Saturday, March 31, 2007
Animals and Things.
The first words I heard this morning were from Bones to his wife, "I'm going to google to get orange juice." Google provides free orange juice - and just about everything else - to its employees. I'll write an extensive post about this later. But right now, I'm just waiting for Bones to return with the orange juice.
So. I survived (and loved) horseback riding on the beach. My horse, Feathers, had quite the personality. I think that we liked one another. I gave her an apple before our journey, and she felt comfortable enough to relieve both her bladder and bowels while we were riding. Neat.
I've been kind of crazy about livestock recently. I had a tough time deciding whether or not I should buy a chicken for my backyard yesterday. For a moment or two - before I learned about the salmonella and molting - it seemed just perfect. I have a small backyard. Nothing grows there. Why not cover it with chicken feed? Plus, the chicken could chase off the groundhogs. (Who have returned again for spring, in hopes that we'll try, once again, to plant vegetables this summer.)
Right. So we drove down PCW yesterday afternoon looking for farm animals. Most specifically, sheep. I want to be near a sheep. It's a new thing. There's a dual purpose for this interest. But I'll talk about that later.
Meanwhile, I have to get ready for the road trip. I love driving on the coast. It reminds me of Steinbeck novels. And just how temporary I am, compared to these mountains formed, presumably, by earthquakes since the beginning of time. It's going to be a nice day.
The first words I heard this morning were from Bones to his wife, "I'm going to google to get orange juice." Google provides free orange juice - and just about everything else - to its employees. I'll write an extensive post about this later. But right now, I'm just waiting for Bones to return with the orange juice.
So. I survived (and loved) horseback riding on the beach. My horse, Feathers, had quite the personality. I think that we liked one another. I gave her an apple before our journey, and she felt comfortable enough to relieve both her bladder and bowels while we were riding. Neat.I've been kind of crazy about livestock recently. I had a tough time deciding whether or not I should buy a chicken for my backyard yesterday. For a moment or two - before I learned about the salmonella and molting - it seemed just perfect. I have a small backyard. Nothing grows there. Why not cover it with chicken feed? Plus, the chicken could chase off the groundhogs. (Who have returned again for spring, in hopes that we'll try, once again, to plant vegetables this summer.)
Right. So we drove down PCW yesterday afternoon looking for farm animals. Most specifically, sheep. I want to be near a sheep. It's a new thing. There's a dual purpose for this interest. But I'll talk about that later.
Meanwhile, I have to get ready for the road trip. I love driving on the coast. It reminds me of Steinbeck novels. And just how temporary I am, compared to these mountains formed, presumably, by earthquakes since the beginning of time. It's going to be a nice day.
Friday, March 30, 2007
San Francisco.
The beautiful skyline.
Liz and I "lunching" on Fillmore Street. I had a (disappointing) antipasto salad and Liz had a slice of cheese pizza. For those who are keeping track of what I'm eating. (Maya.)
There's always something to see when you look up in this city.
Obama. Don't really know what's behind this, but, well, it's interesting.
So. I'm going horseback riding this morning. On a beach and through a mountain trail. I've never - to my knowledge - been horseback riding. Admittedly, I've spent way too much time trying to determine what I will look like while horseback riding.
My goal of the endeavor is to have a photograph of myself riding bareback on a galloping horse with a long skirt and my hair blowing in the breeze of the Pacific Ocean. I will look not at all terrified. In reality, the only photograph that will probably exist will be one of me falling off of a saddled horse that's standing still on the beach. Less romantic, but I'll bring my camera, nonetheless. I'll post the results tomorrow, if I'm out of the ER by then.
The beautiful skyline.
Liz and I "lunching" on Fillmore Street. I had a (disappointing) antipasto salad and Liz had a slice of cheese pizza. For those who are keeping track of what I'm eating. (Maya.)
There's always something to see when you look up in this city.
Obama. Don't really know what's behind this, but, well, it's interesting.
So. I'm going horseback riding this morning. On a beach and through a mountain trail. I've never - to my knowledge - been horseback riding. Admittedly, I've spent way too much time trying to determine what I will look like while horseback riding.
My goal of the endeavor is to have a photograph of myself riding bareback on a galloping horse with a long skirt and my hair blowing in the breeze of the Pacific Ocean. I will look not at all terrified. In reality, the only photograph that will probably exist will be one of me falling off of a saddled horse that's standing still on the beach. Less romantic, but I'll bring my camera, nonetheless. I'll post the results tomorrow, if I'm out of the ER by then.
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
Blame Cleveland.
I think that I understand now why, during campaigns, politicians would rather kiss babies and visit ice cream stands than take direct stands on things. There were some interesting comments and questions from the last post. I have readers with strong opinions, deep character. I do thank God that we're not all the same. How boring would life be. Nonetheless, like a true politician, I'm going to distract you now, with something different, so your anger with me (the ones who are angry) will simmer.
I'm pretty sure that Canada is against freedom. We should probably start a war there.
Okay. Just kidding. Not funny. I know. Remember. I'm in mourning, still. I'm searching, desperately for my sense of humor. It might be a little bit off, until I can find the perfect balance between laugh-worthy and appropriate.
So. I'm a landlord. Basically. I mean, I live in the house that I rent out, but my roommates pay rent to me. Which means, I'm a landlord. I'd like to think that I'm a pretty cool landlord. While some home improvements take a long time (it took me a year to finish painting the downstairs bathroom orange) I like to take care of the important stuff pretty quickly.
I don't have very many rules. Mainly just one: don't flush tampons down the toilet. Pipes in old houses are small. And tampons expand. But I've added a new rule this Spring: Don't do laundry when it rains. This is a strange rule, and I feel bad about it, as it rains nearly every day. But there's a reason.
I live next to a river. When it rains, the river overflows, and when the river overflows, our Clintonville antique storm drains overflow. And when those overflow, water comes up into my utility sink. The utility sink, coincidentally, is where my washer dumps its water. So. When water is coming up from the drain, while, at the same time, washer water is dumping into the sink, my basement floor turns into a child's wading pool. This has happened several times. It's not fun.
When I bought the house, the basement was dry, so the whole thing has perplexed me a little. I called the city sewer department last week, and had them check it out. "Has it rained more this year?" I asked the nice public employee lady. "Well, the snow is melting in Cleveland, so all the water is coming from there." Oh. (I later found out that there's something called a watershed in Mansfield. So technically, she's wrong. But, whatever. She probably gets paid too little, anyway.) The sewer people came out last Friday to inspect the issue.
I got home from work to find a note. Basically, it said, "tough shit." In reality, it informed me what I already knew. That the sewers and storm drains can't hold all the water, and that's why I have a basement. To help out the city with extra water storage.
I had a discussion in my head. I could just get used to mopping water, and continue the laundry rule for a little bit. But then again, as a landlord, I'm impeding on my roommates' rights to cleanliness. And as a homeowner, there's something disconcerning about water in a basement. People throw around that "foundation" word a lot.
So I called back the sewer lady, "What can I do?"
"Well," she said, "you can call this one guy." She gives me a phone number and a name.
Somewhere in government-land, there is a guy whose job it is to hand out something called a stop-valve to people with my problem. A stop-valve, I've learned, with limited research, is something that goes under your house. Whenever the sewers start to overflow, a little gnome that lives in this hole wakes up and closes up the pipe connecting your house to the sewer line. This is something called, "the path of least resistance." Then the gnome directs the water that leaves your house - toilet water, shower water, dishwasher water, washer water - into a magical bubble that somehow gets to the sewer and doesn't stay in your house. Then, he goes back to sleep, and the overflow water skips your house and goes into the basement of the home East of you. Perfect.
The guy in charge of the gnomes called me back yesterday, and told me that I qualify for a stop-valve. "We're going to dig a hole in your basement and install one. It will probably take about two months after you do the paperwork. We're sending it to you along with a self-addressed stamped envelope. It will cost the city about $5000, but you won't have to pay anything."
I was shocked. A self addressed stamped envelope. It's like these people know me. It's like they already knew that I am physically unable to locate a stamp and an envelope in times of important correspondance. I was filled with glee, but, I admit, a little untrusting.
"So all I have to do is fill out the papers?" I asked, "And it won't cost me anything?"
I guess it's true. Too good to believe. But true. Come May or June, my roommates will be able to do laundry whenever they feel like it.
Nice.
I think that I understand now why, during campaigns, politicians would rather kiss babies and visit ice cream stands than take direct stands on things. There were some interesting comments and questions from the last post. I have readers with strong opinions, deep character. I do thank God that we're not all the same. How boring would life be. Nonetheless, like a true politician, I'm going to distract you now, with something different, so your anger with me (the ones who are angry) will simmer.
I'm pretty sure that Canada is against freedom. We should probably start a war there.
Okay. Just kidding. Not funny. I know. Remember. I'm in mourning, still. I'm searching, desperately for my sense of humor. It might be a little bit off, until I can find the perfect balance between laugh-worthy and appropriate.
So. I'm a landlord. Basically. I mean, I live in the house that I rent out, but my roommates pay rent to me. Which means, I'm a landlord. I'd like to think that I'm a pretty cool landlord. While some home improvements take a long time (it took me a year to finish painting the downstairs bathroom orange) I like to take care of the important stuff pretty quickly.
I don't have very many rules. Mainly just one: don't flush tampons down the toilet. Pipes in old houses are small. And tampons expand. But I've added a new rule this Spring: Don't do laundry when it rains. This is a strange rule, and I feel bad about it, as it rains nearly every day. But there's a reason.
I live next to a river. When it rains, the river overflows, and when the river overflows, our Clintonville antique storm drains overflow. And when those overflow, water comes up into my utility sink. The utility sink, coincidentally, is where my washer dumps its water. So. When water is coming up from the drain, while, at the same time, washer water is dumping into the sink, my basement floor turns into a child's wading pool. This has happened several times. It's not fun.
When I bought the house, the basement was dry, so the whole thing has perplexed me a little. I called the city sewer department last week, and had them check it out. "Has it rained more this year?" I asked the nice public employee lady. "Well, the snow is melting in Cleveland, so all the water is coming from there." Oh. (I later found out that there's something called a watershed in Mansfield. So technically, she's wrong. But, whatever. She probably gets paid too little, anyway.) The sewer people came out last Friday to inspect the issue.
I got home from work to find a note. Basically, it said, "tough shit." In reality, it informed me what I already knew. That the sewers and storm drains can't hold all the water, and that's why I have a basement. To help out the city with extra water storage.
I had a discussion in my head. I could just get used to mopping water, and continue the laundry rule for a little bit. But then again, as a landlord, I'm impeding on my roommates' rights to cleanliness. And as a homeowner, there's something disconcerning about water in a basement. People throw around that "foundation" word a lot.
So I called back the sewer lady, "What can I do?"
"Well," she said, "you can call this one guy." She gives me a phone number and a name.
Somewhere in government-land, there is a guy whose job it is to hand out something called a stop-valve to people with my problem. A stop-valve, I've learned, with limited research, is something that goes under your house. Whenever the sewers start to overflow, a little gnome that lives in this hole wakes up and closes up the pipe connecting your house to the sewer line. This is something called, "the path of least resistance." Then the gnome directs the water that leaves your house - toilet water, shower water, dishwasher water, washer water - into a magical bubble that somehow gets to the sewer and doesn't stay in your house. Then, he goes back to sleep, and the overflow water skips your house and goes into the basement of the home East of you. Perfect.
The guy in charge of the gnomes called me back yesterday, and told me that I qualify for a stop-valve. "We're going to dig a hole in your basement and install one. It will probably take about two months after you do the paperwork. We're sending it to you along with a self-addressed stamped envelope. It will cost the city about $5000, but you won't have to pay anything."
I was shocked. A self addressed stamped envelope. It's like these people know me. It's like they already knew that I am physically unable to locate a stamp and an envelope in times of important correspondance. I was filled with glee, but, I admit, a little untrusting.
"So all I have to do is fill out the papers?" I asked, "And it won't cost me anything?"
I guess it's true. Too good to believe. But true. Come May or June, my roommates will be able to do laundry whenever they feel like it.
Nice.
Thursday, March 22, 2007
Mish Mash.
I fell alseep last night, writing new blog posts in my head. Well. I kind of fell asleep. The Paxil withdrawal interrupts good sleep. This may make me groggy for weeks, but it's something I'm willing to go through, to feel like myself again.
Think long and hard, my friends, before a doctor who has only known you six minutes hands you a prescription for mool-altering drugs.
So. I do want to respond to the comments I received from my last post. But I want to think about them some more. I do stand by my claim that our culture does not understand Christianity, and I hope to display that and break some myths over the next few weeks.
But more importantly, I have a decision to make. Every year, our store does an Easter Egg Hunt for the kiddies. I hire a balloon animal artist and we get a fifteen year old boy to dress up like the Easter Bunny for minimum wage. This year, for some reason, I remembered to advertise the event, and people are actually showing interest. Today, I got an e-mail from a woman who claims to have the World's Smallest Pony. For fifty bucks, she'll bring it to the event and put bunny ears on it.
What, oh what, would PETA say?
Shockingly, my bosses seem to be into it. Which means more work for me. I have to bring myself to advertise the World's Smallest Pony, which, miraculously, happens to be living in Central Ohio. Anything for media attention, I guess.
Meanwhile, in an impetuous act, I purchased an airline ticket to San Francisco yesterday. For next week. While my savings account my suffer, I'm looking forward to a week with Liz and Bones on the West Coast. And as soon as the jet lag wears off from the first trip, I'll be on a plane to New York City, to spend time with Miss Maya.
And then I'll come home. And turn 28. Which is almost 30. Which is... Yeah.
I fell alseep last night, writing new blog posts in my head. Well. I kind of fell asleep. The Paxil withdrawal interrupts good sleep. This may make me groggy for weeks, but it's something I'm willing to go through, to feel like myself again.
Think long and hard, my friends, before a doctor who has only known you six minutes hands you a prescription for mool-altering drugs.
So. I do want to respond to the comments I received from my last post. But I want to think about them some more. I do stand by my claim that our culture does not understand Christianity, and I hope to display that and break some myths over the next few weeks.
But more importantly, I have a decision to make. Every year, our store does an Easter Egg Hunt for the kiddies. I hire a balloon animal artist and we get a fifteen year old boy to dress up like the Easter Bunny for minimum wage. This year, for some reason, I remembered to advertise the event, and people are actually showing interest. Today, I got an e-mail from a woman who claims to have the World's Smallest Pony. For fifty bucks, she'll bring it to the event and put bunny ears on it.
What, oh what, would PETA say?
Shockingly, my bosses seem to be into it. Which means more work for me. I have to bring myself to advertise the World's Smallest Pony, which, miraculously, happens to be living in Central Ohio. Anything for media attention, I guess.
Meanwhile, in an impetuous act, I purchased an airline ticket to San Francisco yesterday. For next week. While my savings account my suffer, I'm looking forward to a week with Liz and Bones on the West Coast. And as soon as the jet lag wears off from the first trip, I'll be on a plane to New York City, to spend time with Miss Maya.
And then I'll come home. And turn 28. Which is almost 30. Which is... Yeah.
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
Another God Post.
I can imagine your thoughts, your inward groans: What happened to your crazy entries of days past? When did our beloved, decadent Jill become a teetotaler, stammering on about things divine? So dismal, so melancholy, so dull, you've become. Don't bore us with your diatribes of morality, Heaven and Hell. That's what our grandmothers and the President are for.
My response to our imaginary conversation is this: I'm still a Democrat.
I recently noticed something. The name of my blog. It's kind of fitting, isn't it? What with my whole "born again Christian" thing going on? Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me. I once was lost, but now I'm found. Was blind but now I see.
The thing is, Christianity might seem boring, flawed, selfish, crazy. But I don't think that it's truly understood in our society. I might go so far as to say that a majority of people who call themselves Christians don't understand the very basis of their religion.
I don't like the word "religion." It has negative connotations. It's for people who don't think. For old people. For people who cross stitch verses, frame them and hang them in their dining rooms. God Bless the USA. For people who follow meaningless rituals. Who say the same prayers over and over to a Being out there who seems to like Himself a little too much. God is great. God is good. Let us thank Him for our food. By his hands. We are blessed. Give us now our daily bread. A-men. (When I was little, I would say it like this: Gotiscreat. Godiscoot. Letus thankim forourfood. Bias hans. Wearebles. Giveusnow. Ourdailybread. Alllllll men.)
If I were God, I would want something a little more creative than that. Just saying. I mean, He wrote the Bible and everything. There's poetry in there. Alliteration. Acrostic poems. Foreshadowing. Plots. Humor. Aside from being authored by the Creator of the universe, it's one heck of a piece of literature.
So, I'm spiritual. We're all spiritual. We are spiritual beings. With free will. And the ability to think for ourselves. If I were God, and I wanted people to follow me, to dedicate their lives for me, to die for me, I wouldn't want them to do it out of mindless following. I would want them to be confident in me.
But then again, I'm not God. And, perhaps, that's the most difficult thing to digest about believing in and following God. Realizing that I'm not. And acting on it.
I can imagine your thoughts, your inward groans: What happened to your crazy entries of days past? When did our beloved, decadent Jill become a teetotaler, stammering on about things divine? So dismal, so melancholy, so dull, you've become. Don't bore us with your diatribes of morality, Heaven and Hell. That's what our grandmothers and the President are for.
My response to our imaginary conversation is this: I'm still a Democrat.
I recently noticed something. The name of my blog. It's kind of fitting, isn't it? What with my whole "born again Christian" thing going on? Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me. I once was lost, but now I'm found. Was blind but now I see.
The thing is, Christianity might seem boring, flawed, selfish, crazy. But I don't think that it's truly understood in our society. I might go so far as to say that a majority of people who call themselves Christians don't understand the very basis of their religion.
I don't like the word "religion." It has negative connotations. It's for people who don't think. For old people. For people who cross stitch verses, frame them and hang them in their dining rooms. God Bless the USA. For people who follow meaningless rituals. Who say the same prayers over and over to a Being out there who seems to like Himself a little too much. God is great. God is good. Let us thank Him for our food. By his hands. We are blessed. Give us now our daily bread. A-men. (When I was little, I would say it like this: Gotiscreat. Godiscoot. Letus thankim forourfood. Bias hans. Wearebles. Giveusnow. Ourdailybread. Alllllll men.)
If I were God, I would want something a little more creative than that. Just saying. I mean, He wrote the Bible and everything. There's poetry in there. Alliteration. Acrostic poems. Foreshadowing. Plots. Humor. Aside from being authored by the Creator of the universe, it's one heck of a piece of literature.
So, I'm spiritual. We're all spiritual. We are spiritual beings. With free will. And the ability to think for ourselves. If I were God, and I wanted people to follow me, to dedicate their lives for me, to die for me, I wouldn't want them to do it out of mindless following. I would want them to be confident in me.
But then again, I'm not God. And, perhaps, that's the most difficult thing to digest about believing in and following God. Realizing that I'm not. And acting on it.
Monday, March 19, 2007
Single, Again.
So. It's been a month. If you're a close friend, and I didn't tell you, I'm sorry. I probably didn't want to burst into tears again.
(My new Bible-joke - because I always have a Bible-joke - is that my new spiritual gift is weeping in public. Yesterday I was in a car with a friend, when our mutual friend, Sara, called him.
"Tell her that I stopped crying," I asked him.
Her response? "We'll see how long this lasts.")
Right. So. It took a long time to get to the point where I could announce this new development to my online world. It took a ton of strength (and apparent return of heart palpitations) to change my myspace status from "In a relationship" to "Single" last week. I spent several days wondering if I should put "Divorced" instead, to weed out potential weird online suitors.
The strangest part of my new status, thus far, is the realization that I am now extremely uncomfortable in bars. This is coming from a girl who used to live at Andyman's. I spent the weekend watching live music - including his Irish band - in bars, and I was absolutely shocked at the boldness of menfolk.
On Friday night, I had men - old and young - approach me telling me things such as, "You dance beautiful" and "You have the nicest ass I've ever seen." First and foremost, the grammar police in my head would not accept, "You dance beautiful" as a compliment. Learn to use adverbs if you want to win my heart, old man. The ass comment was strange in that I was wearing a longish tweed skirt that in no way showed any part of my ass. In both cases, I shied away from my new friends, and remembered the days that I was safely half of a couple and off-limits for rude comments.
Saturday was a little creepier. Irish music usually makes me want to dance, and I'm willing to dance in front of people sans alcohol. (As I told my friend Julie this weekend, "I'm a better dancer when I've been drinking. I'm also more attractive and wittier.") I searched for a girlfriend to hop around with me at a Westerville pub on Saturday night, and had to settle with a frat boy in a funny hat who was already hopping around next to the band. We danced and hopped around like lunatics. And at the end, I did my traditional bow - the one where I back up and kind of look at the guy with eyes that say, "Don't touch me, you asshole. Just because I danced near you does not, in any way, mean that I'm interested in you." He bowed back and went in for a bear hug - the kind where he tries to use me to stand up. I pushed him off and felt very strange about the ordeal, as Bryan was standing two feet away with the band.
The worst part, though, was when some guy actually grabbed my butt in the bar. I don't want to sound all prudish here, but seriously. Is it appropriate to grab a stranger's rear end in a public bar? I whipped my head around and he explained himself.
"Sorry. My friend said he'd give me a beer if I grabbed your ass. He said that he'd give me another if I do it again."
Nothing came to mind. No witty comebacks. No lectures. Nothing. I just repositioned myself to a place where my back was covered, protected others' hands and drunken dares.
It's strange how I've changed. There was definitely a time in my life when I would be proud of drunken compliments from strangers, that I would take my identity, my self-worth from slurring men or women saying things like, "I love your shoes." I began to feel sorry for my old self, and feel sorry for the girls who are still like that, who desperately need affirmation of physical beauty from strangers, for the girls who start relationships based on things like that.
These days, I still need affirmation, but on the spiritual and mental sides of things. Tell me that I did a good job. Tell me that you love me. Tell me that I seem strong. Tell me that I'm loveable. Tell me that I seem humble, selfless.
The best affirmation, ultimately, is from God. Saturday was difficult. I saw Bryan on and off for the entire day. It was around midnight, that I wanted to be home, in my room, reading the Bible, spending time with God. Having quiet time with the Creator of the universe.
A few hours later, I was where I wanted to be.
I need you, I told him. Fill me with your comfort, be my first love.
I love you, he replied. I died for you. Who else would die for you?
But I'm so flawed, I protested.
How many times do I have to tell you?, he started.
I need a hug, I cried, I need a hug.
And the Being who understands everything that we couldn't possibly comprehend, the One who loves each person - the butt-grabbing guy, the old man with poor grammar, and even the insecure girl who wanted so much to get attention back at Andyman's those years ago - the One who happily forgave me for every crime I've ever committed and every crime I will commit enveloped me in his loving arms. And as I fell asleep early on Sunday morning, I knew I was not alone. Not at all.
So. It's been a month. If you're a close friend, and I didn't tell you, I'm sorry. I probably didn't want to burst into tears again.
(My new Bible-joke - because I always have a Bible-joke - is that my new spiritual gift is weeping in public. Yesterday I was in a car with a friend, when our mutual friend, Sara, called him.
"Tell her that I stopped crying," I asked him.
Her response? "We'll see how long this lasts.")
Right. So. It took a long time to get to the point where I could announce this new development to my online world. It took a ton of strength (and apparent return of heart palpitations) to change my myspace status from "In a relationship" to "Single" last week. I spent several days wondering if I should put "Divorced" instead, to weed out potential weird online suitors.
The strangest part of my new status, thus far, is the realization that I am now extremely uncomfortable in bars. This is coming from a girl who used to live at Andyman's. I spent the weekend watching live music - including his Irish band - in bars, and I was absolutely shocked at the boldness of menfolk.
On Friday night, I had men - old and young - approach me telling me things such as, "You dance beautiful" and "You have the nicest ass I've ever seen." First and foremost, the grammar police in my head would not accept, "You dance beautiful" as a compliment. Learn to use adverbs if you want to win my heart, old man. The ass comment was strange in that I was wearing a longish tweed skirt that in no way showed any part of my ass. In both cases, I shied away from my new friends, and remembered the days that I was safely half of a couple and off-limits for rude comments.
Saturday was a little creepier. Irish music usually makes me want to dance, and I'm willing to dance in front of people sans alcohol. (As I told my friend Julie this weekend, "I'm a better dancer when I've been drinking. I'm also more attractive and wittier.") I searched for a girlfriend to hop around with me at a Westerville pub on Saturday night, and had to settle with a frat boy in a funny hat who was already hopping around next to the band. We danced and hopped around like lunatics. And at the end, I did my traditional bow - the one where I back up and kind of look at the guy with eyes that say, "Don't touch me, you asshole. Just because I danced near you does not, in any way, mean that I'm interested in you." He bowed back and went in for a bear hug - the kind where he tries to use me to stand up. I pushed him off and felt very strange about the ordeal, as Bryan was standing two feet away with the band.
The worst part, though, was when some guy actually grabbed my butt in the bar. I don't want to sound all prudish here, but seriously. Is it appropriate to grab a stranger's rear end in a public bar? I whipped my head around and he explained himself.
"Sorry. My friend said he'd give me a beer if I grabbed your ass. He said that he'd give me another if I do it again."
Nothing came to mind. No witty comebacks. No lectures. Nothing. I just repositioned myself to a place where my back was covered, protected others' hands and drunken dares.
It's strange how I've changed. There was definitely a time in my life when I would be proud of drunken compliments from strangers, that I would take my identity, my self-worth from slurring men or women saying things like, "I love your shoes." I began to feel sorry for my old self, and feel sorry for the girls who are still like that, who desperately need affirmation of physical beauty from strangers, for the girls who start relationships based on things like that.
These days, I still need affirmation, but on the spiritual and mental sides of things. Tell me that I did a good job. Tell me that you love me. Tell me that I seem strong. Tell me that I'm loveable. Tell me that I seem humble, selfless.
The best affirmation, ultimately, is from God. Saturday was difficult. I saw Bryan on and off for the entire day. It was around midnight, that I wanted to be home, in my room, reading the Bible, spending time with God. Having quiet time with the Creator of the universe.
A few hours later, I was where I wanted to be.
I need you, I told him. Fill me with your comfort, be my first love.
I love you, he replied. I died for you. Who else would die for you?
But I'm so flawed, I protested.
How many times do I have to tell you?, he started.
I need a hug, I cried, I need a hug.
And the Being who understands everything that we couldn't possibly comprehend, the One who loves each person - the butt-grabbing guy, the old man with poor grammar, and even the insecure girl who wanted so much to get attention back at Andyman's those years ago - the One who happily forgave me for every crime I've ever committed and every crime I will commit enveloped me in his loving arms. And as I fell asleep early on Sunday morning, I knew I was not alone. Not at all.
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
Spring Detox
I'm getting off the Paxil. I think it was a mistake. Screwing with my head. The only way I'm going to attain balance in my life, in my mind, in my body is through discipline in my thought life. Bot through sending my brain through a roller coaster. I started taking it because I had heart palpitations. I had heart palpitations because I was overworked (with two stressful jobs) and had no transportation. Also, I was drinking way too much hot tea. Now, I have one stressful job, one easy job and a car that works, with the occasional windshield washer issue.
(I've paid over $500 in the last month to replace my entire windshield washer system.)
So. Today is my first day in weaning myself off the little blue pill. Upon doctor's orders, I bought a pill cutter. Upon a deep knowledge of myself, I bought one of those little boxes with the days of the week on it. I'm way too distracted to remember which day I'm supposed to take half a pill and which day I'm supposed to abstain. The pill box goes well with my knitting and crocheting habits.
In an effort to gain balance, I'm also abstaining from alcohol. You're not supposed to drink with these mood enhancers, anyway. But I definitely don't need outside sources affecting my decision making skills as I move forward to a Paxil-free life. It's been over a week without the fermented beverages, and I'll probably go a few months. Which means St. Patrick's Day will be clearer than it's ever been.
Frankly, I'm excited about the change. This move forward. Spring forward into detox. Learn how many unfortunate things come from my mouth purely from awkwardness, and not from a few beers. Yeah.
This may not be forever. We'll see. And let it be known that I'm not ridding my life of all addictions. No sir. It will be awhile before precious, delicious, sweet and potent coffee will leave my system. Mmmm, coffee.
I'm getting off the Paxil. I think it was a mistake. Screwing with my head. The only way I'm going to attain balance in my life, in my mind, in my body is through discipline in my thought life. Bot through sending my brain through a roller coaster. I started taking it because I had heart palpitations. I had heart palpitations because I was overworked (with two stressful jobs) and had no transportation. Also, I was drinking way too much hot tea. Now, I have one stressful job, one easy job and a car that works, with the occasional windshield washer issue.
(I've paid over $500 in the last month to replace my entire windshield washer system.)
So. Today is my first day in weaning myself off the little blue pill. Upon doctor's orders, I bought a pill cutter. Upon a deep knowledge of myself, I bought one of those little boxes with the days of the week on it. I'm way too distracted to remember which day I'm supposed to take half a pill and which day I'm supposed to abstain. The pill box goes well with my knitting and crocheting habits.
In an effort to gain balance, I'm also abstaining from alcohol. You're not supposed to drink with these mood enhancers, anyway. But I definitely don't need outside sources affecting my decision making skills as I move forward to a Paxil-free life. It's been over a week without the fermented beverages, and I'll probably go a few months. Which means St. Patrick's Day will be clearer than it's ever been.
Frankly, I'm excited about the change. This move forward. Spring forward into detox. Learn how many unfortunate things come from my mouth purely from awkwardness, and not from a few beers. Yeah.
This may not be forever. We'll see. And let it be known that I'm not ridding my life of all addictions. No sir. It will be awhile before precious, delicious, sweet and potent coffee will leave my system. Mmmm, coffee.
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
Giftings.
Everyone has a natural strength that can be used to love other people. My friend Joanne is able to comfort. I would come to her on a consistent basis, weeping through the difficulties of one of the most trying romantic relationships of my life. And each time, her soothing voice would envelop me; she'd hug me, even over the phone, giving me comfort and perspective.
Other people are great at teaching. Some are good at listening. There are those that are good at discernment - being able to see through the crap and get to the heart of the issue. Everyone has a strength that is not really exercised until it's given to others.
I know what my strengths are NOT. I am not one who can say the right thing at the right time. I'm not one who can bring calm to a moment of distress. I could be good at encouragement, I guess, but I'm usually too focused on myself to do that. I like teaching others, but not in big settings. I used to think that I had an amazing ability to put myself in the other person's shoes, that I could understand what others were going through. This, I've learned in the past few years, is crap. I have no idea what others are thinking, and it's arrogant of me to presume otherwise.
But I do have one gifting, one that makes me excited, one that makes me feel whole, especially when I'm using it to help others. I was reminded of it the other night, when my Argentinian roommate, Elisa, was gently trying to encourage me after a difficult day.
"Jill, you are not like other Americans. They do not want people in their homes. They do not trust. You... Sometime a long time ago, before your parents and your grandparents... Your ancestors... You must have Latina blood. You make people feel welcomed."
So. I have Latina blood. Somewhere in my ancestry is an Argentinian woman, begging people to come into her home, have a drink. Be comfortable. I like it. It's nice. I want to feed people. I want to aide in their comfort. I want to create an environment with the right music, the right lighting, the right drinks, the right temperature. I love hosting brunches and dinner parties, game parties and knitting circles. I love it, I love it, I love it.
Today, my friend Alisa turns 30. I was called upon to decorate my friends' house for her surprise birthday party last night. The theme? Martha Stewart in France. I scurried through the house for hours, laying out fabrics, setting up candles, books, flowers and tree limbs as decorations. Assembling hand-made letters to the walls.
She was surprised. She burst into tears and we all laughed. The party went on. People talked, drank wine and ate creme brulee. It was a success.
Two hours in, though, I was exhausted. I needed to go home, to rest. My work was done. I left the party and climbed into my winter bed with a book - or three - and my heart smiled. Because nothing feels better than using a gift to love someone else.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
My mind wandered to earlier in the day, when I scavenged the yard for limbs to use as decorations. I found three branches that had somehow been broken off of bushes in the front yard. They had just the tiny start of buds. Signs of Spring.
Spring can come. I'm ready.
Everyone has a natural strength that can be used to love other people. My friend Joanne is able to comfort. I would come to her on a consistent basis, weeping through the difficulties of one of the most trying romantic relationships of my life. And each time, her soothing voice would envelop me; she'd hug me, even over the phone, giving me comfort and perspective.
Other people are great at teaching. Some are good at listening. There are those that are good at discernment - being able to see through the crap and get to the heart of the issue. Everyone has a strength that is not really exercised until it's given to others.
I know what my strengths are NOT. I am not one who can say the right thing at the right time. I'm not one who can bring calm to a moment of distress. I could be good at encouragement, I guess, but I'm usually too focused on myself to do that. I like teaching others, but not in big settings. I used to think that I had an amazing ability to put myself in the other person's shoes, that I could understand what others were going through. This, I've learned in the past few years, is crap. I have no idea what others are thinking, and it's arrogant of me to presume otherwise.
But I do have one gifting, one that makes me excited, one that makes me feel whole, especially when I'm using it to help others. I was reminded of it the other night, when my Argentinian roommate, Elisa, was gently trying to encourage me after a difficult day.
"Jill, you are not like other Americans. They do not want people in their homes. They do not trust. You... Sometime a long time ago, before your parents and your grandparents... Your ancestors... You must have Latina blood. You make people feel welcomed."
So. I have Latina blood. Somewhere in my ancestry is an Argentinian woman, begging people to come into her home, have a drink. Be comfortable. I like it. It's nice. I want to feed people. I want to aide in their comfort. I want to create an environment with the right music, the right lighting, the right drinks, the right temperature. I love hosting brunches and dinner parties, game parties and knitting circles. I love it, I love it, I love it.
Today, my friend Alisa turns 30. I was called upon to decorate my friends' house for her surprise birthday party last night. The theme? Martha Stewart in France. I scurried through the house for hours, laying out fabrics, setting up candles, books, flowers and tree limbs as decorations. Assembling hand-made letters to the walls.
She was surprised. She burst into tears and we all laughed. The party went on. People talked, drank wine and ate creme brulee. It was a success.
Two hours in, though, I was exhausted. I needed to go home, to rest. My work was done. I left the party and climbed into my winter bed with a book - or three - and my heart smiled. Because nothing feels better than using a gift to love someone else.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
My mind wandered to earlier in the day, when I scavenged the yard for limbs to use as decorations. I found three branches that had somehow been broken off of bushes in the front yard. They had just the tiny start of buds. Signs of Spring.
Spring can come. I'm ready.
Monday, March 05, 2007
Dust.
I don't want Spring to come. It's a new phenomenon, and everyone around me will despise me if we get another snow. But I want it to stay winter, the season for yarn and coffee and curling up in bed with a book. I've been praying for God to stop time. To keep it Winter. Forever.
It's an impossible prayer, I know. But He's been known to do impossible things.
Someone referred to me as a "strong woman of God" last week. I didn't think so. I was bitter with God for a long time. Months, maybe. The thing about being bitter, is that you don't know you're bitter until the end of the bitterness. No one told me I was bitter with God. I just knew it. I looked back and I knew it. I used to hate the Psalms. I thought they were whiny. Now I understand them. They're for people who are bitter with God. But they provide a way out of the bitterness. Hope.
Maybe that's why I'm not ready for Spring. Spring is about hope. Hope that the birds will come back, hope that the flowers will peek through the ground cover of dead leaves that I neglected to clear from my yard. Hope that the sun will shine through the windows and reveal the dust that needs to be cleared away. Hope that we'll all grow, just a little bit, to be more beautiful, wise, tender.
I want those things. I want hope. I want to be a strong woman of God. I want to clean the kitchen, experience joy of things new. Change is good. But let's just ease into it, okay? One more snowstorm, God. Just one.
I don't want Spring to come. It's a new phenomenon, and everyone around me will despise me if we get another snow. But I want it to stay winter, the season for yarn and coffee and curling up in bed with a book. I've been praying for God to stop time. To keep it Winter. Forever.
It's an impossible prayer, I know. But He's been known to do impossible things.
Someone referred to me as a "strong woman of God" last week. I didn't think so. I was bitter with God for a long time. Months, maybe. The thing about being bitter, is that you don't know you're bitter until the end of the bitterness. No one told me I was bitter with God. I just knew it. I looked back and I knew it. I used to hate the Psalms. I thought they were whiny. Now I understand them. They're for people who are bitter with God. But they provide a way out of the bitterness. Hope.
Maybe that's why I'm not ready for Spring. Spring is about hope. Hope that the birds will come back, hope that the flowers will peek through the ground cover of dead leaves that I neglected to clear from my yard. Hope that the sun will shine through the windows and reveal the dust that needs to be cleared away. Hope that we'll all grow, just a little bit, to be more beautiful, wise, tender.
I want those things. I want hope. I want to be a strong woman of God. I want to clean the kitchen, experience joy of things new. Change is good. But let's just ease into it, okay? One more snowstorm, God. Just one.
