felinity

Ways I Am Like My Cat, Missy:

1. Napping is crucial.

2. I have been known to be crabby most times but then sweet and loving if I want to get my way.

3. Sometimes I want to snuggle.

4. Sometimes I don't.

5. But most times, I sleep much better when I am snuggled up next to the person I love most.

6. I have some extra cushioning.

7. I am a very finicky eater, and I love treats.

8. I get irritated when I am not the center of attention.

9. When I am center of said attention, particularly when there are several people around, I have been known to do some embarrassing things, completely unaware.

10. I believe I am Queen of My House, yet stepping outside into the world can, at times, be scary.

11. I don't like change, but I'll eventually get used to it.

12. Loud noises make me jump.

13. Sometimes I'll wake up from a bad dream and cry (her: meow) a bit, then fall back asleep.

14. Most days, I am disinclined to move, though occasionally I will tear around the house like a mad(cat)woman.

15. I like looking at myself in the mirror.





Ways I Am NOT Like My Cat, Missy:

1. I do not sleep approximately 23 of the 24 hours of the day.

2. Though I've been known to embarrass myself in public, it is NOT because I have marched in the center of the room, lifted my leg most ungraciously, and proceeded to lick my privates in front of mixed company.

3. I do not poo onto litter, step in it, then proceed to track it across the house.

4. I do not drink water from a bowl.

5. I also do not find panties, hair elastics, and socks, and drop them into said bowl to make tea or soup.

6. I do not eat plastic.

7. I do not chase the beams of light that scatter across our bedroom when cars drive by, nor do I meow in protest when I can't seem to "catch" them.

NaBloPoMo: a reflection

Wow. I'll certainly never underestimate the power of a daily blog again.

I started out eager enough, excited to share my little corner of the world with all of cyberspace on a daily basis. But it got tough pretty quick. When I've had a bad day, I don't really feel like broadcasting it, but I can't think of anything else to say. Or, I can't think of a funny, witty, creative way to say it. It's a thorny rose, being told you have a way with words: it raises the bar every time you try to put your heart onto the page (or the screen, as it were).

And I had my share of bad days. I also had my share of awesome days, and because I was reveling so much in the awesomeness of the day, I'd forget to share it with you. And then I'd find myself trying to play catch-up four days later, cursing the computer and Having a Bad Day. (And then I'd start all my sentences with "and", and end them all with a preposition).

I also met some really awesome bloggers, people who make me wish I could see these people on a daily basis, talk with them, and soak up their marvelous creativity. They inspired me greatly. I hope I did the same for them.

All in all, it's been a interesting journey, NaBloPoMo. Next November, I'll be a little more prepared for you, ready with some cute stories, better pictures, and less video clips. For now, though, I'm gonna take a nap. You wore me out.

God is under the bed

My dear friend Kelly lost her brother Kevin to colon cancer this past Monday. Though I did not know him well, just the few brief moments I had with him told me that he saw the world through eyes I wish I had: trusting, loving, childlike. His faith in Jesus was just as pure: he talked with Jesus as though he was talking to his best friend, right in the room with him.

I grieve for my friend today: we all know Kev is at home with Jesus, and we're happy about that, but still, losing your brother is like losing a piece of your heart, and it's hard to bear someone you love so much going through that much pain.

Tomorrow is his memorial service. I know the focus will be on celebrating his arrival home, but I know there will be tears, too. I know I'll want to hold on to my friend and her husband and their handsome, precious boys and tell them how I'll do anything, anything at all for them if it will somehow bring them comfort. I also know I'll want to run away when I see them, too, because it hurts and it's awkward and I don't know what to do with it. I know I'll thank my Lord for giving us human angels like Kevin, and I know I'll cry and wonder why it has to be at such a cost.

I think that no one captured his spirit better than his sister, my friend, Kelly. With her gracious permission, here is a story she wrote about Kevin, years ago as a college writing assignment. (I won't need to tell you what an extraordinarily gifted writer Kelly is, or that nothing has brought out her gift as much as writing about him):


God Lives Under The Bed!

My brother Kevin thinks God lives under his bed. At least that's what I heard him say one night. He was praying out loud in his dark bedroom, and I stopped outside his closed door to listen. Are you there, God?" he said. "Where are you? Oh, I see. Under the bed." I giggled softly and tiptoed off to my own room.

Kevin's unique perspectives are often a source of amusement. But that night something else lingered long after the humor. I realized for the first time the very different world Kevin lives in. He was born 30 years ago, mentally disabled as a result of difficulties during labor. Apart from his size (he's 6-foot-2), there are few ways in which he is an adult. He reasons and communicates with the capabilities of a 7-year-old, and he always will.

He will probably always believe that God lives under his bed, that Santa Claus is the one who fills the space under our tree every Christmas, and that airplanes stay up in the sky because angels carry them. I remember wondering if Kevin realizes he is different. Is he ever dissatisfied with his monotonous life? Up before dawn each day, off to work at a workshop for the disabled, home to walk our cocker spaniel, returning to eat his favorite macaroni-and-cheese for dinner, and later to bed.

The only variation in the entire scheme are laundry days, when he hovers excitedly over the washing machine like a mother with her newborn child. He does not seem dissatisfied. He lopes out to the bus every morning at 7:05, eager for a day of simple work. He wrings his hands excitedly while the water boils on the stove before dinner, and he stays up late twice a week to gather our dirty laundry for his next day's laundry chores. And Saturdays - oh, the bliss of Saturdays!

That's the day my dad takes Kevin to the airport to have a soft drink, watch the planes land, and speculate loudly on the destination of each passenger inside. "That one's going' to Chi-car-go!" Kevin shouts as he claps his hands. His anticipation is so great he can hardly sleep on Friday nights.

I don't think Kevin knows anything exists outside his world of daily rituals and weekend field trips. He doesn't know what it means to be discontent. His life is simple. He will never know the entanglements of wealth of power, and he does not care what brand of clothing he wears or what kind of food he eats. He recognizes no differences in people, treating each person as an equal and a friend. His needs have always been met, and he never worries that one day they may not be. His hands are diligent. Kevin is never so happy as when he is working. When he unloads the dishwasher or vacuums the carpet, his heart is completely in it. He does not shrink from a job when it is begun, and he does not leave a job until it is finished. But when his tasks are done, Kevin knows how to relax. He is not obsessed with his work or the work of others. His heart is pure. He still believes everyone tells the truth, promises must be kept, and when you are wrong, you apologize instead of argue. Free from pride and unconcerned with appearances, Kevin is not afraid to cry when he is hurt, angry or sorry. He is always transparent, always sincere.

And he trusts God. Not confined by intellectual reasoning, when he comes to Christ, he comes as a child. Kevin seems to know God-to really be friends with Him in a way that is difficult for an "educated" person to grasp. God seems like his closest companion. In my moments of doubt and frustrations with my Christianity, I envy the security Kevin has in his simple faith. It is then that I am most willing to admit that he has some divine knowledge that rises above my mortal questions. It is then I realize that perhaps he is not the one with the handicap......I am.

My obligations, my fear, my pride, my circumstances - they all become disabilities when I do not submit them to Christ. Who knows if Kevin comprehends the things I can never learn? After all, he has spent his whole life in that kind of innocence, praying after dark and soaking up the goodness and love of the Lord.

And one day, when the mysteries of heaven are opened, and we are all amazed at how close God really is to our hearts, I'll realize that God heard the simple prayers of a boy who believed that God lived under his bed.

Kevin won't be surprised at all.

cuttin' the chunkies out

I had surgery today. That word makes it all sound so grave: surrrrgery.

Really, it was quite nice.

I have to admit that I was a little nervous. You see, there was this chunky, silver-dollar-sized lump on my arm. Had it biopsied a few months ago, went to see an oncologist and a dermatologist, sought a surgeon. They said it wasn't cancerous, wasn't malignant... but other than that, they didn't know what it was. Speculation rests on some sort of bug bite or other "trauma" that just started going wacko and forming all this dense, fibrous scar tissue.

Wow. A part of my body overreacting? UNHEARD OF.

Anyway, they decided it was best to take it out. And it kept getting itchy and worrying me, that maybe it was the colonization of a distant planet, a new race of life starting in my upper left arm. I mean, I'm all for the birth of civilization, but not in my left arm. Sorry. I wanted it out, too.

I went in today, filled in a few forms, signed my life and a significant part of our savings account away, and in return, I received a huge, 1980's mauve hospital gown that naturally did not close in the back, paper booties, a stick in my hand, and a heart monitor screen, where I was delighted to see my heart occasionally skipping beats and making weird squiggly lines on the screen. Fantastic. The anesthesiologist said that those squigglies were probably the result of my nerves. "Once I give you these drugs, they should disappear." Well, then, give them to me!

Ahhhh, drugs. Most days, I resist taking a Tylenol for even the worst headache. However, being on the wrong end of a scalpel makes you reconsider the whole just-say-no policy you've clung to all this time. So, I got one drug that took away pain, another one that made me forget anything that happened to me, and yet another that had me blissfully asleep. One moment, I was telling the nurse I felt a little woozy; the next, I was waking up with a big honkin' bandage on my arm. I felt pretty relaxed. Hungry, but relaxed.

The nurse said not to eat anything too heavy. I left the surgery center starving. We ate hot dogs and fries and washed it down with some soda. It was freakin' fantastic.

And then I got to go home and have my husband take care of me and sleep a lot.

Incidentally, the drugs they gave me were the exact same drugs (minus one) that I give to my burn patients when I go to do dressing changes. I thought they were delicious (the drugs, not the patients). So the next time one of my patients wonders what the drugs will feel like, I can totally start humming some Pink Floyd and say, "Enjoy the ride, man." Because I'm all trippy like that.

you know what happens when you assume...

Hmmmm... is it morning yet?

Mmmmmm....

Wow. I actually feel rested. This never happens when I have to get up for work.

Mmmmmm.

Rested. At 5:30 in the morning. Mmmmmm.

(yawn)

(stretch)

(scratch)

Mmmmmm...

(suddenly realizes that sun is a bit too bright in the room to be so early, sits straight up in bed)

Honey, what time is it?

him: mmmhbmblfmmm... uh... ohmygoditssevenoclock!

SEVEN O'CLOCK! It can't be seven! I had to be at work half an hour ago! Didn't you set the alarm?

him: NO. Didn't YOU set the alarm?

(sound of breaking glass, cat screeching, general pandemonium)

oh dear

It hath struck: blogger's block.

I think I can safely say that NaBloPoMo is officially kicking my creative ass.

(plus, I'm tired, and hey, look at the time!)

letting go

I grew up with a mom who was constantly taking pictures. Most of my childhood is chronicled in a never-ending series of albums and shoeboxes filled with snapshots. In fact, most of the major events or memorable moments of my life before age 18 have a corresponding picture, which is a fantastic aid to my somewhat patchy memory. Remember the time when you pulled out all the carefully-arranged magazines out of that cabinet and crawled in, only to look so surprised and innocent when found? There's a picture to jog your memory, or else supply your imagination to fill in the details.

Even more memorable than the actual pictures themselves was the process of obtaining said pictures. Remember, children, these pictures were taken before the digital age, so you couldn't just snap pictures at random and delete the ones you didn't like. Lo, you only had 12 or 24 (or, if you were daring, 36) exposures on that roll, and so you'd better get it right the first time. Mom would come upon some adorably cute candid moment to snap the photo... and 5 minutes later, we would still be frozen in that "candid" pose, smiles held, cheeks burning, while we heard, "Okay... just a second more... lemme adjust this lens..."

(Side note: I know my family is reading this. Don't tease her any more about the photo-taking process. It's a dead horse, beaten many times over...)

But even though the process might have seemed a little contrived, the pictures that resulted were amazing. And I see the pictures you get from a disposable camera, or even a digital camera that takes, I don't know, eons to think about whether it wants to take the picture or not between the moment you press the button and the actual taking of picture. Not the same. In my head, I've connected raising children and fantastic photography. I love houses full of photos of their family.

So, now that Jason and I are (hopefully) embarking upon the Raising Hell Family stage of our lives, what would be the number one item on my registry list once I found out I was preggers? A camera:



(I know. Completely shocking for someone who has a complete lack of personal photos on her blog. But I'm trying to correct that, see?)

We've been saving money. I was all set to make this Christmas the Christmas Of The Camera. Jason's been looking on eBay and Amazon for great package deals. I've been looking forward to a home full of pictures, even if it is not a home full of little feet... yet.

And then I went to church. You can listen to what I heard today here - just click on "A Thanksgiving Message". The temptation, when hearing that God blessed you with all that He has so that you can bless others (that it's not for your own glory), is to write a large check, drop it guiltily into the offering basket, and skulk home, hoping the message next week will be something a little milder, a little less convicting. But that wasn't the point. Who wants something given out of guilt? No. Giving out of the overflowing joy of your heart - those are the kind of gifts you want to give. And receive.

I am letting go of the camera for Christmas. The money saved is not going to us but somewhere yet to be determined. Listening in on Sunday... I didn't feel guilty. I just saw what I really, truly want, and it has nothing to do with a camera and everything to do with refocusing my heart, to invest in others the way the same way in which I've been invested.

Father, I want to know Thee, but my coward heart fears to give up its toys. I cannot part with them without inward bleeding, and I do not try to hide from Thee the terror of the parting. I come trembling, but I do come. Please root from my heart all Those things which I have cherished so long and which have become a very part of my living self, so that Thou mayest enter and dwell there without a rival. Then shalt Thou make the place of Thy feet glorious. Then shall my heart have no need of the sun to shine in it, for Thyself wilt be the light of it, and there shall be no night there. In Jesus' name, Amen.

PS - I am not pregnant.

not fair

Jason and I helped my brother move into his new apartment in DeLand yesterday. He used to live in one of the areas that was ravaged by a freak tornado this past February, and his neighbors living there are not the greatest: late-night screaming matches, guns, all that fun stuff. He has since found friends who have this gorgeous storefront apartment in downtown historic DeLand, the top floor above a bicycle shop and a rare coin dealer. Don has always lived in pretty modest places, as he has spent the last decade or so as either a grad student or a public school teacher. So, when we loaded up the U-Haul truck to take his belongings to his new apartment, we weren't expecting what we saw:


Ignore the furnishings and try and see how freakin' HIGH that ceiling is...


The kitchen. Yes, that is a mannequin in the back. She's holding a welcome home sign. She kind of creeped me out.

Original, beautiful hardwood floors. 1700 square feet of them. Ceilings that appear to reach to the sky. Fresh paint job. Huge windows looking out onto a courtyard. Big open spaces. The kind of living room that any self-respecting singer would salivate at, because the acoustics are of the type that make your voice sound 100 times bigger than it is, round and full and rich. And for this echoey vastness of an apartment, he's paying, like, two dollars a month or something. (Okay, I exaggerate, but I will say it is less than what we pay per month for our 1000-sq ft apartment in a not-nearly-as-desirable area.)

To top it all off, the coin shop downstairs is the next door neighbor of a fabulous Irish pub where we had dinner: fish and chips, burgers, apple crisp. Across the street: a chi-chi nail salon. Behind the building: a cute little boutique with fantastic dresses displayed in the front.

Needless to say, I am completely, totally jealous. Inspired, but jealous.

I can't believe I never watched this movie before last night...

This is Spinal Tap

happy thanksgiving

Thanksgiving dinner was a great success. I am stuffed, happy, surrounded by my family and blessings. Things I've learned from today:

--that roasting a bird (chicken, turkey, or other) breast side down doesn't look as pretty, but the meat comes out fall-off-the-bone tender.

--that cooking dinner is good enough. No need to wow them even more with lunch, too. (Although that was pretty tasty)

--whoever first decided to combine cinnamon and sugar is my hero.

--whoever first decided to sweeten roasted cacao beans with sugar, I LOVE YOU. Really.

--that it's okay to go a little overboard in the name of celebration. Just not every day.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone. Hope you all had as wonderful a day as I did.