’s the difference between Elvis Presley and Bon Jovi. Marvin Gaye and N Sync. Etta James and Britney Spears. The Righteous Brothers losing that lovin’ feeling and Eminem wanting the real slim shady to please stand up. You’re not really givin’ Anytime Fitness much to work with here, fellow gym member!
And, for the record, I do not fall between 30 and 70, but rather 0 and 30, and they are not catering to my preferences either. Hence ipod. So if they're not catering to 30+, and they're also not catering to those under 30...
I can’t wait to read the answer to this comment!
Comment: “Most of us who use this gym are between the ages of 30 and 70. Please cater to our music preferences!”
Huh? What exactly would those preferences be? I mean, that’s 40 years! I don’t understand. That’s the difference between Elvis Presley and Bon Jovi. Marvin Gaye and N Sync. Etta James and Britney Spears. The Righteous Brothers losing that lovin’ feeling and Eminem wanting the real slim shady to please stand up. You’re not really givin’ Anytime Fitness much to work with here, fellow gym member!
And, for the record, I do not fall between 30 and 70, but rather 0 and 30, and they are not catering to my preferences either. Hence ipod. So if they're not catering to 30+, and they're also not catering to those under 30...
I can’t wait to read the answer to this comment!
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