Rach on Retreat

Deep Thoughts with Rachel Luck

2012-01-25T05:57:00.004-05:00

Every morning I am intentional about setting aside some time for meditative purposes. If you are thinking that meditation is a practice that requires incense, soft music and sitting indian style for an hour, I would invite you to reconsider.

See, Rachel's school of meditation varies from day to day. Sometimes it IS sitting indian style listening to music; but not for an hour. Maybe 10 or 15 minutes. Sometimes I am sitting on the floor just enjoying the company of my dogs. Sometimes it's sipping on my coffee on the back porch. Meditation, for me, is less about the "act" and more about the focus.

For those of you who don't know what an inner dialogue is, you will quickly learn that you have one when you focus on being in the moment. I'm not talking about distractions, I'm talking about the conversations you have with yourself; sometimes the thoughts that you aren't even aware that you have.

The joy in this practice is not only learning to be more self-aware of what you are telling yourself, but also to develop the skill of looking at your inner dialogue with a sort of objective eye.

I would like share my morning meditation with you.

Ok Rachel, let's focus on the breath. Feel the coolness of the breath going into the nostril, and the warmth going out. Man this is nice. I have come such a long way from months ago. I couldn't even sit still much less focus on breathing. Whoops... let's focus on breathing.

Oooh, its chilly outside when i'm sitting still like this. Should I have put on another coat? Breathe Rachel.

Okay fine, open up your eyes and just observe the tree, the sky, the rutted backyard that appears much more aesthetically pleasing in the dark. See? One with your little piece of nature. Those traffic lights are really bright.

Breathe.

Ah yes, I so enjoy being present and in the moment in my sacred mornings. Is that someone pulling in my driveway? Huh... it's just a car getting on the off ramp. That's odd. I've never noticed that before.

Breathe.

Breathing... in... out... calm... relax. I just feel so loved by the universe. MAN that traffic light is distracting! Where is Lilly? Oh I'm sure she's in the yard and I just can't see her because it's dark. I am really humbled that I have grown so much spiritually. I wonder if it is like an age thing? I mean, Liz in Eat Pray Love was in her mid-thirties. I know friends who have talked about life-changing events in their thirties.

Er, Jesus was killed at 32 right? That's my age. Dude that blows.

Done. My only reprieve is laughing; at myself. It's a great thing that I am the only one who can hear my own thoughts. I would offend so many people without the intent of seeming irreverent or insensitive. Luckily, when you can see the humor in yourself, it makes every meditation an adventure.

I'll do it again tomorrow.

So you call yourself 2011.

2011-12-29T06:27:00.002-05:00

I call you "Year of Succubus."

However, it is not in vain. I have learned a lot from you, what with the changes that not only I have experienced personally, but also in the changes and adjustments that I have observed in the lives of those around me. Whether it's loss of employment, the loss of important people in our lives, loss of identity, loss of hope, loss of respect for corporate institutons (hello Occupy!), I have experienced some and observed others.

Once upon a time, I would be the very first to say that everything happens for a reason. And while I suppose I could still say it, I also realize that I would only be saying it to make myself feel better. Assuming that everything has a "reason" provides, for me, a sense that everything has its context and place. Everything has its label on the shelf for later reference and reflection.

On this side of things, I believe a more truthful statement is not so much that everything happens for a reason; but rather that things happen. And when "things" happen, the reason as to "why" or "why not" is less important than the response we give to it.

I have come to the understanding that it is in my response, my reaction, that I have discovered the most about Rachel. And it is only Rachel who can do anything about Rachel. No matter where I go, Rachel always seem to be there. No matter what mirror I look in or what reflection I see while window shopping, I am constantly reminded that I am always there with Rachel. Distractions help lift the immediacy of things, but distractions will fade away soon enough. And what am I stuck with?

Rachel.

Fortunately, as 2011 comes to a close, I no longer feel "stuck" with myself. After a series of hard lessons, brutal honesty and an ongoing awareness that I have tremendous room to grow, I have actually begun to be "okay" with me. I have felt some scarey things this year... things that I didn't know I was capable of feeling. Things that I knew I could not ignore or else I would rot from the inside out. I gave myself permission to feel and be human. I gave myself permission to address all of the junk in my proverbial trunk... to yell and kick and scream within the safe confines of my own santuary. I have learned to breath and focus and shake off the cancer of worry and anxiety over situations that haven't even happened. I have learned to be present, to be in the moment, and manifest a sense of peace and calm in a way that allows me to fully participate in the life around me.

I am more aware of the interactions with others. I am aware of boundaries and responsibility for my own actions as opposed to absorbing the daggers of another. I have learned that is it possible to be free from the muck and myre of self-loathing and the vague sense of always being "less-than." I have come to terms with the cliche that the truth shall set you free. And this truth begins with my own relationship to myself.

I have learned to be Rachel with all of her quirks and mannerisms and talents. I have learned that I am passionate about many things and a natural optimist. I have learned to be aware of myself... to find my voice... and to find a balance that begins with me.

It is precisely this balance that I choose to use as my surfboard on the wave into 2012. I wish to shake off the dust of 2011, to wash myself clean of the grudges and the heartaches, and surf on into the wild blue yonder.

I hope you will join me.

Sick Day Revisited

2011-12-15T11:36:00.003-05:00

Allow me to take just a few minutes from staring at my computer regarding work-related stuff and continue staring at my computer to address what some may call a "felicitious" endeavor of blogging. Either way, I'm staring at the computer screen with a medicine-induced glaze of zombie-esque decorum. Tissue anyone?

Ignoring the plague-filled year of 2008 (flu, strep, shingles and cysts - oh my), I rarely use time off from work due to "sickness". Especially now that I have a job that I love, coworkers that I enjoy and a certain rapport and reputation that I prefer to maintain with my PT's and colleagues... or maybe it's ego... I just don't want to slow down and "get behind" in progress. I pride myself on my organization and administrative skills. And I've been healthier all around. But once in a while, the "bug" gets me and I am forced to take my own respite, hunker down, and take a little compassion on myself.

I don't know about you, but when I think of staying home sick, I picture cat naps, cozy blankets, mindless movies and lots of fluids. I imagine soft angelic light surrounding me with the gentle nudgings of "shhh... relax... all is well... get some rest" all about my person. And it's true for the first couple hours.
It has been my experience, as of late, that once the clock hits 3pm or so, I start to feel less than okay and more antcy. I start to feel increasingly sad and bored. Then I start to think of all the work that I COULD be doing:
Should I go ahead and check my voice mails? I'm sure I have atleast 30 new ones just waiting to be heard.

What is this going to mean for my work out routine? I'm going to get fat! I can't get fat... I've worked so hard!!
And the dogs are driving me nuts. They haven't gotten their walk today.
The trash needs to be taken out. Ugh, I don't feel like taking it out.
I wish my mom were here... so she could baby me. Rachel shut up, your 32.
Is it time to take my antibiotic yet?
Where's my juice? Damn, it's empty.
I'm so bored, I wish I had someone to talk to. I'm lonely. Where are all my friends? Why don't they care?? They're working Rachel. Get over yourself.
I should try to sleep.
Toss.
Turn.
Sigh.
Toss.
Where's my book? Meh, not interested.
This blanket is NOT cozy. It just gets tangled up.
I should really think about getting Christmas presents. I'm broke. Which is why I should be WORKING!
Where's my work phone? Yep 30 voice mails.
Oh I can't get off the couch. Where's the remote? Judge Judy... great distraction. But she's so mean!!
I want my mom.
My nose hurts.

It's now 5:30pm. Melissa brings me some chicken soup and brief encouragement via conversation. She can't stay. Oh but I want her to hang out with me. :( Rachel you're sick. She has things to do. Take the Benadryl she gave you. Be grateful for the visit. Swallow it down.

It's 7pm. My head feels very heavy. I can't keep my eyes open. YES. This is what I've been longing for all day.
Make my way upstairs.
Did I feed the dogs?
Crawl in the bed, set the alarm.
Did I turn the fan on?
Oh Rachel just shut up and rela.....

The end.

Mighty Malts Malted Milk Balls

2011-09-10T18:27:00.004-04:00

It was a cold winter's afternoon in 2003. Buies Creek, North Carolina... an abundance of cotton fields and brick pathways. Tucked ever so sweetly in Reardon apartment 22 D, sat two budding artists, just busting at the seams with creative energy and skill. Too much cabin fever mixed with a plethora of Dr. Perky lead these two brilliantly bored minds into a spiral of creative genius. For, within their sacred pantry of processed goods, there sat a towering box of the sweet confectionery known as the Might Malts Malted Milk Balls. Taken aback by this amazing find, the two artists were destined to create the following tribute, played to the tune of Stephen Lynch's "Lullaby". I hope this doesn't hurt you as much as it hurt them.

My tummy is growling,
And I want something to eat.
My mind says be healthy,
But my head says eat something sweet.

Why can't I have you to myself, today?
I gaze at your lily white box, and say....

CHORUS:
You are my Mighty Malts Malted Milk Balls.
And you'll never fail me when my sweet tooth calls.
Bon-bons and ho-hoes and ding dongs
No they aren't for me;
Cuz you're a bonus pack and ten percent free.

I open the carton
And see to my delight
The little chocolate candies
That comfort in the night.

Why can I have just one serving of ten?
I would like more to eat my friend.

(Chorus)

(collaboration by Erin Tucker and Rachel E. Luck)

Happy Friggin Holidays

2010-12-19T08:57:00.003-05:00

Christmas is one those grand times of year in which folks dress up like eskimos and eat too much and roast chestnuts and hang tinsel on a gaudy fake tree. I mean, I love the holiday myself. This is evidenced by that fact that the garland on my mantle has been appropriately arranged since the Saturday following Thanksgiving. My tree was likewise decorated and presents wrapped within 48 hours of the gluttonous feast. Black Friday is the holiday that follows that other one in which we're supposed to be thankful and such.

Part of the splendor that comes with the advent season is obviously the music. Whether it be carols or hymns or new Holiday creations, the music serves as a catalyst for warm, fuzzy feelings, baking cookies, and putting up lights... in some cases, more lights than necessary.

This season, I have become ensconced with the music... listening to it in my car, while I wash dishes, while I'm fixing breakfast, while I'm at the office. For the most part, holiday melodies do provide the warm fuzzies for my psyche.

However - comma - there are some songs that I have come to discover are less-than-jolly. Indeed, some are downright sinister, not by virtue of the song, but rather by virtue of the artist behind it. Allow me to elaborate.

Mariah Carey - in most every song she sings with the intent of merriment and joy, I rather find myself picturing demented elves dancing around with smiles too wide to comfortably fit their little faces. I find it to be full of noise and distraction and too much vibrato. Mariah Carey does not create for me a sense of cozy and happy. Rather, I grow withdrawn and scared. I wish to run home, grab my neatly placed stocking that has been hung by the chimney with care, and pull it over my head.

Amy Grant - oh Amy... "It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year" has become the most nauseating song of the season. I don't question her artistic ability to create music. But I do question her gag reflex and solarplexis when she covers this song. I am left with impression that she is on the verge of throwing up a little in her mouth when recalling that her loved ones are neeeeeaaaaarrrrr.

So this is Christmas. And what have YOU done? - well, I am going to change that channel temporarly. That's what I am going to do. This song is not conducive to wrapping up in a cozy snuggie and watching It's A Wonderful Life. Rather this song makes me feel guilty about that extra helping of mashed potatoes I had. I feel less-than-okay about not paying that extra dollar to the Make A Wish Foundation when checking out at Food Lion. I feel selfish for using 2 ply toilet paper and encouraging the further destruction of trees for a more enjoyable bathroom experience. I am reminded of the the starving kids Grandmother always told me about when I wouldn't finish all of my vegetables. No thanks. Blinders please. It's Christmas for crying out loud!

Simply Having a Wonderful Christmas Time - not when this song is on. It's choppy and not fluid. This song stresses me out. I can't relax. I do not have a wonderful Christmas time when this is playing. It lies to me.

Give me some Nat King Cole and Michael Buble. Give me those instrumental classics and big band era feel-goods. Give me that good time feeling with images of utopia and good will. Allow me to dance in the oblivion that everyone is drinking cocoa and sledding and eating and sleeping in warm beds. Now that is a happy friggin holiday.

Calories Count

2010-10-01T05:08:00.003-04:00

It would seem to me that calorie counting has worked in the past when I starved myself on less than 1200 calories a day. I have no idea where I got the discipline and the energy to adhere to such a strict regime. To couple it with weight lifting and vigorous exercise, I managed to drop every bit of 60 pounds. "You're too thin" some would say. It's true, I was thin... and toned... and really hot.

But somewhere along the line I lapsed... I ceased weight lifting after ripping apart my tendons. I lost the discipline to exercise as my energy turned towards other issues and anxieties. And due to the anxieties and issues I lost sight of all caloric discipline.

Calories count for something. Weight gain set aside, calories come in a variety of sugary-sweet and savory packages. Calories not only function as a digestable energy source for normal body functions. Calories also become a therapist of sorts... adhering to your very emotional needs of comfort and security. How interesting it is that when not looking, calories count and become bigger in number. Before you know it, it is the calories that you intake which become the bigger source of discomfort and insecurity.

Tis a constant struggle... eat this not that... have only one not two... burn more eat less. I jog. I watch what I eat. And I watch my weight fluctuate. I blame it on the thyroid while turning a blind eye to the extra cookie I'm cramming down my throat. But it's just SO good.

The Right Rev Rach...

2010-08-21T08:13:00.003-04:00

... needs a hair cut and some color. I have split ends and the grays are popping out and sticking straight up when I blow dry. Someone should really be so lucky as to give me some style and sass. Who wants to be this lucky individual? I won't even charge you do it. Let me know. I can pencil you in today if need be. Otherwise, I'm open all day tomorrow. Monday's aren't good for me. Tuesday's and Wednesday's are fine however. Call me.

I have become...

2010-05-16T10:22:00.003-04:00

... that neighbor.

You know the one that everyone peeks through their blinds at. The one that is the catalyst for head shaking and perhaps the occasional gawker. But I can't help it. I am forced into action.

And this morning, the rubber hit the pavement. With dog, plastic bag and rubber gloves in tow, I became the neighborhood trash collector. Being an avid walker/jogger in the area, I spend many mornings being in the environment. There is just something about candy wrappers, perfectly recyclable beer cans, and fast food wrappers that get my goat when the grass and flowers are attempting to be aesthetically pleasing.

Furthermore, I am sad. I am sad that there is such thoughtlessness behind the litter. I want to punch someone... or maybe give a speech... or maybe organize a team of folks to help pick up litter along the sidewalks and local roadways once a month.

No no no, I won't turn into the litter nazi. But it does hurt my heart a little... to see broken beer bottles and plastic bags just chilling in the ditch. Not only because it is ugly, but because it affects many things around it. We take up enough space just by developing our need for things and square footage... why continue to think that the world is our trash can?

Soap box set aside... I know I am not the only one who sort of likes green grass and clean spaces. Find your soap box too. Scrub away. Grab a plastic bag and start collecting.

And if you're too embarrassed... wear sunglasses and a hat.

Why I love my job.

2010-02-24T21:29:00.002-05:00

Excerpt from the Voice of Hospice newsletter:

In our darkest hour and heartbreaking loss, an Angel was sent to us and her name is Rachel Luck, Spiritual Care Coordinator. I will attempt to express what she did for us and how much we needed her and love her. Rachel is unique and has an ability to see and understand the shattering of lives with the loss of their loved one, she touches your heart and helped us find strength and love to move forward. We met with Rachel and instantly felt loving arms surround us. Rachel sat with us and let us talk about our Mom and helped us even laugh when we thought we would never smile or laugh again. She was the perfect fit to us. We asked Rachel to preside over our mother's memorial service and she never hesitated accepting this responsibility. It was extremely important to us our Mom's life be celebrated and the words at her service capture who our Mom was, how her love of family was her heart and soul, how she had instilled in each of us strength, courage and love of family as well as how she had touched so many people in her life's journey. Rachel's service was absolutely perfect, a tribute to a great woman and the essence of whom our Mom was to her family and friends. We have had many people who attended the service comment on how wonderful the service was and how meaningful Rachel's words were about Mom. Our family felt Mom's - Loving spirit in each and every word Rachel spoke. Mom's service was filled with light and joy and we owe that to Rachel. Our spirits were lifted and focused on the incredible gift each of us had during our Mom's life with us and not the overwhelming sadness her loss has brought. We cannot express adequately our feelings and deep gratitude to Rachel. She will forever be our Angel who gave us strength and light in our darkest hour.

Sincerely,

(Names respectfully withheld).

Poopstains and Perennials

2010-02-19T10:19:00.002-05:00

I walk my dog most every morning. There is a little path that we like to frequent just by the library. I have a special bond to this place. It is non-discreetly tucked away between the parking lot and the drug store. I go there not because it is a place of respite or beauty or solitude. But for the sheer reason that I found 20 bucks on my first visit.

So each visit is somewhat made in vain... tossing over leaves and garbage left behind by passerby's with the hope of finding yet another president's face on paper. Sometimes the dog will do her business. And I have been shocked by the amount of steam dog poo can produce when it burrows into freshly fallen snow.

I made a mental list of the items I have discovered since. None of them are monetary. But there is great evidence that either bored teenagers, bored retirees or sufferers of midlife crises visit this place incognito. I have found my pick of MGD, Icehouse and Miller Lite bottles. Cigarette butts galore. Even denture cream and Zycam. There was an empty and faded box of Lemonheads. There was a cardboard advertisement for Chapstick. A shoe lace. Cough medicine. Fast food wrappers and a plethora of discarded cups. I noticed a broken lighter. Several plastic bags. A straw wrapper. And an empty box for an LED light.

And then I wondered how lazy one person can be when there is a trash can only yards away. I was almost happy the dog took a dump there. As a statement that WE think the parties responsible for making it a dump are despicable.

And then I walked away. Empty handed. Right passed the trash can.

20/20 Rear Vision

2010-02-08T19:03:00.003-05:00

I give. Snow is everywhere. The fine folks 'round these parts have a bit of a learning curve when it comes to navigating ones automobile in it. I understand.

I understand you're in a hurry... need to get to work... need to hurry up so you can spare those few last minutes you tried to give yourself so as not to rush over the black ice.

But if you are going to brave the roads, and take the time to scrape your windshield and warm up your car please PLEASE do me this favor... there is a weapon atop your vehicle. It is flat and hardened and has a mind of its own when withstanding winds of 35 mph or greater.

It sends projectile missiles without warning. Sprays of unavoidable precipitation skew the visibility of others. At the very least, it startles and frightens the NPR listeners and classical music enthusiasts who are making a stride towards their own personal zen before a busy work day.

There is a special agenda for the SUV's and trucks who participate in their own 2ft or greater "mile high club". As if the momentum of going 5 over the posted speed limit isn't enough, the added height and gravity given to this potential frosty weapon of destruction is particularly disconcerting. Chunks of white debris fly at random toward the innocent folks in its wake.

If you would like to pay it forward, or simply look out for your neighbor, arguing about health care reform will do little when chucking 50 mph snow drifts at granny or little Susie.

So please, cease and desist. Dismantle the miniature frozen tundra atop your car/truck/SUV. Practice a little bit of the golden rule. Practice consideration.

Do this, and everyone's vision will be clear.

My Latest Love Affair

2010-02-05T10:54:00.002-05:00

My stomach betrays me on a daily basis it seems. I think it has some sort of covert agreement-slash-understanding with the mass of cells and blood vessels that reside in my skull. I don't know which comes first... the thought, suggestion... or the antagonizing growl of my gut.

As of late, however, this powerful partnership of belly and brain have seduced me; taken me to some foreign land of human existence in which humanity does not suffer at the hands of obesity and over eating. This is a land that hosts beautiful flowing rivers of chocolate, mountains of garlic mashed potatoes and festively adorned chips and salsa.

In the colder climates you can experience the ice cream tundras.

Further to the south, where the sun dances closer to the surface (at approximately 350 degrees give or take), there are neighborhoods of delicious casseroles, chicken drenched in bbq sauces and savory baked confections.

Amidst the more lukewarm regions my senses steal me away to vast parks of individually wrapped hostess cakes, peanut butter by the heap-fulls, and the occasional whatever dipped in ranch dressing.

The cruelest portion on my proverbial plate, however, is the changing image of the person in the mirror. The brain-slash-belly love affair slaps me in the face with a "you're not included!" attached. Apparently my hips, thighs and upper arms are not allowed quite the same access to this consequence-free dream world.

I recall the days of freedom from this food oppression. I remember when I was able to look saturated fat right in the eye and denounce it. Ahhh... the belly betrays me daily. It lies.

And my hips are declaring war.

A Preacher's Wife

2008-12-18T08:21:00.002-05:00

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

2008-06-06T13:11:00.002-04:00

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

2008-06-06T06:37:00.003-04:00

For those of you who wonder what I do.

See for yourself.

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

Toilet Paper and Ministry

2008-05-28T14:55:00.005-04:00

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

2008-05-27T07:29:00.002-04:00

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

2008-05-08T07:20:00.002-04:00

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

2008-05-06T15:35:00.011-04:00

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...

2008-02-22T10:38:00.001-05:00

...not love this face?

Walking in a Winter Wonderland

2008-02-14T10:25:00.004-05:00

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

2008-02-13T07:35:00.003-05:00

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

2008-02-04T10:29:00.001-05:00

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

2008-02-02T08:39:00.000-05:00

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

2008-01-31T17:46:00.000-05:00

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

2008-01-29T12:00:00.000-05:00

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

2008-01-23T07:11:00.000-05:00

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.

Following suit...

2007-09-23T07:09:00.000-04:00

So Matt has an e blog. Ann has an e blog. Misty & Stephen have their own web site. And my blog on that program which must not be named (myspace) sucks in so far as my non-myspacing friends being able to interact with it.

I had a live journal account many moons ago in college... but its long gone.

So this is my tribute to something new and conformist. :) Yay.

Befriend me.