Every year, my church holds a silent auction in order to raise money for missions. I usually find some great deals; a couple of years ago I got this gorgeous antique mirror, valued at $250, for $27. I have it hanging up as our only full-length in the house. Another year, I purchased a $75 massage at this really trendy spa for only $30. Not bad.
This year's event was last night, so I grabbed my checkbook and headed out the door about the same time that Cal left for his tennis tournament. I had some thoughts in mind: would I snag us a fantastic, secluded mountain home for a week this summer? A cool piece of furniture to add to our house? Some high school guys to do yardwork for us one day?
At first, the initial browse was a bit disappointing. The vacation homes were mostly beach (of which Cal's not too impressed. he did live at one for upwards of 7 years, you know.), and none of the gift certificates were tempting. I almost put my number down for a microderm abrasion, thinking it might help my rosacia that has always irritated me, but then I chickened out. And there were a couple of paintings that I liked, but I couldn't think of anywhere I'd hang them. I gave up, and went to grab some food from the other side of the room.
On a side note: Dinner was being catered by Caliente's, which is Macon's local version of Moe's (and oh so much better). The guy who owns the place is, coincidentally, named Cal, so he's easy to remember. Plus he's best friends with one of my cousins, and he buys advertisement in (my) Cal's school newspaper, so we always chat with him a bit when we go in to get our weekly fix of California-style burritos and quesadillas. Last night, he saw me fixing my plate, and came over to say hello. I told him that the food looked good, and he immediately replied, "Well, it's no chicken-and-black bean Mini B, but it'll do!" You see, I always order a chicken-and-black bean Mini B (kids' burrito, like a "moo moo" at Moe's). And he knew that. Maybe we're going to Caliente's a little too much ...
Anyway, I finished up eating and decided to take one last stroll through the merchandise just to make sure I didn't want anything. I put my number down for a potted assortment of succulents (only $4). I checked once more at the vacation table. Still all beach.
And then, while glancing at the wrought iron coffee table with glass-top, I saw it. A piece of paper that said, Wool Rug. I looked down. I was standing on a wool rug, but surely this wasn't the one that had only a single bid for $25. This rug was big, at least a 10x13, and absolutely gorgeous. Soft sage, creamy cream, peach. It would've been at least $1000 at a carpet store, and probably more.
I looked around for someone nearby to clarify. There was this little old woman sitting on a bench that was for sale nearby, and I asked her, rather loudly, as she's almost deaf (I knew this b/c she had been in my inquirers class a few years ago when I joined the church). "Is this the rug that goes with the sheet here?" She looked at me, blankly at first, then nodded slightly.
I cheered up. Now here was something I could get excited about. I grinned at her and her invalid brother (for whom she moved to Macon a few years back), and promptly wrote down my bid. $30.
A few of my friends came up, and I showed them the item that had caught my eye. They oohed and ahhed for a few minutes, until I noticed the old woman get up from her bench, hobble over to the table, and write down a number. $35.
"Seriously?" I thought. "She's going to be my competitor?" My heart sank. Had I been bidding against some young, skinny cheerleader-type, I could've been ruthless. I would've fought tooth and nail. But this little old deaf lady who lived with her invalid brother so that she could take care of him? Could I be so heartless?
My Sunday School teacher's wife, Deidre, came over and encouraged me. "It's for missions!" she said. "Sure you can!"
So I wrote down $50. The lady sighed in exasperation from her spot on the bench nearby, hobbled back over, this time looking remarkably similar to the bent-over old hag with the apples in Snow White, and wrote down $55. Mrs. Royal, a fellow teacher and friend, came by and noted the time it took Old Deaf Lady to get to the bid sheet from the bench, and suggested I stand at the table poised and ready seconds before time ran out. I laughed, but secretly thought about it. Hmmm...
Our bidding war lasted until just a couple of minutes before the time was up. I drove the price up by $20's and $30's, and she kept adding $5 more. "It matches my sofa," she croaked. I told her that it matched my bedroom. Finally, when we were well over $100, I looked over at her, her nonresponsive brother, and threw up my hands.
"Fine," I said, none too kindly. "You can have it." I walked away, pouting.
It wasn't the money that made me stop bidding. I would've paid much more for it, and still have felt like I got a steal. It was the stupid Old Deaf Lady and Invalid Brother-man. I would've looked at that rug every day of my life as I got out of bed in the morning and felt guilty. As it is now, I only have to see her and feel irritated once a week at church. (Kidding. Kind of.)
As we left the church a little while later, after I had paid the $4 for my cacti, Elizabeth and I glanced back for one last look at the rug. In disbelief, we watched as Old Deaf Lady helped Invalid Brother up on to a treadmill that was up for grabs. Elizabeth rolled her eyes, and I said, "It's not like she has people over all the time who'll see it. Did she really need that rug?" Elizabeth smiled menacingly as she replied, "Maybe you can get her to will it to you when she dies. That way, you'll have it in a few days." We giggled at our blatant insensitivity.
Sure, we were mean. If felt nice, though, to be bad sports about the whole thing. After all, isn't competition what auctions, even church auctions, are all about? Right.
4.26.2008
4.23.2008
Again, Anna Claire
I know that no one outside of my family really wants to watch a 1 1/2 minute-long video of my 2-year-old niece and Cal from spring break, but the file is too big for some folks' email inboxes to handle, so I'm posting it here. The "Oh Boy" thing is her impersonation of Cal, who uses the phrase involuntarily in the exhale of a sigh all the time. Sometimes, when he's caught himself doing it (never realized it at all until I pointed it out to him), he tries to cover up his quirk by adding another --higher pitched-- "oh boy" in a singsong manner quickly after. Anyway, here she (and he) is, for anyone who wants to see. Obviously, my chocolate addiction runs in the family.
4.22.2008
An English teacher (and self-described nerd) gains an addiction
My grandad just sent me this link, at which I just spent half an hour testing my vocab and, at the same time, donating like 2200 grains of rice to hungry people around the world. I checked it out on snopes, too, and it's legit.
Be careful. It's habit-forming.
Thanks, Pop!
Be careful. It's habit-forming.
Thanks, Pop!
4.21.2008
Fighting the Nazis
I've been having really weird dreams lately, most likely brought on by my reading selections of recent days. In class this quarter, I'm teaching The Chosen, All Quiet on the Western Front, The Sunflower by Simon Wiesenthal, and a more "young adult" Holocaust novel called The Boy in the Striped Pajamas. Today, I showed a clip of the Band of Brothers miniseries; you know, the scene where they liberate one of the Landsberg camps? I've also been in contact with some folks who know Holocaust survivors and are going to help me arrange for one or two of them to come speak to my classes.
As a result of this influx of WWI/WWII information, my night-time visions have had mostly to do with being bombed in the trenches of France, getting carried off to Poland by the Gestapo, or being eaten by a giant raccoon. Well, okay, that last one might have more to do with reading Cal's blog than the novels I'm teaching, but whatever.
All this unrest reminds me of when I was little and my mom got on what we now refer to as her "Holocaust Kick", which is, I realize, a totally disrespectful phrase and one I probably should not put in print. My sisters and I mean no harm by it, of course, so I'll leave it here in good faith that you all will take it as such. During this period of time (I was probably about 7 or 8), she got really interested in all things related to the Nazis and the Jews, particularly if there was a movie about it. She must've rented a million films over that time: The Hiding Place, Empire of the Sun, The Music Box, Diary of Anne Frank, etc. Because we were at home with her, we watched them, too, regardless of the fact that we were probably WAY too young to be exposed to such atrocities, particularly in a visual mode.
I vividly remember lying in my bedroom one night crying because I was so scared that someone would one day decide that we should be sent to a concentration camp, and I recall tiptoe-ing into my parents' room to receive their reassurances that it couldn't happen to us. (From my current, less naive perspective, however, I would beg to differ with their confident assertion.)
In Mom's defense, my childhood fear of the Nazis eventually led to a keen interest in the Jewish culture, so much so that I focused on Jewish Lit. for my Master's degree. And now here I am, 25 years later, exposing a new generation of children (are 16-year-olds children?) to the horrors of genocide, feeling completely inadequate for the task, yet, even so, hoping to instill in them a hatred of racial (or any kind of) prejudice, praying that I can somehow help to cause the slightest bit of decrease in the chances that this type of tragedy will ever happen again.
Off to bed soon. Pray for sweet dreams!
As a result of this influx of WWI/WWII information, my night-time visions have had mostly to do with being bombed in the trenches of France, getting carried off to Poland by the Gestapo, or being eaten by a giant raccoon. Well, okay, that last one might have more to do with reading Cal's blog than the novels I'm teaching, but whatever.
All this unrest reminds me of when I was little and my mom got on what we now refer to as her "Holocaust Kick", which is, I realize, a totally disrespectful phrase and one I probably should not put in print. My sisters and I mean no harm by it, of course, so I'll leave it here in good faith that you all will take it as such. During this period of time (I was probably about 7 or 8), she got really interested in all things related to the Nazis and the Jews, particularly if there was a movie about it. She must've rented a million films over that time: The Hiding Place, Empire of the Sun, The Music Box, Diary of Anne Frank, etc. Because we were at home with her, we watched them, too, regardless of the fact that we were probably WAY too young to be exposed to such atrocities, particularly in a visual mode.
I vividly remember lying in my bedroom one night crying because I was so scared that someone would one day decide that we should be sent to a concentration camp, and I recall tiptoe-ing into my parents' room to receive their reassurances that it couldn't happen to us. (From my current, less naive perspective, however, I would beg to differ with their confident assertion.)
In Mom's defense, my childhood fear of the Nazis eventually led to a keen interest in the Jewish culture, so much so that I focused on Jewish Lit. for my Master's degree. And now here I am, 25 years later, exposing a new generation of children (are 16-year-olds children?) to the horrors of genocide, feeling completely inadequate for the task, yet, even so, hoping to instill in them a hatred of racial (or any kind of) prejudice, praying that I can somehow help to cause the slightest bit of decrease in the chances that this type of tragedy will ever happen again.
Off to bed soon. Pray for sweet dreams!
4.08.2008
An Addendum
Add to the list in the post below another, horribly embarrassing telltale sign of age:
It's not even 5 pm, and I'm already home from eating (supper) out. Seriously.
It's not even 5 pm, and I'm already home from eating (supper) out. Seriously.
4.07.2008
Signs of Age
Lately, I've noticed more and more ways that my life is starting to resemble that of a not-so-young-anymore kind of person. For example:
1) I randomly ran into (not literally) Elizabeth the other day in the Lowe's parking lot. She was buying hardware for kitchen cabinets. I was buying plants for my garden. A far cry from our weekend in Vegas three years (!) ago.
2) I spent my spring break -- not in London -- but in absolute preoccupation with a) my niece and nephew in Destin (pictures below), and b) my perennial garden.
3) Our last big purchases were a furnace for our heater and a privacy fence for our backyard.
4) Tonight's big discussion is about our next big purchase possibilities: a burglar alarm, or weed treatment for our lawns?
5) It's 8 pm and I'm excited about bedtime.
I guess that 30th birthday of mine coming up in 2 months will be right on time.
1) I randomly ran into (not literally) Elizabeth the other day in the Lowe's parking lot. She was buying hardware for kitchen cabinets. I was buying plants for my garden. A far cry from our weekend in Vegas three years (!) ago.
2) I spent my spring break -- not in London -- but in absolute preoccupation with a) my niece and nephew in Destin (pictures below), and b) my perennial garden.
3) Our last big purchases were a furnace for our heater and a privacy fence for our backyard.
4) Tonight's big discussion is about our next big purchase possibilities: a burglar alarm, or weed treatment for our lawns?
5) It's 8 pm and I'm excited about bedtime.
I guess that 30th birthday of mine coming up in 2 months will be right on time.
4.03.2008
Hopefully, a green thumb
We are currently nearing the end of that glorious week known as Spring Break. For the first part of the holiday, Cal and I went down to Destin to spend some time on the beach and hang out with my mom, two of my sisters, and my nephew (William) and niece (Anna Claire). Despite a couple of days of bad weather, we had a great time and loved being able to spend more time with William and discover what a funny kid Anna Claire has become.
We got back Tuesday night, and Cal's dad came up yesterday afternoon to help Cal build a side to the privacy fence they started last year in our backyard. I used the occasion as motivation to work on the little garden that I started last year next to the cute little shed that the Powell boys built in the project before the fence one.
Last spring, I started out with some black-eyed susans, and, fortunately (miraculously?), 4 out of the 5 that I planted survived to this year. Not so fortunate, however, was the fact that I decided to save a little money (read: be cheap) on the rest of the garden and plant only annuals. Therefore, this year, I was left with four black-eyed susans and, well, a bunch of weedy dirt.
This spring, I committed to not making the same mistake twice. Yesterday Cal and I ventured out to the local nursery for some perennials. I have been thinking about this garden for a few weeks now (and reading every Cottage Living I could find for inspiration), and I knew exactly what I wanted. While I was looking, Cal went inside and struck up a conversation with the owner. Being the good journalist that he is, he left knowing all sorts of facts, like how long they'd been there (70-something years?) and what specific types of weed-killers they'd suggest for the small metropolitan of weeds that has sprung up in our backyard.
Anyway, I left penniless but happy, with Cal's truck loaded down with three shasta daisies, three purple coneflowers, and a dozen baby geraniums (for my window boxes). I also got a deal on two lacecap hydrangeas that the owner wanted to get rid of. I got both for HALF the price that he was asking for one of his other hydrangeas.
Tonight, I went to Lowe's and supplemented with some purple verbena and white phlox. I finished up planting my purchases about half an hour ago.
The best news of all? They're perennials. Every single one of them. Hopefully, if I did everything right, they'll come back year after year. Maybe, one day, you'll see my perennial garden on the cover of Cottage Living. A girl can dream, right?
We got back Tuesday night, and Cal's dad came up yesterday afternoon to help Cal build a side to the privacy fence they started last year in our backyard. I used the occasion as motivation to work on the little garden that I started last year next to the cute little shed that the Powell boys built in the project before the fence one.
Last spring, I started out with some black-eyed susans, and, fortunately (miraculously?), 4 out of the 5 that I planted survived to this year. Not so fortunate, however, was the fact that I decided to save a little money (read: be cheap) on the rest of the garden and plant only annuals. Therefore, this year, I was left with four black-eyed susans and, well, a bunch of weedy dirt.
This spring, I committed to not making the same mistake twice. Yesterday Cal and I ventured out to the local nursery for some perennials. I have been thinking about this garden for a few weeks now (and reading every Cottage Living I could find for inspiration), and I knew exactly what I wanted. While I was looking, Cal went inside and struck up a conversation with the owner. Being the good journalist that he is, he left knowing all sorts of facts, like how long they'd been there (70-something years?) and what specific types of weed-killers they'd suggest for the small metropolitan of weeds that has sprung up in our backyard.
Anyway, I left penniless but happy, with Cal's truck loaded down with three shasta daisies, three purple coneflowers, and a dozen baby geraniums (for my window boxes). I also got a deal on two lacecap hydrangeas that the owner wanted to get rid of. I got both for HALF the price that he was asking for one of his other hydrangeas.
Tonight, I went to Lowe's and supplemented with some purple verbena and white phlox. I finished up planting my purchases about half an hour ago.
The best news of all? They're perennials. Every single one of them. Hopefully, if I did everything right, they'll come back year after year. Maybe, one day, you'll see my perennial garden on the cover of Cottage Living. A girl can dream, right?
3.13.2008
Watching Weight
I talked to my sister, Amy, earlier, and apparently she and Mom are keeping themselves entertained at William's nightly feedings by reading aloud Cal's and my blogs. She said that Mom could hardly get through Cal's last post (about The Horse) she was laughing so hard. I figure it's time I do my auntly duty and blog, as well.
For the past two weeks, I've been doing the good ol' Weight Watchers again. For those of you who've been with me for awhile now, you know that this practice is a commonly reoccuring one in my life, particularly in the spring. I lost about 35 pounds or so 3 years ago, and about once a year since then I've had to go back in to re-lose the 5-10 lbs that somehow creep on over the winter. This time, it was more like 15, but we're not gonna talk about that.
Anyway, what I've found quite funny about my trips to the Weight Watchers meetings is that, every year that I go, the same people are there. The exact same people. The exact same -- in every size, shape, and form.
That's right, folks. When my friend Janet (who lost over 135 lbs, by the way) and I walked into that little storefront room 3 years ago last February, we met Bobbie Joe (a gourmet caterer who ended up doing the food at Janet's wedding), her friend Winnie (who always brings a big Zaxby's cup with her and sips on it the whole time, making me crave that good sweet tea), Thomas the Teacher, some other gourmet chef guy for whom I never learned a name, and two nurses who sat in the corner and cracked sarcastic jokes the whole time. Oh, and the lady who once told a story about how she ate three candy bars in her truck one day, while she was on her diet. I never learned her name, either. When I walked in the room two weeks ago? The old gang was still there.
What's amusing (and a little endearing) to me is that none of them seem to have lost a bit of weight in all that time. They pay their weekly $12, laugh off the Scary Lady behind the counter when she says with that infamous grimace, "oooooh, not such a great week this time, huh?", sit down in their regular spots, and shake their heads at each other as they all discuss how much weight they had gained. Then they smile, shrug, and say, "Well, tonight begins a new week! We'll do better!"
The meetings, I think, are their big social events of the week. They come because they relate to each other, and they like each other. It's no different from going to a bar to hang out, you know? They pay their "cover", then get a good hour and a half of visiting in without the hassle of getting all dolled up and having to shout over music and cigarette smoke.
Then, every week as we're walking back out to the cars, I overhear one saying to another, "What's your passion tonight, friend?" And the reply? "I think I'm feeling pizza!"
And off they go, starting the new week with a bang.
For the past two weeks, I've been doing the good ol' Weight Watchers again. For those of you who've been with me for awhile now, you know that this practice is a commonly reoccuring one in my life, particularly in the spring. I lost about 35 pounds or so 3 years ago, and about once a year since then I've had to go back in to re-lose the 5-10 lbs that somehow creep on over the winter. This time, it was more like 15, but we're not gonna talk about that.
Anyway, what I've found quite funny about my trips to the Weight Watchers meetings is that, every year that I go, the same people are there. The exact same people. The exact same -- in every size, shape, and form.
That's right, folks. When my friend Janet (who lost over 135 lbs, by the way) and I walked into that little storefront room 3 years ago last February, we met Bobbie Joe (a gourmet caterer who ended up doing the food at Janet's wedding), her friend Winnie (who always brings a big Zaxby's cup with her and sips on it the whole time, making me crave that good sweet tea), Thomas the Teacher, some other gourmet chef guy for whom I never learned a name, and two nurses who sat in the corner and cracked sarcastic jokes the whole time. Oh, and the lady who once told a story about how she ate three candy bars in her truck one day, while she was on her diet. I never learned her name, either. When I walked in the room two weeks ago? The old gang was still there.
What's amusing (and a little endearing) to me is that none of them seem to have lost a bit of weight in all that time. They pay their weekly $12, laugh off the Scary Lady behind the counter when she says with that infamous grimace, "oooooh, not such a great week this time, huh?", sit down in their regular spots, and shake their heads at each other as they all discuss how much weight they had gained. Then they smile, shrug, and say, "Well, tonight begins a new week! We'll do better!"
The meetings, I think, are their big social events of the week. They come because they relate to each other, and they like each other. It's no different from going to a bar to hang out, you know? They pay their "cover", then get a good hour and a half of visiting in without the hassle of getting all dolled up and having to shout over music and cigarette smoke.
Then, every week as we're walking back out to the cars, I overhear one saying to another, "What's your passion tonight, friend?" And the reply? "I think I'm feeling pizza!"
And off they go, starting the new week with a bang.
3.07.2008
3.05.2008
A Terry ... Boy? ...
Yes! A boy! In my family! My new nephew arrived tonight at 10:44, weighs 6 lb 7 oz, and currently answers to "Ghost Man" (his last name is Casper... get it?). We Terry girls are in love...
2.28.2008
The Wife of Noble Character
I've been longing to pick a fight for some time now. The problem is that the woman with whom I have my quarrel is not really real. She is, you see, the legendary Proverbs 31 Woman.
All my life I've placed this lady on a pedestal. "She's the woman you should be when you grow up!" decreed my childhood Sunday School teacher. "We are looking for this girl to date!" shouted my male college friends. I never thought much about it. I mean, what did she have to do with me, a swingin' single with no kids or husband to clothe in scarlet, no servant to provide portions for in the wee hours of the morning? Not very much.
Now, however, I'm married. When I made my vows a little over 8 months ago, I was expecting conflicts with Cal, selfish tendencies to be revealed, and alone time to be scarce. What I was not expecting, however, was the growing animosity I'd begin feeling towards this role model of my childhood, this icon that all little girls should strive to be.
I don't cook. I don't sew. I don't clean. I don't like early mornings. I don't really like late nights. I'm not so great with kids. I don't have a Roth IRA. My exposure to the "poor" and "needy" is synonymous to lunch with my fellow teachers at school. I don't like sashes, much less sell them to merchants. I love idleness.
I'm doomed.
I was bemoaning my lack of similarities to the Proverbs 31 woman to Cal the other day during one of my (monthly) breakdowns. His response?
"Who's the Proverbs 31 woman?"
Sheesh. Men!
I realize that the Bible is God's word, and I realize that I should tread carefully when taking issue with Scripture. However, I'm beginning to think that all of those Elisabeth Elliot books, all of those Sunday School lectures, all of those late-night RUF retreat discussions with other Christian girls were wrong. I don't think, I can't think, that the picture of this perfect woman is provided for women to feel guilty about not being for their entire lives. She's not someone we can strive to be. She's someone we must realize that we can't be.
She's another reason for us to turn to Christ for his grace. And, boy, am I glad He's there.
All my life I've placed this lady on a pedestal. "She's the woman you should be when you grow up!" decreed my childhood Sunday School teacher. "We are looking for this girl to date!" shouted my male college friends. I never thought much about it. I mean, what did she have to do with me, a swingin' single with no kids or husband to clothe in scarlet, no servant to provide portions for in the wee hours of the morning? Not very much.
Now, however, I'm married. When I made my vows a little over 8 months ago, I was expecting conflicts with Cal, selfish tendencies to be revealed, and alone time to be scarce. What I was not expecting, however, was the growing animosity I'd begin feeling towards this role model of my childhood, this icon that all little girls should strive to be.
I don't cook. I don't sew. I don't clean. I don't like early mornings. I don't really like late nights. I'm not so great with kids. I don't have a Roth IRA. My exposure to the "poor" and "needy" is synonymous to lunch with my fellow teachers at school. I don't like sashes, much less sell them to merchants. I love idleness.
I'm doomed.
I was bemoaning my lack of similarities to the Proverbs 31 woman to Cal the other day during one of my (monthly) breakdowns. His response?
"Who's the Proverbs 31 woman?"
Sheesh. Men!
I realize that the Bible is God's word, and I realize that I should tread carefully when taking issue with Scripture. However, I'm beginning to think that all of those Elisabeth Elliot books, all of those Sunday School lectures, all of those late-night RUF retreat discussions with other Christian girls were wrong. I don't think, I can't think, that the picture of this perfect woman is provided for women to feel guilty about not being for their entire lives. She's not someone we can strive to be. She's someone we must realize that we can't be.
She's another reason for us to turn to Christ for his grace. And, boy, am I glad He's there.
2.20.2008
Adventures in Alabama
Last weekend, Elizabeth and I had a near death experience.
Well, okay. Maybe I'm exaggerating a little.
We were traveling back from my friend Meredith's wedding in Jackson, MS, when we first caught wind of danger: the radio station we were listening to began to mention tornadoes in Alabama. Lots of them, and close. The good news was that the bad weather was south of us. The bad news was that it was traveling northeast. We, of course, were traveling straight east. We started to speculate regarding our options.
"Well," said Elizabeth, "they probably won't be an issue by the time we get to that area."
"Yeah," I replied hopefully, "maybe we can outrun the storms."
I sped up so that we were traveling over 80 mph, and we kept the radio station turned up so that we could hear any updates. My mother called. Several times.
"Girls? Do you know that there's bad weather in Alabama?"
Cal called. "Just wanted to make sure y'all were aware of the storms in east Alabama."
We got it. Thanks. As we neared the town of Anniston, we got a report on the latest warnings. Several tornadoes had been spotted, one just east of Anniston in the next county over. The county through which we'd be traveling in merely a few short minutes. Still feeling invincible, however, we decided to push on. Actually, we didn't really decide anything, we just didn't pull over, mainly because of our ambivalence each time we got to an exit. We kept saying, "we'll just pull over at the next one if it's bad" or "maybe we can go just one more."
Unfortunately, we did that one too many times. The weather took a turn for the worse, and suddenly the wind was rocking Elizabeth's Explorer and rain was pelting at the windshield. About that time, we heard the announcement on the radio:
"Folks, if you're in your houses, take cover in a closet or bathroom. If you're in a car, pull over to the side of the road and lay down in a ditch."
Elizabeth and I exchanged glances. Neither of us found the idea of waiting out the tornadoes in a ditch on the side of I-20 real appealing. We decided to pull off at the next exit, just ahead. And we did. However, we were in the middle of Alabama, and this particular exit was confirmation: absolutely no sign of life was in existence anywhere around. It was at that moment, stopped at the stop sign at the offramp of the interstate, that we heard the first mournful wail. The sirens had begun.
Elizabeth took one look at the blotches on my neck and face (due to my increased anxiety) and suggested we turn around and head back west an exit. I couldn't have agreed more quickly, and we soon found ourselves heading back to Anniston.
A few harried minutes later, we saw a beacon of light in front of us. Was it heaven? we wondered. Had we died back there in the tornado and were now heading towards the glow of those pearly gates we'd always heard about? For a minute, we thought that might be the case.
But then, out of that shimmer of lights, we started to make out glimpses of red as well. Red letters, actually. Red letters that spelled out the next best thing to a heavenly reunion with those who had gone before us: TJ Maxx. (cue host of angels singing "Haaaaallelujah!")
My mom happened to be on the phone with Elizabeth at the time of the sighting, demanding mile marker numbers so that she and Dad could track precisely where we were in relation to the tornadoes that had been confirmed. When Elizabeth told her the good news of our soon-to-be haven from the storms, my mom promptly replied with a relieved, "Well, that's great news! If you're gonna die, die in a TJ!"
What followed was 2 1/2 hours of unhurried shopping in the world's most perfect store, a leisurely dinner at Longhorn next door, and an hour of browsing sales at Target, also in the same shopping center, all the while keeping in touch with our parents who could survey the locations of the storms and let us know when all was clear to leave.
When we got home safely, 13 hours after we had departed Jackson that morning, we were exhausted and our wallets were a good bit lighter. However, we certainly couldn't complain: having a legitimate excuse to spend hours in a place that we both consider the next best thing to heaven had been worth it all.
Well, okay. Maybe I'm exaggerating a little.
We were traveling back from my friend Meredith's wedding in Jackson, MS, when we first caught wind of danger: the radio station we were listening to began to mention tornadoes in Alabama. Lots of them, and close. The good news was that the bad weather was south of us. The bad news was that it was traveling northeast. We, of course, were traveling straight east. We started to speculate regarding our options.
"Well," said Elizabeth, "they probably won't be an issue by the time we get to that area."
"Yeah," I replied hopefully, "maybe we can outrun the storms."
I sped up so that we were traveling over 80 mph, and we kept the radio station turned up so that we could hear any updates. My mother called. Several times.
"Girls? Do you know that there's bad weather in Alabama?"
Cal called. "Just wanted to make sure y'all were aware of the storms in east Alabama."
We got it. Thanks. As we neared the town of Anniston, we got a report on the latest warnings. Several tornadoes had been spotted, one just east of Anniston in the next county over. The county through which we'd be traveling in merely a few short minutes. Still feeling invincible, however, we decided to push on. Actually, we didn't really decide anything, we just didn't pull over, mainly because of our ambivalence each time we got to an exit. We kept saying, "we'll just pull over at the next one if it's bad" or "maybe we can go just one more."
Unfortunately, we did that one too many times. The weather took a turn for the worse, and suddenly the wind was rocking Elizabeth's Explorer and rain was pelting at the windshield. About that time, we heard the announcement on the radio:
"Folks, if you're in your houses, take cover in a closet or bathroom. If you're in a car, pull over to the side of the road and lay down in a ditch."
Elizabeth and I exchanged glances. Neither of us found the idea of waiting out the tornadoes in a ditch on the side of I-20 real appealing. We decided to pull off at the next exit, just ahead. And we did. However, we were in the middle of Alabama, and this particular exit was confirmation: absolutely no sign of life was in existence anywhere around. It was at that moment, stopped at the stop sign at the offramp of the interstate, that we heard the first mournful wail. The sirens had begun.
Elizabeth took one look at the blotches on my neck and face (due to my increased anxiety) and suggested we turn around and head back west an exit. I couldn't have agreed more quickly, and we soon found ourselves heading back to Anniston.
A few harried minutes later, we saw a beacon of light in front of us. Was it heaven? we wondered. Had we died back there in the tornado and were now heading towards the glow of those pearly gates we'd always heard about? For a minute, we thought that might be the case.
But then, out of that shimmer of lights, we started to make out glimpses of red as well. Red letters, actually. Red letters that spelled out the next best thing to a heavenly reunion with those who had gone before us: TJ Maxx. (cue host of angels singing "Haaaaallelujah!")
My mom happened to be on the phone with Elizabeth at the time of the sighting, demanding mile marker numbers so that she and Dad could track precisely where we were in relation to the tornadoes that had been confirmed. When Elizabeth told her the good news of our soon-to-be haven from the storms, my mom promptly replied with a relieved, "Well, that's great news! If you're gonna die, die in a TJ!"
What followed was 2 1/2 hours of unhurried shopping in the world's most perfect store, a leisurely dinner at Longhorn next door, and an hour of browsing sales at Target, also in the same shopping center, all the while keeping in touch with our parents who could survey the locations of the storms and let us know when all was clear to leave.
When we got home safely, 13 hours after we had departed Jackson that morning, we were exhausted and our wallets were a good bit lighter. However, we certainly couldn't complain: having a legitimate excuse to spend hours in a place that we both consider the next best thing to heaven had been worth it all.
2.10.2008
Oooooooh... Where is her hairbrush?
My niece, Anna Claire, loves the Veggie Tales. So when she got a little fussy while my family was all down in Destin over Christmas break, we caught her attention by dramatizing one of our favorite of Larry's silly songs. Seems the temporary diversion has stuck and is now one of AC's favorite pastimes...
Can you see now why we love her so?
(Debuting as featured back-up singers are Beth "Tina Turner" Terry and Amy "Janice Joplin" Casper: Anna Claire's second and third favorite aunts. Footage so artistically captured by Matt "Call me Steven Spielberg" Casper... I think.)
Can you see now why we love her so?
(Debuting as featured back-up singers are Beth "Tina Turner" Terry and Amy "Janice Joplin" Casper: Anna Claire's second and third favorite aunts. Footage so artistically captured by Matt "Call me Steven Spielberg" Casper... I think.)
2.07.2008
Growing old ... gracefully?
It's about that time of year when I begin to question my career choices. The students are surly, the cold early mornings make me even grumpier than usual when my alarm goes off at 6:15, and I'm just plain exhausted.
For the last couple of weeks, I've hardly been able to get out of the bed, for some reason. My lethargy is not the result of a deep depression or anything nearly as dramatic as that; it's merely because I'm tired. Dead tired. I can't figure it out, and Cal thinks it's unusual, too. In the past I've been the one to kid him about his early nights. Lately, though, I've hit the sheets long before he's even ironed his clothes or shaved for the next morning. I'm starting to feel old.
I'm turning 30 in just a few months, and I really wonder if my age is starting to affect my body in a few ways. Now before you get all "30 isn't old!" on me, let me clarify. I'm not about to die, and I'm certainly not about to give up on life. Heck, I'm thinking I've got at least a good 50 more years left, and hopefully more than that.
All I'm saying is that I am finally (and unfortunately) starting to show some signs of aging. For example ...
Wrinkles. I first noticed a few forehead creases the year I started teaching, but the wrinkles of late are a bit different. These facial distortions are most prominent in the mornings when I get out of bed, and they are, primarily, etched into the side of my face that I tend to sleep on the most.
Because of these lovely red streaks, I'm no longer able to roll out of bed and be at school in 20 minutes. It's not that my "beauty regimen" takes any longer than it used to; no, the problem is that the pillow creases (we used to call them "battle scars") on my face now take well over an hour to fade away ... shower or no shower. Unless I want my 1st period class knowing my exact sleeping patterns as shown by the marks on my right cheek (facial, of course), I have to allow time for them to go away and my face to puff back out to its natural proportions. And that means rising early. Used to be that they were gone within 5 minutes of lifting my body from my mattress. Sigh.
The other day, Elizabeth and I were discussing another sign of aging that we've both noticed recently, and it has to do with weight gain. I have officially gained 10 pounds since my wedding in June. 10 pounds! How does that happen? Sure, I've been eating more than I was before, and sure I haven't exercised like I used to. But 10 pounds?
The scarier side of the weight issue is that it's suddenly not coming off like it used to. Since Christmas, I've cut back on my eating a good bit and I've exercised a lot more, all to no avail. Nothing. The scale hasn't budged. If anything, I'm up a pound or two. AND, although I'm still 25 pounds less than I was when I lost a good bit of weight 3 years ago, I'm currently wearing some of the same sizes that I did BEFORE those 25 pounds came off. Someone explain that one to me.
The only thing I can figure is that age (and gravity) is causing the extra pounds to settle differently than they used to. Used to be that I gained weight and, well, I had a little bit of excess (somewhat) thinly spread out everywhere. Now, I gain weight, and I have a lot of excess, thickly padded right onto the general vicinity of my backside. My butt, in other words.
In a recent attempt to curb this disturbing migration of fat, I took it upon myself to do some walking lunges at the gym Monday night. I only did, like, 3 sets. Maybe. I was sore immediately, however, and I've been hobbling around like a 90-year-old with a broken tailbone ever since. Seriously.
Yesterday, I tried and tried to resist my daily afternoon diet coke. The reason? I would have to go up to the second floor of the school to get it from the machine in the teacher's lounge, and I just wasn't convinced that my tortured muscles could get me through that daunting flight of stairs. The solution when I gave in to the impossible temptation? I took the elevator. The elevator reserved for kids with broken legs or sprained ankles. The elevator with a "do not use unless injured" sign on it. A glorified handicapped lift, in other words. Oh yes. It's true. I went when everyone else was at lunch so no one would see. I was so embarrassed.
This morning I woke up somewhat improved, and I was encouraged. Somehow, however, between attempting to teach Alice Walker to a bunch of 1st perioders who hadn't read the assigned material and 2nd perioders who had but couldn't care less, I managed to "overcompensate" (term borrowed from Cal's athletic vocab) for the sore muscles and pulled something. Something in my butt. Something I didn't even know existed until about 9 hours ago. Great.
So tonight Cal's off playing a tennis match and I'm here at home, in my pajamas, blogging with the food network on in the background. I figure I'll head on to bed soon.
It is, you know, almost 6:30.
For the last couple of weeks, I've hardly been able to get out of the bed, for some reason. My lethargy is not the result of a deep depression or anything nearly as dramatic as that; it's merely because I'm tired. Dead tired. I can't figure it out, and Cal thinks it's unusual, too. In the past I've been the one to kid him about his early nights. Lately, though, I've hit the sheets long before he's even ironed his clothes or shaved for the next morning. I'm starting to feel old.
I'm turning 30 in just a few months, and I really wonder if my age is starting to affect my body in a few ways. Now before you get all "30 isn't old!" on me, let me clarify. I'm not about to die, and I'm certainly not about to give up on life. Heck, I'm thinking I've got at least a good 50 more years left, and hopefully more than that.
All I'm saying is that I am finally (and unfortunately) starting to show some signs of aging. For example ...
Wrinkles. I first noticed a few forehead creases the year I started teaching, but the wrinkles of late are a bit different. These facial distortions are most prominent in the mornings when I get out of bed, and they are, primarily, etched into the side of my face that I tend to sleep on the most.
Because of these lovely red streaks, I'm no longer able to roll out of bed and be at school in 20 minutes. It's not that my "beauty regimen" takes any longer than it used to; no, the problem is that the pillow creases (we used to call them "battle scars") on my face now take well over an hour to fade away ... shower or no shower. Unless I want my 1st period class knowing my exact sleeping patterns as shown by the marks on my right cheek (facial, of course), I have to allow time for them to go away and my face to puff back out to its natural proportions. And that means rising early. Used to be that they were gone within 5 minutes of lifting my body from my mattress. Sigh.
The other day, Elizabeth and I were discussing another sign of aging that we've both noticed recently, and it has to do with weight gain. I have officially gained 10 pounds since my wedding in June. 10 pounds! How does that happen? Sure, I've been eating more than I was before, and sure I haven't exercised like I used to. But 10 pounds?
The scarier side of the weight issue is that it's suddenly not coming off like it used to. Since Christmas, I've cut back on my eating a good bit and I've exercised a lot more, all to no avail. Nothing. The scale hasn't budged. If anything, I'm up a pound or two. AND, although I'm still 25 pounds less than I was when I lost a good bit of weight 3 years ago, I'm currently wearing some of the same sizes that I did BEFORE those 25 pounds came off. Someone explain that one to me.
The only thing I can figure is that age (and gravity) is causing the extra pounds to settle differently than they used to. Used to be that I gained weight and, well, I had a little bit of excess (somewhat) thinly spread out everywhere. Now, I gain weight, and I have a lot of excess, thickly padded right onto the general vicinity of my backside. My butt, in other words.
In a recent attempt to curb this disturbing migration of fat, I took it upon myself to do some walking lunges at the gym Monday night. I only did, like, 3 sets. Maybe. I was sore immediately, however, and I've been hobbling around like a 90-year-old with a broken tailbone ever since. Seriously.
Yesterday, I tried and tried to resist my daily afternoon diet coke. The reason? I would have to go up to the second floor of the school to get it from the machine in the teacher's lounge, and I just wasn't convinced that my tortured muscles could get me through that daunting flight of stairs. The solution when I gave in to the impossible temptation? I took the elevator. The elevator reserved for kids with broken legs or sprained ankles. The elevator with a "do not use unless injured" sign on it. A glorified handicapped lift, in other words. Oh yes. It's true. I went when everyone else was at lunch so no one would see. I was so embarrassed.
This morning I woke up somewhat improved, and I was encouraged. Somehow, however, between attempting to teach Alice Walker to a bunch of 1st perioders who hadn't read the assigned material and 2nd perioders who had but couldn't care less, I managed to "overcompensate" (term borrowed from Cal's athletic vocab) for the sore muscles and pulled something. Something in my butt. Something I didn't even know existed until about 9 hours ago. Great.
So tonight Cal's off playing a tennis match and I'm here at home, in my pajamas, blogging with the food network on in the background. I figure I'll head on to bed soon.
It is, you know, almost 6:30.
1.31.2008
That's the story of, that's the glory of love ...
If you grew up in my family and you read that title, one word would pop into your head.
Beaches.
I don't remember how we came upon loving that movie as much as we did. Was it the eternal friendship that the movie portrayed between the two female leads? Was it the reality of the Barbara Hershey character's tragic death in the eyes of our sheltered, preteen eyes? Was it Bette Midler's defiant attitude and showstopper style?
Or was it merely the cheesy, though somehow mesmerizing, music?
I may never know. The fact is, however, that we adored everything about that film. Beth, the oldest of the four of us, ended up buying it, I think, and it was perhaps one of the first movies that we owned growing up. We had the soundtrack, too. Oh yes. We'd all belt out "Wind Beneath My Wings" at the tops of our lungs while driving around the thriving metropolis of Thomasville.
I don't remember which came first, our love affair with Beaches, or our obsession with the talented Mrs. Midler. I'm sure that one led to the other. We rented all kinds of Bette Midler movies, including the most memorable (other than Beaches, of course), Big Business. This comedy was a story about two sets of twins, each swapped up at birth so that the new parents went home from the hospital with one child from each pair. Half of the twin-set was played by Lily Tomlin, the other half ... Bette Midler. We must've watched that movie 12 times.
Anyway, I bring all this stuff up because Bette was on Oprah the other day, promoting her big, new show in Vegas. Seems that she's taking Celine Dion's place as one of the semi-permanent attractions out there, and I couldn't be more excited.
Cal, on the other hand, is less than thrilled.
So any of you out there who'd like to take a trip to Vegas in the next year or so, please count me in. I'm sick of admiring Bette Midler ... from a distance. (HA!!)
Beaches.
I don't remember how we came upon loving that movie as much as we did. Was it the eternal friendship that the movie portrayed between the two female leads? Was it the reality of the Barbara Hershey character's tragic death in the eyes of our sheltered, preteen eyes? Was it Bette Midler's defiant attitude and showstopper style?
Or was it merely the cheesy, though somehow mesmerizing, music?
I may never know. The fact is, however, that we adored everything about that film. Beth, the oldest of the four of us, ended up buying it, I think, and it was perhaps one of the first movies that we owned growing up. We had the soundtrack, too. Oh yes. We'd all belt out "Wind Beneath My Wings" at the tops of our lungs while driving around the thriving metropolis of Thomasville.
I don't remember which came first, our love affair with Beaches, or our obsession with the talented Mrs. Midler. I'm sure that one led to the other. We rented all kinds of Bette Midler movies, including the most memorable (other than Beaches, of course), Big Business. This comedy was a story about two sets of twins, each swapped up at birth so that the new parents went home from the hospital with one child from each pair. Half of the twin-set was played by Lily Tomlin, the other half ... Bette Midler. We must've watched that movie 12 times.
Anyway, I bring all this stuff up because Bette was on Oprah the other day, promoting her big, new show in Vegas. Seems that she's taking Celine Dion's place as one of the semi-permanent attractions out there, and I couldn't be more excited.
Cal, on the other hand, is less than thrilled.
So any of you out there who'd like to take a trip to Vegas in the next year or so, please count me in. I'm sick of admiring Bette Midler ... from a distance. (HA!!)
1.27.2008
Retaliation
This picture I am posting in response to Cal's latest entry on his site.
See what 31 years of chili dogs and flaky ice will do to you?
See what 31 years of chili dogs and flaky ice will do to you?
1.18.2008
Weddings! and fabulous memories of my traveling friend.
Rebecca called me last night. You know Rebecca? The "becca" who is so faithful in checking this site, even if it's not been updated in over 3 months? The girl who is such a great friend that she comments on practically each and every blog, just so that I know she's still reading? That's the one.
Anyway, Rebecca called. Being the self-absorbed person that I am, I naturally assumed that she was curious about how the hair turned out. After our initial hellos, I launched into a 20-minute, detailed story about Tommy, his initial hesitations, his eventual agreement that the color thing was the right way to go, the outcome, etc. She didn't burst my bubble. She listened, laughed, agreed, and pretty much paid attention to me for the entire extent of the one-sided conversation.
When I finished, there was a brief silence. Then ...
"Well, the real reason I called was to tell you that I'm engaged!"
My hair, of course, was quickly forgotten.
Rebecca is the third of my three closest graduate school friends to announce in the last few months that they, too, are getting married. Meredith, who you all know about from previous posts, is one. She's getting married in February in Jackson, and I get to be an attendant. Totally excited about what is sure to be the party of the year. Bryan is another; he and I hit it off while attending the same small group Bible study in Athens for several years. The third is Rebecca. Good ol' Rebecca.
Rebecca and I first met at RUF in our senior year at UGA. Although I knew who she was then, we didn't really become close until, 2 years (and a whole lot of future-career-confusion on both sides) later, we started graduate school in the English department together. I knew no one else there, and we sort of clung to each other a bit until we got our bearings. She, Gina, and I quickly became study partners and moral supporters; I remember one day in particular that involved sitting at Jittery Joe's while we all three told each other over and over again how smart the other was. We were trying to get up the motivation to start our Master's theses. We all succeeded, and I'm convinced it's because of the confidence that we gave each other. Strength in numbers and all.
Rebecca understands my desire to be edgy and bohemian. She and I always complained that we would never get to that place where we were successful in our attempts to throw off mainstream; she, however, made it. How jealous I am!
Anyway, Rebecca called. Being the self-absorbed person that I am, I naturally assumed that she was curious about how the hair turned out. After our initial hellos, I launched into a 20-minute, detailed story about Tommy, his initial hesitations, his eventual agreement that the color thing was the right way to go, the outcome, etc. She didn't burst my bubble. She listened, laughed, agreed, and pretty much paid attention to me for the entire extent of the one-sided conversation.
When I finished, there was a brief silence. Then ...
"Well, the real reason I called was to tell you that I'm engaged!"
My hair, of course, was quickly forgotten.
Rebecca is the third of my three closest graduate school friends to announce in the last few months that they, too, are getting married. Meredith, who you all know about from previous posts, is one. She's getting married in February in Jackson, and I get to be an attendant. Totally excited about what is sure to be the party of the year. Bryan is another; he and I hit it off while attending the same small group Bible study in Athens for several years. The third is Rebecca. Good ol' Rebecca.
Rebecca and I first met at RUF in our senior year at UGA. Although I knew who she was then, we didn't really become close until, 2 years (and a whole lot of future-career-confusion on both sides) later, we started graduate school in the English department together. I knew no one else there, and we sort of clung to each other a bit until we got our bearings. She, Gina, and I quickly became study partners and moral supporters; I remember one day in particular that involved sitting at Jittery Joe's while we all three told each other over and over again how smart the other was. We were trying to get up the motivation to start our Master's theses. We all succeeded, and I'm convinced it's because of the confidence that we gave each other. Strength in numbers and all.
Rebecca understands my desire to be edgy and bohemian. She and I always complained that we would never get to that place where we were successful in our attempts to throw off mainstream; she, however, made it. How jealous I am!
My favorite memories of Rebecca, though, are from our trip to London back in March of 2003. I got an email from her one night saying that she and Gina had found really cheap flights for spring break, and didn't I want to go? I, of course, did, and a week later we were staying in a stinky, bright yellow room on the top floor of a rickety old hostel, living out of our backpacks and having a grand old time. Both of the others had lived in England for study abroad programs, and they showed me around like pros. It was fantastic.
Fantastic, that is, until that Wednesday, when America (with the UK as allies) started bombing Iraq. Suddenly our lighthearted, spring break trip to London turned into a made-for-tv drama. "How will three blond-headed American girls survive in war-torn Europe?" Tune in tomorrow afternoon, only on Lifetime: Television for Women.
We avoided subways for fear of terrorists releasing deadly chemicals. We took pictures of protests and riots in Westminster Square, Oxford, and Bath. We were handed fliers by members of London's Iraqi community. We fielded frantic questions from our parents during calls home. It was thrilling, really!
Then ... the climax. Rebecca's purse got stolen the day before we left. Stolen, and in it were our plane tickets, her driver's license, and her passport. The airport couldn't help: "We can't let anyone out of this country without a passport, ma'am. And our flights are booked through April."
It was the weekend (a Friday night), and the embassy wasn't open until Monday. We called and talked to the emergency contact there. We begged. We cried. Nothing. They weren't opening for three, silly little students.
In an act that might've traumatized Gina for all time, we sent her home on our original flight. The airlines told us that, with the flights booked as solidly they were, we'd have a much better chance of getting on a later flight (after a passport renewal) if there were only two passengers. Forever ingrained in my visual memory is Gina, sobbing and throwing her unused British money at us, then sadly riding the elevator up to the terminal with no luggage, just her book. She told us later that she got stopped at every security checkpoint because the guards were so suspicious of an international traveler with no bags.
In the two extra days that Rebecca and I had in London, we read Harry Potter and Bridget Jones in Hyde Park, ate free slices of cake from the Italian owners of a restaurant called Lo Spuntino (they felt sorry for us), and ogled a really cute British businessman at the American Embassy (sorry, Cal).
After I vouched for Rebecca's American citizenship and she got her passport, we headed to the airport for what we assumed would be a long wait for a spot on a flight back to America. Instead, we were allowed on the next flight out (a Muslim flight out, actually, but that's another story) to Toronto, where we spent the night in the food court and flew to Atlanta the next day. Gina was waiting there to drive us home to Athens. An all-American hamburger from The Grill never tasted so good ...
Nearly 5 years later, and I still count Rebecca as one of my closest friends. We live hours apart (she in Chapel Hill after a stint in Asheville, me here in Macon) and never see each other, but all it takes to reconnect is a one or two-word email and we're back to laughing at all of our old adventures. She is one of the select few who made my days as a singleton as wonderfully satisfying and fun-filled as they were.
And now we'll both be married. Me first, her following soon after. Congratulations, Rebecca ... and may our friendship be as exciting in this new phase of our lives as it was before!
1.15.2008
Lowlights
Every so often, as you all know so well by now, I get an itching to do something a little bit crazy to my appearance. 4 years ago (4 years!), this irritation culminated in my getting my hair chopped off to the length of about 1 inch. No kidding. Those folks who knew me then can attest to the fact that it was WAY short. A pixie cut, I think they call it. Anyway, after I got over the initial scariness of it all, I loved it. I felt different, bold, individualized -- a far cry from the long-locked ladies of Bibb County.
Now, though, my hair is all grown out and back to what it was when I left Athens. I've enjoyed it for a while and still love the flexibility that comes with the length, but I'm left, again, feeling mainstream and boring and preppy and blah.
A few months back, I started thinking about doing something with the color of my hair and leaving the length alone. I've speculated on everything from going totally brunette to two-toned to doing nothing at all. I finally made an appointment with Tommy (my wonderful and undeniably gay hairdresser) and it's coming up on Thursday. Still no idea what I'll do, and I might stick with my usual.
But wouldn't a change be fun?
I realize it's cliche to post pictures of celebrities, but it's all I've got. Something like SJP's color below is what I'm currently thinking. Not too far from where I am now, but not so boringly blond, either. Suggestions?
1.14.2008
Highlights
Yeah, so, it's been a month or so since I've written anything. Funny thing is that right after my last post, I sent my blog address to a number of friends and family who hadn't previously known about the site. Then ... the famine of posts. They probably think I was lying to them. Here I am, though, with --as usual-- no promises to pick things back up to writing on a regular basis. We all know that that would be one promise I could never keep!
Highlights of the Month:
Highlights of the Month:
-- Christmas holidays! Definitely the best part about teaching.
-- Being able to wipe out 75% of my Christmas shopping at one place: Gordy's Photography Studio ... wedding pictures for all!
-- Diamond earrings from Cal. You know what they say about diamonds!
-- Surviving the first knock-down, drag-out, screaming, yelling, slamming doors and driving off fight of our marriage. Phew. Glad that one's out of the way.
-- Finishing the grades (yesterday) on 91 midterms, promptly followed by 91 big essays. Tell me again why I'm teaching English?
-- One of those fancy, giant showerheads. Good thing the water bill is on my list of household financial responsibilities; otherwise, Cal might have decide to take that gift back by now.
-- Anna Claire, my niece. Certainly the cutest kid ever. Seriously. Turned two on Saturday.
-- Finally and most hilarious and creative, a fuzzy toilet seat. Cal got sick of hearing about how cold my porcelain toilet seat was, so he went and bought one of those lid covers and cut it to fit the seat. It's hideously tacky, but oh so effective. He did it all without my knowing. A pleasant surprise for my derriere, for sure! Pictures to come when I get home from work tonight!
12.08.2007
Surely, Santa is a woman.
Ask any one of my family members about my gift-giving habits, and they'll let out a belly laugh.
You see, I'm not exactly always on top of things when it comes to buying presents for people. My sister Beth's birthday, for example, was in September, and I've yet to get her something for it. I'll hopefully have found the perfect thing by the time I see her for Christmas. Hopefully.
At this time, late on December 8, I have not yet bought one single gift for anyone for Christmas. In the past, that fact wouldn't have stressed me out a bit. In the past, however, my family has celebrated our holiday closer to January 1st because of work schedules. This year, I'm not so lucky. This year, we're having Christmas on Christmas.
Another cause for concern is the fact that I've got a whole 'nother family to buy for this go round. Another mom-who-has-everything, another sister, a father/sports fanatic, and (for the first time) a brother. Getting married has basically doubled the gift load, and in response I should've doubled the time I take to shop. I haven't. I think I'm in trouble.
Along those same lines, I think I've officially decided that Christmas is NOT a holiday for women. Take my post on decorating, for example. Cal does his expected part: getting the boxes out of the attic. My tasks, however, include hanging the wreaths, decorating the mantles (we have four fireplaces), creating a centerpiece for our dining room table, hanging the ornaments -just so- on our oh-so-wonderfully-gaudy tree, setting up the nativity scenes, placing holiday pillows on the couch, etc etc. You see, I hope, my point.
Tonight we had a Christmas party with my Sunday School class. I spent most of my Saturday buying ingredients at the grocery store, shopping for white elephant gifts, making an appetizer to take, and wrapping our white elephant gifts. What did we come home with from the "Chinese Auction" portion of the evening? A sports trivia game and a pocket knife. Cal is thrilled.
I think about Christmas at both mine and Cal's parents' houses. Our moms go all out with not only the meals, the tree, the decorations, and the cleaning, but also the gifts. Oh my goodness, the gifts. Mom will have 5 presents under the tree to unwrap: one from each of her kids, and one from my dad. Some of these are still in the Target/Walmart/Rayann's Christian Bookstore bag in which they came. We, on the other hand, literally spend hours opening our tens of thousands (slight exaggeration) of beautifully and lovingly packaged goodies, each with a handmade ribbon or bow to top off the gorgeous paper. She even color-codes the gifts that need to be opened simultaneously, such as the Veggie Tales Nativity set that we all four got a couple of years ago. Cal's house works pretty much the same way.
Anyway, this post really has no point, and it's just full of my musings from the last few days, particularly ever since I had my breakdown over the house-decorating last weekend. I should clarify that Cal is doing everything that I ask him to do and more, so it's not as if he's being a jerk while I do all the work. It is, really, stuff that the woman is just expected to do. Stuff that wouldn't ever get done if it were left up to the male gender.
Aren't we glad that it's not?
You see, I'm not exactly always on top of things when it comes to buying presents for people. My sister Beth's birthday, for example, was in September, and I've yet to get her something for it. I'll hopefully have found the perfect thing by the time I see her for Christmas. Hopefully.
At this time, late on December 8, I have not yet bought one single gift for anyone for Christmas. In the past, that fact wouldn't have stressed me out a bit. In the past, however, my family has celebrated our holiday closer to January 1st because of work schedules. This year, I'm not so lucky. This year, we're having Christmas on Christmas.
Another cause for concern is the fact that I've got a whole 'nother family to buy for this go round. Another mom-who-has-everything, another sister, a father/sports fanatic, and (for the first time) a brother. Getting married has basically doubled the gift load, and in response I should've doubled the time I take to shop. I haven't. I think I'm in trouble.
Along those same lines, I think I've officially decided that Christmas is NOT a holiday for women. Take my post on decorating, for example. Cal does his expected part: getting the boxes out of the attic. My tasks, however, include hanging the wreaths, decorating the mantles (we have four fireplaces), creating a centerpiece for our dining room table, hanging the ornaments -just so- on our oh-so-wonderfully-gaudy tree, setting up the nativity scenes, placing holiday pillows on the couch, etc etc. You see, I hope, my point.
Tonight we had a Christmas party with my Sunday School class. I spent most of my Saturday buying ingredients at the grocery store, shopping for white elephant gifts, making an appetizer to take, and wrapping our white elephant gifts. What did we come home with from the "Chinese Auction" portion of the evening? A sports trivia game and a pocket knife. Cal is thrilled.
I think about Christmas at both mine and Cal's parents' houses. Our moms go all out with not only the meals, the tree, the decorations, and the cleaning, but also the gifts. Oh my goodness, the gifts. Mom will have 5 presents under the tree to unwrap: one from each of her kids, and one from my dad. Some of these are still in the Target/Walmart/Rayann's Christian Bookstore bag in which they came. We, on the other hand, literally spend hours opening our tens of thousands (slight exaggeration) of beautifully and lovingly packaged goodies, each with a handmade ribbon or bow to top off the gorgeous paper. She even color-codes the gifts that need to be opened simultaneously, such as the Veggie Tales Nativity set that we all four got a couple of years ago. Cal's house works pretty much the same way.
Anyway, this post really has no point, and it's just full of my musings from the last few days, particularly ever since I had my breakdown over the house-decorating last weekend. I should clarify that Cal is doing everything that I ask him to do and more, so it's not as if he's being a jerk while I do all the work. It is, really, stuff that the woman is just expected to do. Stuff that wouldn't ever get done if it were left up to the male gender.
Aren't we glad that it's not?
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