Worry

I am a chronic worrier. My life has been based on worry and fear for, well, just about 6 years now. I've been married 7 years this August. Which basically means that the vast majority of my married life has been spent creating more wrinkles in my forehead than most people my age. I would also say I am 70% gray-haired at this point (thank God for hair dye).

But recently, I've been realizing something that should be super obvious, and probably is to most people.

Worrying really gets me nowhere.

I have spent countless hours freaking out over smallish things--money, Greg's job, my future career, how Sam will do in school, the car breaking down... you get the idea.

All of these worries are very practical, which makes them feel sane. But worry isn't sane. It makes you feel worse inside than you feel when you are sick, and it can actually *make* you sick in that stress can lower your resistance to illness and cause problems with digestion, and it ages people.

I have also been really snippy and irritable with my family, which makes our home life rather miserable. Greg comes home from a stressed out day at work to a stressed out wife. That does not help him any more than it helps me.

So, I've been intentionally trying *not* to worry for about 3 days now. I have been trying to take a 'que sera' approach toward all my fears. God is going to do what God is going to do. Worst case senario? Greg loses his job, we lose our home, our kids are put in foster care, we move to the street and die of starvation. I mean, if we're talking about taking it to the ultimate extreme--but I really doubt that's going to happen, because we have people surrounding us who love us and will help us through whatever happens. But even if that *were* to happen, we would be in heaven.

The worst thing that ever happened to our family was Greg getting cancer. It was not something expected, and it was not something that could be helped (other than treating it once we knew it was there). God got us through it, though, and if we can get through that, I think we can get through just about anything.

We are still praying for all the other stuff still...

Having kids

Is like falling in love a little every day.

Helping Haiti

I read a report recently about how unqualified people were messing up rescue efforts in Haiti.

This makes me sooooo angry and defensive for those who went and didn't make the cut of being worthy of being there. Can you imagine how you would feel, spending thousands of dollars to fly to Haiti to physically be there and help out (because who knows where the money you sent really went), only to be told to go back home because you aren't good enough?

Dude, rescue workers. Just give the well-meaning helpers a job to do. Hand them a shovel or something. It's not that difficult. Or are they just interrupting your own amazingness?

The article said something about how everyone wants to be a hero, and it just doesn't work that way. Oh, so you are saying you are definitely heroes, but anybody who doesn't have a 4-day training to work for red cross is inferior? To me that just screamed of arrogance and self-superiority. I am fuming. Really.

Honest Scrap?

Thanks, Rachel for the nomination. I feel so special. Are there seven people who read this blog? If so, I nominate all of you to do this as well. I guess I'm supposed to write 10 interesting things about myself and my nominees (you) are supposed to do the same.

So here goes:

1. I have a weird thing for candy. And I don't mean just adult-oriented candy (although Godiva chocolate is the bees knees). I am really a huge fan of immature, childish candies. Zots, everlasting gobstoppers, candies shaped like brains--you name it, I probably like it. I am pretty obsessed with mall-based sweet factory stores and would rather go candy shopping than clothes shopping any day (and it has been like this as long as I can remember). The counter employees are always a little taken aback when I gleefully hand them my bagfull of confectionary novelties and debit card. I guess they must be used to seven-year-olds with their allowances. Greg is suprisingly supportive of this little obsession of mine, and often participates as well.

2. I grew up a country girl and really hate country music with a passion. Most people in my town were huge fans, but I just could not bring myself to enjoy it.

3. I was 16 when I had my first kiss and was a virgin when I married Greg.

4. Confession. I love my Kindle. Okay. You can quit booing now. Seriously. This thing is the bomb. When I finished college as an English major, I was sick of books. I mean, I-didn't-want-to-read-another-book-again-in-my-life sick. But when my parents bought me this Kindle for my birthday last year, I was able to fall back in love with reading again. It's transportable, it's fun, you can clip a booklight on it without having to re-adjust pages later, your hands don't get tired of holding it open because you don't have to hold it open, and the books are cheap if not free. I know owning a Kindle (or any other e-reader) is the cardinal sin of the *true* book lover, but if I'm not a book lover, I'm an e-book lover. (I do miss the smell of new books sometimes though).

5. I like the thought of collecting, but can't decide on what to collect. I like rocks, I like unicorns, I like fairies, I used to like cows (though this is getting old)... I think I'd go with unicorns and fairies if I had an extra room to fill, but I don't and I can't.

6. Southern California reminds me of my Grandpa Campbell (mom's dad) who lived here, and I think that is the biggest reason I love it so much. Good memories, good associations.

7. I abhor the smell of baby powder and feel like gagging every time we have to walk down the baby isle at the grocery store.

8. I have lost 14.5 pounds since March 1st, 2010. Sweet, huh? I'm on a roll!

9. We sort of named our son Sam after Samwise in The Lord of the Rings (Samwise means half-wit in Old English, so we chose Samuel for him instead, which means heard of God). And we named Aunica after the borg character, Seven of Nine's real name from Star Trek Voyager (you'd get it if you'd seen it).

10. I insanely love my husband's artwork. He has a gift and I wish he had more time to draw.

Letter To Dad In Belize

My dad and mom are in Belize at the moment. They have been there for about a week. They left last Sunday night. This is the first year my mom has gone. My dad has been doing this for about 5 years now. And every year I worry. I worry he's going to get Oregon Trail Style Dysentery, Malaria, or the very worst possible thing you can acquire in central America (in my opinion): a Bot Fly .

Prayer is a good thing because my parents were in a pretty bad accident on the way and were miraculously un-harmed. It was raining and as a result, hydroplaned, hit the center divider and bounced across four lanes of freeway near San Francisco. They were not hit by any cars and were basically just sore afterward. They are either real troopers, or kind of insane because they still went to Belize anyway. It does sound like they have been doing fine, though my dad does tend to play down drama a lot. I haven't heard from my mom. I'll let you know how they are doing after they get home.

Anyway--after hearing about all of this, I got really upset for a few days. What if they *hadn't* been fine. Everything has been fine up until now. Honestly--my childhood was kind of a breeze. There are always issues in *any* family, and we have definitely had our fair share. But I wasn't ever beaten, I never dealt with a drunken parent. I was never molested. I don't mean to discount the problems we did have, and I am not pretending there were none. But they were relatively small compared to what some kids go through. And my parents are my parents no matter what our problems were, and I would love them no matter what--as much as I know they would me.

So, after the accident, and I finally got an email from my dad, I got all teary and missed my mom and dad like crazy. And more than that, I missed being a kid again--being taken care of. I missed my mom's cool hand on my forehead when I was sick. I missed being taken to the pool. I missed my allowance. I missed being told I needed to be home by a certain time. I missed having others being responsible for me. All the responsibility of being an adult/wife/parent is heavy duty stuff and it would be nice to have some occassional, I don't know.. lightness once in a while--to have someone be in charge of me because sometimes I feel like I don't really know how to be in charge of myself yet (let alone two little people of my own). But I am doing my best at what I am doing now. And we are going to visit Mom and Dad in June--a trip I am crazily looking forward to.

Anyway.. here's an excerpt from an email I wrote to my Dad in Belize:

Hi guys!

It's a positively BEAUTIFUL day. I mean it's a 72-degrees-smelling-of-fresh-cut-grass-and-golden-sunshine-through-new-leaves-making-everything-sparkly kind of beautiful. Which makes me miss being little and getting popsicle sticky and aquiring sunburns at the Alturas pool and riding horses at Josanna's house and the worst problem in my life being not knowing what to do and being bored and having to practice piano. You guys made childhood easy and fun--and I kind of miss that these days.

So I am super excited to get back to Alturas and re-experience my childhood again in June. I am excited to sit out on the sidewalk and spit cherries with Karlie. And maybe I can help Dad garden a lil' and maybe Mom and I can take walks. Homemade popsicles must be a part of it too. Oh, and barbeques. We are hoping to take Sam to the caves--we think he's really going to like them. We are also going to have to test out tent camping in the front yard for a night and see if the kids are up to it yet.



Things we've done today:

-Our lilac tree is in full bloom. I didn't even know we had a lilac tree when we bought the house so it was a happy surprise when they started popping out the next spring.
I cut a sprig and put it in a vase inside. Not quite fragrant enough to cover up the smell of kids/cat/dog, but almost.

-We went out to La Mirada last night for what will probably be the last time. We'll really have no reason to go out there anymore without Paul and Kristin living there. They are probably going to be out here on the 27th of this month--moving in. So we said goodbye to the house and went to the Swap Meet. Found some killer nail polish and a mood ring (yeah--like I said--I miss my childhood).

-Greg still doesn't know anything about his job, but is still feeling pretty hopeful.

-I've lost 13 pounds since starting my diet on March 1st. Not bad, eh? Maybe I'll be all skinny when we get there!

-I am turning 29 this year. TWENTY-NINE! Is that insane? I am freaking out. But worse--Greg is going to be FORTY! We haven't decided what we're going to do--maybe have a party in the back yard with twinkle lights and champagne. I've always wanted to have a party like that. I think a 40th birthday would be a good excuse.. don't you?

-Well--I have to go take care of the kids. Sam has been running around in the sprinklers and Aunica just joined him. Better go make sure they're not dying of hypothermia.

I love you guys. Glad you are having a good time, but I am definitely looking forward to you being back home--SAFE. And yes--Dad, I totally think it's time for your miata.

Love you so much

XOXOXO,
Crystal

Because Rachel Is Tired of Me Not Blogging

So I am bad at being a regular blogger. I guess it's possibly because only one or two people ever comment on the occassional emotional barfing that lands here. I have three followers (as far as I can tell) And I am narcissistic enough to care.

There is another reason I don't blog very often, and that is I often say things that get me in trouble. I seem to have this subconcious urge to make political/church-related/relationship-related commentary and I end up wishing I hadn't said what I said. I *do* tend to care what other people think, and snarky comments make me sad. Like, curl-up-in-a-ball-and-cry-to-Greg-sad. And then Greg will say things like, "Well, just don't post anything controversial". And then I agree, but then I feel like I'm not... contributing anything worthwhile.

So, faithful followers. Should I just suck it up and post what I am thinking, no matter what and suffer the consequences (maybe not having everyone like me?)? Or should I just post less-frequent, meek, quiet-like blogs that aren't controversial? Or should I just not blog at all?

To follow will be a not-so-controversial post: a letter I wrote to my dad who is in Belize.

When It Rains, It Pours

Joy.

I need it because this has been one hellish week so far.

Oh my goodness. Here is what has been going down. (Feel free to give me pity/sympathy).

Problemo Numero Uno:
Greg (along with another 290-or-so other teachers) is most likely going to get another R.I.F. (layoff) notice this year. It will most likely get rescinded, but it's just one of the little black rainclouds making us blue.

#2:
Greg's school is in the bottom 5% of schools in California. And as much as Greg has had to work his butt off to get the thumbs up from his adminstrators, he has kind of gotten used to them. Now the school district is looking at replacing his principal. And Greg does not like that. It makes him nervous. In the meantime, he has 4 CSTs in the next two weeks.

#3:
We are in trouble with the City of Yucaipa again. Thanks to some hapless intern, our file was pulled and the city is looking into whether or not we have to destroy Sam's room and our dining room and convert them back into what used to be a garage. A word to the wise: when buying a houe, make sure to check out whether or not everything in/on/around it is permitted. For now, we are just waiting for an inspector to come out and examine our home to make sure it's exactly how the city would like it to be. Even though we already know it's not.

#4:
Sam is starting *real* school next year. We are really unsure of what we are doing right now as far as that goes. We're hoping we can get him into the charter school. The other option is to beg the district to let us put him in a different school than our zoning would allow. The public school he is supposed to be going to does not look/sound so hot from what we have heard from other parents.

#5:
Greg's computer got attacked by a nasty spyware program today and I don't really know how to fix it. Hopefully Greg does because it's not looking good.

#6:
I am having an unbelievably difficult time getting my undergraduate work done for SLP. It has become such a headache. I just know whether I'm supposed to be doing this. It's like forcing puzzle pieces that don't fit.

God's good. And I know he will work all of this out the way He wants to. But sometimes it's just so difficult to trust Him.

On the happier side of things, Aunica turned 2 on the 8th. Yay!

Help A Cat IN Need?

So, I was at Stater Bros Grocers with my offspring today. We were in the pet-food aisle and I was commenting about how much our cat eats to Sam and Aunica.

As often is the case, there was another human being in the pet department with us. As is not often the case, however, I was chatting it up with my kidlettes, and this woman interrupted me and said, "Sorry, but did I hear you say you have a cat?"

She then proceeded to break into tears. She said, "I'm sorry. It's just that my mom just died and I can't find a home for her cat. He's all alone. And my boyfriend is allergic."

Being the pushover that I am, I said if she'd give me her phone number, I'd talk to my husband about the situation and let her know later.

Of course Greg said, "No".

So here we are--involved with a woman who's name I can't remember who is taking care of her dead mother's cat. I have her number, but don't know what to tell her now other than, "I hear the pound takes animals".

According to her, the cat is male but fixed, and de-clawed.

If you are interested, please contact me.

Thanks!

Crystal

Ada

My Great Aunt Ada died yesterday. She was in her late nineties (I had a hard time keeping track because she was very reluctant to tell you her real age).

We are losing a treasure.

From childhood until college, my desire was to write her off as just another crotchety old lady with weird taste in food. That would have made it more simple--easier to say goodbye.

At first glance, Ada was not all that loveable. On the surface, she was a prickly disciplinarian--a former school teacher/principal with more than 40 years of experience with unruly children under her belt. Ada believed in order, manners, and cleaning up your plate. She'd endured the great depression and her frugality was exemplary. She never married. She was prim, proper, *ALWAYS* concerned about her hair and attire (she fell a number of times in the past few years--and even at 3:00 in the morning after a night in the emergency room she'd ask us how her hair looked). She liked to give my sister and I "pointers" on such things as posture, talking back, and our eating habits when we were kids. I felt slightly afraid of her growing up because her scrutiny seemed really severe to me.

*But* as I grew up, I began to get to know her better and I found out there were so many little surprising, quirky things about Ada that utterly forced me to love her.

I found out she was a huge fan of the grandiose and beautiful. She took us to see Kimberly Crest (a 100+ year-old Victorian mansion in Redands) a number of times. Uptown Redlands itself is devastatingly pretty--everything you want Southern California to be, and uptown Redlands was where Ada (and two of her sisters) made her home.

She went and saw the movie "Titanic" three times in the theater when it came out. She loved the live broadway version of "The Lion King" and went and saw it at the Pantages when it was there. I guess this surprised me because I knew at least one of her siblings was of the conviction that most forms of entertainment were sinful. I had just assumed she would have been of the same opinion as them. I was pleasantly surprised by her open-mindedness and this was one of the first things that let me feel a bit of a bond with her.

On the even-more-suprising side, she had a 20-some-odd-year-old bottle of Kahlua in the cupboard above her fridge that was still mostly full (she must have only taken it out for certain visitors--who were they? I don't know. She never offered me any).

She once told me she almost got married as a young woman, but when the opportunity to move from Nebraska to California arose, she came out here instead. She got misty-eyed when she told me the story--a thing that *does not* happen that often with many of the elder Bodmers, so I know this boy had meant a lot to her.

She was a world traveler, and had been everywhere from Paris to the Taj Mahal. She taught school in Germany and was fluent in the German language. There is a cute story Ada loves to tell: When some American students and administrators came to visit Ada's school in Germany, the principal Ada worked under got up to speak at a dinner they were having. Using his very best English, the principal said, "I thank you so very much for coming. I thank you from the *heart of my bottom*. This story made Ada laugh super hard every time she told it.

I found out that Ada knew Greg's grandma years-back. Ada, her sister Tillie, and Greg's grandma Evelyn Mehring sat together at First Baptist Church Yucaipa. Tillie and Evelyn would pass notes and Ada would give them scolding looks. (Small world, right?)

At Ada's retirement community, Plymouth Village, Ada had a friend named of Martin Munz who had also been a principal at Redlands Unified. He unabashedly called Ada his "girlfriend" and visited her apartment on a regular basis. We loved to tease Ada about Martin, and she always got all embarrassed and blush-y whenever we mentioned his name.

Probably because she never married, Ada was extremely close to her family. She sent out an extensive yearly christmas letter for as long as she was able. She also made disasterously good Christmas food and sent us a box of Redlands oranges and christmas goodies every year. I still associate those Redlands oranges with Christmas whenever I see them in the store. I also *loved* the candied figs she and her sister made. (Old people food really isn't alllll bad).

Ada was incredibly generous and gave of all that she had to countless people through charities, monetary gifts, and volunteering in various organizations.

For my grandpa's 90th birthday, Ada flew with us to Des Moines to celebrate--not an easy feat for a 94-year-old lady. But she was so happy to be there and spent the entire visit just reveling in the company of her brother and sister-in-law. As harrowing as the experience was at the time for me (being 4 months pregnant and dealing with Ada's forgetfullness during the trip) seeing her joy made it worth it.

Shortly before I met Greg, Ada started showing signs of dementia at the same time as going blind from severe macular degeneration. She moved to Plymouth Village in 2001--a retirement community/nursing home in Redlands. Greg and I moved out to Yucaipa about 3 years later, and because we were close, we started visiting her more regularly than I ever would have otherwise. I started helping her with her monthly bills because there was no other family around.

I can honestly say I never really *had fun* hanging out at Ada's in the past few years. There were always things I would have rather have been doing. I felt as though visits with her were rather like talking to Dory from Finding Nemo. The same questions with the same answers over and over and over. She often didn't remember who we were. It was hard not to be impatient. I often felt as though I was not making her day any happier.

But she did enjoy our son Sam VERY much. When Sam was born, she said, "I think this might just be the cutest little baby I have ever seen". I treasure that one comment about Sam more than almost any other from his babyhood. She thought he was hilarious when he got a little bigger--even when he was getting into her stuff. She had a colorful camel-hair blanket from somewhere in the Middle East and it had these big tufts of fringe at the ends. Sam was obsessed with those colorful tufts and could *not* stay away from those things. Seeing him destroying her blanket every visit drove me nuts, but Ada was just amused that that was all Sam wanted to play with.

And she positively *LOVED* Greg. I don't really know who couldn't love Greg, but one of his best qualities is that he has a very calming presence and Ada latched onto that. After Grandpa Bodmer died a few years ago, Ada had a drastic drop downhill from independent to assisted living and then from assisted living to the nursing home all within a matter of a couple of years. My dear, sweet, caring husband came with me to see her countless times during that period in her life--even though he wasn't directly related. He prayed for her and with her, and he is taking me to her memorial service this weekend, for which I am forever grateful to him.

I know Ada was ready to die. When my mom and dad went to visit her a while ago, she told my mom she was just tired of this life and was ready to go to Heaven to be with her family.

I believe she is there now--partying it up with her 5 siblings in the presence of God. She can see again, and she can not only remember, but she *knows*.

But I still miss her.

I miss her like I miss Lucille Green, and Lorraine Cantrell, and Robert Bob, and Grandpa and Grandma Bodmer and my Grandpa Campbell and the numerous others who have impacted my life in so many different ways and are now-----gone.

I feel as though we are losing a generation of people that have a legacy that we can so easily ignore. With them go art forms, words, ideas, stories--countless aspects of a whole group of people we will never get back here on this earth. And to me, that's unbearably sad.

Ada, you are loved and will be missed. Tell everyone 'hi' for me and I look forward so very much to seeing you again.

For It is Better To Marry...

I recently came across a copy of our wedding invite. It was a pleasant surprise because I haven't seen it for a while. I love the pictures we chose and that Greg did the artwork for it. But more than those things, I kind of really love the Bible verse we chose:

1st Corinthians 7:8 (last chunk):
...For it is better to marry than to burn with lust.


It was supposed to be kind of a joke.


Not that we *weren't* burning...we almost eloped. But we controlled ourselves because we simply couldn't do that to our parents.

But we just couldn't bring ourselves to be yet one more couple that did, "I have found the one my soul loves" or the love chapter (1st Corinthians 13) either.

We thought about doing something totally bizarre--something that didn't have anything to do with weddings (such as the bear-mauling-children passage). But we figured that would leave people scratching their heads.

So, true to our nature, we made a joke and nobody laughed.

NOBODY.

No one ever said a thing about our verse--not even our parents. This has left us wondering for the past 6 years if our beloved friends and family actually took us seriously. Or WORSE, thought we were preaching at them.

Honestly, when we inscribed, "It is better to marry than to burn with lust", we were just making a little comment about the lustier side of our relationship. And we thought it was funny.

But apparently, it wasn't.

*sigh*

We just can't win.

Epiphany #120494--School Music Performances (really aren't all that and a bag of chips)

Seriously--this just dawned on me today. I just NOW realized I'm guilty of not really hugely looking forward to Sam's Christmas program on the 17th. I mean, it's going to be cute and all, but I'm not jumping up and down with excitement.

All through childhood, I thought we elementary and Jr. high school students were WONDERFUL performers--that we had so much talent, my parents just couldn't wait until they could get on down to the Niles Theater to listen to me playing, "The Gremlin Rag" and hear me sing "Voices that Care" along with my other classmates.

I really truly thought my parents *liked* the music we were singing. In my mind, my parents and all the others, were knocking each other down like a mob at Walmart on Black Friday or a U2 concert just to get in. And even if I couldn't find them out there in the audience, I knew they were there-- listening--so very enraptured by the gloriousness of our abilities, wishing we would never stop playing, never stop singing. We were astoundingly gifted.

Now I know better.


There is a definite pride in seeing your child on stage, giving it their all--or, in other cases, seeing your child on stage with his arms crossed and a beligerent look on his face--refusing to do the hand motions.

However, I now understand my parents didn't come to enjoy my music, but they came to enjoy seeing me doing something besides whining at how bored I was or fighting with my sister over toilet paper (it happened more often than I'd like to admit--don't ask).

They came because they love me.

But when there are 7 grades performing and each grade is doing 2 songs, that means you have to sit through 12 other songs you couldn't really care less about. That's a lot of sitting with a bunch of other parents. You're in a hot, cramped, "cozy" box of a room, when where you really want to be is back at home, smooching on the couch during the commercial breaks of the latest episode of Heroes.

School concerts were a sacrifice of love on my parents' part.

I had no idea.

I'm sure there were moments when my parents wanted to flake out on me and say, "Can we just sit this one out, pleeeeeease?" But they never did. They were always faithful to do their very best to be there.

And not only did they come to see me, but I was always dressed to the hilt too! Red dresses, itchy wooly tights, headbands--lots of photos were taken, and I always felt very loved and special and important--even when I tried three different instruents only to drop band all together. Even when I got a detention for not clapping. Even when I forgot to wash black nylons for my choir uniform and you had to go to the Toggery just before closing to get them for me--you always gave so much.

Thanks Mom and Dad for letting me think you were were crazy about "Chim-a-ring-ring-Chong" (yes.. this song really does exist) and for coming to my concerts and for encouraging me so very much. It means even more, now that I have kids of my own.

You guys are pretty fabulous, you know that? I love you.

Disrupting Cultural Mores

I often wish life were not so boring and normal. I'm wondering if I'm not alone in this.

Sometimes I have the urge to hug random people--like the checkout lady at the grocery store. I mean, really. How fun would that be? Just going around the counter and hugging the checkout person just because you could? Would she hug back? Would she consider it a nice gesture? Or would she press the red button behind the counter and have security take me away? (Gender changes the answers to these questions a lot, I'm sure).

Kind of on the opposite side of the spectrum from hugging-- when I was in 11th grade, Matt Busby donned a Jason mask from the Halloween movies and stood outside staring into the high school social-hall during our Rock-a-thon. He nearly gave my hyped-up, Red Bulled self a heart attack. And Jeran screamed and Josanna threatened to go out and chase him down and beat him up. I don't remember anyone else's reactions, but the moment was pretty priceless.

My friends Becs, Jodee, April and I did the "Do you like beans?" survey from Animaniacs at a high school youth conference in Portland. That was fun.

Sometimes I eat pasta for breakfast. I'm rebellious, I know.

Sometimes I eat breakfast for dinner too. Now that's just CRAZY.

Once my roomate Theresa and I got Krispy Kreme and drove around Biola offering Campus safety police people donuts. That was fun too.

Speaking of police officers, comedian Paula Poundstone asked, "What if when a cop pulled you over and stuck his big face in your window--what if you just touched him on the nose?" I would LOVE to do that!

Most of the time, though, I just blend in and fade into the background. Most of the time, I start and stop when I should, speak at appropriate volumes and make small talk.

I'm wondering if life should be a little less sane and a little more like the movie "Elf". Should there be more harmless, silly fun going on? Because we really do only have one life to live.

But then again, maybe we have these social regulations to keep us aware of when things are not quite right.

Maybe it's about finding the right balance between the two. I don't know. But right now, I'd give anything for a little insanity.

Whatever, Weather People

People have been talking about how cold it is on facebook today. A lot.

It was supposed to snow last night here in Yucaipa and it didn't. Instead it just froze and killed a bunch of our plants.

I always feel so disappointed in weather people when they are wrong. And notice how they never acknowledge their mistakes? There are never any apologies, no issuing of retractions. For once, I'd like to see, "We would like to say how sorry we are for our recent incorrect prediction of the weather. It will probably happen again, and we are SO sorry for that too." Yes. That would make me feel much better.

Instead, they just go along their merry little way, pretending like they never said anything at all. You can almost hear the innocent whistling and see the eye avoidance.

I bet there really are no "real" weather people at all. It's probably some 3rd grade class in Kentucky taught by a really sweet old lady named Mrs. Johnson.

Mrs. Johnson: "What do you think the weather in Yucaipa California will be like tomorrow, Sally?"

Sally: It's gonna snow!

Mrs. Johnson: Alright--I'll email that to Google.


I'd bet ABC's "Doppler 7000" is the 6-year-old son of the weather man. And THAT KID is the one who is really talking into the weather man's earpiece.

I'll admit--I like to pretend I know what it's going to do weather-wise, though. Last night, I said it felt like it was going to snow. And Greg believed me because I grew up where it snows. Don't tell him, but I really had no idea what I was talking about. I mean.. it was cold and cloudy and raining off and on. But that was about all I knew.

Maybe I should be a weather woman.

Overprepared

I'm pretty agoraphobic. I don't know if this is an actual "clinical" problem, or if it has more to do with having to drag my children through pushy, loud, smelly, crazy crowds. I'm thinking it's more of the latter (though I do have some pretty neurotic issues with people "breathing my air"). And as much as I love store windows at Christmas, and Christmas lights and music, I hate the marked-up prices and insanity of the rest of it.

So, this year I decided in order to keep Christmas a little more sane, I'll I'd have to do was do all of my Christmas shopping online. I ordered mostly from Amazon because they have superdeals once in a while and free shipping. And it worked out marvelously, I might add.

But then, I started getting the stuff--GINORMOUS boxes with one small item in them (we'll be saving some of the boxes to send stuff to Alturas in). At least there have been no styrofoam peanuts.

And then there was the scary-dark-wrapping-cloud hanging out over my head that wouldn't go away. So yesterday I wrapped like a woman possessed and now I am mostly done with it.

But then I realized... I have two weeks! Two weeks to keep the kids from UN-wrapping the presents and the cat from destroying the tree and to keep Greg from accidentally finding out what he's getting via email.

I'm realizing that I kind of probably had it a bit backwards... that instead of rushing to get the shopping done, I should have been rushing to celebrate Jesus's birth. We haven't really talked about Him being the reason why we do Christmas at all with our kiddos and we really should be doing more of that.

So tonight, I resolve to sit down with the kids and read the Christmas story--to open the advent calendar doors we've missed (all of them) and to try to have a better attitude about it all.

When I was a child, I had the faith of a child. But now I guess I have to be a little more intentional about it. And it's not just for my own spirit's sake, but for my Childrens' too.

Only Blogging From Here On Out

I am leaving facebook on Tuesday, December 8. I am hoping to be blogging more in its place.

Just FYI

The Sycamore

In the place that is my own place, whose earth
I am shaped in and must bear, there is an old tree growing,
a great sycamore that is a wondrous healer of itself.
Fences have been tied to it, nails driven into it,
hacks and whittles cut in it, the lightning has burned it.
There is no year it has flourished in
that has not harmed it. There is a hollow in it
that is its death, though its living brims whitely
at the lip of the darkness and flows outward.
Over all its scars has come the seamless white
of the bark. It bears the gnarls of its history
healed over. It has risen to a strange perfection
in the warp and bending of its long growth.
It has gathered all accidents into its purpose.
It has become the intention and radiance of its dark fate.
It is a fact, sublime, mystical and unassailable.
In all the country there is no other like it.
I recognize in it a principle, an indwelling
the same as itself, and greater, that I would be ruled by.
I see that it stands in its place and feeds upon it,
and is fed upon, and is native, and maker.

-Wendell Berry

Second Adolescence/Thoughts On My Ten-Year-Reunion

When I started middle school, I was in Mrs. Clark's 6th grade class. I remember sitting there at my desk on the first day, and Mrs. Clark (one of the best teachers EVER, by the way) cracked some joke that made us all "LOL". I was shocked because we all sounded so very OLD. There was a deepness to our laugh that hadn't been there in Mrs. Franklin's class the previous year. I can only assume it must have been due to some of the boy's voices going from falsetto to tenor or something, but I definitely felt like we were growing up.

And here I am, 15-or-so years later wondering what our laughs will sound like at the ten-year reunion. And then I realize, will this ten-year-reunion thing finally make me feel like an adult? Seeing all of the people I grew up with--grown up?

Some people told me marriage would make me feel like a grown-up. Others told me it would be having children. Still others told me it would be some life change or disaster.

I'm not feeling like an adult yet. And I am wondering if it is because I am no longer around the people I was around when I was growing up. I have nothing to gauge my development against anymore. Maybe?

I don't really view myself as an adult at all. I feel as though I'm constantly hitting walls when it comes to the whole mentally aging aspect of life. Maybe it's the fact that in spite of everything we *have* been through (cancer, joblessness, homelessness, other illness, etc), I am stil mostly enjoying life. I love being married to my husband and having kids and having our own house. I have definitely done my share of hand-wringing and am definitely noticing signs of worry wrinkles appearing on my forehead. But I still feel often more giddy than dour. And I thought adulthood would be all about feeling constantly frustrated with life.

I am not trying to say I live in constant cloud-9. I am far from it, in fact. It's just that life is so full of moments of, well, playful, silly immaturity. Water fights with the kids in the back yard. Tickle fights with Greg. Playing on facebook. Staying up late and still feeling sort of like I've gotten away with something forbidden.

But then again, the last three times I've bought alcohol, I haven't gotten carded. And other people's kids actually listen to me when I tell them what to do (my own don't, but that's to be expected). And I do the dishes without people asking me to. What the heck?

About a year ago, I signed up for a subscription to Nylon magazine because I thought it would have good recommendations for new musicians I'd never heard of, and I liked the fasion a lot. After a few issues, I asked Greg what he thought of the magazine, and he said, "it seems pretty high school". And then I realized.. yeah, it does. So I cancelled the subscription. I was embarrassed because, sheesh, I am TWENTY-SEVEN after all.

And I keep finding myself shopping in the juniors section and being surprised when, oh-my-gosh, the clothes like, totally don't fit me like they used to.

I almost bought myself a Smurfette t-shirt the other day and thought, "Wait. Is this *appropriate*?"

I feel like I am going through a second adolescence--an awkward age where things aren't ever quite ever what they should be. It's all very Alice in Wonderland-ish, and disconcerting.

Maybe I'm overthinking this. Maybe I should just do whatever comes/feels natural. It's just that I'm somewhere in between two worlds. I know I'm not young anymore, but I know I'm not all that old, either. Does anyone else feel this way? Or am I just some sort of developmentally challenged permanent teenager? I want to act my age, but I am not sure what that age is.

Monica

Some of you already may know (or know of) this family. If not, please keep them in your thoughts and prayers. I didn't know Monica, but it sounds like she was an extraordinary person. I wish I had known about her sooner, so I could have thanked her for being such an inspiration to so many--myself included. Pray for her little boy and husband as they are going through a devastatingly difficult time right now.
http://www.solandmonica.com

New Pics March/April '09

Not an April Fool's Joke, But Still...

So, as some of you already know, Greg and I took a tour of Europe in 2004. If you are actually considering going to Europe, I highly recommend *not* using a bus tour, unless it's through a private family-owned compay. What we wanted was to spend some time in a few select cities. The most practical way to do this (according to our Travel Agent) was to use a bus tour. So, we took the Globus "Grand European Tour".

We were packed on a bus of 30+ people, didn't like too many of them, and were rushed around in "get to the end as quickly as possible" fasion. I feel we could have spent *much* more time in some of the places we visited, but most of them were briefly introduced over the course of one day. It was exhausting.

There were, however, some highlights to the trip. One of my favorite memories is of a man who was part of our group. He insisted on sitting in the back of the bus the whole trip, watching episodes of Futurama on his mini-dvd player. He went by the name, "Prince Joseph of Australia".

Seriously. This guy spent the duration of the tour trying to convince everyone on our bus that he was of "Australian royal descent", but was living in the city of La Jolla, running an (extremely successful--according to him) antiques business.

According to his story, he had been exiled from the country by his older brother (who's name we never could get from him). He was forced to live by himself in the US (horror) and was never to go back to Australia unless his brother died.

To be really honest, I was a little afraid of Prince Joseph at first. I really couldn't figure out his motive. Why on earth would this guy be doing this? I knew Australia had no royalty outside of the queen of England. Elizabeth I, and then parliment, right? There are no princes of Australia. Was he some sort of wacked-out terrorist or something?

But then I saw how some of the ladies on the bus tour actually FELL for his story. I mean, he actually had BUSINESS CARDS that read, "His Royal Highness, Prince Joseph of Australia." We nick-named his group of women "Prince Joseph's Harem" because they were so very enamored. The ladies followed him around like he was the cool kid on the playground. And he ate it up big time. The more questions that were asked of him, the more elaborate his story grew. I loved watching the husbands of the ladies rolling their eyes and shaking their heads as their wives squealed in delight over Prince Joseph's wonderful tales of Australian high life. I don't know if they really did believe him, or just wanted to.Funny thing was, he had zero Australian accent. We asked him about that once, and he told us he had to use an American accent to protect his identity.

At one point during the trip, Greg and I found a big, gaudy, fake-gold necklace just outside of the bus. I immediately recognized it to be "Joey's" (what we were supposed to call him when we were off the bus--for the sake of secrecy). But since we were in one of our "on our own" moments, we weren't able to return it to him. Later that day, when we got back on the bus, we gave it to our tour guide Doris. Doris asked if anyone was missing it. His royal highness got all excited and said, "Oh, Yay! Now I can call Paris Hilton back and tell her it's been found!" Even if Paris Hilton had known "Joseph of Australia", I don't really know what she would have been able to do about his missing necklace in Europe.

The trip passed relatively uneventfully and Joseph never did kill any of us. It is funny how much of an impression he left, though--the annoyance combined with amusement. Greg and I speak of him often. I wonder if he reserved his act for European tours, if he actually does run an antiques business, if he really even does live in La Jolla. Who the guy really is, we'll probably never know.