A Preacher's Wife

Ole' Granny, the usual hostess with the mostess... in finally starting to unravel. With all of her 75+ years' worth of belongings in a one bedroom apartment, the boxes slowly being unpacked seem to correllate with her brain and sensibilities.

Now don't get me wrong. I'm not picking on my elder here. We openly discuss her apparent lunacy.

You see, in Granny's world, church directories from 1982 are still relevant. Stuffed animals and ceramic clowns are ideal decor for the kitchen cabinets. A full china cabinet, formal dining table and upright piano are necessary for a one bedroom apartment.

What? Torn up area rugs? Keep 'em! They are perfect scratching pads for the calico kitties.

And surely if it's made in 2009, the Honda Civic does not need to be cranked in order to drive it. Just put in gear and go... oh wait, it won't go into gear. Hmmm. Curious.

Lastly, it is not only wise but a matter of safety to use colored straws with your beverage of choice. And whatever the case may be, certainly do this with your water lest your troubled eyes misjudge it's placement and you find yourself kissing the air in hopes of wetting the parched lips. After all, a clear straw is "the same color as the water."

I Got In A Fight

With a vacuum.

Now before you curl up your lip or immediately go into accusatory mode, you try vacuuming YOUR vehicle with a $1.25 vacuum that lasts 2 minutes. YOU try to fight with the blasted hose that wants so badly to be curled back up and returned to its post. YOU try to run to the other side of your car while throwing the hose across your seat as precious time is a-wastin'.

I threatened it, cursed it, and even tried to put it in a head lock. It wouldn't listen. But I got all the dirt sucked up.

So there. Nevermind the bruised shin from leaping across the back seat to get that one last bit of grass, or the twisted ankle I got from jumping the curb to get to the other side. It didn't do much to eleviate the anxiety of knowing the vacuum would cut off at ANY GIVEN SECOND.

I'm not so sure that $1.25 is worth the mental stress.

One Year Down

For those of you who wonder what I do.

See for yourself.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k1GiR0WSYcE

Toilet Paper and Ministry

I turned 29 over a month ago. My memory must already be slipping with my increasing age. For I browsed through the pictures on my phone and found this...

The youth group loves me.

Pool Daze

So yesterday I went to the pool. Applied a little sun screen and lotion, and proceeded to listen to the giggles and laughter of small ones in the pool.

Two little girls, once told by mom it was time to go, proceeded to say in their little whiney way "Noooooooooo... five more minutes?"

I remember going to the pool as an ankle biter, and could always sense when it was time to go. Mom would get up from her lawn chair and make her way to the pool's edge. But I outsmarted her everytime with my childhood wit and smarts.

See, you can't hear much when you're under the water. So as soon as she would open her mouth, under the water I would go. Diving, jumping, swimming... even just sitting at the bottom. Didn't matter. I can't hear you. I can't hear you.

THAT's all that mattered.

Until finally I would catch a smidgen of her anger in between splashes.

I got out of the pool.

But I wanted to go up to these kids and tell them my secret.

"No, don't argue and whine with your mom. Just ignore her. Completely. Until she feels tempted to beat you. At that point. go ahead and get out."

And then I wonder if teaching them how to be brats is really what a responsible adult should do.

And then I remembered that I'm an adult brat.

After The Beep

After not being able to locate my cell phone for an hour this morning, I experienced the following:

• fear of the unknown future
• anxiety about communicating with loved ones
• failure to provide availability
• grief regarding the possible loss of a life line
• anxiety about the end of the world
• an incessant need to pee but not wanting to take the precious time to do so lest someone try to contact me and I am unable to answer
• barely audible mumbles that faintly resembled what may or may not be my Bob Marley ring tone
• wha-uh- was that a text message alert?
• frustration
• curiosity regarding the apparent misplacement of my phone

And then as time went by, my thoughts changed to the following:

• the once bare trees have become quite green
• when did my dog get so big?
• more coffee
• ten years ago I didn't have a cell phone... and I made it through just fine
• when not having a choice but to exist in the realm of being phoneless, the world is somehow a little less stressful
• but I thought I NEEDED my phone?
• you mean, I DON'T need it?
• what?
• i should vacuum

Then I found it. No one called. There was no text message waiting on me. Just a lot of wasted worry for a 4" device that gives me stiffness in the neck and distractions when I drive.

Drum Trip

That's the name of the song (by Rusted Root) that carried me through as I ran my very first 5k race last Saturday. I listened to the same song over and over again as it seemed to give me just the right amount of inspiration and rhythm. You can see me here right in the middle behind the African American lady.

Notice the boy in the far right of the picture. At this point he was yelling. I could have lent him my earphones.

But nah.

As I approached the finish line in a blaze of glory, no one, not even Tabitha, could capture me in a focused picture. The brevity with which I moved proved to be a great challenge for photographers everywhere.

But alas, I did end up in a small picture on the front page of Sunday's paper along with my running mates Nancy and Kari. The picture, though small, was quite clear.

Thirty minutes after taking off from the starting line, I, along with my two friends, completed the race with a healthy sense of accomplishment and a ferocious need for breakfast.

How could you...

...not love this face?

Walking in a Winter Wonderland

It was an unexpected and spontaneous Valentine's Day present.




But what was even more unexpected is how I just completely fell on my bum walking down the stairs of my apartment. The person on the other end of my phone call had no idea. I did not mention it, nor did I make waves as my ass made contact with the first icy step, only to slide down to the next one.

I didn't want her to know.

But the pain was such that I couldn't help but pause, mid-sentence, and say, "Um, I definitely just fell down the stairs." I sat there for a moment, slightly shaken, and in a deep state of prayer - please God, let no one be outside to see this.

And across the parking lot I limped to start the car, continuing on with the conversation as if my graceful maneuver was simply a fleeting thought.

But it definitely happened.

That Store That Must Not Be Named

I will call it purgatory. And I spent a large portion of my Tuesday in this cooperate-sized purgatory.

Funny how folks will pay $35/year to be a member of such a place. Sure you can buy in bulk for a reduced rate, but you can also sell your soul to the devil for an easy life.

I'm not quite sure how the two compare, but just go with it k? It's my cynicism.

I will continue now.

I walked into purgatory complete with proof of my employment, so that I might, too, become a member. But the letter was not written to the expectation of the gatekeeper, and I was not allowed in.

Ok, I was allowed in. But didn't get to have the discount.

I decided to shop anyway. I was already here. Supplies needed to be had. And I wasn't about to drive all over town to find yet another purgatory-like place.

After an hour or so gathering what I came for, I waited in the line. A long-ass line. Now this is specifically set up in purgatory as a way to pay penance, to stand alongside others and reflect on your life, your day, the calories in the cookies you're buying.

So I took this moment to reflect on how I had failed the gatekeeper upon entering. And with that, made a phone call to the office to notify my co-worker of what's expected in purgatory for future reference.

Funny, you can't find these details in the Bible.

Unloading my supplies onto the check out line, I anticipated explaining my lack of membership to the money changer. But she would not have it... she would not have me leave without bearing the mark of the purgatorial beast.

Back to the gate I went to receive my one day pass. Hey-when in Rome, do as the Romans do. So it is with purgatory... I must bear the same mark as each and every sinner in that place.

Here.... here's my one day pass ma'am. And may all of my brothers and sisters waiting behind me glare with their irritated stares and daggers as I have forced them to linger in the line of penance.

As if this merry-go-round wasn't embarrassing enough, purgatory had one more lesson to teach me.

I don't know if you know this or not, but purgatory does NOT accept VISA. MasterCard? Yes. Discovery? Of course. A debit card bearing all the funds you have? Naturally.

But not VISA. Of which I had two.

So out of purgatory I went, empty-handed, frustrated, embarrassed, and vowing never to return. Screw the line of penance, I'd much rather just take my VISA to a store of vast mediocrity.

My New Creative Outlet

Some might say that idle hands are devil's playground. But I would venture to say that, sometimes, idle hands can be an open door for creativity.

Furthermore, being homebound and idle is the perfect recipe for a tasteful creative outlet.

<------ Notice.

These lovely jewels were made my scratch, with a little dose of love and a possible sneeze or three. I tried to cover my mouth in time, but I make no guarantee's.

A few hours later, as I was watching the Food Network, a little muse sat upon my shoulder and declared that I should make chicken Parmesan. My fingers were too covered in egg yolk, raw chicken juice, and bread crumbs to take a picture of the food itself. But I do promise, I actually made it.

Lastly, thumbing through the small collection of cookbooks contained in the cabinet above my sink, I decided to make Hummingbird Cake. What's that you say? Why it's only my most favorite cake of my Grandmother's (God rest her soul).

So I figured, why the heck not? Let's go for it. And for it I went. Luckily for me, Tab was sickly too and felt equally inspired to be creative. So we had a competition on cake decorating.

The icing is a cream cheese icing made from scratch by yours truly. And the chocolate decor is melted nestle chocolate chips. We used actual cake decorating baggies.

So whose cake is the fairest of them all? I'll let you be the judge.

My cooking skills have been tweaked for the time being. I'll see how long this lasts. In the meantime, I will enjoy these flu inspired creations. And keep them all to myself.

No Sympathy Required

It's just that I'm now on day two of this process and have a lot of time to think.

A LOT of time.

So here is a list of my illnesses over the past few months. Read and enjoy.

1. Shingles - October
Originally mistaken for a spider bite, I was quite taken aback with this diagnosis.
2. Cyst - October
Happening within days of the shingle diagnosis, this painful happenstance kicked off my
journey to a better and bolder character.
3. Cyst removal - October
Quite possibly one of THE MOST painful procedures and experiences I've ever had (and I'm
not prone to exaggeration), my character was well on its way to perfection.
4. Cyst recurrence - December
After making a mental connection with a weakened immune system from the shingles two
months previously, my sense of integrity was shaken.
5. Mysterious Growth - December
Let's not go there. This one could possibly make it to a teaching hospital. I am proud to
further the study in medical science.
6. Flu - February
Immediately following a youth ski trip, I began to feel less than upon arriving home. Four
days later I finally make it to the doctor only to be sent back home for another four.

It's not my preferred way to build what some may call "character". But I suppose one can't necessarily develop TOO much character; perhaps cynicism or a martyr-complex.

But character? Nah. I'm cool.

On Being Quarantined

The fruits of my doctor's visit produced positive results for the flu, as well as a doctor's note stating I must remain out of work until Tuesday.

I am to notify anyone with whom I've had contact.

Furthermore, I am to juggle and shift the goings-ons of an already planned out weekend that included both family visits as well as work-related activities.

Flexibility is key. This I understand. And this I have little problem with.

But four days?

Four?

That is a total of 96 hours; 5,760 minutes. Even with my dizziness, headache, and low grade fever the thought of laying in my bed for this length of time gives me a fever of a different kind.

That of the cabin.

Is there any antidote for THAT sickness?

So my movie shelf will be rummaged. My cable/internet will be well-used. And my house will most likely be cleaned from top to bottom in that span of time.

Tamiflu will become my best friend, and the possible side effect of hallucinations just might be a welcomed suprise.

Maybe I'll give crocheting another go 'round.

Ode to a Sinus Infection

It's like Hulk Hogan has you in a sleeper hold, while shoving his thumbs down your ears and grinding a knuckle into your left temple. You try to tell him to stop but instead what comes out is a raspy moan usually backed by a hacking cough or two.

A figure four? No. A head lock? Yeah right. Instead, you just flip and flop from side to side trying to find that comfy spot that consistently eludes you.

Talking on the Hell Phone

Yesterday, I was THAT person. You know what I'm talking about. That driver who is talking on her cell phone, and apparently doing something to tick off the driver behind her. I'm not sure what I did, but it must have been something to annoy the driver of the white work van who passed me.

Why you ask?

Let me tell you.

He proceeds to pull in front of me, in a turning lane, at a stop light, and make a hand gesture in my view. No no, it wasn't one that involved a single finger. It wasn't even crude. It was just... um... curious.

If you are at all familiar with shadow puppets (the art of creating animals and characters on a wall by making shadows with your hands), he did the traditional snake character. You know, where you use your hand (four fingers and opposable thumb) to make it look like its talking.

With that, this agitated driver mocked me. But it didn't sink in at first. I was still on the phone and conveniently distracted from Mr. Van Driver.

So we turned, and I got into the next turning lane. Not only did this bring us to yet another stop light, but now I was beside Mr. Agitated Van Driver. AND, to make the perfect recipe for a second occurrence, I was STILL on the phone. The light turns green. And before he pulls away, he leaves me with the final word by using yet the same gesture in view of his side mirror.

Not knowing for sure what to do, I waved back. Kill them with kindness. No it wasn't a condescending wave. It wasn't even a mocked wave. It was a true wave as if to say howdy. Take THAT Mr. Van Driver.

I admit, it bothered me that I was THAT person. I wanted to explain myself to Mr. Van Driver. I wanted to tell him that I wasn't just chatting with my girlfriends about the latest Brittney news. That I was en route to Moses Cone to make a hospital visit. That I was on the phone talking with another church member about work-related stuff. That I wasn't simply trying to catch up on the latest sales at Macy's.

I pouted. And then I got irritated. And then I got angry that he cared so much. And then I got frustrated that I cared so much about him caring so much. And then I walked into the hospital and forgot all about it until I decided to write this blog.

So, thanks.