"Why must our yard be Jumanji?” B asked me the other night. As I stepped over some blood and a large crow’s black feather on my way to the get the mail yesterday, I wondered this too, especially because we have not one blade of grass to call our own. What is so attractive to creatures about our cemented patio?
1. There’s Hoover. A busy, bustling hummingbird that B and I named—I thought vacuums and B thought J. Edgar. Hoover built a nest that held her (I just realized she has a man’s name) three eggs before they hatched into mini chirping hummingbirds who recently learned to fly...or hum.
2. There’s a very, very large squirrel that ate my first tomato, chomps on the berries in our tree and spits them out on us while we sit outside, and basically thinks he owns the joint. He laughs in our faces as we spray the hose at him. B put out these sticky, gooey traps. When we returned from vacation last week, one trap was peculiarly hairy, and we haven’t seen him around lately.
3. While chillin' with some company late at night on our patio, we heard what we thought were footsteps on the front walkway. Turns out it was four raccoons, bug-eyed in B’s flashlight, but again…nonchalantly turning away as if they had every right to be there. B grabbed the hose again.
4. Two raccoons attacked a big black crow on our patio. We heard the most agonizing cah-caws coming from the crow. By the time we got out there, two proud raccoons were strutting away and the crow was laying belly up, blood splattered, feathers everywhere. To put it out of its misery and to save our ears from the cah-cawing, B grabbed the shovel. Suffice it to say, the thing would not die, and I’m pretty sure B scared the neighbors with his antics. But I think the crow who seemed to keep coming back to life was scaring him too.
5. I was up early Monday morning to take a friend to the airport. "Watch out," B said, as he returned from loading the car with luggage. "Why?" I asked. "There’s a big possum out there."
Jumanji I tell you.
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
So many things wrong...
with this ridiculously contradictory sign!
It was guarding one lone parking spot in a completely open parking lot. Does Jack in the Box really draw such a crowd, more specifically a crowd that likes to DRIVE THRU and then PARK? Is this sign necessary? I don't think so.
But if it truly is necessary, at least put a hyphen between "drive" and "thru"!
And for the record, no, we were not at Jack in the Box. We were at Starbucks next to Jack in the Box when we spotted this sign. We parked and walked in--Starbucks didn't have any designated drive-thru parking spots.
Thursday, July 14, 2011
A God-breathed Genealogy
In class yesterday, we considered the differences between the beginnings of Matthew and Luke, specifically the differences in their genealogies. Matthew starts with his genealogy, and Luke does his at the end of the third chapter because they had very different agendas. Additionally, Matthew starts his genealogy with Abraham and works his way through 14 generations back to Jesus. Luke, starts with Jesus and goes all the way back to Adam who he calls “son of God.” (Luke 3:38)
And then just a few short verses later, Luke calls Jesus the “son of God.” My prof stopped and asked us how the heck Luke thought he could make such a huge comparison between Jesus and Adam. Good question, I guess. I didn’t really know the answer he was looking for and last time I checked, Adam was pretty different from Jesus.
The answer? The Holy Spirit.
Luke knew God had breathed His Spirit into man and woman—Adam and Eve—at the very beginning, back in Genesis. He also believed that Jesus, too, was filled with God's spirit. The next verse after calling Adam a “son of God,” Luke says, “Jesus, full of the Holy Spirit, returned from the Jordan and was led by the Spirit” (4:1). They’re both sons of God because God has breathed His Spirit into both.
I was reminded in a unique way that we’re all made in the image of God. We're all God-breathed, all part of the genealogy. At some point that genealogy would say HJ, the daughter of God. I like that. I like Luke.
And then just a few short verses later, Luke calls Jesus the “son of God.” My prof stopped and asked us how the heck Luke thought he could make such a huge comparison between Jesus and Adam. Good question, I guess. I didn’t really know the answer he was looking for and last time I checked, Adam was pretty different from Jesus.
The answer? The Holy Spirit.
Luke knew God had breathed His Spirit into man and woman—Adam and Eve—at the very beginning, back in Genesis. He also believed that Jesus, too, was filled with God's spirit. The next verse after calling Adam a “son of God,” Luke says, “Jesus, full of the Holy Spirit, returned from the Jordan and was led by the Spirit” (4:1). They’re both sons of God because God has breathed His Spirit into both.
I was reminded in a unique way that we’re all made in the image of God. We're all God-breathed, all part of the genealogy. At some point that genealogy would say HJ, the daughter of God. I like that. I like Luke.
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Why the tan?
Someone at B's work asked him what he'd been up to over the weekend because B was a little tanner than he had been on Friday.
Seems to me like asking a Minnesotan in January why he or she is so pale!
Seems to me like asking a Minnesotan in January why he or she is so pale!
Monday, July 11, 2011
Somewhere in the middle
L.A. is not fond of the middle.
It does water without end. Oceans that stretch into nothing but more ocean leaving you feeling lonely and uneasy. Turn the other direction, and it does pavement and concrete without end. 16-lane freeways, houses upon houses upon retail stores upon office buildings upon more houses, leaving you feeling claustrophobic and gasping for anything green and real (not just the green turf many put in their 2-feet-by-10-feet front “yards”).
It does obscene wealth. People who wear jewelry that costs more money than B and I could make in five years. Outfits that cost more money than B and I will probably ever make. Cars so sleek. Houses so huge, so cold and expansive. And then it does obscene poverty right next to its obscene wealth. Homeless people whose faces are a shade of deep red verging on purple because they have nowhere to go to get out of the blaring sun, except maybe the shade created by one of the sleek cars. They smell in front of the expansive homes. They talk to themselves. And they carry empty, holey plastic bags as people pass them by with full Neiman Marcus, Lululemon, and Chanel bags.
Even L.A.’s trees aren’t fond of the middle. Tall, skinny, smooth, empty palm tree trunks reaching for the sky. Reaching just so high they almost tip over and then poof…green, lush, spiky branches (or are they the leaves?). Such stark contrasts.
For those in the middle, those wanting a little natural beauty, but some of the comforts and fun of city living, those who have more than enough to get by, but never want life to be money, those who want a good ole' maple or evergreen every now and then…L.A. leaves you wondering where to go.
It does water without end. Oceans that stretch into nothing but more ocean leaving you feeling lonely and uneasy. Turn the other direction, and it does pavement and concrete without end. 16-lane freeways, houses upon houses upon retail stores upon office buildings upon more houses, leaving you feeling claustrophobic and gasping for anything green and real (not just the green turf many put in their 2-feet-by-10-feet front “yards”).
It does obscene wealth. People who wear jewelry that costs more money than B and I could make in five years. Outfits that cost more money than B and I will probably ever make. Cars so sleek. Houses so huge, so cold and expansive. And then it does obscene poverty right next to its obscene wealth. Homeless people whose faces are a shade of deep red verging on purple because they have nowhere to go to get out of the blaring sun, except maybe the shade created by one of the sleek cars. They smell in front of the expansive homes. They talk to themselves. And they carry empty, holey plastic bags as people pass them by with full Neiman Marcus, Lululemon, and Chanel bags.
Even L.A.’s trees aren’t fond of the middle. Tall, skinny, smooth, empty palm tree trunks reaching for the sky. Reaching just so high they almost tip over and then poof…green, lush, spiky branches (or are they the leaves?). Such stark contrasts.
For those in the middle, those wanting a little natural beauty, but some of the comforts and fun of city living, those who have more than enough to get by, but never want life to be money, those who want a good ole' maple or evergreen every now and then…L.A. leaves you wondering where to go.
Saturday, July 09, 2011
One year ago...
"My response is to get down on my knees before the Father, this magnificent Father who parcels out all heaven and earth. I ask him to strengthen you by his Spirit—not a brute strength but a glorious inner strength—that Christ will live in you as you open the door and invite him in. And I ask him that with both feet planted firmly on love, you'll be able to take in with all followers of Jesus the extravagant dimensions of Christ's love. Reach out and experience the breadth! Test its length! Plumb the depths! Rise to the heights! Live full lives, full in the fullness of God.
God can do anything, you know—far more than you could ever imagine or guess or request in your wildest dreams! He does it not by pushing us around but by working within us, his Spirit deeply and gently within us."
Ephesians 3:14-21
Wednesday, July 06, 2011
Holy Schmoly
Yesterday I started a two-week intensive course at Fuller Seminary in Pasadena. After eight hours' worth of lecture, I’ve decided that my prof is definitely one of my favorites, and he is most decidedly the funniest with a serious dry sense of humor. I chuckle at least every five minutes, and I started keeping track…my chuckles most often occur with his use of the following phrases (and note, he is usually deadpan as he says these things):
Good golly
As he points out a picture on his PowerPoint of a rather funny-looking scholar who studied papyri back in the day
“Look at this papyrologist…good golly, he’d scare my grandson. I’ll wait a few years before I show him this PowerPoint, I guess…”
Holy schmoly
As he jokes about some of the mistakes that have occurred in the printing of various Bibles throughout the ages, like “Go and sin on more” instead of “Go and sin no more”
“I mean, holy schmoly. Go on! Sin some more! What are people to do?! Ay yay yay. holy schmoly.”
Goood night
As he talks about the stuttering emperor Claudius
“Gooooood night! This guy liked food so much they had to poison him twice. I’m not kidding. I’m not making this stuff up. He ate the food his wife poisoned. But then visited the vomitorium and came back ready for more. So, gooood night, the wife had to run in back and make more poison!”
And my favorite...
Shazam!
Like, "Where was Jesus? Shazam! Vanished, disappeared from the grave. Risen from the dead. Shazam!"
Good golly, it's gonna be a fun two weeks.
Good golly
As he points out a picture on his PowerPoint of a rather funny-looking scholar who studied papyri back in the day
“Look at this papyrologist…good golly, he’d scare my grandson. I’ll wait a few years before I show him this PowerPoint, I guess…”
Holy schmoly
As he jokes about some of the mistakes that have occurred in the printing of various Bibles throughout the ages, like “Go and sin on more” instead of “Go and sin no more”
“I mean, holy schmoly. Go on! Sin some more! What are people to do?! Ay yay yay. holy schmoly.”
Goood night
As he talks about the stuttering emperor Claudius
“Gooooood night! This guy liked food so much they had to poison him twice. I’m not kidding. I’m not making this stuff up. He ate the food his wife poisoned. But then visited the vomitorium and came back ready for more. So, gooood night, the wife had to run in back and make more poison!”
And my favorite...
Shazam!
Like, "Where was Jesus? Shazam! Vanished, disappeared from the grave. Risen from the dead. Shazam!"
Good golly, it's gonna be a fun two weeks.
Tuesday, July 05, 2011
God's country?
The F bomb and alcohol flowed freely yesterday in our beach community. I mean, not for B and me. At one point in the evening, I realized that B was playing the banjo and I was reading an Introduction to the New Testament for class today. I told you—we are cool! But earlier in the day we hit the beach, and it was filled with debauchery of all sorts. I physically cringed as I saw moms and dads building sandcastles with their kids as their beach neighbor two feet away swore up a storm and drunkenly dropped their red cup of rum and Coke into the sand. I also cringed at some of the swimsuits (or lack thereof!).
From our blanket on the beach, we could look back at the row of beach houses and see numerous parties going on—vulgar dancing, loud music that didn’t speak too highly of women, and at one point, guys getting into a fight. (Yes, my prudishness is growing.)
Woo! Happy Independence day! I found myself wondering what Abe Lincoln, George Washington, Andrew Jackson, and the like, would think of us celebrating the 4th of July in such fashion.
In church on Sunday (a new one B and I checked out), pastor made a startling comment for some. He said, “This is not God’s country.” Wear your red, white, and blue, but know that the United States is not God’s chosen. (And neither is northern Minnesota, even though they screenprint those T-shirts for certain areas: The North Shore, God’s Country). I mean, if anything, God’s country would likely be the area of modern-day Iraq, Iran, Syria, perhaps? But even those areas are not just God’s country.
Now, don’t get me wrong. I am proud to be an American and very, very grateful to have the liberties I have. I feel bad sometimes that I was lucky enough to be born here and not elsewhere. But after seeing what our good ole’ U.S.A. country looked like yesterday, am glad that God’s true country is yet to come! In John 18:36, Jesus tells Pilate: “My kingdom is not of this world.”
From our blanket on the beach, we could look back at the row of beach houses and see numerous parties going on—vulgar dancing, loud music that didn’t speak too highly of women, and at one point, guys getting into a fight. (Yes, my prudishness is growing.)
Woo! Happy Independence day! I found myself wondering what Abe Lincoln, George Washington, Andrew Jackson, and the like, would think of us celebrating the 4th of July in such fashion.
In church on Sunday (a new one B and I checked out), pastor made a startling comment for some. He said, “This is not God’s country.” Wear your red, white, and blue, but know that the United States is not God’s chosen. (And neither is northern Minnesota, even though they screenprint those T-shirts for certain areas: The North Shore, God’s Country). I mean, if anything, God’s country would likely be the area of modern-day Iraq, Iran, Syria, perhaps? But even those areas are not just God’s country.
Now, don’t get me wrong. I am proud to be an American and very, very grateful to have the liberties I have. I feel bad sometimes that I was lucky enough to be born here and not elsewhere. But after seeing what our good ole’ U.S.A. country looked like yesterday, am glad that God’s true country is yet to come! In John 18:36, Jesus tells Pilate: “My kingdom is not of this world.”
Friday, July 01, 2011
My spider hunter
If B had woken up between 7:50am and 8:30 yesterday morning, he would have found a pair of big blue eyes two inches away, expectantly staring at him. By placing my head mere inches away from him and staring, staring, staring, I willed him to wake up and come play with me, drink coffee with me, start our day. It didn’t work. And finally the longing for coffee pulled me out of bed. Knowing B was tired, I just didn’t have the heart to wake him.
So, I made coffee, plopped on the couch in my usual spot and flipped open the computer…do do do do, just reading the paper, checking my email…and all of a sudden, from somewhere underneath the blanket crawled a nasty, fat, black spider. He headed up the back cushion. I gasped, jumped up, and fought the urge to yell for B all at once. Having lived alone for a long time, I do kill my own spiders, thank you very much. I lunged for a sandal and came back to the couch, pulled up the cushion, and of course the thing is gone. Just as quickly as it came. Gone.
No sirree was I going to return to the couch; I moved to the chair across the room. A few minutes later, B comes into the living room, yawning. He looks around, slightly confused. Where was I? Not in my usual spot?
“Uh, what’s going on?” he asked when he saw me.
“Well…there’s a nasty spider over there somewhere in the couch.”
“So you’re never going to sit there again?”
“No, maybe not!”
Without skipping a beat, he went to the couch and pulled out all the cushions. There was B in his underwear digging through the nooks and crannies of our sofa sleeper. Next thing I know he’s got a flashlight. “Really, babe, it’s OK. I’ll get you some coffee.” He’s silent. Rubs his eyes. Keeps looking. Nothing.
Leaving everything amiss (sofa sleeper pulled out), we eventually left to go for a walk. When we returned I intended to put the couch back, but B said he had an idea for finding the spider and that he’d be back. He walked outside and up to his car. Huh?! What the heck? Is he going somewhere? Spider bait of some sort? What could he possibly have in his car to help in this situation? He comes back with a long, skinny metal tool that my dad gave the boys for Christmas last year. At the end of this tool is a little circular mirror. When the boys pulled this out of their stockings, they acted as though this was the greatest thing ever. Like at some point in the near future, they were going to be hiding in a sewer and would need to extend this metal thing up above their heads with the mirror above ground to see if it was safe to come out. I didn’t get it. But now here B was with his special tool, suddenly using it to find a spider in our sofa sleeper. “Ok, babe, really, it’s OK, you need to get going to work. I promise I’ll sit there again.” Silence. He keeps looking. Mirror here. Mirror there. I go to start some laundry.
“Babe?” he yells.
“Yes?”
“Was it hairy?”
“I don’t know and what does it matter?"
“I see something but can’t tell if it’s a thread or a hairy leg, but…it’s not moving.”
“Yeah, I don’t think it was hairy. Forget the stupid spider. It’s OK. Really.”
At this point, I’ve lost all hope of finding the spider and am fully prepared to wake up the next morning with a sick spider bite somewhere on my body.
And suddenly I hear a loud “AH HA!” I round the hallway corner, and there’s my grinning knight with his shining metal mirror tool slowly standing up with a wadded-up paper towel. I smiled; his persistence and patience paid off again. I gave up hours ago. I went to kiss him.
But then he says, “I thought we were talking like tarantula.”
“No,” I said, thinking maybe I should take the kiss back. And maybe if it was the size of a tarantula he would have found it sooner. “Tarantulas are hairy. I said it wasn’t hairy! And I also told you that you could stop looking a long time ago!!”
:) I love my spider hunter.
So, I made coffee, plopped on the couch in my usual spot and flipped open the computer…do do do do, just reading the paper, checking my email…and all of a sudden, from somewhere underneath the blanket crawled a nasty, fat, black spider. He headed up the back cushion. I gasped, jumped up, and fought the urge to yell for B all at once. Having lived alone for a long time, I do kill my own spiders, thank you very much. I lunged for a sandal and came back to the couch, pulled up the cushion, and of course the thing is gone. Just as quickly as it came. Gone.
No sirree was I going to return to the couch; I moved to the chair across the room. A few minutes later, B comes into the living room, yawning. He looks around, slightly confused. Where was I? Not in my usual spot?
“Uh, what’s going on?” he asked when he saw me.
“Well…there’s a nasty spider over there somewhere in the couch.”
“So you’re never going to sit there again?”
“No, maybe not!”
Without skipping a beat, he went to the couch and pulled out all the cushions. There was B in his underwear digging through the nooks and crannies of our sofa sleeper. Next thing I know he’s got a flashlight. “Really, babe, it’s OK. I’ll get you some coffee.” He’s silent. Rubs his eyes. Keeps looking. Nothing.
Leaving everything amiss (sofa sleeper pulled out), we eventually left to go for a walk. When we returned I intended to put the couch back, but B said he had an idea for finding the spider and that he’d be back. He walked outside and up to his car. Huh?! What the heck? Is he going somewhere? Spider bait of some sort? What could he possibly have in his car to help in this situation? He comes back with a long, skinny metal tool that my dad gave the boys for Christmas last year. At the end of this tool is a little circular mirror. When the boys pulled this out of their stockings, they acted as though this was the greatest thing ever. Like at some point in the near future, they were going to be hiding in a sewer and would need to extend this metal thing up above their heads with the mirror above ground to see if it was safe to come out. I didn’t get it. But now here B was with his special tool, suddenly using it to find a spider in our sofa sleeper. “Ok, babe, really, it’s OK, you need to get going to work. I promise I’ll sit there again.” Silence. He keeps looking. Mirror here. Mirror there. I go to start some laundry.
“Babe?” he yells.
“Yes?”
“Was it hairy?”
“I don’t know and what does it matter?"
“I see something but can’t tell if it’s a thread or a hairy leg, but…it’s not moving.”
“Yeah, I don’t think it was hairy. Forget the stupid spider. It’s OK. Really.”
At this point, I’ve lost all hope of finding the spider and am fully prepared to wake up the next morning with a sick spider bite somewhere on my body.
And suddenly I hear a loud “AH HA!” I round the hallway corner, and there’s my grinning knight with his shining metal mirror tool slowly standing up with a wadded-up paper towel. I smiled; his persistence and patience paid off again. I gave up hours ago. I went to kiss him.
But then he says, “I thought we were talking like tarantula.”
“No,” I said, thinking maybe I should take the kiss back. And maybe if it was the size of a tarantula he would have found it sooner. “Tarantulas are hairy. I said it wasn’t hairy! And I also told you that you could stop looking a long time ago!!”
:) I love my spider hunter.
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Cake bars for the brudder
I just pulled out a pan of “cake bars.” My brother and I love these. We used to make them all the time as kids and eat like ¾ of the pan in one sitting. They’re ridiculously easy, and we prefer them a little doughy. Sometimes we sprinkle powdered sugar on top. I generally only eat them when I’m with my brother now, and guess what? I’m gonna be with my brudder tonight! He’s coming out to hang with me and B for a long weekend, and there’s a fresh batch of “cake bars” ready to go (and maybe his favorite homemade mac and cheese too)!
1 yellow cake mix
2 eggs
1/3 cup melted butter
chocolate chips as you wish
Mix it all in a 9x13. Bake at 400 degrees for about 17 minutes. Voila.
1 yellow cake mix
2 eggs
1/3 cup melted butter
chocolate chips as you wish
Mix it all in a 9x13. Bake at 400 degrees for about 17 minutes. Voila.
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
Learn how to die
A dear friend faces death today. Not her own, but the death of someone so close to her that surely the flowers, the happiness, the sun, of her own heart will die for awhile.
The church I went to in Minnesota held a service each year dedicated to recognizing the pain and loss that comes with the death of loved ones and then also remembering them. One year they played “Learning How to Die” by Jon Foreman (of Switchfoot). I already owned the EP (Winter) with this song on it and knew the words, but as I heard it that night among people who were hurting and remembering, it took on new meaning.
I actually played that EP a few weeks ago and remembered how good it was. B and I have been listening to it over and over again. Thus, as I think about my friend today, the words of “Learning How to Die” run through my mind.
We tend to distance life from death. In our minds they oppose each other. In fact, we arrange our lives to avoid death at all costs. Actually though they’re intricately linked. Shouldn’t we live today—say the words, do the deeds, ask for forgiveness—as though we’ll die tomorrow? Then, at death, like the person in my friend’s life, we can look back and say it’s been good…it’s been real good. You do life well, you do death well.
Learning how to die. I don’t presume to know exactly what Jon means with his words, but for me, learning how to die means fumbling along this faith journey on this earth...learning how to grow closer to God because I know dying means living with Him. In that way, I need to learn how to die.
So, anyways, a hug and a song to my friend.
The church I went to in Minnesota held a service each year dedicated to recognizing the pain and loss that comes with the death of loved ones and then also remembering them. One year they played “Learning How to Die” by Jon Foreman (of Switchfoot). I already owned the EP (Winter) with this song on it and knew the words, but as I heard it that night among people who were hurting and remembering, it took on new meaning.
I actually played that EP a few weeks ago and remembered how good it was. B and I have been listening to it over and over again. Thus, as I think about my friend today, the words of “Learning How to Die” run through my mind.
We tend to distance life from death. In our minds they oppose each other. In fact, we arrange our lives to avoid death at all costs. Actually though they’re intricately linked. Shouldn’t we live today—say the words, do the deeds, ask for forgiveness—as though we’ll die tomorrow? Then, at death, like the person in my friend’s life, we can look back and say it’s been good…it’s been real good. You do life well, you do death well.
Learning how to die. I don’t presume to know exactly what Jon means with his words, but for me, learning how to die means fumbling along this faith journey on this earth...learning how to grow closer to God because I know dying means living with Him. In that way, I need to learn how to die.
So, anyways, a hug and a song to my friend.
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
With a side of avocado, please
We’ve maybe become a little more Californian over the past few weeks.
1. We hit up a guy in Westchester who was selling a few boogie boards on Craigslist. We got two for $15. One pink. One blue.
2. B went surfing Sunday morning for the first time ever. He joined the myriad of others who thinks its great fun to get up early on a weekend, put on a wetsuit, and then jump into the freezing cold water. I stayed nice and warm cuddled under the covers. B did catch a few waves though and now has the itch to go again. He saw sea lions and thought this was cool, but was told...not so cool because sharks love sea lions.
3. Don Johnson passed us on the road, driving a pretty darn expensive vintage white convertible of some sort. I slowly turned to B and asked, "Um, was that…Don…" And B finished, "Johnson? Yes, yes, I think it was."
4. We also saw (on the same day) Isaiah Washington of Gray’s Anatomy in Barnes & Noble looking much blacker and much more distinguished with glasses and a little gray in his beard than he ever looked in scrubs on TV.
5. B and I watched Sideways and got all excited that we’ve now (after doing some tastings up north of Santa Barbara with mom and dad recently) been to the wineries in the movie! Although I suppose if you're true Californian, you don’t get super excited to see a place you’ve been to on TV…it’s just normal.
6. We seem to be eating a lot of avocados. I’ve discovered that at restaurants if any dish is made California-style, it's got avocados in it. A California omelette will have avocado. Cali eggs benedict, avocados. A Cali grilled cheese, avocados.
7. We had an earthquake. A small one, but an earthquake nonetheless. My brother who’s coming to visit on Thursday asked if we are still connected to the mainland. "Nope," I told him. "Once you land at LAX, you now have to take a ferry to get to our house."
1. We hit up a guy in Westchester who was selling a few boogie boards on Craigslist. We got two for $15. One pink. One blue.
2. B went surfing Sunday morning for the first time ever. He joined the myriad of others who thinks its great fun to get up early on a weekend, put on a wetsuit, and then jump into the freezing cold water. I stayed nice and warm cuddled under the covers. B did catch a few waves though and now has the itch to go again. He saw sea lions and thought this was cool, but was told...not so cool because sharks love sea lions.
3. Don Johnson passed us on the road, driving a pretty darn expensive vintage white convertible of some sort. I slowly turned to B and asked, "Um, was that…Don…" And B finished, "Johnson? Yes, yes, I think it was."
4. We also saw (on the same day) Isaiah Washington of Gray’s Anatomy in Barnes & Noble looking much blacker and much more distinguished with glasses and a little gray in his beard than he ever looked in scrubs on TV.
5. B and I watched Sideways and got all excited that we’ve now (after doing some tastings up north of Santa Barbara with mom and dad recently) been to the wineries in the movie! Although I suppose if you're true Californian, you don’t get super excited to see a place you’ve been to on TV…it’s just normal.
6. We seem to be eating a lot of avocados. I’ve discovered that at restaurants if any dish is made California-style, it's got avocados in it. A California omelette will have avocado. Cali eggs benedict, avocados. A Cali grilled cheese, avocados.
7. We had an earthquake. A small one, but an earthquake nonetheless. My brother who’s coming to visit on Thursday asked if we are still connected to the mainland. "Nope," I told him. "Once you land at LAX, you now have to take a ferry to get to our house."
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Zeal to play
Last night as I waited for B to get home—he was stuck in nasty South Bay traffic, ugh—I turned on the lamp sitting atop the piano. I pulled out the bench, which I can’t even get shiny with a serious coat of Pledge, thanks to so much use. It is matte-finished while the rest of the piano is still shiny. I opened the bench and pulled out four books, my favorite ole’ standbys of classical music. They are scuffed and marked up in pencil from my piano teacher in Tennessee. I plopped down and turned to Beethoven’s "Six Ecossaises."
I winced. I was so out of practice it wasn’t even funny. I sighed and continued. I found myself focusing hard and long on the notes…was that the right note? I’d pause to look at the fingering that was circled on the pages. And then I’d stop to make sure I had the beat. My teacher had penciled…"1, 2, 1, 2 with gusto"…was I doing that right? After about 10 minutes of frustration and switching songs every 15 measures to see if I’d be better at the next one, I realized something somewhat hesitantly. If I gave in a little bit…if I stopped thinking so hard, I played better! The music came back to me, if I didn’t get lost in the details. And suddenly, it was more enjoyable. Now, don’t get me wrong. I was still disappointedly rusty, but it had turned fun. I could close my eyes for seconds at a time and get lost in the music and remember why I liked to play.
This morning I talked to a pastor of a massive church in Florida for about 45 minutes for a magazine feature I’m freelancing. At one point, as we talked about churches getting lost in the minors (music, buildings, names, how we do communion, etc.) instead of the majors (Jesus! His love for us! Our responsibility to share this!), he said we’re all like musicians standing over a piano…
“Asking , ‘Is that really an A? Who determined that was an A? Why is that an A?’ When really we should just use our zeal to play! Stop questioning the notes. Analysis leads to paralysis.”
I winced. I was so out of practice it wasn’t even funny. I sighed and continued. I found myself focusing hard and long on the notes…was that the right note? I’d pause to look at the fingering that was circled on the pages. And then I’d stop to make sure I had the beat. My teacher had penciled…"1, 2, 1, 2 with gusto"…was I doing that right? After about 10 minutes of frustration and switching songs every 15 measures to see if I’d be better at the next one, I realized something somewhat hesitantly. If I gave in a little bit…if I stopped thinking so hard, I played better! The music came back to me, if I didn’t get lost in the details. And suddenly, it was more enjoyable. Now, don’t get me wrong. I was still disappointedly rusty, but it had turned fun. I could close my eyes for seconds at a time and get lost in the music and remember why I liked to play.
This morning I talked to a pastor of a massive church in Florida for about 45 minutes for a magazine feature I’m freelancing. At one point, as we talked about churches getting lost in the minors (music, buildings, names, how we do communion, etc.) instead of the majors (Jesus! His love for us! Our responsibility to share this!), he said we’re all like musicians standing over a piano…
“Asking , ‘Is that really an A? Who determined that was an A? Why is that an A?’ When really we should just use our zeal to play! Stop questioning the notes. Analysis leads to paralysis.”
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Fro-yo on Cali time
B and I may or may not be obsessed with fro-yo (frozen yogurt). We go at least once a week to Fro-Yo Life or Tutti Frutti, depending on which place we have coupons for. B’s a sucker for peanut butter. I’m cookies ‘n’ cream or cake batter. We love the control—we get to pull the yogurt lever and make our own fat swirls to fill the cup that we selected as high as we want with as many ounces as we desire.
A few Saturday nights ago I called Tutti Frutti just minutes after 10pm.
Me: Hi, just wondering how late you guys are open tonight?
Tutti Frutti: 10pm
Me: Oh, bummer. Ok thanks.
Tutti Frutti: But, I don’t really know when we’re closing tonight. When do you think you’ll be here?
Me: Oh? Um, well, we can be there in like 5 minutes.
Tutti Frutti: Sure, we can be open.
I got off the phone and told B they closed at 10pm…but they were open. He raised his eyebrows questioningly. I shrugged…I don’t know. Don’t ask questions and don’t ask for explanations. That’s the best way to go in Cali.
Last night, we hit up Tutti Frutti again. This time 9pm. As we opened the door, I noticed the hours listed said it closes at 9pm on Mondays. I kind of cringed and asked the two tanned surfer high school boys working behind the counter if they’d still let us come in? The one whipped his long dark curls out of his eyes and looked at me confused, like yeah, duh. I said, "oh, well, we noticed it says 9pm on your door." He said, "oh yeah, we don’t really do that. Close at 9pm." His coworker turned to him and asked slowly, "Oh really? We’re supposed to close at 9pm? Are we closing at 9pm tonight?" The other guy shook his head like Nah, not tonight, we have better things to do than close at 9pm.
I've heard people use the phrase "on Cali-time": "oh, he operates on Cali-time" and "yeah, well, not on Cali-time." It always has a negative connotation and is usually used when someone's waiting impatiently for someone or something who thinks clocks are over-rated. But as I enjoyed a spoonful of nummy cake batter fro-yo last night after 9pm, I realized that I think with Tutti Frutti, we're actually benefitting from Cali-time.
A few Saturday nights ago I called Tutti Frutti just minutes after 10pm.
Me: Hi, just wondering how late you guys are open tonight?
Tutti Frutti: 10pm
Me: Oh, bummer. Ok thanks.
Tutti Frutti: But, I don’t really know when we’re closing tonight. When do you think you’ll be here?
Me: Oh? Um, well, we can be there in like 5 minutes.
Tutti Frutti: Sure, we can be open.
I got off the phone and told B they closed at 10pm…but they were open. He raised his eyebrows questioningly. I shrugged…I don’t know. Don’t ask questions and don’t ask for explanations. That’s the best way to go in Cali.
Last night, we hit up Tutti Frutti again. This time 9pm. As we opened the door, I noticed the hours listed said it closes at 9pm on Mondays. I kind of cringed and asked the two tanned surfer high school boys working behind the counter if they’d still let us come in? The one whipped his long dark curls out of his eyes and looked at me confused, like yeah, duh. I said, "oh, well, we noticed it says 9pm on your door." He said, "oh yeah, we don’t really do that. Close at 9pm." His coworker turned to him and asked slowly, "Oh really? We’re supposed to close at 9pm? Are we closing at 9pm tonight?" The other guy shook his head like Nah, not tonight, we have better things to do than close at 9pm.
I've heard people use the phrase "on Cali-time": "oh, he operates on Cali-time" and "yeah, well, not on Cali-time." It always has a negative connotation and is usually used when someone's waiting impatiently for someone or something who thinks clocks are over-rated. But as I enjoyed a spoonful of nummy cake batter fro-yo last night after 9pm, I realized that I think with Tutti Frutti, we're actually benefitting from Cali-time.
Thursday, June 09, 2011
Waiting to be picked up
When I was little I went to a babysitter named Iris. She lived on Regent. She was married to Gary and had a daughter named Holly who at the time was in her teens. I wanted to be just like her—just like “Howie.” Iris had a dog named Benson, and she made buttered noodles (elbow macaroni and straight-up butter—still one of my comfort foods) and egg salad sandwiches (Sick! Still won’t eat ’em.) Because I didn’t wet my pants, she let me take naps on her bed while the other kids had to sleep on the floor on mats. My memories of Iris and my time there are quick, unrelated snapshots. None are particularly long or complete. They don’t make stories with ends or beginnings. They’re just unique images and smells and sounds.
One of my memories is kneeling on the couch in the front room, elbows on the back of it, peering through the sheer curtains waiting…watching…for mom in a white station wagon. I don’t remember mom ever picking me up—although she must have. I just remember waiting for her on that couch. Sometimes it'd be dark outside (must have been winter) and sometimes it was still light.
That image came to mind today as I am once again that little girl waiting. Mom and dad are currently in the air on their way across the country to visit me and B in our new digs!!! I’m 30 years old, and yet I’m eager, expectant, and excited to be with my parents.
Maybe they’re peering out the plane window, waiting for me to come pick them up in my silver station wagon.
I'm on my way...off to LAX...
One of my memories is kneeling on the couch in the front room, elbows on the back of it, peering through the sheer curtains waiting…watching…for mom in a white station wagon. I don’t remember mom ever picking me up—although she must have. I just remember waiting for her on that couch. Sometimes it'd be dark outside (must have been winter) and sometimes it was still light.
That image came to mind today as I am once again that little girl waiting. Mom and dad are currently in the air on their way across the country to visit me and B in our new digs!!! I’m 30 years old, and yet I’m eager, expectant, and excited to be with my parents.
Maybe they’re peering out the plane window, waiting for me to come pick them up in my silver station wagon.
I'm on my way...off to LAX...
Monday, June 06, 2011
To the alley and beyond!
When we first moved in, our landlady told us that if we had stuff we wanted to get rid of, we should put it out in the alley on the weekends before the trash comes on Mondays. People, she said, drive through the alleys and take stuff. It’s a very convenient way to get rid of things you don’t want. Really? I thought. I mean, I was slightly disturbed that sketchy people basically drive through our pseudo-backyards and take stuff. And I also didn’t really believe her. You should see some of the stuff we have and want to get rid of, I thought. I highly doubt throwing it in the alley will make it disappear!
Well, as we continued unpacking, B and I tested the process. We threw our “trash” into the alley. Like these ridiculously huge size 14 traditional wooden clogs B picked up on one of his Europe trips. I swear, I probably could have crawled into one of those things and used it as a kayak. Like a straw Chinese rice hat (no comment). Like a huge dirty rug we had in our garage. Like a bug zapper. The list is endless. Guess what? It was all gone within minutes, or hours, in some cases. But gone nonetheless! Genius! This is a brilliant little thing they got going on here, we thought.
Still, I was just a little alarmed thinking of strangers driving through our neighborhood for stuff. What's to stop them from seeing what we have behind our alley gate? My fears have since subsided though. During one of his visits, our next door neighbor, the one with the airhorn, told us that he actually took our bug zapper and a few other things we had sitting out…he hoped we didn’t mind. I guess he’s a dancer, so I wondered if he also took the clogs?
Then, a week later, B and I were returning from a run, walking through the alley, and we saw these really cool, old, white wood-framed windows that someone was throwing away. We thought they’d look great hanging on our fence outside. So we snagged them. And as we carried them home, it dawned on me…our neighborhood…really, we’re all just trading trash. WE are the sketchy ones, just taking each other’s stuff!
And I took it to another level the other day. Once again, we were on our way home from a run and we passed the garage of the KISS neighbors. They had a box of books and magazines that caught my eye. I stopped. B continued a couple steps before stopping and turning to look at me with his eyebrows up. On top was a stack of May 2011 magazines. I proudly and quickly snagged Glamour. "Really," B asked? "Did you really just do that?" I said "Heck yeah, Who needs a subscription to a magazine when you live in our neighborhood?!"
Well, as we continued unpacking, B and I tested the process. We threw our “trash” into the alley. Like these ridiculously huge size 14 traditional wooden clogs B picked up on one of his Europe trips. I swear, I probably could have crawled into one of those things and used it as a kayak. Like a straw Chinese rice hat (no comment). Like a huge dirty rug we had in our garage. Like a bug zapper. The list is endless. Guess what? It was all gone within minutes, or hours, in some cases. But gone nonetheless! Genius! This is a brilliant little thing they got going on here, we thought.
Still, I was just a little alarmed thinking of strangers driving through our neighborhood for stuff. What's to stop them from seeing what we have behind our alley gate? My fears have since subsided though. During one of his visits, our next door neighbor, the one with the airhorn, told us that he actually took our bug zapper and a few other things we had sitting out…he hoped we didn’t mind. I guess he’s a dancer, so I wondered if he also took the clogs?
Then, a week later, B and I were returning from a run, walking through the alley, and we saw these really cool, old, white wood-framed windows that someone was throwing away. We thought they’d look great hanging on our fence outside. So we snagged them. And as we carried them home, it dawned on me…our neighborhood…really, we’re all just trading trash. WE are the sketchy ones, just taking each other’s stuff!
And I took it to another level the other day. Once again, we were on our way home from a run and we passed the garage of the KISS neighbors. They had a box of books and magazines that caught my eye. I stopped. B continued a couple steps before stopping and turning to look at me with his eyebrows up. On top was a stack of May 2011 magazines. I proudly and quickly snagged Glamour. "Really," B asked? "Did you really just do that?" I said "Heck yeah, Who needs a subscription to a magazine when you live in our neighborhood?!"
Wednesday, June 01, 2011
Mock. ING. Bird.
We’ve had a reprieve the past few days from the construction across the street. I’m not sure why, nor am I asking why! We’ll take it, but we have new sounds at new times now.
As we crawled into bed late last night, I felt like we were in the bird building at the zoo. “This is tripping me out,” B said. “It feels like it should be 5:45 in the A.M.!” Yet he promptly conked out as usual, while I lied awake listening to a bird singing away.
So, after some research, it seems we are home to a bachelor mockingbird singing desperately for a mate. (Instantly I think Dumb and Dumber’s Mock. Ing. Bird.) All mockingbirds sing throughout the day, but only bachelors sing at night, and usually they only have to sing for two to three weeks before finding a wife.
Maybe I should warn him…he’s singing from a home where it took 11 years for girl and guy to get together! Maybe he should go next door. I mean there’s an airhorn over there, but his chances might be better!
As we crawled into bed late last night, I felt like we were in the bird building at the zoo. “This is tripping me out,” B said. “It feels like it should be 5:45 in the A.M.!” Yet he promptly conked out as usual, while I lied awake listening to a bird singing away.
So, after some research, it seems we are home to a bachelor mockingbird singing desperately for a mate. (Instantly I think Dumb and Dumber’s Mock. Ing. Bird.) All mockingbirds sing throughout the day, but only bachelors sing at night, and usually they only have to sing for two to three weeks before finding a wife.
Maybe I should warn him…he’s singing from a home where it took 11 years for girl and guy to get together! Maybe he should go next door. I mean there’s an airhorn over there, but his chances might be better!
Friday, May 27, 2011
Carry on...to the bake sale!
Here’s why I think I have the absolute coolest friends ever…
One very dear one turns 30 tomorrow, and what is she doing? She’s hosting a bake sale fundraiser at her local VFW and all the proceeds will go toward vets…you know, because it’s Memorial Day Weekend and all!
She is a fantastic baker, so if you’re in the Twin Cities, I strongly urge you to hit up the New Hope VFW Saturday! If you do, please give her a huge hug for me as I’m incredibly sad to not be there to enjoy the event and to tell her in person that I’m happy she was born.
And if you can’t go Saturday, check her out in the upcoming weeks on Saturdays at the New Hope Farmer’s Community Market. She and her scrumptious cake pops will be there throughout the summer.
She has helped carry many things for me in the past, including my heart during sad times, and everything from hairspray and ibuprofen to my purse and nerves on my wedding day. Because I can’t be there to help carry things for her on her special day, I made and sent her a farmer’s market tote. HJ will be there to carry in spirit! Happy birthday, friend! Love you.
One very dear one turns 30 tomorrow, and what is she doing? She’s hosting a bake sale fundraiser at her local VFW and all the proceeds will go toward vets…you know, because it’s Memorial Day Weekend and all!
She is a fantastic baker, so if you’re in the Twin Cities, I strongly urge you to hit up the New Hope VFW Saturday! If you do, please give her a huge hug for me as I’m incredibly sad to not be there to enjoy the event and to tell her in person that I’m happy she was born.
And if you can’t go Saturday, check her out in the upcoming weeks on Saturdays at the New Hope Farmer’s Community Market. She and her scrumptious cake pops will be there throughout the summer.
She has helped carry many things for me in the past, including my heart during sad times, and everything from hairspray and ibuprofen to my purse and nerves on my wedding day. Because I can’t be there to help carry things for her on her special day, I made and sent her a farmer’s market tote. HJ will be there to carry in spirit! Happy birthday, friend! Love you.
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
I got moves
I was talking to a friend a few weeks back on the phone. I asked about a situation in her life. She hesitated and said there really wasn’t much new. She hadn’t done anything yet about said situation. I corrected her with what I believed to be true. Just because she hadn’t taken external, visible steps didn’t mean there was nothing new or a lack of movement. Rather, I truly believed that since the last time we had talked, a lot had probably happened inside—in her heart—thanks to God. I knew she and many others had been praying about the situation and God was probably readying her in ways others couldn’t see and maybe understand. And that kind of readying is perhaps the most serious kind of movement there is. Often though, it doesn’t happen overnight, and it’s not externally visible, which is what we like to base everything on.
Certain emotions must shift. Particular experiences need to happen. Confidence must be gained. Insights need to be had. Assurance must be provided. And all of these things require some prayer, time, and patience. Then you might be ready to make a visible move.
This morning I felt overwhelmed, lost in the pressures I place on myself, wondering what my next move is and why that move isn’t happening faster! I should be moving faster! But then I remembered what I believed to be true for my friend and realized I needed to recognize its truth for me. The next move for me might not be mine. It might be God’s. He might have my next few moves covered, and they may not be visible. He might be moving within me through emotions, experiences, confidence building, insight, and assurance. I just need some time and patience.
Certain emotions must shift. Particular experiences need to happen. Confidence must be gained. Insights need to be had. Assurance must be provided. And all of these things require some prayer, time, and patience. Then you might be ready to make a visible move.
This morning I felt overwhelmed, lost in the pressures I place on myself, wondering what my next move is and why that move isn’t happening faster! I should be moving faster! But then I remembered what I believed to be true for my friend and realized I needed to recognize its truth for me. The next move for me might not be mine. It might be God’s. He might have my next few moves covered, and they may not be visible. He might be moving within me through emotions, experiences, confidence building, insight, and assurance. I just need some time and patience.
Monday, May 23, 2011
The Obscure Murphy Ranch
B and I kicked off this past weekend with a hike—an obscure one that was featured in a recent L.A. Magazine feature “10 Great Walks.” To get there we wound up through swanky Pacific Palisades neighborhoods, parked, and the article gave careful directions on where to walk to get to the Rustic Canyon entrance of the Topanga State Park—Don’t take the wood steps, those are private property. Walk up the paved path about 15 minutes and be on the look out for the break in a chain link fence on the left...
As we began, we smiled. Finally, at long last, we weren’t in the middle of traffic, and we couldn’t see any other people! The view from the top of the canyon was incredible. We could see the city, Santa Monica, the beach all the way south to where we live.
We smelled honeysuckle, heard the soft gurgling of a stream at the bottom of the canyon, saw lizards zig zag in front of us, and saw some beautiful, strange flowers that they don't have in Minnesota. It felt good to be off pavement and quiet. But we also learned why this hike is obscure...
Turns out we were hiking on what used to be Murphy Ranch, owned by Jesse Murphy in the 1930s, but not really. Jesse Murphy was made up by Winona and Ramona Stephens who bought the land under that name to create a home, a compound, for the Fourth Reich, which was sure (they thought) to begin in America once WWII was over. The mastermind behind this, and the one who persuaded the Stephens to buy the land was a guy named Herr Schmidt. Ironically, Schmidt was arrested by the FBI the day after the U.S. joined WWII. So, he started work on Murphy Ranch with a greenhouse, a water tank, and power plant (now super creepy with lots of graffiti), but his big dreams never came to fruition. Rumor has it the FBI caught him transmitting short-wave radio messages to the Germans.
As the sun began to set, I started wondering if we maybe should have done the not-so-obscure Hollywood Pub Walk instead? We did make our way out of the scary iron-gated Murphy Ranch entrance though and continued on our merry weekend way.
As we began, we smiled. Finally, at long last, we weren’t in the middle of traffic, and we couldn’t see any other people! The view from the top of the canyon was incredible. We could see the city, Santa Monica, the beach all the way south to where we live.
We smelled honeysuckle, heard the soft gurgling of a stream at the bottom of the canyon, saw lizards zig zag in front of us, and saw some beautiful, strange flowers that they don't have in Minnesota. It felt good to be off pavement and quiet. But we also learned why this hike is obscure... 
Turns out we were hiking on what used to be Murphy Ranch, owned by Jesse Murphy in the 1930s, but not really. Jesse Murphy was made up by Winona and Ramona Stephens who bought the land under that name to create a home, a compound, for the Fourth Reich, which was sure (they thought) to begin in America once WWII was over. The mastermind behind this, and the one who persuaded the Stephens to buy the land was a guy named Herr Schmidt. Ironically, Schmidt was arrested by the FBI the day after the U.S. joined WWII. So, he started work on Murphy Ranch with a greenhouse, a water tank, and power plant (now super creepy with lots of graffiti), but his big dreams never came to fruition. Rumor has it the FBI caught him transmitting short-wave radio messages to the Germans. 
As the sun began to set, I started wondering if we maybe should have done the not-so-obscure Hollywood Pub Walk instead? We did make our way out of the scary iron-gated Murphy Ranch entrance though and continued on our merry weekend way.
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