A few weeks ago during a brief, rare moment of calm at work when several of us nurses had a moment to sit down and catch our breaths between patient crises, a coworker of mine and I started shooting the breeze about our families. She asked what my husband did for a living.
(Side note: I am always tempted to say that he has a "normal day job", meaning he does not go to work at the same hour that rats scurry out of their holes to forage for nightly food scraps... but I digress:)
I told her, "He's the Administrative Director for our church," which was naturally followed up by the question, "Where do you go to church?" I tell her. And when I tell her it's a non-denominational church, she asks me with complete honest curiosity, "What does that mean, non-denominational? I grew up going to a Catholic church that I hated, and I didn't know what that was about, either." And I found myself at a complete loss. I stared at her, sort of open-mouthed and dumbfounded, and stammered out something lame like, "Uh, well, it means that we don't belong to a particular denomination." Equal confused look on her face, and then the inevitable, "Well, what is it that you BELIEVE, exactly?"
Struck dumb. I was struck DUMB. I don't remember what I told her in response, but it wasn't the intelligent, theologically-rich response I was racking my brain for, nor was it the honest, heartfelt, simple explanation of the grace I've received in my life. No, it was something I probably wouldn't want to reprint for the world to see here on this blog. It likely involved a lot of hemming, hawing, and "I'm not really sure..." statements. Whatever the answer was, I think my coworker came away more confused than anything. There was shrugging of shoulders and confused smiles involved on both sides, and then a patient call bell went off, and the moment was gone in the flurry of the night.
I have offered up prayers in the past that God would send someone just like her to my doorstep - or, in this case, to my nurses' station - someone who is genuinely, sweetly curious about my relationship with God, who asks a simple question about why I believe what I believe, why I follow Jesus, why I sing songs to Him and about Him in praise, why my life is any different and any more worth having than someone who gets to sleep in on Sunday mornings and whose only encounter with a Bible is to move it off the hotel nightstand. Someone who isn't demanding a intellectually solid argument of the existence of God, someone who isn't looking to cut me down, but someone who is genuinely searching, seeking, interested to hear what God means to me. That moment at the nurses' station felt like one of those beautiful, fragile Faberge eggs people collect, handed to me ever so delicately (albeit unexpectedly) and I DROPPED IT.
The busyness of the night prevented me from dwelling too much on the moment - truthfully, I'd sort of forgotten about it all until a few days ago when, of all things, I was logging onto my computer and getting my Twitter messages and updates. A good friend of mine writes about having lunch with another one of my good friends, and he says of their time together, "God is doing great things through that girl." I totally agreed. And then I remembered.
I think that, deep down inside, I really want someone to affirm me and let me know that God is doing great things through me, too. It's not because I want another person's affirmation just to make me feel better, but to have confirmation that I am not spiritual milquetoast, a bump on a log who goes through life just trying to not ruffle any feathers or get anyone upset or angry. Sure, I wish that I hadn't suffered such an acute episode of Brain Fart when my coworker approached me about my faith, but even more than that, I wish that the Brain Fart episode was just an isolated incident of a jumbled tongue and not pointing to the bigger spiritual void in my heart.
I wish that I was more certain, had the confirmation in my heart that God was indeed doing great things through me, no matter whether someone else said (twittered) it or not. I wish that I didn't care so much about offending other people or making them feel uncomfortable, or always trying to find the correct, polite, balanced thing to say. I wish I could use the term "radical" when describing my faith. I wish that I didn't feel like the only one in the small group of church staff and spouses who struggles every single day to find the desire to meet with God, particularly when things are going poorly and I turn to just about everything and everyone else for relief first. I wish that just simply quieting myself before God didn't feel so complicated to me, so ridden with guilt that I've been away for so long, so unsure of what to say or do or read in my Bible. I wish that I didn't feel like such a phony when I get up each Sunday to help lead my church in worship, wondering if everyone (particularly my bandmates and aforementioned church leadership people) can see right through me. I wish that when someone asks me what I believe, I search my heart and not my brain for the right words, and that I would find a simple love and faith resting right there, not cobwebs and empty worries.
I wish that writing this felt easier, but confessions by their nature are never easy. Nor are they altogether comfortable when you know your audience includes people from whom you've tried to hide your spiritual immaturity/immobility all this time, though I suspect it was probably never well-hidden, like a huge red pimple on the end of one's nose that even the best makeup job cannot completely hide. It's gone through several drafts and several more moments of wondering what sort of comments I'm going to get back, whether there is head-shaking and pity on the other side of the computer screen, whether judgment lies in the shadows.
This wasn't the post I intended for today, but it feels like the beginning of a journey back home. And that's what this month is all about - home. Admitting all of this is bigger than I can adequately put into words, but I'm tired of carrying it around on my shoulders and blithely blathering on about smaller stuff as if it doesn't affect every thing I do. I'm tired of not being able to do this on my own, or of my own willpower, though I would have NEVER admitted that's what I was doing before now. I'm laying it down for you, laying it down in front of Jesus, and I'm ending this post now to go sit quietly and listen to Him. I'm hoping He'll take it from there.
See you tomorrow...
Thursday, June 5, 2008
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
making herself at home
I love my cat, Missy. I think I love her most because she is so very like me, and how can you not love something or someone that is like you? She is finicky, talkative at times and unashamedly antisocial at other times, loves a good nap, loves loving attention even more, can be quite moody, and loves a good snuggle.
She is also highly resistant to change, as am I, even when I ask for and put a downpayment for that change to occur. Moving has been a test of patience and emotional endurance for both of us, human and feline alike. We have both looked at our new surroundings, wrinkled our noses, and adopted an expression that clearly states, I don't know about this.
If the car ride over from the apartment to the house the day we finally moved in was any indication of her future behavior, we were sure we were done for. Missy howled and yowled all 6 miles from one home to the next, expressing at constant intervals her displeasure at Being Moved and likely drawing stares of concern from passing vehicles (because yes, she was THAT LOUD). How dare these humans interrupt her calm, orderly, lazy little existence? Me-OW.
And so am I. When life throws me a curveball, I whine quite a bit. I probably catch my share of stares as well. And I throw my hands up, begin a tantrum, and ask God why this has to be so hard, why couldn't life have stayed as it was, I was nice and comfortable there, didn't You know? In Missy's defense, I wasn't too pleasant the first few days I spent in this new house, either, complaining about the retro wallpaper, the monster-sized bugs that seemed to be everywhere, the kitchen cabinets that didn't allow me to put anything underneath them onto the counter (like a coffeemaker and a microwave, among other things). I wanted to go back to that apartment I spent three years wanting to get out of.
Missy was moved from a rather cramped apartment to a much more spacious home, and that home now contains a sun room that she has claimed solely for herself. It has her food, water, and litter box, she can lie on the soft plaid armchair relatively undisturbed while birds and crickets chirp just outside the glass windows, and it has the added bonus of being about 10 degrees warmer than the rest of the house. For a cat who has had to wearily adapt herself to a living environment bordering on frigid just so that her humans could be comfortable, this room is clearly heaven. And her humans were so excited to see her enjoy this room so much, they just can't stop taking pictures of her in it, or coming to love on her while she poses in a queenly fashion on the armchair, waiting to receive her loyal subjects.
And so it is with me. Sure, I may whine and cry when change comes my way, but when I finally stop stamping my feet and hollering long enough to look around, I'll always find that God brought me to a place much better than where I was before, even if the process of change was hard and might have hurt. He knows what I like, and He knows what is best for me.
I'm beginning to really love this home, too. I think I'll go look cute and lie on my head for a while myself...
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
just a note
In case you were wondering...
That last post had nothing to do with "home", except maybe that I wrote it from home. Neither does this post have any relevance to "home", except that I keep typing that word to emphasize what this post is NOT about.
But the lovely Eden over at NaBloPoMo reassures me in her FAQ section that I don't HAVE to stick with the monthly theme every day. Just post every day.
And here, my friends, is my extra brownie point for the day, because this is post #2 for today. Two posts in ONE DAY.
Somebody get me some Chinese food to celebrate my awesomeness.
That last post had nothing to do with "home", except maybe that I wrote it from home. Neither does this post have any relevance to "home", except that I keep typing that word to emphasize what this post is NOT about.
But the lovely Eden over at NaBloPoMo reassures me in her FAQ section that I don't HAVE to stick with the monthly theme every day. Just post every day.
And here, my friends, is my extra brownie point for the day, because this is post #2 for today. Two posts in ONE DAY.
Somebody get me some Chinese food to celebrate my awesomeness.
what no one told me about pregnancy (so far)
... that urinating would no longer be the natural, taken-for-granted act it is for most people, but a wild contortionist experience involving grotesque body twisting and maneuvering to get my bladder into peeing position.
... that I would have to repeat the contortionist process only 3 minutes after completing the first one, and then again 5 minutes after completing the second one.
... that my patience and tolerance for others' behavior would be inversely proportionate to my expectation of their patience and tolerance for MY behavior.
... that every time I'm asked with a snicker, "So, craving any new foods lately?" it would irritate me so much that I want to reply, "Yes. YOUR HEAD. WITH PICKLES. Happy now?"
... that these kicks that started out so sweet and cute in my belly would actually be so strong now as to jiggle all my abdominal fat around in a very unattractive manner and make me feel not unlike Sigourney Weaver from Alien.
... that I would grossly fail in my quest to be Serenity Mother, Goddess of Calm and Sweet Light and instead want to staple things to the heads of everyone who says something either stereotypical or blazingly ignorant about pregnancy and the female body.
... that Babies R' Us could simultaneously dazzle the wits out of me while also bringing me to blubbering tears because of all the CHOICES. My God, the CHOICES.
... that I would have to buy new, even larger work uniforms only 3 weeks after having bought the first set of new, larger work uniforms.
... that this once very career-oriented, paycheck-lovin' woman would pull a 180-degree switcheroo and do just about anything to be able to stay at home with Upcoming Baby all the time.
... that morning sickness isn't limited to the first trimester (seriously? Are you kidding me?).
... that finding a large, very alive cockroach in our bedroom would almost instantaneously jump from "we should probably call pest control in the morning" to "we're all going to DIE, life is MEANINGLESS, I should have never have thought to bring another human life into this CRAZY, TROPICAL BUG INFESTED WORLD", complete with blubbering tears and snot rivers.
... that my husband's tenderness and patience through my irrational tear-laden anxieties would make me cry even harder out of gratitude. (Ladies, eat your hearts out. He's the BEST.)
... that I would ever be so in awe of what my body could do, this amazing ability to produce and sustain new life.
... that I would finally, triumphantly outdo my husband, Eater of Hot Garlic Everything, in the contest of who has the stinkier farts. By a LONG SHOT.
... that I would have to repeat the contortionist process only 3 minutes after completing the first one, and then again 5 minutes after completing the second one.
... that my patience and tolerance for others' behavior would be inversely proportionate to my expectation of their patience and tolerance for MY behavior.
... that every time I'm asked with a snicker, "So, craving any new foods lately?" it would irritate me so much that I want to reply, "Yes. YOUR HEAD. WITH PICKLES. Happy now?"
... that these kicks that started out so sweet and cute in my belly would actually be so strong now as to jiggle all my abdominal fat around in a very unattractive manner and make me feel not unlike Sigourney Weaver from Alien.
... that I would grossly fail in my quest to be Serenity Mother, Goddess of Calm and Sweet Light and instead want to staple things to the heads of everyone who says something either stereotypical or blazingly ignorant about pregnancy and the female body.
... that Babies R' Us could simultaneously dazzle the wits out of me while also bringing me to blubbering tears because of all the CHOICES. My God, the CHOICES.
... that I would have to buy new, even larger work uniforms only 3 weeks after having bought the first set of new, larger work uniforms.
... that this once very career-oriented, paycheck-lovin' woman would pull a 180-degree switcheroo and do just about anything to be able to stay at home with Upcoming Baby all the time.
... that morning sickness isn't limited to the first trimester (seriously? Are you kidding me?).
... that finding a large, very alive cockroach in our bedroom would almost instantaneously jump from "we should probably call pest control in the morning" to "we're all going to DIE, life is MEANINGLESS, I should have never have thought to bring another human life into this CRAZY, TROPICAL BUG INFESTED WORLD", complete with blubbering tears and snot rivers.
... that my husband's tenderness and patience through my irrational tear-laden anxieties would make me cry even harder out of gratitude. (Ladies, eat your hearts out. He's the BEST.)
... that I would ever be so in awe of what my body could do, this amazing ability to produce and sustain new life.
... that I would finally, triumphantly outdo my husband, Eater of Hot Garlic Everything, in the contest of who has the stinkier farts. By a LONG SHOT.
Monday, June 2, 2008
leaving home to head home
I do not like moving. At. All. I have moved at least once every 2-3 years for the past decade of my life, so clearly, the urge to relocate to a new place must be strong enough to override the disgust of moving. But I still don't like it at all. I don't even like saying the word: MOVING. It should be one of those words that puts your kids into time-out just for saying it, a word not appropriate for polite, civilized conversation.
Still, that's what Jason and I did over Memorial Day weekend. Some weeks earlier, we'd signed papers and officially bought our first house, a nice 3/2 in a neighborhood we both adored. The downpayment alone was probably more money than we'd ever seen or dreamed of, but everything came together, the stars were aligned just right by God and our dream of homeownership became a reality with a cashier's check and about 5000 signatures. We'd been tired of sharing walls with other people, tired of apartment life, tired of the asphalt parking lot view just outside our bedroom window, and we were ready to get the hell out of Dodge.
When it came time to leave the apartment and start moving into the new house, we were eager. Packing all those boxes even seemed (slightly) easier than in times past. Stuff trickled over from the apartment to the house in small carloads during the week, and then the big move brought all the big furniture, including the infamous bookcase, to our new home. We even had some time to paint the nursery for our son before moving all two pieces of furniture in there (these pictures are kinda dark - more will follow in future posts, brighter and hopefully with furniture included):
Finally, the day came this past Friday to turn in the keys to our old apartment and leave for good. We'd just spent the past two days painting our bedroom and the living room back to "antique white" (per the apt complex rules), wondering why we'd ever had the urge to decorate in any way, particularly using dark-hued paint. We were tired, sore, and ready to be done with commuting back and forth from one place to the other. So saying good-bye to apartment life should have been easy, right?
Maybe not as easy as I'd hoped.
Handing in the keys meant closing the door on 3 of the best, richest years of my life. This was, after all, the place where "you and me" became "us", where Jason and I began our journey of married life together. We'd learned each others' rhythms and quirks living together within those walls. We'd cooked and eaten countless meals together in that cramped galley kitchen. We'd welcomed within those walls the cat that would go down as the Most Photographed and Most Spoiled Animal in History - a title she still carries proudly to this day, I might add. We dreamed big dreams together there, including one day moving out and owning our own house. We'd dreamed of expanding our family there, and it was in that apartment we'd found out we were pregnant for the first time. And a second time. And, finally, a third and good and "sticking" time.
I'll be the first to shed sentimentality about objects and remind you that memories are made and held together in the heart and mind, not in bare walls and empty rooms. But even I found it hard to say goodbye, because Jason and I called that place home for over 3 years, and closing the door for the final time on "home", even to then head to our new home, was more difficult than I expected. It was God's generous provision for us, and it had served us well, even when we yearned for more space, less noise, easier commutes, and investing our money rather than throwing it away each month on rent. It was the place I'd longed to get back to after a long shift at work, after battling a rough time in Orlando traffic, even (secretly) after vacationing away or enjoying a night out with friends.
I know that someone else, maybe another set of young newlyweds, is preparing to call that apartment home soon. It's not our home anymore, and as I sit in my half-renovated bedroom typing this, I do feel very much at home in our new house. I'm excited to bring my son to our home from the hospital in a few months. I'm a little sad he won't ever know the home we had there in that apartment, but he will have his own memories, his own happy times, in these rooms here. And I'm particularly excited to be here with Jason, 3 wonderful years under our belt together as husband and wife, and make many more years of wonderful memories within these new walls that have now inherited an old, familiar name: HOME.
Still, that's what Jason and I did over Memorial Day weekend. Some weeks earlier, we'd signed papers and officially bought our first house, a nice 3/2 in a neighborhood we both adored. The downpayment alone was probably more money than we'd ever seen or dreamed of, but everything came together, the stars were aligned just right by God and our dream of homeownership became a reality with a cashier's check and about 5000 signatures. We'd been tired of sharing walls with other people, tired of apartment life, tired of the asphalt parking lot view just outside our bedroom window, and we were ready to get the hell out of Dodge.
When it came time to leave the apartment and start moving into the new house, we were eager. Packing all those boxes even seemed (slightly) easier than in times past. Stuff trickled over from the apartment to the house in small carloads during the week, and then the big move brought all the big furniture, including the infamous bookcase, to our new home. We even had some time to paint the nursery for our son before moving all two pieces of furniture in there (these pictures are kinda dark - more will follow in future posts, brighter and hopefully with furniture included):
Finally, the day came this past Friday to turn in the keys to our old apartment and leave for good. We'd just spent the past two days painting our bedroom and the living room back to "antique white" (per the apt complex rules), wondering why we'd ever had the urge to decorate in any way, particularly using dark-hued paint. We were tired, sore, and ready to be done with commuting back and forth from one place to the other. So saying good-bye to apartment life should have been easy, right?
Maybe not as easy as I'd hoped.
Handing in the keys meant closing the door on 3 of the best, richest years of my life. This was, after all, the place where "you and me" became "us", where Jason and I began our journey of married life together. We'd learned each others' rhythms and quirks living together within those walls. We'd cooked and eaten countless meals together in that cramped galley kitchen. We'd welcomed within those walls the cat that would go down as the Most Photographed and Most Spoiled Animal in History - a title she still carries proudly to this day, I might add. We dreamed big dreams together there, including one day moving out and owning our own house. We'd dreamed of expanding our family there, and it was in that apartment we'd found out we were pregnant for the first time. And a second time. And, finally, a third and good and "sticking" time.
I'll be the first to shed sentimentality about objects and remind you that memories are made and held together in the heart and mind, not in bare walls and empty rooms. But even I found it hard to say goodbye, because Jason and I called that place home for over 3 years, and closing the door for the final time on "home", even to then head to our new home, was more difficult than I expected. It was God's generous provision for us, and it had served us well, even when we yearned for more space, less noise, easier commutes, and investing our money rather than throwing it away each month on rent. It was the place I'd longed to get back to after a long shift at work, after battling a rough time in Orlando traffic, even (secretly) after vacationing away or enjoying a night out with friends.
I know that someone else, maybe another set of young newlyweds, is preparing to call that apartment home soon. It's not our home anymore, and as I sit in my half-renovated bedroom typing this, I do feel very much at home in our new house. I'm excited to bring my son to our home from the hospital in a few months. I'm a little sad he won't ever know the home we had there in that apartment, but he will have his own memories, his own happy times, in these rooms here. And I'm particularly excited to be here with Jason, 3 wonderful years under our belt together as husband and wife, and make many more years of wonderful memories within these new walls that have now inherited an old, familiar name: HOME.
Sunday, June 1, 2008
home
NaBloPoMo - that's National Blog Posting Month for the uninitiated - is usually every year in November. The challenge is simple: write a blog post every day for the entire month. Simple in concept, but deceptively difficult to pull off. If you do, you get the satisfaction of a full month's worth of blogging, as well as possible prizes.
I used to have the whole year to gear up for November. But now, the lovely folks at NaBloPoMo have made every month a different theme. This month, the theme is "home". And since we're just getting settled into the house we just bought, I figured it was time to bite the bullet and take the challenge a few months early, before I have one hand maneuvering a diaper pail and the other juggling a handful of pacifiers.
I'm sure that as we are navigating through our first full month as homeowners, I'll have plenty to talk about. And if I'm extra sweet, I might even post some pictures for you. Because I'm awesome like that.
See you tomorrow.
I used to have the whole year to gear up for November. But now, the lovely folks at NaBloPoMo have made every month a different theme. This month, the theme is "home". And since we're just getting settled into the house we just bought, I figured it was time to bite the bullet and take the challenge a few months early, before I have one hand maneuvering a diaper pail and the other juggling a handful of pacifiers.
I'm sure that as we are navigating through our first full month as homeowners, I'll have plenty to talk about. And if I'm extra sweet, I might even post some pictures for you. Because I'm awesome like that.
See you tomorrow.
Sunday, May 25, 2008
the behemoth
We are here in our new home.
(If I didn't have such a heavy sense of responsibility, I would probably just post that sentence as-is without elaboration. It's such a weighty statement to me, after all. But here's the story behind it:)
We moved in over this past weekend, Memorial Day weekend. We transferred our belongings, our lives, and our cat about 6 miles across town to a new home, a house that we officially own and do not rent. We have nice neighbors. We have a lawn to mow and an attic with some sort of wild animal running around occasionally. We have our own driveway, and a laundry room that does not require mountains of quarters just to do one load of clothes. We share walls only with ourselves.
Whew.
Of course, the weekend was not without drama. I wish I could give you all some pictures to show, but I don't. I was working for a good part of the weekend, and I think our camera bag was probably buried underneath a pile of cardboard rubble early on, anyway. Plus, when you arms are tired and covered in cardboard paper cuts, breaking out the Canon isn't high on the list. If you need a visual, just think of an empty house, and then a whole bunch of jumbled furniture, brown boxes, and a yowling cat. There. That's what it looked like.
But I mentioned the drama. It came in the form of a bookcase.
When Jason and Company moved all of our stuff, we brought over my mom's stuff, too: she'll be living in our guest bedroom while she goes to nursing school full-time. And I have to say, I was pretty impressed at how she reduced a two-bedroom apartment's worth of stuff - a LOT of it - down to only what she could fit into a 12 x 12 room. What was left didn't look like a lot. It wasn't, really. But somewhere along the way, my mom mentioned a bookcase that she'd like to keep: she'd measured it out to make sure it fit the room, she said, and it fit so many of her books and other assorted things neatly that it would be a space-saver in the end. It's a huge behemoth creation of wood and particleboard that has been in the family as long as I have, has experienced several reincarnations involving paint and glaze, and has survived several moves completely intact.
She also mentioned that it might need to be moved in through the bedroom window. I am not a very handy person by nature, so I chose to wave this statement off, figuring that my very handy husband would know just what to do.
As it turned out, the bookcase does fit very nicely in her room. She wasn't kidding on that one. Where it didn't fit nicely was the narrow hallway leading down to her room, as well as the doorway going into the room. I wasn't actually present for the carnage, but somewhere along the way, the very wide bookcase got broken down, taken apart to fit into the room. Then there was the challenge of putting an unfamiliar piece of furniture back together. There were some negative thoughts and statements. There were threats of firewood-making. And four guys, completely fed up with the behemoth bookcase, stood around with pieces of it in their hands, all suggesting different ways to put it back together. My talkative brother talked. A lot. Craig the Handyman calmly suggested the best way to put the bookcase together, but I think all the confusion might have drowned him out, so he ended up holding a shelf for a while. Jason wanted to scrap the whole project and just buy a whole new bookcase, which just goes to show you he's lived entirely too long with me, One of Little Patience.
In the end, four different personalities came together in final harmony and got the bookcase together. Needless to say, I think compassion for my mother and the desire not to spend any more money won out over making the family relic into splinters, though this is likely the final, er, resting place for the bookcase.
I think my mom's graduation present will be a gift card to IKEA to start a new life with a new bookcase...
(If I didn't have such a heavy sense of responsibility, I would probably just post that sentence as-is without elaboration. It's such a weighty statement to me, after all. But here's the story behind it:)
We moved in over this past weekend, Memorial Day weekend. We transferred our belongings, our lives, and our cat about 6 miles across town to a new home, a house that we officially own and do not rent. We have nice neighbors. We have a lawn to mow and an attic with some sort of wild animal running around occasionally. We have our own driveway, and a laundry room that does not require mountains of quarters just to do one load of clothes. We share walls only with ourselves.
Whew.
Of course, the weekend was not without drama. I wish I could give you all some pictures to show, but I don't. I was working for a good part of the weekend, and I think our camera bag was probably buried underneath a pile of cardboard rubble early on, anyway. Plus, when you arms are tired and covered in cardboard paper cuts, breaking out the Canon isn't high on the list. If you need a visual, just think of an empty house, and then a whole bunch of jumbled furniture, brown boxes, and a yowling cat. There. That's what it looked like.
But I mentioned the drama. It came in the form of a bookcase.
When Jason and Company moved all of our stuff, we brought over my mom's stuff, too: she'll be living in our guest bedroom while she goes to nursing school full-time. And I have to say, I was pretty impressed at how she reduced a two-bedroom apartment's worth of stuff - a LOT of it - down to only what she could fit into a 12 x 12 room. What was left didn't look like a lot. It wasn't, really. But somewhere along the way, my mom mentioned a bookcase that she'd like to keep: she'd measured it out to make sure it fit the room, she said, and it fit so many of her books and other assorted things neatly that it would be a space-saver in the end. It's a huge behemoth creation of wood and particleboard that has been in the family as long as I have, has experienced several reincarnations involving paint and glaze, and has survived several moves completely intact.
She also mentioned that it might need to be moved in through the bedroom window. I am not a very handy person by nature, so I chose to wave this statement off, figuring that my very handy husband would know just what to do.
As it turned out, the bookcase does fit very nicely in her room. She wasn't kidding on that one. Where it didn't fit nicely was the narrow hallway leading down to her room, as well as the doorway going into the room. I wasn't actually present for the carnage, but somewhere along the way, the very wide bookcase got broken down, taken apart to fit into the room. Then there was the challenge of putting an unfamiliar piece of furniture back together. There were some negative thoughts and statements. There were threats of firewood-making. And four guys, completely fed up with the behemoth bookcase, stood around with pieces of it in their hands, all suggesting different ways to put it back together. My talkative brother talked. A lot. Craig the Handyman calmly suggested the best way to put the bookcase together, but I think all the confusion might have drowned him out, so he ended up holding a shelf for a while. Jason wanted to scrap the whole project and just buy a whole new bookcase, which just goes to show you he's lived entirely too long with me, One of Little Patience.
In the end, four different personalities came together in final harmony and got the bookcase together. Needless to say, I think compassion for my mother and the desire not to spend any more money won out over making the family relic into splinters, though this is likely the final, er, resting place for the bookcase.
I think my mom's graduation present will be a gift card to IKEA to start a new life with a new bookcase...
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
eating my slice of humble pie
In between packing and unpacking, de-wallpapering and painting, I drove from our new house back to our old apartment, stopping at the Publix that will be our local supermarket when we make the move final this Saturday.
(Shameless plug: if ANYONE reading this happens to be available at all on Friday or especially Saturday to help move things, please let me know! Preggo Lady here can't do much of anything, particularly since I have to be at work Friday and Saturday nights and will be staying elsewhere to sleep during the day...)
I get to the ice cream aisle to pick up some Edy's, my favorite. And that's when I see: same price (nearly $6 that day for a carton) but a markedly-reduced carton size. Behold:
(Note: the above picture shows both sizes, but when I went to the store, ALL the different varieties of Edy's - yogurt, ice cream, slow-churned, etc. - were all the 1.5 size. Not to confuse anyone...)
Oh, I was peeved. And I didn't get any Edy's, and vowed not to, as long as I could help it. I picked up some Blue Bell instead, cheaper and bigger and just as tasty, in my humble opinion. Stupid, dumb Edy's. Grrr. I stomped off in a pregnant funk to go pick up my cheese and milk and head home.
Later, I was eating my Blue Bell ice cream - oh my goodness, best cookies and cream flavor EVER - and thinking about the downsizing and my own attitudes. I realize I'm not the only one affected by our slumping economy and rising gas prices: it seems like fuel and milk have been in a neck-and-neck battle to see who can be more expensive. And haven't I been quietly griping for eons now about the super-sizing of portion sizes, America's children, and my own waistline? I want to cry every time I see an obese child with a large McDonald's fry carton in their hand, or entire families waddling painfully down the snack aisle at Target. Do I not get a special little thrill when the latest 100-calorie pack creation shows up on my supermarket shelf, where I heartily acknowledge I am paying extra moolah so someone else can control my portions for me? And here I am, fuming in my car because suddenly, my ice cream - perhaps my biggest weakness - has one whole cup less product for me to consume, then feverishly try to eliminate from my thighs later down the line? Do I really need that extra cup? Hmmmm.
And as I was eating those last melty spoonfuls, I came across this photo essay on abcnews.com:
Hungry Planet
Sometimes, I need a little reminder like that when I start complaining that food prices are rising too high for me to afford a daily portion of junk. It feels a bit like I'm the kid on Christmas morning who gets more toys than anyone else around... and complains that there is one less gift than last year. How easily I forget how much He has blessed me, day in and day out.
And there are logical, practical next steps I can take in this awareness toward responsible consumerism - remembering that I am only one of billions who need to eat each day - but maybe for now, the next time I head into Publix, I will not grumble but instead offer a silent prayer of gratitude for a well-stocked supermarket to shop at, the money to provide for all my necessities, and even some left over to make ice cream, no matter how "overpriced", an option in my privileged life.
(No, I will not make you sing "We Are the World" and hold hands with me.)
(Shameless plug: if ANYONE reading this happens to be available at all on Friday or especially Saturday to help move things, please let me know! Preggo Lady here can't do much of anything, particularly since I have to be at work Friday and Saturday nights and will be staying elsewhere to sleep during the day...)
I get to the ice cream aisle to pick up some Edy's, my favorite. And that's when I see: same price (nearly $6 that day for a carton) but a markedly-reduced carton size. Behold:
(Note: the above picture shows both sizes, but when I went to the store, ALL the different varieties of Edy's - yogurt, ice cream, slow-churned, etc. - were all the 1.5 size. Not to confuse anyone...)
Oh, I was peeved. And I didn't get any Edy's, and vowed not to, as long as I could help it. I picked up some Blue Bell instead, cheaper and bigger and just as tasty, in my humble opinion. Stupid, dumb Edy's. Grrr. I stomped off in a pregnant funk to go pick up my cheese and milk and head home.
Later, I was eating my Blue Bell ice cream - oh my goodness, best cookies and cream flavor EVER - and thinking about the downsizing and my own attitudes. I realize I'm not the only one affected by our slumping economy and rising gas prices: it seems like fuel and milk have been in a neck-and-neck battle to see who can be more expensive. And haven't I been quietly griping for eons now about the super-sizing of portion sizes, America's children, and my own waistline? I want to cry every time I see an obese child with a large McDonald's fry carton in their hand, or entire families waddling painfully down the snack aisle at Target. Do I not get a special little thrill when the latest 100-calorie pack creation shows up on my supermarket shelf, where I heartily acknowledge I am paying extra moolah so someone else can control my portions for me? And here I am, fuming in my car because suddenly, my ice cream - perhaps my biggest weakness - has one whole cup less product for me to consume, then feverishly try to eliminate from my thighs later down the line? Do I really need that extra cup? Hmmmm.
And as I was eating those last melty spoonfuls, I came across this photo essay on abcnews.com:
Hungry Planet
Sometimes, I need a little reminder like that when I start complaining that food prices are rising too high for me to afford a daily portion of junk. It feels a bit like I'm the kid on Christmas morning who gets more toys than anyone else around... and complains that there is one less gift than last year. How easily I forget how much He has blessed me, day in and day out.
And there are logical, practical next steps I can take in this awareness toward responsible consumerism - remembering that I am only one of billions who need to eat each day - but maybe for now, the next time I head into Publix, I will not grumble but instead offer a silent prayer of gratitude for a well-stocked supermarket to shop at, the money to provide for all my necessities, and even some left over to make ice cream, no matter how "overpriced", an option in my privileged life.
(No, I will not make you sing "We Are the World" and hold hands with me.)
testing
... to see if this twitterfeed thing works.
Edited to add: it works! it works! I love technology.
Edited to add: it works! it works! I love technology.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
random updates, tuesday edition
I so owe you all a decent post. Belly Mondays went belly-up, and I just haven't been in the blogging spirit these days...
I have an apartment filled with boxes and scattered belongings. Yep, we've been in the process of moving into our new house, with the Big Day of Moving scheduled for this coming Saturday. Anyone want to help? In addition to the moving, there's painting, putting up insulation, removing some bad-ass wallpaper, and figuring out what to do with wood paneling.
Baby is doing great. You wouldn't know it by my lack of updates and pictures, but he's growing well, kicking a lot, and preparing to make his grand entrance into the world in just a few short months.
On that note, I need to get some work scrubs that say, yes, I'm pregnant. Because I'm sort of getting hurt that whenever I mention to someone that I am pregnant (usually in response to their request to help them move a 400+ patient up in the bed) they look at me with utter surprise and say, "Really?" I'm just carrying him really high and really spread out, and scrubs are the great figure-hiders. Oh, I know several pregnant women who feel like whales who would probably smack me for being whiny, but I've waited 30+ years to be big-bellied with no apologies...
It's true: I'm officially a tweeting fool. I've even gotten twhirl, which takes the tweeting to a whole new level, I'm afraid. And if you thought I didn't have enough excuses not to blog, people, I've just acquired the biggest attention-diverter of them all with this one.
My mom started nursing school this past Monday. She's also moving in with me and Jason into the new house. Plus, she did a pretty good job raising me, and kids in general love her. All of this conspires to make her the best babysitter ever.
I have an apartment filled with boxes and scattered belongings. Yep, we've been in the process of moving into our new house, with the Big Day of Moving scheduled for this coming Saturday. Anyone want to help? In addition to the moving, there's painting, putting up insulation, removing some bad-ass wallpaper, and figuring out what to do with wood paneling.
Baby is doing great. You wouldn't know it by my lack of updates and pictures, but he's growing well, kicking a lot, and preparing to make his grand entrance into the world in just a few short months.
On that note, I need to get some work scrubs that say, yes, I'm pregnant. Because I'm sort of getting hurt that whenever I mention to someone that I am pregnant (usually in response to their request to help them move a 400+ patient up in the bed) they look at me with utter surprise and say, "Really?" I'm just carrying him really high and really spread out, and scrubs are the great figure-hiders. Oh, I know several pregnant women who feel like whales who would probably smack me for being whiny, but I've waited 30+ years to be big-bellied with no apologies...
It's true: I'm officially a tweeting fool. I've even gotten twhirl, which takes the tweeting to a whole new level, I'm afraid. And if you thought I didn't have enough excuses not to blog, people, I've just acquired the biggest attention-diverter of them all with this one.
My mom started nursing school this past Monday. She's also moving in with me and Jason into the new house. Plus, she did a pretty good job raising me, and kids in general love her. All of this conspires to make her the best babysitter ever.
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