I have some thoughts about Oscar that I will save for A Wandering Line, but for now, as an update, let me just say that we are having housetraining issues. This is more galling than ever now that I know that Oscar's kennel-mate in his past life is, according to the new owner "100% housetrained." Ugh! How is that fair?!
Last night I got some tips from the "behavioural guru" at PAWS, and we're trying them out. They involve me keeping Oscar on a leash (and therefore in my sight-line) at all times, and when that is not possible, putting him in his crate. I'm not sure which of us likes this less. At home he kept looking at me like, "Aren't you going to take this leash off me yet?" Here at work (yep! I'm blogging at work!) I have to keep putting him in his crate if I go out of the room to get a cup of tea or make photocopies. I also have to bring his crate, which is a bit unweildy, and since I have to bring my own laptop to work, too, is just one extra thing to cart around on a daily basis.
The thing about this is that it's discipline--both for me and for him. The goal is to get him to stop urinating indoors, but in order to get him to make that discipline a lifestyle, I also have to discipline myself, though sometimes I'd rather just get lazy and let him run around and deal with it later. But I don't really want to deal with it later, of course. I just want him to be perfect already. I fear I do that with people, too--including myself.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Tuesday, June 09, 2009
White Picket Fence
So today I was walking Oscar at 5.30 or so, after I got home from work, and I thought, "When did this happen?"
I mean, okay. I'm not married and I don't have kids and I don't actually own the house I live in, but in the last two weeks I went from That-Weird-ThirtySomething-With-the-Shift-Job-Who-Wanted-to-Spend-Her-Life-as-a-Destitute-Missionary-Overseas to That-Weird-ThirtySomething-With-What-Might-Actually-Turn-Into-a-Career, who lives in a house (not an apartment, a house) with a Dog, who she takes for walks before 9 and after 5 on weekdays.
I am a little cynical about the whole visualisation fad, because back in my early 20's when I was visualising my life right now? None of this stuff was in it.
Fortunately (?) I do sometimes have to work weekends, and take kids on trips to Missouri and stuff like that, or I'm pretty sure I wouldn't even recognise myself.
I mean, okay. I'm not married and I don't have kids and I don't actually own the house I live in, but in the last two weeks I went from That-Weird-ThirtySomething-With-the-Shift-Job-Who-Wanted-to-Spend-Her-Life-as-a-Destitute-Missionary-Overseas to That-Weird-ThirtySomething-With-What-Might-Actually-Turn-Into-a-Career, who lives in a house (not an apartment, a house) with a Dog, who she takes for walks before 9 and after 5 on weekdays.
I am a little cynical about the whole visualisation fad, because back in my early 20's when I was visualising my life right now? None of this stuff was in it.
Fortunately (?) I do sometimes have to work weekends, and take kids on trips to Missouri and stuff like that, or I'm pretty sure I wouldn't even recognise myself.
Monday, June 08, 2009
Under-Dog
You know those new parents who are so overwhelmed with the wonder that is their child, that they end up discussing things like the contents of his or her diaper in otherwise polite company? It's probably going to be like that around here for a while.
I came up with the title of this post the second day I had Oscar because he continued to hide under things. He switched to the kitchen/dining room table from the stools, and I still can't decide if that is because he decided he preferred more room, or because it's harder for me to reach him under there.
PAWS-JoAnne said that because he was with one owner up to this point, he hasn't detached from her and it's going to take him some time to attach to me. I'm trying to be patient, and I'm hopeful, because he seems to feel happier when I'm in the sort of vicinity, just not too close. But it is a little demoralising to say, "Oscar, come!" and have him run in the opposite direction. At least he sometimes seems conflicted by it, starting to approach before running away and whimpering.
The other thing that made him the "under" dog was his complete bafflement and timidity about stairs. I suspect he had never encountered them before. Going down the back steps to "go outside" was fairly problem-free after he stopped balking at the leash (which only took one afternoon), but going up was another story altogether. He would stick his head between the step he was on and the one above it and freak himself out as he looked at the ground. It was more or less hilarious, but it did mean hefting his 20 pounds up the steps myself. Which isn't that heavy, but sometimes he wasn't that amenable to being carried, either.
Today though? For the part when I've been home, he's spent most of his time lying sprawled on the dining room floor, not under the table, and when we went for our morning walk, he figured out how to climb the steps. Hooray for Oscar!
He's a quick learner, this dog. With only an afternoon of being totally resistant to the whole leash concept, now he trots along quite happily with it, always leaving some slack. He seems to like walks, though so far we've taken really short ones (with the exception of this morning), because he's little and because I'm not sure he wasn't previously treated in some ways, as the Milk Guy put it, "like a veal." He was terrified of the back steps for about two days, and for most of those he had to be carried up them because he kept sticking his head between the step he was on and the one above it and freaking himself out. But this morning he climbed them successfully all by himself. We were very proud.
He still likes to hide under things, though
I came up with the title of this post the second day I had Oscar because he continued to hide under things. He switched to the kitchen/dining room table from the stools, and I still can't decide if that is because he decided he preferred more room, or because it's harder for me to reach him under there.
PAWS-JoAnne said that because he was with one owner up to this point, he hasn't detached from her and it's going to take him some time to attach to me. I'm trying to be patient, and I'm hopeful, because he seems to feel happier when I'm in the sort of vicinity, just not too close. But it is a little demoralising to say, "Oscar, come!" and have him run in the opposite direction. At least he sometimes seems conflicted by it, starting to approach before running away and whimpering.
The other thing that made him the "under" dog was his complete bafflement and timidity about stairs. I suspect he had never encountered them before. Going down the back steps to "go outside" was fairly problem-free after he stopped balking at the leash (which only took one afternoon), but going up was another story altogether. He would stick his head between the step he was on and the one above it and freak himself out as he looked at the ground. It was more or less hilarious, but it did mean hefting his 20 pounds up the steps myself. Which isn't that heavy, but sometimes he wasn't that amenable to being carried, either.
Today though? For the part when I've been home, he's spent most of his time lying sprawled on the dining room floor, not under the table, and when we went for our morning walk, he figured out how to climb the steps. Hooray for Oscar!
He's a quick learner, this dog. With only an afternoon of being totally resistant to the whole leash concept, now he trots along quite happily with it, always leaving some slack. He seems to like walks, though so far we've taken really short ones (with the exception of this morning), because he's little and because I'm not sure he wasn't previously treated in some ways, as the Milk Guy put it, "like a veal." He was terrified of the back steps for about two days, and for most of those he had to be carried up them because he kept sticking his head between the step he was on and the one above it and freaking himself out. But this morning he climbed them successfully all by himself. We were very proud.
He still likes to hide under things, though
Saturday, June 06, 2009
I Have an Oscar!
I picked him up today off the side of the road. A whole bunch of other people joined me to do something similar. The truck was at a rest stop off a highway, and there we all were, filling up our empty leashes with canines.
Oscar is cute and snuggly, but also nervous. He used to belong to a breeder who evidently got sick of breeding dogs or something. I'm getting the impression that he's used to small spaces (he keeps trying to squeeze himself under the bar stools in the kitchen) and maybe more used to dogs than people. 
I had already been warned that he hasn't had a lot of leash experience, and this is definitely true. He kind of hates it, and will either sit down and dig in, or stand up on his hind legs and paw at the leash. We did have a few successful turns around the yard, so I think he'll get it eventually; it just might take him a while to figure out that walking is a good thing.This afternoon we had a cup of tea together. Well, I had the tea, and I held him on my lap and he seemed quite happy there. After that the Milk Guy and Son-of-Milk-Guy and their two dogs came over for a few minutes on their way to somewhere else. Oscar seemed fascinated with the dogs and by the time they left, his tail was wagging for them, but since they left, he's been napping . . . under the bar stool. Hopefully he'll sleep tonight!
Friday, June 05, 2009
Look at the Birds of the Air
A few evenings ago I had supper with Mentor-Liz. Then we had ice cream. (Note: "cherry-vanilla" ice cream is nothing like the black cherry ice creams I like, such as Ben and Jerry's "Cherry Garcia.") Then we went for a walk. It was a short walk, but it was long enough for us to see a bluebird.
By which I mean, a real live, in-the-wild bluebird. It was sitting at the top of a chain link fence, and it stayed there for quite some time, undoubtedly so we could admire its beautiful blue plumage and red breast.
Back when I was really really little (like, probably too young for anyone to believe I could remember any of it) I thought I saw a bluebird once, but when I talked about it to anyone as a slightly older child, everyone told me that was impossible because they were extinct. They told me I imagined it. I very well may have, but the fact is that bluebirds are not, after all, extinct, even though people thought so for a while, and the other fact is that I really did see one, finally in real life and not just in pictures, and all of three nights ago.
Birds have always kind of seemed to me like messages from God. Not messengers, but messages. The messages are never verbal (Obviously. They're ornithological), so it's always kind of hard to explain what I feel God is saying through them. Maybe sometimes He's not saying anything. Maybe He's just showing me something He made that He thinks I will enjoy. I think He does that sometimes. It's just that the showing always comes with a little extra sense of His presence. This has happened to me with cardinals, chickadees, swans and parrots (yes--parrots living in the wild in Connecticut--I'm not kidding, or making it up). This time it happened with a bluebird.
I didn't think about this until I started writing this post, but sometimes there are things that you know exist, that you know can happen, that you're even pretty sure you've seen before . . . but maybe you've just read about them in books. And everyone says, "You've seen that happen? That doesn't happen anymore. You've just imagined it."
But maybe you haven't. Maybe that thing is just waiting in hiding, like a legend or a myth or an extinction, waiting to come out at sit on a chain link fence where you can finally see it and admire it's plumage and say, "Ah! I knew you were real!"
By which I mean, a real live, in-the-wild bluebird. It was sitting at the top of a chain link fence, and it stayed there for quite some time, undoubtedly so we could admire its beautiful blue plumage and red breast.
Back when I was really really little (like, probably too young for anyone to believe I could remember any of it) I thought I saw a bluebird once, but when I talked about it to anyone as a slightly older child, everyone told me that was impossible because they were extinct. They told me I imagined it. I very well may have, but the fact is that bluebirds are not, after all, extinct, even though people thought so for a while, and the other fact is that I really did see one, finally in real life and not just in pictures, and all of three nights ago.
Birds have always kind of seemed to me like messages from God. Not messengers, but messages. The messages are never verbal (Obviously. They're ornithological), so it's always kind of hard to explain what I feel God is saying through them. Maybe sometimes He's not saying anything. Maybe He's just showing me something He made that He thinks I will enjoy. I think He does that sometimes. It's just that the showing always comes with a little extra sense of His presence. This has happened to me with cardinals, chickadees, swans and parrots (yes--parrots living in the wild in Connecticut--I'm not kidding, or making it up). This time it happened with a bluebird.
I didn't think about this until I started writing this post, but sometimes there are things that you know exist, that you know can happen, that you're even pretty sure you've seen before . . . but maybe you've just read about them in books. And everyone says, "You've seen that happen? That doesn't happen anymore. You've just imagined it."
But maybe you haven't. Maybe that thing is just waiting in hiding, like a legend or a myth or an extinction, waiting to come out at sit on a chain link fence where you can finally see it and admire it's plumage and say, "Ah! I knew you were real!"
Thursday, June 04, 2009
Etymology
So this morning for some reason I was thinking about something that I had learned from someone who used to work at Starbucks (kinda like me, although they're "used to" was a lot longer ago than mine). I have now forgotten what, or even who, that was, because I got distracted by the next thought which was a New Word for people who have ever worked at Starbucks and know something about coffee and the inner workings of the company: Buxerati.
It looks weird. But I don't care. I made it up. Once I thought I made up the term "bloggerati," but it seems that that word is already all over the web. I'm pretty sure Buxerati is original. At least, I'm posting it here as being so.
It looks weird. But I don't care. I made it up. Once I thought I made up the term "bloggerati," but it seems that that word is already all over the web. I'm pretty sure Buxerati is original. At least, I'm posting it here as being so.
Tuesday, June 02, 2009
Cruelty to Animals
Really? I kind of have to wonder sometimes about the person who came up with the name for the breed of dog that is part cocker spaniel and part poodle. I guess there might be some people who don't know what "kaka" is. Sister-in-Lu didn't, back in the day, when we were driving through her home state and she couldn't figure out why we thought it was so hilarious when the radio announcer said self-importantly, "This is K-A-K-A."
It was, too.
Anyway. My point is that it is impossible to say the word Cockapoo without sounding like you're talking about excrement in two languages. And I just think that's kind of mean. Although actually, it might be meaner to the owners of said breed than to the dogs themselves. The dogs probably don't care, really. But every time someone asks me what kind of dog I'm getting, I always kind of take a deep breath before I can bring myself to say it. It's a lot more awkward than explaining why I'm naming him Oscar.
It was, too.
Anyway. My point is that it is impossible to say the word Cockapoo without sounding like you're talking about excrement in two languages. And I just think that's kind of mean. Although actually, it might be meaner to the owners of said breed than to the dogs themselves. The dogs probably don't care, really. But every time someone asks me what kind of dog I'm getting, I always kind of take a deep breath before I can bring myself to say it. It's a lot more awkward than explaining why I'm naming him Oscar.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
A Girl's Best Friend
Diamonds just don't really do it for me. I mean, I guess if some guy I really really liked, who I would commit to spending the rest of my life with, offered me one, I wouldn't turn it down, but I would hope that in that case he would be my best friend (and fulfill a few other roles, too), and the the gem I was wearing on my hand would be a sign of that friendship, but not the fulfillment of it.
Neither of those things are forthcoming anytime soon, though, so right now I'm encroaching on man's best friend territory, and getting a dog. Since, you know, I only have one job anymore, and I no longer have to count hours and be gone for twelve a day. The trustees of New Church (which I'm going to have to come up with another nickname for pretty soon, I think) have even said I can bring my canine to work with me if I want. I do want, although I think there will need to be a few weeks' adjustment period before I do something like that.
Oscar is a black cockapoo who is enough cocker to remind me (and my mom) of the cocker I grew up with, which might be why I decided on him and the shelter promoting him, even though he has to be shipped to me from Arkansas and I didn't get to meet him first and his adoption "donation" is one of the higher ones. I stole the photo from the internet before they took his profile off because of my having committed to adopting him.
His original name was (still kind of is, I guess), "Bounty," but that reminds my dad of paper towels, and me of British chocolate bars. The Milk Guy is at least cultured enough to be reminded of a book. I settled on renaming him "Oscar" because for some reason I was thinking of Desiree, a historical novel I had read as a teen and from which I had gleaned many names I found romantic. Oscar was the son of the heroine, and became the crown prince of Sweden. I didn't think Oscar was romantic at all at the time, and I still don't, but I like it because it's unusual. Plus, my dog is fuzzy like a Sesame Street monster, and Oscar is my favourite one. I have toyed with the possibility of other names, but Oscar is the only one that seems to work for me. I suppose this means it's a good thing I have no children, because they would probably all end up with unfortunate names which I would be compelled to name them, for interest's sake.
I'm currently on vacation, visiting Dave, Sister-in-Lu, and the World's Cutest Niece, but after I've been back home a week, Oscar will arrive in Connecticut from Arkansas, and I will drive down and pick him up and take him home. I sent in my "donation" last night, so I can now honestly say I have a dog. I'm nervous. I keep dreaming about badly-behaved puppies. But I'm also excited. And I can't wait to get home and go shopping for dog treats and a dog bed and stuff.
The only thing about all the developments in the last few weeks is that now? The entire author blurb on the back of my book is a lie. Maybe it doesn't matter, though, since the book no longer remotely ranks as a top seller in CFP's children's fiction . . .
Neither of those things are forthcoming anytime soon, though, so right now I'm encroaching on man's best friend territory, and getting a dog. Since, you know, I only have one job anymore, and I no longer have to count hours and be gone for twelve a day. The trustees of New Church (which I'm going to have to come up with another nickname for pretty soon, I think) have even said I can bring my canine to work with me if I want. I do want, although I think there will need to be a few weeks' adjustment period before I do something like that.
Oscar is a black cockapoo who is enough cocker to remind me (and my mom) of the cocker I grew up with, which might be why I decided on him and the shelter promoting him, even though he has to be shipped to me from Arkansas and I didn't get to meet him first and his adoption "donation" is one of the higher ones. I stole the photo from the internet before they took his profile off because of my having committed to adopting him.
His original name was (still kind of is, I guess), "Bounty," but that reminds my dad of paper towels, and me of British chocolate bars. The Milk Guy is at least cultured enough to be reminded of a book. I settled on renaming him "Oscar" because for some reason I was thinking of Desiree, a historical novel I had read as a teen and from which I had gleaned many names I found romantic. Oscar was the son of the heroine, and became the crown prince of Sweden. I didn't think Oscar was romantic at all at the time, and I still don't, but I like it because it's unusual. Plus, my dog is fuzzy like a Sesame Street monster, and Oscar is my favourite one. I have toyed with the possibility of other names, but Oscar is the only one that seems to work for me. I suppose this means it's a good thing I have no children, because they would probably all end up with unfortunate names which I would be compelled to name them, for interest's sake.
I'm currently on vacation, visiting Dave, Sister-in-Lu, and the World's Cutest Niece, but after I've been back home a week, Oscar will arrive in Connecticut from Arkansas, and I will drive down and pick him up and take him home. I sent in my "donation" last night, so I can now honestly say I have a dog. I'm nervous. I keep dreaming about badly-behaved puppies. But I'm also excited. And I can't wait to get home and go shopping for dog treats and a dog bed and stuff.
The only thing about all the developments in the last few weeks is that now? The entire author blurb on the back of my book is a lie. Maybe it doesn't matter, though, since the book no longer remotely ranks as a top seller in CFP's children's fiction . . .
Monday, May 25, 2009
Heads Up
The article I wrote about the Asian Longhorned Beetle last year for New England Condominium magazine is now up on their site. Check it out if you want more info.
Also, I generally try to boycott the Wal-Mart company, but I just learned they're donating a significant sum of money to help the Worcester Tree Initiative replace our trees. It's so confusing when the "bad guys" act like the "good guys." (I'm pretty sure some people feel this way about Starbucks. Don't tell me I'm inconsistent. I struggle with that enough.) Although it makes me feel a whole lot better about shopping at Sam's Club with the membership I got through New Church . . .
Also, I generally try to boycott the Wal-Mart company, but I just learned they're donating a significant sum of money to help the Worcester Tree Initiative replace our trees. It's so confusing when the "bad guys" act like the "good guys." (I'm pretty sure some people feel this way about Starbucks. Don't tell me I'm inconsistent. I struggle with that enough.) Although it makes me feel a whole lot better about shopping at Sam's Club with the membership I got through New Church . . .
Sunday, May 24, 2009
Permission to Go
It's no secret around here that I have been wanting to leave Starbucks for a while, and in recent posts I've described a little bit of why. But I have to confess that, for good reasons or bad, my attitude about the place has been pretty foul for most of the last couple of years.
This has bothered me sometimes. I tend to take kind of seriously the injunction about doing "whatever I do . . . all for the glory of God," so the fact that, sometimes almost against my will, I have found myself quite actively hating going into work and having very little patience with customers and often with colleagues, doesn't make me too happy. At the same time, I have also found myself occasionally resenting that injunction; it would be so much easier to just relax into my terrible mood and silence my conscience about it.
Within the last few months or so, instead of my conscience's getting quieter, it's been getting louder, and I've been wrestling with what it means to disagree (sometimes strongly) with whomever is in authority over me, while at the same time respecting the authority and even encouraging my coworkers to do the same, even when it would be easier and probably immediately more fun to gripe or criticise or gossip.
I didn't really figure out how to do that.
But one weekend I found myself telling different groups of friends, "I don't think God's going to let me leave Starbucks until my attitude shapes up." The following week something happened that made me really angry. I went to work promising myself that I wouldn't talk about anyone behind their backs, but as soon as I got there I started doing it, I was so mad. I felt pretty guilty even while I was doing that, but it was kind of like scratching poison ivy--you know it's a really bad idea and it's only going to make it worse, but right that second the itch is way worse than the threat of an even worse one.
Then the person I was mad at came in. "God," I prayed. "This has got to turn around. And obviously I can't do it, 'cause I've just spent this entire shift so far doing what I know I shouldn't be." I took a deep breath and began to talk to the person I was mad at. The interaction started out kind of tense and unfriendly, but then suddenly we were listening to each other. And then suddenly we were working together. And then suddenly we had a solution. It was really pretty astonishing. After that, my attitude began to improve vastly, and although I was still really hoping for an out from Starbucks, at least I wasn't quite so angry anymore.
About two weeks later, Pastor Ron called me on my day off. "Jennifer?" he asked. "How would you like to quit Starbucks?" The church council at New Church had voted to take me on full time. On June 1st, I will be full-time Christian Education Director there. I'm so excited! But I'm also highly aware that I'm going to need Someone to keep a rein on my attitude and my interactions. Fortunately, I just found out that He can.
This has bothered me sometimes. I tend to take kind of seriously the injunction about doing "whatever I do . . . all for the glory of God," so the fact that, sometimes almost against my will, I have found myself quite actively hating going into work and having very little patience with customers and often with colleagues, doesn't make me too happy. At the same time, I have also found myself occasionally resenting that injunction; it would be so much easier to just relax into my terrible mood and silence my conscience about it.
Within the last few months or so, instead of my conscience's getting quieter, it's been getting louder, and I've been wrestling with what it means to disagree (sometimes strongly) with whomever is in authority over me, while at the same time respecting the authority and even encouraging my coworkers to do the same, even when it would be easier and probably immediately more fun to gripe or criticise or gossip.
I didn't really figure out how to do that.
But one weekend I found myself telling different groups of friends, "I don't think God's going to let me leave Starbucks until my attitude shapes up." The following week something happened that made me really angry. I went to work promising myself that I wouldn't talk about anyone behind their backs, but as soon as I got there I started doing it, I was so mad. I felt pretty guilty even while I was doing that, but it was kind of like scratching poison ivy--you know it's a really bad idea and it's only going to make it worse, but right that second the itch is way worse than the threat of an even worse one.
Then the person I was mad at came in. "God," I prayed. "This has got to turn around. And obviously I can't do it, 'cause I've just spent this entire shift so far doing what I know I shouldn't be." I took a deep breath and began to talk to the person I was mad at. The interaction started out kind of tense and unfriendly, but then suddenly we were listening to each other. And then suddenly we were working together. And then suddenly we had a solution. It was really pretty astonishing. After that, my attitude began to improve vastly, and although I was still really hoping for an out from Starbucks, at least I wasn't quite so angry anymore.
About two weeks later, Pastor Ron called me on my day off. "Jennifer?" he asked. "How would you like to quit Starbucks?" The church council at New Church had voted to take me on full time. On June 1st, I will be full-time Christian Education Director there. I'm so excited! But I'm also highly aware that I'm going to need Someone to keep a rein on my attitude and my interactions. Fortunately, I just found out that He can.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
The Last Starbucks Shift
At 2.06pm on May 20th, 2009 (that's today in case you weren't paying attention), I punched out at Starbucks for the last time. Technically I'm still employed there until the end of the month, so at least theoretically I should still be able to get a free pound of coffee next week. I'll keep you posted.
It was a strange day.
When I punched in, I thought (and said), "Hey! This is the last time I'm punching in for a shift at Starbucks!" Som said, "Imagine if fireworks went off or something." They didn't and I hadn't thought of that, but it seemed, when she said it, that it would have been appropriate had some done so.
Then I requested to be able to take the trash out . . . because I like to.
Then we got a rush for a couple of hours that left us totally occupied and I'm fairly certain filled up every square foot of our tiny store with people. The odd thing was that all our current regulars came in, but so did all these people who used to be regulars back in the old days when Frank was a manager. It was as if some subliminal and telepathic signal had been sent out and they all came back to say goodbye or something . . . which I realise makes me sound incredibly full of myself, but seriously--it happened all day long, even when the rush had ended.
It was pretty cool, and though I have no regrets about leaving, I realised again that I do have some really great memories. Also, I sat on the wall for the actual last time at lunchtime.
This kind of attitude, though? I won't miss at all . . .
"Pearls Before Swine" cartoon, May 17th 2009, by Stephan Pastis.
It was a strange day.
When I punched in, I thought (and said), "Hey! This is the last time I'm punching in for a shift at Starbucks!" Som said, "Imagine if fireworks went off or something." They didn't and I hadn't thought of that, but it seemed, when she said it, that it would have been appropriate had some done so.
Then I requested to be able to take the trash out . . . because I like to.
Then we got a rush for a couple of hours that left us totally occupied and I'm fairly certain filled up every square foot of our tiny store with people. The odd thing was that all our current regulars came in, but so did all these people who used to be regulars back in the old days when Frank was a manager. It was as if some subliminal and telepathic signal had been sent out and they all came back to say goodbye or something . . . which I realise makes me sound incredibly full of myself, but seriously--it happened all day long, even when the rush had ended.
It was pretty cool, and though I have no regrets about leaving, I realised again that I do have some really great memories. Also, I sat on the wall for the actual last time at lunchtime.
This kind of attitude, though? I won't miss at all . . .
"Pearls Before Swine" cartoon, May 17th 2009, by Stephan Pastis.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Sitting on the Wall
Today I sat on the wall by the bank, eyes closed, listening to the sound of the cars on tarmac and the beeping of the drive-up ATMs. "This," I thought, "may well be the last time I ever do this."
When the weather's warm enough, I sit on the wall during my breaks and soak up vitamin D. I could sit in our outside cafe, but it's small and there's no way to get away from the customers. I daresay I look really weird sitting on that wall by myself and without a cigarette, but I have never cared. Today might have been the first time I've gone out there this year because the spring has mostly been cold, but it might also be the last time, unless I go out tomorrow, because tomorrow is the day I work my Last Starbucks Shift.
Sometimes I take a break from writing here because there's nothing going on. Other times it's because everything's going on and I don't know how to talk about all of it, or it isn't time to yet, or something. And then I have to try to catch up. I'm going to try to do that. For now, though, suffice it to say that on Saturday I gave my notice at Starbucks and on Thursday I go on vacation, so tomorrow is effectively the end.
I'm so glad.
The company isn't what it was, and the store isn't what it was, and I'm probably not who I was either, back in 2004 when I thought I was going to work there for six months and then try to open a coffee shop of my own. The staff has changed zillions of times, as of last week we're on our third manager, and apart from Jerry (who doesn't really count, because he left and came back), I'm the person who has been with this store the longest.
"Oh!" say the Customers-That-I-Like, that I've told about my departure, looking perplexed at whether to be happy for me or disappointed for . . . themselves, I guess? "I'll miss you!" I say I'll miss them, too, and I suspect I will, but it feels kind of weird to say it and it probably isn't true in the traditional sense anyway. Most of them are only in my life on the opposite side of a specific counter in a specific location, and once I'm not on that side of that counter in that place, I don't know that I would even have a context in which to miss them. They, on the other hand, will keep going there and I will not be on the "right" side of the counter. (If I get in line to buy a pastry, some Regular will always say, "Hey! You're on the wrong side!")
I don't have the idealism about Starbucks in particular or even coffee shops in general that I used to have, and right now I'm kind of tired of the business (though there is a coffee shop I like to visit on my days off), and tired of the stress and tired of the petty freak-outs (mine, and customers', and my colleagues') and tired of stupid, arbitrary rules that make things more difficult and not any more sanitary, for example.
But sitting on the wall kind of took me back, and I really do have some great memories of that place, and I have friends I wouldn't trade for anything and so . . . maybe I feel a little nostalgic after all.
When the weather's warm enough, I sit on the wall during my breaks and soak up vitamin D. I could sit in our outside cafe, but it's small and there's no way to get away from the customers. I daresay I look really weird sitting on that wall by myself and without a cigarette, but I have never cared. Today might have been the first time I've gone out there this year because the spring has mostly been cold, but it might also be the last time, unless I go out tomorrow, because tomorrow is the day I work my Last Starbucks Shift.
Sometimes I take a break from writing here because there's nothing going on. Other times it's because everything's going on and I don't know how to talk about all of it, or it isn't time to yet, or something. And then I have to try to catch up. I'm going to try to do that. For now, though, suffice it to say that on Saturday I gave my notice at Starbucks and on Thursday I go on vacation, so tomorrow is effectively the end.
I'm so glad.
The company isn't what it was, and the store isn't what it was, and I'm probably not who I was either, back in 2004 when I thought I was going to work there for six months and then try to open a coffee shop of my own. The staff has changed zillions of times, as of last week we're on our third manager, and apart from Jerry (who doesn't really count, because he left and came back), I'm the person who has been with this store the longest.
"Oh!" say the Customers-That-I-Like, that I've told about my departure, looking perplexed at whether to be happy for me or disappointed for . . . themselves, I guess? "I'll miss you!" I say I'll miss them, too, and I suspect I will, but it feels kind of weird to say it and it probably isn't true in the traditional sense anyway. Most of them are only in my life on the opposite side of a specific counter in a specific location, and once I'm not on that side of that counter in that place, I don't know that I would even have a context in which to miss them. They, on the other hand, will keep going there and I will not be on the "right" side of the counter. (If I get in line to buy a pastry, some Regular will always say, "Hey! You're on the wrong side!")
I don't have the idealism about Starbucks in particular or even coffee shops in general that I used to have, and right now I'm kind of tired of the business (though there is a coffee shop I like to visit on my days off), and tired of the stress and tired of the petty freak-outs (mine, and customers', and my colleagues') and tired of stupid, arbitrary rules that make things more difficult and not any more sanitary, for example.
But sitting on the wall kind of took me back, and I really do have some great memories of that place, and I have friends I wouldn't trade for anything and so . . . maybe I feel a little nostalgic after all.
Saturday, May 09, 2009
Sleepy?
So remember that fabulous mattress I bought last summer? The one that made my bed look like a contender for the bed in the Princess and the Pea? Well, like the princess in that story, turns out this mattress has been ruining my sleep. And my back. I'm hoping this story will have a happy ending. It's not shaping up that way yet.
The first three months of the mattress were great, and when I had my surgery and needed all sorts of pillows and stuff to keep me from moving around in my sleep, I thought it was wonderful. Plus, I was in so much pain for other reasons that I didn't notice the growing dent in the pillowtop. After I started to really heal, though, I noticed that I was waking up with back pain again. Given that this was why I had replaced the mattress in the first place, this didn't seem too good. But it wasn't bad back pain. Maybe I was making it up?
After Christmas I moved to the downstairs guest bedroom so I wouldn't have to heat the whole house, and I slept delightfully well on the mattress down there for three months. By the time I moved back upstairs, the dented mattress had un-dented itself, and I managed to sleep well on it for a week or so, and then the dent reappeared and the pain came back. I was definitely not imagining it. One morning I woke up with a crick in my neck so bad that it gave me a near-migraine, and Thursday at midnight I woke up with a charlie horse in, of all places, the front of my leg, next to my shin-bone. It was excruciating. Also--that is a very difficult muscle to stretch out, I discovered. I crawled out of bed and tried flexing my foot, but it could barely move. So I tried massaging it, and was hit with such a sharp stabbing pain and overwhelming wave of nausea that I gave up and climbed back in bed. Not that I wanted to be there.
Today I finally succeeded in convincing Sleepy's, the illustrious company from whom I bought this piece of nightly torture, to send out an inspector at some point, but it turns out that they do not honour warrantees for back problems, only for manufacturing defects. The first customer service person I talked to tried to talk me into saying that there wasn't a dent (which I must have actually said, because I tend to cower in situations like this--but that was foolish, because it made things difficult for me later on) and that really I just wanted a new mattress.
Well, I do want a new mattress. I do think this one is defective, but the fact is that even if it isn't, I want a mattress--that does not have a pillowtop--that is just a normal mattress--that doesn't make me afraid to go to bed at night--that doesn't leave me crippled the next day. And I don't think I should have to buy a brand-new mattress myself (even at a discount) when the one provided for me (at the suggestion of the sales people whose diagnostic computer swears up and down that I need a soft, cushiony bed; I don't think so!), defective or not, has been causing me pain that could require extra expenditures on my part at a chiropractor's or something. I don't really care what is or isn't wrong with the mattress. I haven't had it a year, and I think I should be given a credit regardless.
But customer service does what they're told, and Sleepy's just wants to sell mattresses, and so that dent better still be in the bed when the inspector comes . . . sometime within the next month. Because until I get something better, I'm sleeping in the guest room.
The first three months of the mattress were great, and when I had my surgery and needed all sorts of pillows and stuff to keep me from moving around in my sleep, I thought it was wonderful. Plus, I was in so much pain for other reasons that I didn't notice the growing dent in the pillowtop. After I started to really heal, though, I noticed that I was waking up with back pain again. Given that this was why I had replaced the mattress in the first place, this didn't seem too good. But it wasn't bad back pain. Maybe I was making it up?
After Christmas I moved to the downstairs guest bedroom so I wouldn't have to heat the whole house, and I slept delightfully well on the mattress down there for three months. By the time I moved back upstairs, the dented mattress had un-dented itself, and I managed to sleep well on it for a week or so, and then the dent reappeared and the pain came back. I was definitely not imagining it. One morning I woke up with a crick in my neck so bad that it gave me a near-migraine, and Thursday at midnight I woke up with a charlie horse in, of all places, the front of my leg, next to my shin-bone. It was excruciating. Also--that is a very difficult muscle to stretch out, I discovered. I crawled out of bed and tried flexing my foot, but it could barely move. So I tried massaging it, and was hit with such a sharp stabbing pain and overwhelming wave of nausea that I gave up and climbed back in bed. Not that I wanted to be there.
Today I finally succeeded in convincing Sleepy's, the illustrious company from whom I bought this piece of nightly torture, to send out an inspector at some point, but it turns out that they do not honour warrantees for back problems, only for manufacturing defects. The first customer service person I talked to tried to talk me into saying that there wasn't a dent (which I must have actually said, because I tend to cower in situations like this--but that was foolish, because it made things difficult for me later on) and that really I just wanted a new mattress.
Well, I do want a new mattress. I do think this one is defective, but the fact is that even if it isn't, I want a mattress--that does not have a pillowtop--that is just a normal mattress--that doesn't make me afraid to go to bed at night--that doesn't leave me crippled the next day. And I don't think I should have to buy a brand-new mattress myself (even at a discount) when the one provided for me (at the suggestion of the sales people whose diagnostic computer swears up and down that I need a soft, cushiony bed; I don't think so!), defective or not, has been causing me pain that could require extra expenditures on my part at a chiropractor's or something. I don't really care what is or isn't wrong with the mattress. I haven't had it a year, and I think I should be given a credit regardless.
But customer service does what they're told, and Sleepy's just wants to sell mattresses, and so that dent better still be in the bed when the inspector comes . . . sometime within the next month. Because until I get something better, I'm sleeping in the guest room.
Wednesday, May 06, 2009
Lions and Tigers and Bears
Sometimes I muse about cartoons. They're such a weird art-form, where there's a picture of this thing that doesn't look anything like the real thing it represents, but somehow our brains go through some kind of instant, subconscious process, and everybody agrees that Mickey Mouse is a mouse--even though I promise you I have never seen a mouse that looked like him. I don't know whether we get socialized to do this, or if there's some other intrinsic human factor that causes this to happen, but anyway, sometimes I marvel about it.This phenomenon or ability is all well and good--probably helpful, even, in most situations. But sometimes it leaves you a little misinformed, when you're in a situation where you don't know what the real thing looks like. For example, the World's-Cutest-Niece-Hannah has a book in which a cartoon horse and a cartoon duck appear on the same page, but the cartoons are so stylised that she thinks, based on the other duck drawings she's seen, that the horse is a duck.
Then yesterday Sister-in-Law-Lu (who one day I might just call "Sister-in-Lu") sent us some more Hannah stories:
We went to the zoo on Saturday for the first time since Hannah was a wee little thing. She was stunned by all the children, and it took her awhile to even notice the animals. But then, maybe while we were looking at the exotic sheep, something clicked, and she started to get interested. The big tortoises were especially intriguing, prompting Hannah to say her new word of the week: turtle. And then there were the bears, which completely rocked Hannah's world. At first she looked confused when we called the grizzly "bear." But then she processed it, and she started saying it too. After we got home, Hannah had a new interest in her "real" bear (as opposed to teddy bear) books-ones she didn't used to care about-like the Eric Carle illustrations ("Brown bear, brown bear." "Polar bear, polar bear.") and "Bear snores on." She also got really excited about Ebenezer, the sprawling brown bear who sits on her dresser.This story, in combination with another blog I was reading yesterday, reminded me of the wonder that sometimes happens--dare I say should happen--when one stumbles into the reality of God.
It seems like we can grow up hearing about God, and even believing in God, but sometimes all we really have in our heads is some kind of cartoon-y version which might be sort of okay if we had a basis of reality to work from first, but ends up getting us really off track if we don't. Some books (like the ones in Hannah's library with bears in them)--or preachers or teachers or blogs or television shows or . . . whatever . . . present a more realistic picture of things than others. You can end up with the "God as indulgent parent" caricature in your head, or the "God as sadistic, brimstone-hurling monster" one, and neither one do justice to who God really is.
And then you have an experience where God shows up for you personally, and someone points it out to you, and you can be either terrified and run away ("Bears! Augh!") or you can be properly awestruck ("Oh! This is what a bear is! I had no idea!"). And then you can be drawn to the books and the people who were best able to show you what God looked like in the first place.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Miscellany
"Oh!" I said to the Milk Guy. "You have violets in your lawn!"
"Yeah," he confessed. "I just mow them down, though."
"Of course you do," I said. "But you still have them."
Also, I took the photo of the nest in the forsythia, which is currently my profile photo, back when there was little to indicate that the plant was forsythia. Look at it now, though!
Friday, April 24, 2009
Seriously
Sometime just before Good Friday I was thinking, "Whoa--this blog's way too serious again. Something funny or trivial had better happen so I can lighten it up."
On Waiting Saturday I actually had an idea of something banal to tell you all, but I thought I should probably wait until after Easter. And now I don't remember what it was.
So I'm spending my 400th post telling you that I meant to write something so dumb that I forgot it. How do you like that?
On Waiting Saturday I actually had an idea of something banal to tell you all, but I thought I should probably wait until after Easter. And now I don't remember what it was.
So I'm spending my 400th post telling you that I meant to write something so dumb that I forgot it. How do you like that?
Friday, April 10, 2009
Partying It Up
This morning I woke up and it was a sunny day off and it was Good Friday, and I felt that kind of gratitude that you can't drum up yourself--the kind that comes when you realise disaster has been averted and you could in no way have averted it any more than, um . . . an egg could descramble itself. That's a kind of silly simile, but I think it gets the point across.
So I went downstairs and thought, "I am going to make myself a Really Nice Breakfast, to celebrate Good Friday with Jesus." I was about halfway through deciding on the menu for this Really Nice Breakfast before it dawned on me that this is not normally how Christendom, or even this particular Christian, observes Good Friday. I have fasted on Good Friday before. I have been sombre and silent and spent the entire day not talking to anyone unless I went to church at some point during the day, and even then not a whole lot of talking went on. I have seen The Passion of the Christ and (to me the more moving experience of) the Life of Christ at Wintershall in England. I have cried my eyes out during the former and, with an unexpressible mix of emotions almost wiped the blood from Jesus' face in the latter.
This kind of thing is good for me, I think. I would be a pretty calloused individual if I couldn't mourn the part that I myself have played in torturing and denying and betraying and killing God.
But today? I made the Really Nice Breakfast. Because, as is the way with most things Jesus-related, Good Friday is both simple and complex, both a horror and a Good--a paradox. And today I'm celebrating. I'll celebrate the Resurrection on the day I'm "supposed" to, but the fact that God would come down here and sacrifice Himself because I couldn't relate to Him otherwise and He wanted it that much, and the fact that He has called me into the same adventure of sacrifice and forgiveness and joy is such a big deal . . .
Today my dad read me the following over the phone. It says what I mean better than I'm saying it I think:
So I went downstairs and thought, "I am going to make myself a Really Nice Breakfast, to celebrate Good Friday with Jesus." I was about halfway through deciding on the menu for this Really Nice Breakfast before it dawned on me that this is not normally how Christendom, or even this particular Christian, observes Good Friday. I have fasted on Good Friday before. I have been sombre and silent and spent the entire day not talking to anyone unless I went to church at some point during the day, and even then not a whole lot of talking went on. I have seen The Passion of the Christ and (to me the more moving experience of) the Life of Christ at Wintershall in England. I have cried my eyes out during the former and, with an unexpressible mix of emotions almost wiped the blood from Jesus' face in the latter.
This kind of thing is good for me, I think. I would be a pretty calloused individual if I couldn't mourn the part that I myself have played in torturing and denying and betraying and killing God.
But today? I made the Really Nice Breakfast. Because, as is the way with most things Jesus-related, Good Friday is both simple and complex, both a horror and a Good--a paradox. And today I'm celebrating. I'll celebrate the Resurrection on the day I'm "supposed" to, but the fact that God would come down here and sacrifice Himself because I couldn't relate to Him otherwise and He wanted it that much, and the fact that He has called me into the same adventure of sacrifice and forgiveness and joy is such a big deal . . .
Today my dad read me the following over the phone. It says what I mean better than I'm saying it I think:
This table is different. This table of the Lord isn't where sinners find Christ but where sinners celebrate being found …
Maybe some morning, instead of solemnly passing these trays, we should dance for joy. Maybe we should sing every born-again song we know. Maybe we should tell our "homecoming" stories and laugh like people who no longer fear death. Maybe we should ask if anyone wants seconds and hold our little cups high to toast lost sisters found and dead brothers alive.
Lee Eclov, "The Sinner's Feast," PreachingToday.I propose a toast to that very thing. I don't have to punish myself anymore because my sins killed God--He's the Judge. And He took the punishment. Now I can celebrate that He did. So today I'm toasting Him--and you and me and Life (which would be Him again--did you notice?). You in? Cheers!
Monday, April 06, 2009
Catching Up With a Tree
Remember this tree?
I stopped taking walks sometime in October, and only started up again the day I talked to Pagan-Jerry, who lives in the opposite direction of the tree. Yesterday I remembered how I had hypothesised about what would happen to it if a really big storm hit. Well. A really big storm did hit over the winter, and trees that were a lot more sheltered got shredded and are never going to be the same. So I decided to walk down and take a look at it and see how it had fared.
I expected damage. I expected the yard still to have branches down in it, because everybody's yard still has branches in it. I expected huge blond gashes in the wood where limbs had been ripped off by the force of wind and ice.
What I saw instead was a beautiful, strong, straight-growing tree. Some of the lower branches were a little more disheveled than they had been, maybe. But I only saw three specks of blonde, at the very top of the uppermost branches, as if a few twigs had let go, nothing more.
Something about the sight made me very happy.
Plus there was a pair of cardinals today. Ever since college, for reasons that probably wouldn't make sense to anyone else, cardinals have seemed like a sign from God to me--that things might get tough, but ultimately they're going to be all right.
The sky is pouring its heart out right now, and it's cold. Spring's arrival is a struggle this year, like so much of everything, and I could do what I usually do and anticipate tragedy and disaster, but the tree survived the Ice Tornado and the cardinals have returned. Maybe I should stop expecting damage, as if to do so would prevent it, deal with it when it comes, and instead focus on the signs of life.
I stopped taking walks sometime in October, and only started up again the day I talked to Pagan-Jerry, who lives in the opposite direction of the tree. Yesterday I remembered how I had hypothesised about what would happen to it if a really big storm hit. Well. A really big storm did hit over the winter, and trees that were a lot more sheltered got shredded and are never going to be the same. So I decided to walk down and take a look at it and see how it had fared.
I expected damage. I expected the yard still to have branches down in it, because everybody's yard still has branches in it. I expected huge blond gashes in the wood where limbs had been ripped off by the force of wind and ice.
What I saw instead was a beautiful, strong, straight-growing tree. Some of the lower branches were a little more disheveled than they had been, maybe. But I only saw three specks of blonde, at the very top of the uppermost branches, as if a few twigs had let go, nothing more.
Something about the sight made me very happy.
Plus there was a pair of cardinals today. Ever since college, for reasons that probably wouldn't make sense to anyone else, cardinals have seemed like a sign from God to me--that things might get tough, but ultimately they're going to be all right.
The sky is pouring its heart out right now, and it's cold. Spring's arrival is a struggle this year, like so much of everything, and I could do what I usually do and anticipate tragedy and disaster, but the tree survived the Ice Tornado and the cardinals have returned. Maybe I should stop expecting damage, as if to do so would prevent it, deal with it when it comes, and instead focus on the signs of life.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009
Freedom
I've been coming at Lent belatedly this year. I remembered Fat Tuesday with pancakes and friends, but I couldn't come up with anything meaningful to "give up" until halfway through the season, and even though I've been going to Wednesday night dinners at New Church since Lent started, I didn't really start interacting with the meaning of it all until about two weeks ago.
Then it really hit, and I've been bombarded with books and thoughts and conversations about sin and Jesus' passion and God's justice and my repentance and what place, if any, guilt has in this and dying to myself so that Jesus can live through me . . . and on and on and on. And I love it.
I think that might qualify me, in many people's estimation, as a weird chick.
I think part of it is that I love paradox. I love the idea of the impossible becoming fact and the dark becoming light and the least becoming great and things not being as they seem and the powers that be being turned out and the world itself being turned upside-down.
Even though I like fantasy novels to a point, I don't think I could get into pantheism like Pagan-Jerry because there's not enough paradox to validate it, or something. I mean, I guess it's something of a paradox to hold that we're all ignorant gods who are secretly all-powerful if we could ever figure it out but in the meantime we're trapped in these little finite bodies making a mess of things. I just don't find that one very satisfying or compelling, maybe. Plus it's the oldest lie in the book. Like seriously:
“You won’t die!” the serpent replied to the woman. “God knows that your eyes will be opened as soon as you eat it, and you will be like God, knowing both good and evil” (Genesis 3.4-5, NLT).
We've been through this before, but that whole thing makes me so mad--that we believed we weren't like God to begin with and decided to try to become like Him without Him. And then we wonder why we aren't more godlike. We believe lying spirits who tell us we are without beginning and end instead of being content to be glorious creatures, capable of bearing the One True God to the rest of creation.
I don't know. Maybe I'm lazy or don't like the responsibility, because even the biblical promises that the children of God will one day reign with Jesus kind of freak me out. But I really don't get what's so great about being god all by myself. Or about my neighbor's being god, either. I don't see that either I or he have enough of a clue to make things better, but I do happen to know the genuine relief and release that comes from confessing to sin. Not confessing to not knowing enough. Not confessing even to "making bad choices," though I suppose that's what it comes down to. But confessing, like the Prodigal Son, "Father, I have sinned against Heaven and against you. I am no longer worthy to be called your [daughter]." I don't have to maintain the facade of being a secretly perfect being who accidentally mistook something. I don't have to say I don't know why people kill each other.
It's not to say I don't do these things. In the last week I noticed for the first time how much I lie to make myself look better, and here I always thought I was so honest. I'm just saying . . . when I get to the end of myself, I'm really glad there's an end to myself, and that I can get there, and then there's Jesus, who lets me put my sin on Him and then throws it into the depths of the sea.
Then it really hit, and I've been bombarded with books and thoughts and conversations about sin and Jesus' passion and God's justice and my repentance and what place, if any, guilt has in this and dying to myself so that Jesus can live through me . . . and on and on and on. And I love it.
I think that might qualify me, in many people's estimation, as a weird chick.
I think part of it is that I love paradox. I love the idea of the impossible becoming fact and the dark becoming light and the least becoming great and things not being as they seem and the powers that be being turned out and the world itself being turned upside-down.
Even though I like fantasy novels to a point, I don't think I could get into pantheism like Pagan-Jerry because there's not enough paradox to validate it, or something. I mean, I guess it's something of a paradox to hold that we're all ignorant gods who are secretly all-powerful if we could ever figure it out but in the meantime we're trapped in these little finite bodies making a mess of things. I just don't find that one very satisfying or compelling, maybe. Plus it's the oldest lie in the book. Like seriously:
“You won’t die!” the serpent replied to the woman. “God knows that your eyes will be opened as soon as you eat it, and you will be like God, knowing both good and evil” (Genesis 3.4-5, NLT).
We've been through this before, but that whole thing makes me so mad--that we believed we weren't like God to begin with and decided to try to become like Him without Him. And then we wonder why we aren't more godlike. We believe lying spirits who tell us we are without beginning and end instead of being content to be glorious creatures, capable of bearing the One True God to the rest of creation.
I don't know. Maybe I'm lazy or don't like the responsibility, because even the biblical promises that the children of God will one day reign with Jesus kind of freak me out. But I really don't get what's so great about being god all by myself. Or about my neighbor's being god, either. I don't see that either I or he have enough of a clue to make things better, but I do happen to know the genuine relief and release that comes from confessing to sin. Not confessing to not knowing enough. Not confessing even to "making bad choices," though I suppose that's what it comes down to. But confessing, like the Prodigal Son, "Father, I have sinned against Heaven and against you. I am no longer worthy to be called your [daughter]." I don't have to maintain the facade of being a secretly perfect being who accidentally mistook something. I don't have to say I don't know why people kill each other.
It's not to say I don't do these things. In the last week I noticed for the first time how much I lie to make myself look better, and here I always thought I was so honest. I'm just saying . . . when I get to the end of myself, I'm really glad there's an end to myself, and that I can get there, and then there's Jesus, who lets me put my sin on Him and then throws it into the depths of the sea.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
The Difference
Last Saturday was positively glorious, such that even though I have a distinctly lazy streak, I decided to get out for a walk. I didn’t even need a jacket. I walked down the usual route, because there is very little else to do but walk the usual route unless you want to go down it backwards, and presently I came upon the House on the Corner.
The House on the Corner has little stone fairies in the rocks along the side of the road and on Saturday an older couple was raking the leaves out of the rocks. By the time I got there, the wife had gone inside, and it was just the husband out there raking. I said hello. He said hello. We both remarked approvingly on the weather. I kept walking.
I had gone quite some way down the road when the nagging voice in my head that was telling me to go and offer to help him rake got the better of me, and so I turned around and walked back. I had a conversation in my head where the man gratefully accepted my help (even though he’s a New Englander--I should have thought that one out a little more) and then I said something trite but heartfelt and true about Jesus loving him.
At least I know enough by now to be fairly certain that the conversations I have in my head will not remotely resemble the ones that happen in real life. This one didn’t.
It started all right. I offered to help. He declined. I asked if he was sure. He was. Then he leaned on his rake and started talking. He began by talking about his grandkids, but what ended up happening was a full-on “evangelistic” promotion of paganism. He was lucky, he said, that he had had the upbringing he did. His mother was very sensitive, he said. He grew up with ghosts and learned not to be afraid of them. He had experiences, which he told me about. One of them involved going “back and back” past his Egyptian period and discovering he was holding a galaxy in his hands and singing a love-song lullaby to it.
The thing he had learned, he told me, was that everything is interconnected, and every moment is to be enjoyed and that we are pre-existently eternal, and more powerful than we can even know. “There are some Entities,” he said, confidentially, “who don’t want us to know how powerful we are.” I felt him looking at me pointedly. I was fairly certain he had figured out I was a Christian, even though I had said approximately nothing in the entire half hour he was talking to me. I thought he was implying that the Entity that Christians worship as God was one such being, set on keeping us down.
I wanted to argue, but I knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that it wouldn’t do any good. I wanted to say, “Yep. We are more powerful than we have any idea of. It wouldn’t surprise me if one day we were to hold galaxies in our hands [actually, that’s not true--the act itself might be surprising when it actually happens], but we don’t get that from ourselves. We get it because we are made in the image of the Lord God Almighty who doesn’t want to keep us down--He wants us to reign with Him. But there are entities who don’t want us to reach our potential, and those are the lying spirits you’re listening to, who fill your head with delusions of independence, spinning out the deception until the end, all the while keeping you away from the One who loves you and can enable you to be more than you ever thought.”
I thought if I tried to say something like that, first off he wouldn’t allow me to get that many words in edgewise, and secondly it would degenerate into a “my God is better than your god” (or whatever) argument, and, on the level of argument he would probably win. I daresay he has seen more supernatural or at least paranormal experiences than I have.
But I couldn’t stop wondering how one does engage in a real give-and-take about beliefs with someone who believes like this. There’s a man at Old Church who talks about Jesus and the difference He’s made in his life in just the same way this man, Pagan-Jerry, was talking about his special spirits. I knew from the bottom of my soul there was a difference, but I couldn’t find a way to helpfully articulate it.
The weird thing was that I had just been thinking that morning, for some unknown reason, about how CS Lewis and JRR Tolkein engaged paganism in their stories and made use of the similarities with the Christian story to show how Jesus fulfilled not only the prophecies of Judaism but the dreams of paganism. But right then, talking to Pagan-Jerry, the similarities seemed like the biggest stumbling-block of all. How could I refute anything he said when to do so would sound like I was just changing the labels around?
I kept asking Jesus to give me some words, but He didn't, that I could tell, so I just listened. And then Pagan-Jerry said, “It’s just such a shame we don’t realise all this about ourselves. We do such atrocious things to each other and to our world. Some that I’ve talked to [here he looked significantly at me, giving me to understand he meant some spirits, and not some other humans] keep asking, ‘What’s wrong with all of you? You destroy each other. You foul your nest. Why do you do it?’ And I just don’t know. That's just how it is.”
That was when I realised the difference. The pagan stories have no true place for sin. There’s no explanation of it--how it got here, why we do it, why the world is in the mess it is today. Ironically, the one story that calls sin “sin” and whose Hero definitively triumphed over it and eradicates it is the one story that also has a place for it. Only the long slow multi-millennial process of the story of Jesus can give us a reason for why we destroy each other and foul the world we live in. And only that story can give us an ultimate solution.
As if proving the point--that I sin--I took my own personal safety and composure in my hands at that point, and returned home.
The House on the Corner has little stone fairies in the rocks along the side of the road and on Saturday an older couple was raking the leaves out of the rocks. By the time I got there, the wife had gone inside, and it was just the husband out there raking. I said hello. He said hello. We both remarked approvingly on the weather. I kept walking.
I had gone quite some way down the road when the nagging voice in my head that was telling me to go and offer to help him rake got the better of me, and so I turned around and walked back. I had a conversation in my head where the man gratefully accepted my help (even though he’s a New Englander--I should have thought that one out a little more) and then I said something trite but heartfelt and true about Jesus loving him.
At least I know enough by now to be fairly certain that the conversations I have in my head will not remotely resemble the ones that happen in real life. This one didn’t.
It started all right. I offered to help. He declined. I asked if he was sure. He was. Then he leaned on his rake and started talking. He began by talking about his grandkids, but what ended up happening was a full-on “evangelistic” promotion of paganism. He was lucky, he said, that he had had the upbringing he did. His mother was very sensitive, he said. He grew up with ghosts and learned not to be afraid of them. He had experiences, which he told me about. One of them involved going “back and back” past his Egyptian period and discovering he was holding a galaxy in his hands and singing a love-song lullaby to it.
The thing he had learned, he told me, was that everything is interconnected, and every moment is to be enjoyed and that we are pre-existently eternal, and more powerful than we can even know. “There are some Entities,” he said, confidentially, “who don’t want us to know how powerful we are.” I felt him looking at me pointedly. I was fairly certain he had figured out I was a Christian, even though I had said approximately nothing in the entire half hour he was talking to me. I thought he was implying that the Entity that Christians worship as God was one such being, set on keeping us down.
I wanted to argue, but I knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that it wouldn’t do any good. I wanted to say, “Yep. We are more powerful than we have any idea of. It wouldn’t surprise me if one day we were to hold galaxies in our hands [actually, that’s not true--the act itself might be surprising when it actually happens], but we don’t get that from ourselves. We get it because we are made in the image of the Lord God Almighty who doesn’t want to keep us down--He wants us to reign with Him. But there are entities who don’t want us to reach our potential, and those are the lying spirits you’re listening to, who fill your head with delusions of independence, spinning out the deception until the end, all the while keeping you away from the One who loves you and can enable you to be more than you ever thought.”
I thought if I tried to say something like that, first off he wouldn’t allow me to get that many words in edgewise, and secondly it would degenerate into a “my God is better than your god” (or whatever) argument, and, on the level of argument he would probably win. I daresay he has seen more supernatural or at least paranormal experiences than I have.
But I couldn’t stop wondering how one does engage in a real give-and-take about beliefs with someone who believes like this. There’s a man at Old Church who talks about Jesus and the difference He’s made in his life in just the same way this man, Pagan-Jerry, was talking about his special spirits. I knew from the bottom of my soul there was a difference, but I couldn’t find a way to helpfully articulate it.
The weird thing was that I had just been thinking that morning, for some unknown reason, about how CS Lewis and JRR Tolkein engaged paganism in their stories and made use of the similarities with the Christian story to show how Jesus fulfilled not only the prophecies of Judaism but the dreams of paganism. But right then, talking to Pagan-Jerry, the similarities seemed like the biggest stumbling-block of all. How could I refute anything he said when to do so would sound like I was just changing the labels around?
I kept asking Jesus to give me some words, but He didn't, that I could tell, so I just listened. And then Pagan-Jerry said, “It’s just such a shame we don’t realise all this about ourselves. We do such atrocious things to each other and to our world. Some that I’ve talked to [here he looked significantly at me, giving me to understand he meant some spirits, and not some other humans] keep asking, ‘What’s wrong with all of you? You destroy each other. You foul your nest. Why do you do it?’ And I just don’t know. That's just how it is.”
That was when I realised the difference. The pagan stories have no true place for sin. There’s no explanation of it--how it got here, why we do it, why the world is in the mess it is today. Ironically, the one story that calls sin “sin” and whose Hero definitively triumphed over it and eradicates it is the one story that also has a place for it. Only the long slow multi-millennial process of the story of Jesus can give us a reason for why we destroy each other and foul the world we live in. And only that story can give us an ultimate solution.
As if proving the point--that I sin--I took my own personal safety and composure in my hands at that point, and returned home.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Sesame Street Has Been Brought To You Today . . .
. . . by the nouns "miracle" and "intercession" and by the interjection, "huh?!"
Two weeks ago a bunch of people who don't know each other all decided to tell me across the span of a week the same (or mostly the same) thing about an aspect of my life. When that happens, I usually think it's worth listening, just in case, you know, it was actually God trying to get through to me or something. One of these people has just started an praying ministry on Facebook and I guessed I should especially listen to him, maybe?
I didn't really want it to be God, because I didn't really want to re-examine that area of my life (having already done so numerous times over the course of the year). But I didn't get the same "answer" I had been getting all those other times of hashing it over. I didn't feel like I got an answer at all. So I wasn't sure, even if it was God talking, what exactly He was telling me to do about it.
I'm still not, entirely, but I'm getting at least a little bit of a clue how to think about it. First of all, I should tell you I wrote at A Wandering Line a companion piece to the last post here. Two days after I wrote that, I visited a church with New Church's confirmation class, where they read Ephesians 1. Which, you know, is basically about God accomplishing the Impossible Reconciliation through Jesus Christ. Then yesterday I got a whole bunch of "messages" at least as insistent as the ones of two weeks ago, and this is how they went:
I went to see my counselor, who I meet with in a church. I was early so I made a pit-stop detour and on the wall on my way was a big sign saying, "Expect a miracle." Ha. I thought. That's ironic. Since, you know, I've been talking about those lately and also praying for one or two more than lately. I wanted to take it as a confirmation of . . . something, but I don't believe in fortune cookies. This was a little large for a fortune cookie, however. I have, on occasion (including last week), wished aloud that God would give me a literal sign. You know--one with writing. So . . . if I get one, should I dismiss it?
Then I went into the bathroom. I had forgotten that on the stall walls in this particular church, they have pasted Bible verses--a different one in each stall. I had evidently never been in this stall before, because I was startled when I read, "Blessed is she who has believed that what the Lord has said to her will be accomplished!" (Luke 1.45, NIV). Curiouser and curiouser . . .
At the end of my session, my counselor prayed for me, as she does, and prayed that I would see God do the impossible. I don't remember ever talking to her about that in those terms before. Or maybe she prayed something else similar . . . I don't exactly remember, but it was something along the lines I had been thinking of, about miracles and the irresistibility of God.
Then I went to work at New Church. The phone rang. It was the line the Milk Guy usually rings in on, and we had just been talking, so I thought maybe he had thought of one more thing to say, so I picked it up. It was definitely not the Milk Guy--it was a Wrong Number. This Wrong Number wanted to talk, though, apparently, because when I said the word church his ears perked up.
Evidently he is a Ghanaian intercessor praying for the City. We talked about church and about what we hoped to see God do in this City and about some of the problems we face here. I had that weird brain-prickle that sometimes occurs when I think that God might have orchestrated a mistake on purpose and so I couldn't really argue when Wrong Number said, "This is from the Lord--God wants to do things here, because look--I was trying to call my work, and I called a church instead and am talking to you. The Holy Spirit did this." I've been learning a lot about the Holy Spirit lately--maybe even more than I did when I worshiped in a charismatic church. I thought he was probably right. Then Wrong Number said, "Don't ever forget. God is a God of the impossible. He wants to bring people to Himself and He wants to do miracles. We need to pray. We need to pray for Him to do the impossible."
There's a certain vein of theology that says things like that in a way with which I am not comfortable. I don't, for example, think that the Christian life becomes trouble-free if you pray and believe hard enough. Quite the opposite, in fact. But I don't know. Do you think all that was coincidence?
Two weeks ago a bunch of people who don't know each other all decided to tell me across the span of a week the same (or mostly the same) thing about an aspect of my life. When that happens, I usually think it's worth listening, just in case, you know, it was actually God trying to get through to me or something. One of these people has just started an praying ministry on Facebook and I guessed I should especially listen to him, maybe?
I didn't really want it to be God, because I didn't really want to re-examine that area of my life (having already done so numerous times over the course of the year). But I didn't get the same "answer" I had been getting all those other times of hashing it over. I didn't feel like I got an answer at all. So I wasn't sure, even if it was God talking, what exactly He was telling me to do about it.
I'm still not, entirely, but I'm getting at least a little bit of a clue how to think about it. First of all, I should tell you I wrote at A Wandering Line a companion piece to the last post here. Two days after I wrote that, I visited a church with New Church's confirmation class, where they read Ephesians 1. Which, you know, is basically about God accomplishing the Impossible Reconciliation through Jesus Christ. Then yesterday I got a whole bunch of "messages" at least as insistent as the ones of two weeks ago, and this is how they went:
I went to see my counselor, who I meet with in a church. I was early so I made a pit-stop detour and on the wall on my way was a big sign saying, "Expect a miracle." Ha. I thought. That's ironic. Since, you know, I've been talking about those lately and also praying for one or two more than lately. I wanted to take it as a confirmation of . . . something, but I don't believe in fortune cookies. This was a little large for a fortune cookie, however. I have, on occasion (including last week), wished aloud that God would give me a literal sign. You know--one with writing. So . . . if I get one, should I dismiss it?
Then I went into the bathroom. I had forgotten that on the stall walls in this particular church, they have pasted Bible verses--a different one in each stall. I had evidently never been in this stall before, because I was startled when I read, "Blessed is she who has believed that what the Lord has said to her will be accomplished!" (Luke 1.45, NIV). Curiouser and curiouser . . .
At the end of my session, my counselor prayed for me, as she does, and prayed that I would see God do the impossible. I don't remember ever talking to her about that in those terms before. Or maybe she prayed something else similar . . . I don't exactly remember, but it was something along the lines I had been thinking of, about miracles and the irresistibility of God.
Then I went to work at New Church. The phone rang. It was the line the Milk Guy usually rings in on, and we had just been talking, so I thought maybe he had thought of one more thing to say, so I picked it up. It was definitely not the Milk Guy--it was a Wrong Number. This Wrong Number wanted to talk, though, apparently, because when I said the word church his ears perked up.
Evidently he is a Ghanaian intercessor praying for the City. We talked about church and about what we hoped to see God do in this City and about some of the problems we face here. I had that weird brain-prickle that sometimes occurs when I think that God might have orchestrated a mistake on purpose and so I couldn't really argue when Wrong Number said, "This is from the Lord--God wants to do things here, because look--I was trying to call my work, and I called a church instead and am talking to you. The Holy Spirit did this." I've been learning a lot about the Holy Spirit lately--maybe even more than I did when I worshiped in a charismatic church. I thought he was probably right. Then Wrong Number said, "Don't ever forget. God is a God of the impossible. He wants to bring people to Himself and He wants to do miracles. We need to pray. We need to pray for Him to do the impossible."
There's a certain vein of theology that says things like that in a way with which I am not comfortable. I don't, for example, think that the Christian life becomes trouble-free if you pray and believe hard enough. Quite the opposite, in fact. But I don't know. Do you think all that was coincidence?
Monday, March 16, 2009
Expectations
I used to have this friend who expected a lot of me but would completely freak out whenever she felt I was expecting anything of her. I don't know if I thought at the time that I could deliver, thus feeling the burden of expectations less, but anyway, it took me a few more fraught experiences and friendships to realise that superimposing expectations over personhood is pretty tough to deal with when you're the person being superimposed upon.
All of a sudden in the last week a whole lot of things have come up independently of each other regarding expectations I have of others and of myself. And of Jesus. Then today I discovered that Jeff's been blogging about worshipping expectations instead of Jesus. I feel like I do that a lot. I also feel like it's impossible not to have expectations and that I don't know what to do with them.
I think the short, and theoretically easy, answer is: just worship Jesus. Relinquish expectations. Just fuggedaboudit.
Or something like that.
I would counter, however, that a relationship is about trust, and a relationship with Jesus is especially about trust, and it's hard to actively trust if you're not expecting something. I guess what I'm supposed to trust is that Jesus loves me and will take care of me and no one will snatch me out of His hand. Which I feel He is graciously enabling me to do more and more these days. But I don't know, on a practical level, how to trust Him with specific situations.
Say there's something I'm praying about. I've been praying about it for a long time. I feel I've been obedient within the situation as best I know how. I know that on a realistic level, the thing I'm praying about can't change much. I also know that Jesus does miracles. Seriously. He does miracles, people! And I'm talking to Him. And He's pretty good with upsetting the status quo. So . . . do I expect Him to do the miracle? Or do I expect Him to get me through the situation without the miracle?
Well, I'll tell you what I'm temperamentally more likely to expect. (I mean, I won't tell you, but I'm pretty sure you can guess.) Is it more trusting, more Jesus-glorifying, more obedient, more worshipful to expect and hope for the totally unlikely miracle? Or is it more all-those-things to be more of a realist, to expect no miracle and to watch and see what happens without it?
Hoping and expecting a miracle seems braver and scarier and a lot more like putting myself out there to get hurt and shamed and at the very least disappointed. But it seems like that's what all the people who get a mention in the Bible did anyway--expected a miracle. At least eventually. (And they did often get hurt and shamed and disappointed, but they still got their miracles, too.) Not expecting a miracle seems safer but also more responsible and less of an imposition of my will on God's.
I don't want to burden God with selfish expectations the way my friend and I burdened each other all those years ago. If there's a free Being anywhere, it's God, and He doesn't deserve (nor do I believe will He tolerate) to be boxed in to my own little personal will. But without faith it's impossible to please God, and all those people in Hebrews 11 trusted in God, but also in specific things that God had promised for them. I don't know how to tell the difference between my wishes and God's promises, and I just don't know what to expect . . .
All of a sudden in the last week a whole lot of things have come up independently of each other regarding expectations I have of others and of myself. And of Jesus. Then today I discovered that Jeff's been blogging about worshipping expectations instead of Jesus. I feel like I do that a lot. I also feel like it's impossible not to have expectations and that I don't know what to do with them.
I think the short, and theoretically easy, answer is: just worship Jesus. Relinquish expectations. Just fuggedaboudit.
Or something like that.
I would counter, however, that a relationship is about trust, and a relationship with Jesus is especially about trust, and it's hard to actively trust if you're not expecting something. I guess what I'm supposed to trust is that Jesus loves me and will take care of me and no one will snatch me out of His hand. Which I feel He is graciously enabling me to do more and more these days. But I don't know, on a practical level, how to trust Him with specific situations.
Say there's something I'm praying about. I've been praying about it for a long time. I feel I've been obedient within the situation as best I know how. I know that on a realistic level, the thing I'm praying about can't change much. I also know that Jesus does miracles. Seriously. He does miracles, people! And I'm talking to Him. And He's pretty good with upsetting the status quo. So . . . do I expect Him to do the miracle? Or do I expect Him to get me through the situation without the miracle?
Well, I'll tell you what I'm temperamentally more likely to expect. (I mean, I won't tell you, but I'm pretty sure you can guess.) Is it more trusting, more Jesus-glorifying, more obedient, more worshipful to expect and hope for the totally unlikely miracle? Or is it more all-those-things to be more of a realist, to expect no miracle and to watch and see what happens without it?
Hoping and expecting a miracle seems braver and scarier and a lot more like putting myself out there to get hurt and shamed and at the very least disappointed. But it seems like that's what all the people who get a mention in the Bible did anyway--expected a miracle. At least eventually. (And they did often get hurt and shamed and disappointed, but they still got their miracles, too.) Not expecting a miracle seems safer but also more responsible and less of an imposition of my will on God's.
I don't want to burden God with selfish expectations the way my friend and I burdened each other all those years ago. If there's a free Being anywhere, it's God, and He doesn't deserve (nor do I believe will He tolerate) to be boxed in to my own little personal will. But without faith it's impossible to please God, and all those people in Hebrews 11 trusted in God, but also in specific things that God had promised for them. I don't know how to tell the difference between my wishes and God's promises, and I just don't know what to expect . . .
Friday, March 13, 2009
Wandering Over
Last night I posted something about--what else?--trust over on A Wandering Line. Check it out.
Monday, March 09, 2009
Writing Into the Maze
Let us all keep in mind and remember here that I am not a very disciplined writer. The story whose first draft I finished last Lent hasn't changed much since then, and the one I'm occasionally glancing at these days I hadn't looked at in years before last week. I'm only saying this because I'm about to tell you about one of my characters and I don't want Certain Readers to get their hopes up too much.
But I just wanted to point out that phenomena that I have mentioned and also heard other authors mention on occasion--the one where the characters end up changing the story on you.
I have this character Jake. He's 23 or so and he gets completely infatuated with this young woman named Sophie and follows her to London. They get in kind of a fight on his first full day there, and he decides to go find a pub and think. Or at least drink. He has some conflict-resolution issues. Anyway, so he marches out of the Tate Modern and goes to look for a pub.
I really thought he was going to find one. I mean, they're all over London. I thought, too, that he'd be too jetlagged and maybe intimidated by this new huge city to want to go very far. He was a little nervous about flying to begin with. I figured he'd get on the Tube and head back to the area he was staying and go to a pub there, just to be safe. But he didn't. Instead he got all distracted by the thoughts in his head and kept walking through Bankside and got lost somewhere beyond Tower Bridge and now it's getting dark.
I didn't know that was going to happen.
I don't think this is necessarily going to be a pivotal part of the story, but I just point it out because this kind of thing happens a lot when I write: somebody goes down a road I hadn't planned for them to go on and I have to follow them down it. If I don't, they might never get out. I have an idea of where I want the story to head, and sometimes I have to write a character out of quite a bit of mischief. But I also have to give them the dignity to make their own choices and see how the story unfolds on that basis.
I'm not trying to draw out any deep symbolism here. I've already talked about how I feel about making this experience a metaphor for God's interaction with us (I think it works in part . . . but not well enough). But it does fascinate me when it happens, and I thought I'd let you in on it.
But I just wanted to point out that phenomena that I have mentioned and also heard other authors mention on occasion--the one where the characters end up changing the story on you.
I have this character Jake. He's 23 or so and he gets completely infatuated with this young woman named Sophie and follows her to London. They get in kind of a fight on his first full day there, and he decides to go find a pub and think. Or at least drink. He has some conflict-resolution issues. Anyway, so he marches out of the Tate Modern and goes to look for a pub.
I really thought he was going to find one. I mean, they're all over London. I thought, too, that he'd be too jetlagged and maybe intimidated by this new huge city to want to go very far. He was a little nervous about flying to begin with. I figured he'd get on the Tube and head back to the area he was staying and go to a pub there, just to be safe. But he didn't. Instead he got all distracted by the thoughts in his head and kept walking through Bankside and got lost somewhere beyond Tower Bridge and now it's getting dark.
I didn't know that was going to happen.
I don't think this is necessarily going to be a pivotal part of the story, but I just point it out because this kind of thing happens a lot when I write: somebody goes down a road I hadn't planned for them to go on and I have to follow them down it. If I don't, they might never get out. I have an idea of where I want the story to head, and sometimes I have to write a character out of quite a bit of mischief. But I also have to give them the dignity to make their own choices and see how the story unfolds on that basis.
I'm not trying to draw out any deep symbolism here. I've already talked about how I feel about making this experience a metaphor for God's interaction with us (I think it works in part . . . but not well enough). But it does fascinate me when it happens, and I thought I'd let you in on it.
Friday, March 06, 2009
Remember . . . ?
I have another blog. I know it's a pain to set up yet another account so you can comment on yet another blog, so I understand if you don't want to do it. On the other hand, that one might be where it matters if people can tell I have a readership--I don't know. So . . . I've been talking about pot and the Transfiguration and giving people spring over there in the last three weeks. Not all at the same time. If you missed any of that, you might want to go check it out.
Telemarketers Are People, Too
Here, as closely as I can remember, is an honest-to-goodness conversation I had on the phone last night.
The caller ID came up as Charter Communications, and I have been ignoring their calls for a while, but they are my internet and phone and tv providers, so I decided I had better finally answer, just in case there was actually something they needed to communicate with me.
Me: Hello?
Charter Chick: Hello--is Mr. or Mrs. Grosser there?
Me [I get this a lot, and it's really fun to tell people they've left the country]: Um, I'm sorry--they don't live here anymore.
Charter Chick: Oh. [Pause.] Should I take their names off the account?
Me [I'm about to say yes, but I happen to know their names were never on the account, because I switched to it after they left the country]: Well--are their names on the account?
Charter Chick: Is one of them Jennifer Grosser?
Me: I'm Jennifer Grosser.
Charter Chick: What? Wait. I'm so confused!
Me: [Laughing] Me, too! I'm Jennifer Grosser--you kind of threw me off with the whole "Mr and Mrs" thing. [I could have a whole rant about this here if we wanted, but that's for a different post and I don't think it was her fault.]
Charter Chick: [Laughing, too] Oh--sorry! Okay. [Pause, though still laughing.] Well [deep breath] my name is Kristy and I'm calling on behalf of Charter to let you know about a very exciting offer.
[I don't remember if her name was really Kristy, but that's probably just as well.]
Me: [Pretty sure I'm not going to accept the offer, but we just had a laugh together and so I feel it would be rude to hang up now.] Okay.
Kristy: First I need to tell you that this call may be monitored or recorded for quality control purposes. [She's still laughing.]
Me: That should be entertaining for them.
Kristy: Okay, you ready?
Me: Go for it.
[Kristy launches into a schpiel about their offering me HBO and a whole bunch of other stuff for only $5 for a month for an entire year. This would be a good deal if I ever watched TV, other than Lost and sometimes The Office, both of which I can also watch on-line. As for movies--I rarely have time to sit down and watch a full-length movie. I decline. She tries again. I still decline. She offers me a free trial month. I still decline although she has been very pleasant about the whole thing.]
Kristy: You know what? This is the most fun conversation I've had all day!
Me: Well that's good! I'm glad. I hope your other conversations are a little more profitable for you, but . . .
Kristy: You know what? It doesn't matter if you buy anything or not--this was the best conversation!
We both heartily wished each other a good evening and I went on my way, but I couldn't stop smiling. I think it was because I realised I had just inadvertently treated her the way I wished people at Starbucks would treat me. And some of them do. But that day I had worked an eight-hour shift during which Mouse got chewed out essentially for not wasting paper product, and I got chewed out because Starbucks charges extra for packets of jam for bagels. ("I'm pretty sure they give jelly out free at Dunkin' Donuts," said one of the accusers. "Well, you can go to Dunkin Donuts," I offered.)
I don't know that I will make a practice of engaging in friendly banter with telemarketers, but you know what? It didn't kill me. It kind of made my night.
The caller ID came up as Charter Communications, and I have been ignoring their calls for a while, but they are my internet and phone and tv providers, so I decided I had better finally answer, just in case there was actually something they needed to communicate with me.
Me: Hello?
Charter Chick: Hello--is Mr. or Mrs. Grosser there?
Me [I get this a lot, and it's really fun to tell people they've left the country]: Um, I'm sorry--they don't live here anymore.
Charter Chick: Oh. [Pause.] Should I take their names off the account?
Me [I'm about to say yes, but I happen to know their names were never on the account, because I switched to it after they left the country]: Well--are their names on the account?
Charter Chick: Is one of them Jennifer Grosser?
Me: I'm Jennifer Grosser.
Charter Chick: What? Wait. I'm so confused!
Me: [Laughing] Me, too! I'm Jennifer Grosser--you kind of threw me off with the whole "Mr and Mrs" thing. [I could have a whole rant about this here if we wanted, but that's for a different post and I don't think it was her fault.]
Charter Chick: [Laughing, too] Oh--sorry! Okay. [Pause, though still laughing.] Well [deep breath] my name is Kristy and I'm calling on behalf of Charter to let you know about a very exciting offer.
[I don't remember if her name was really Kristy, but that's probably just as well.]
Me: [Pretty sure I'm not going to accept the offer, but we just had a laugh together and so I feel it would be rude to hang up now.] Okay.
Kristy: First I need to tell you that this call may be monitored or recorded for quality control purposes. [She's still laughing.]
Me: That should be entertaining for them.
Kristy: Okay, you ready?
Me: Go for it.
[Kristy launches into a schpiel about their offering me HBO and a whole bunch of other stuff for only $5 for a month for an entire year. This would be a good deal if I ever watched TV, other than Lost and sometimes The Office, both of which I can also watch on-line. As for movies--I rarely have time to sit down and watch a full-length movie. I decline. She tries again. I still decline. She offers me a free trial month. I still decline although she has been very pleasant about the whole thing.]
Kristy: You know what? This is the most fun conversation I've had all day!
Me: Well that's good! I'm glad. I hope your other conversations are a little more profitable for you, but . . .
Kristy: You know what? It doesn't matter if you buy anything or not--this was the best conversation!
We both heartily wished each other a good evening and I went on my way, but I couldn't stop smiling. I think it was because I realised I had just inadvertently treated her the way I wished people at Starbucks would treat me. And some of them do. But that day I had worked an eight-hour shift during which Mouse got chewed out essentially for not wasting paper product, and I got chewed out because Starbucks charges extra for packets of jam for bagels. ("I'm pretty sure they give jelly out free at Dunkin' Donuts," said one of the accusers. "Well, you can go to Dunkin Donuts," I offered.)
I don't know that I will make a practice of engaging in friendly banter with telemarketers, but you know what? It didn't kill me. It kind of made my night.
Tuesday, March 03, 2009
Daffodils
After church on Sunday, I bought myself some daffodils and brought a second bunch to the Milk Guy for St. David's Day. It was snowing, and getting ready to snow a whole lot more, and neither of us was happy about it. We don't like winter. I used to like it as a child when there were such things as snow days and I wasn't the one shoveling the snowdrifts, instead burrowing snow-forts into them and making snow-centaurs with my brother. But now it's shoveling at 4.30 in the morning for me, and getting achy and being cold all the time, and frankly, I hate it. Meanwhile, I'm pretty sure the Milk Guy has never liked winter in his life. So I decided to snub my nose at winter and bring us each some spring.
While the Milk Guy was putting the daffodils into a vase, I mentioned that daffodils are my favourite flower. (I'm pretty sure that this is because, though my offering him daffodils was truly pure-hearted, I'm not, exactly, and I probably wanted him to take note of this for future reference.)
"Why?" he asked.
I wanted to say, "Because they're yellow," but that doesn't actually make sense, since yellow is not my favourite colour and I feel that it requires certain specific contexts (like daffodils) to be acceptable. In this case, daffodils are what make me like yellow, rather than the other way round.
So I had to stop and think about it. "Probably because of the Welsh connexion," I said. "But also because they're so . . . joyful-looking. Because they bloom in defiance of winter."
He chuckled. "That sounds like something I would say."
Which might have been why I said it like that, but I think it's true. I love crocuses for the same reason, but not as much as daffodils. Crocuses are the brave little scouts that sneak up through the snow and surprise us with dots of colour. But daffodils are the heralds of the new order. They trumpet the news that spring is coming, that winter is dying, that summer will follow and fulfillment of the year's promises. At this time of year, buried under the snow, it's inspiring enough that they shine sunshine into winter's cold face.
While the Milk Guy was putting the daffodils into a vase, I mentioned that daffodils are my favourite flower. (I'm pretty sure that this is because, though my offering him daffodils was truly pure-hearted, I'm not, exactly, and I probably wanted him to take note of this for future reference.)
"Why?" he asked.
I wanted to say, "Because they're yellow," but that doesn't actually make sense, since yellow is not my favourite colour and I feel that it requires certain specific contexts (like daffodils) to be acceptable. In this case, daffodils are what make me like yellow, rather than the other way round.
So I had to stop and think about it. "Probably because of the Welsh connexion," I said. "But also because they're so . . . joyful-looking. Because they bloom in defiance of winter."
He chuckled. "That sounds like something I would say."
Which might have been why I said it like that, but I think it's true. I love crocuses for the same reason, but not as much as daffodils. Crocuses are the brave little scouts that sneak up through the snow and surprise us with dots of colour. But daffodils are the heralds of the new order. They trumpet the news that spring is coming, that winter is dying, that summer will follow and fulfillment of the year's promises. At this time of year, buried under the snow, it's inspiring enough that they shine sunshine into winter's cold face.
Friday, February 27, 2009
Knowing the Rules in Order to Break Them Effectively
The Milk Guy and I have recently admitted to each other that we kind of (no longer secretly) enjoy it when the other one is sick, because it gives us respectively the upper hand in our verbal sparring. Not that we don't sympathise with the other's discomfort and wish him or her health. Just that . . . it's nice to have a moment when our albeit friendly opponent is not likely to contest our advantage too much.
Last night, while talking to him on the phone, my head was too congested to have much room for coherent thought and the Milk Guy had taken it into his head to analyse how we each typically end our stories. He said he most frequently ends his with an "oh well." I said I did, too, but he denied it, asserting that my favourite way to end a telling is tailing off with a "so yeah. Anyway." Then he said it surprised him, since I'm such a grammar and spelling snob, that I also include the phrase in my writing. He said I do not, as I posited, always write the way I speak.
I didn't have the energy then to take up this next point, but somewhere in college I picked up the maxim that the reason to learn grammar rules was so that you could break them effectively in your own writing. I really believe this, too. You have to know how something works at a basic level before you can see its true potential and have the freedom not to be bound by those basics. There is good writing and bad writing, and in my opinion and experience, either remaining rigorously tied to grammar rules, or being totally ignorant of or flouting them, generally leads to bad writing. One is result is wooden and the other is often incomprehensible. Both are often self-conscious. I feel free to write in vernacular sometimes because, if I think about it, I suspect I know how the language works well enough to be able to write it so that it reads like actual speech. My relationship here is more with the living language than with the rules themselves. My best writing flows unselfconsciously out of a love of words and of communicating.
I didn't have the energy to bring up this point because I was pretty sure the Milk Guy would seize the opportunity to universalise the maxim and ask if I apply the same thinking to my faith, or something like that. And I didn't want to talk about it right then because I wanted to think about it. I don't know. Do I? And is that wrong, or is it appropriate?
I believe the Bible is the inspired Word of God. And there are a lot of rules in it. Jesus said He came to fulfill the Law and He also told us that if our righteousness didn't exceed that of the religious leaders of His day, we were in sad shape. I think we need to know what's in there. I think it needs to guard our hearts and inform our thinking and give us a framework for our lives. But it isn't enough to get us into God's good graces--He gets us there Himself through relationship. If I don't know the Law at all or go out of my way to disobey it, or if I am completely tied to it by legalistic fear or self-righteousness, either way it's "bad writing." I'm not following Jesus in those cases. I'm following (or intentionally breaking) Rules--and I'm very self-conscious about it. But my relationship is supposed to be with the Living Word, and with everything I think and say and do flowing more and more out of unselfconscious love for Him.
Last night, while talking to him on the phone, my head was too congested to have much room for coherent thought and the Milk Guy had taken it into his head to analyse how we each typically end our stories. He said he most frequently ends his with an "oh well." I said I did, too, but he denied it, asserting that my favourite way to end a telling is tailing off with a "so yeah. Anyway." Then he said it surprised him, since I'm such a grammar and spelling snob, that I also include the phrase in my writing. He said I do not, as I posited, always write the way I speak.
I didn't have the energy then to take up this next point, but somewhere in college I picked up the maxim that the reason to learn grammar rules was so that you could break them effectively in your own writing. I really believe this, too. You have to know how something works at a basic level before you can see its true potential and have the freedom not to be bound by those basics. There is good writing and bad writing, and in my opinion and experience, either remaining rigorously tied to grammar rules, or being totally ignorant of or flouting them, generally leads to bad writing. One is result is wooden and the other is often incomprehensible. Both are often self-conscious. I feel free to write in vernacular sometimes because, if I think about it, I suspect I know how the language works well enough to be able to write it so that it reads like actual speech. My relationship here is more with the living language than with the rules themselves. My best writing flows unselfconsciously out of a love of words and of communicating.
I didn't have the energy to bring up this point because I was pretty sure the Milk Guy would seize the opportunity to universalise the maxim and ask if I apply the same thinking to my faith, or something like that. And I didn't want to talk about it right then because I wanted to think about it. I don't know. Do I? And is that wrong, or is it appropriate?
I believe the Bible is the inspired Word of God. And there are a lot of rules in it. Jesus said He came to fulfill the Law and He also told us that if our righteousness didn't exceed that of the religious leaders of His day, we were in sad shape. I think we need to know what's in there. I think it needs to guard our hearts and inform our thinking and give us a framework for our lives. But it isn't enough to get us into God's good graces--He gets us there Himself through relationship. If I don't know the Law at all or go out of my way to disobey it, or if I am completely tied to it by legalistic fear or self-righteousness, either way it's "bad writing." I'm not following Jesus in those cases. I'm following (or intentionally breaking) Rules--and I'm very self-conscious about it. But my relationship is supposed to be with the Living Word, and with everything I think and say and do flowing more and more out of unselfconscious love for Him.
Monday, February 23, 2009
How Are You Feeling?
Pretty much everyone--everyone--asks me, when they see me, "How are you feeling?" I actually appreciate the concern. A lot.
It kind of feels like a let-down to tell them, as I have been because it's true, "Just fine, actually, thanks." No--really it isn't true. I spend most winters sneezing and coughing and hacking around a sore throat, with my hands chapped and raw from the sanitising solution at Starbucks. I don't really know how I've escaped all that this winter, but if I were going to be really honest, I should have been going around saying, "I feel great, thanks."
(Nobody gets that enthusiastic about anything in New England, though.)
Anyway, it might come as something of a relief to all involved that, having gone through most of the cancer treatments with shamelessly few effects, I can now say in answer to the "How are you?" question, "Kind of horrible, actually."
It would appear that the cold/flu thing I've been dodging all winter has finally caught up with me. Meanwhile, tamoxifen seems to be going pretty well, except that it is refusing to allow me to sleep. I don't think I've had a full night of sleep since I started taking it. Which might explain why the cold/flu thing caught up with me, I guess. Also hot flashes. Those are weird, people. I really hope I don't have them (and sleeplessness) for the ensuing five years I'm on this stuff . . .
But otherwise? I'm feeling great, thanks.
It kind of feels like a let-down to tell them, as I have been because it's true, "Just fine, actually, thanks." No--really it isn't true. I spend most winters sneezing and coughing and hacking around a sore throat, with my hands chapped and raw from the sanitising solution at Starbucks. I don't really know how I've escaped all that this winter, but if I were going to be really honest, I should have been going around saying, "I feel great, thanks."
(Nobody gets that enthusiastic about anything in New England, though.)
Anyway, it might come as something of a relief to all involved that, having gone through most of the cancer treatments with shamelessly few effects, I can now say in answer to the "How are you?" question, "Kind of horrible, actually."
It would appear that the cold/flu thing I've been dodging all winter has finally caught up with me. Meanwhile, tamoxifen seems to be going pretty well, except that it is refusing to allow me to sleep. I don't think I've had a full night of sleep since I started taking it. Which might explain why the cold/flu thing caught up with me, I guess. Also hot flashes. Those are weird, people. I really hope I don't have them (and sleeplessness) for the ensuing five years I'm on this stuff . . .
But otherwise? I'm feeling great, thanks.
Friday, February 20, 2009
Books
I think this post is a result of combined laziness and self-congratulation. There's this meme-like fad going on over at facebook where people are writing down 25 random things about themselves and then tagging 25 people to do the same thing, and I'm pretty sure I've been tagged more than 25 times, but seriously, folks--I think you could come up with 25 random things about me just from this blog, and I'm not doing it.
However, this week a long-lost friend from elementary school tagged me in the following note and this one I thought was pretty cool. Mostly because the only thinking I have to do involves putting the correct symbol after each selection. But also because I'm pleased to report that I've read more than 6 of the books in this list. And also because it's intriguing to see what they list. I'm not going to tag anybody, but if any of you want to pick this up and do it yourselves, by all means go for it.
Apparently the BBC reckons most people will have only read 6 of the 100 books here.
Instructions:
1) Look at the list and put an 'x' after those you have read.
2) Add a '+' to the ones you LOVE.
3) Star (*) those you plan on reading.
4) Tally up the ones you've read and put the number at the bottom
1 Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen x +
2 The Lord of the Rings - JRR Tolkien x +
3 Jane Eyre - Charlotte Bronte x +
4 Harry Potter series - JK Rowling x
5 To Kill a Mockingbird - Harper Lee x +
6 The Bible x +
7 Wuthering Heights - Emily Bronte x
8 Nineteen Eighty Four - George Orwell x
9 His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman
10 Great Expectations - Charles Dickens x
11 Little Women - Louisa M Alcott x
12 Tess of the D’Urbervilles - Thomas Hardy x +
13 Catch 22 - Joseph Heller
14 Complete Works of Shakespeare (no--but many of the works of Shakespeare!)
15 Rebecca - Daphne Du Maurier x
16 The Hobbit - JRR Tolkien x +
17 Birdsong - Sebastian Faulks
18 Catcher in the Rye - JD Salinger
19 The Time Traveller’s Wife - Audrey Niffenegger
20 Middlemarch - George Eliot x +
21 Gone With The Wind - Margaret Mitchell
22 The Great Gatsby - F Scott Fitzgerald x +
23 Bleak House - Charles Dickens
24 War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy
25 The Hitch Hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy - Douglas Adams
26 Brideshead Revisited - Evelyn Waugh x
27 Crime and Punishment - Fyodor Dostoyevsky x
28 Grapes of Wrath - John Steinbeck
29 Alice in Wonderland - Lewis Carroll x
30 The Wind in the Willows - Kenneth Grahame x
31 Anna Karenina - Leo Tolstoy
32 David Copperfield - Charles Dickens x
33 Chronicles of Narnia - CS Lewis x +
34 Emma - Jane Austen x
35 Persuasion - Jane Austen x
36 The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe - CS Lewis x +
37 The Kite Runner - Khaled Hosseini x +
38 Captain Corelli’s Mandolin - Louis De Bernieres
39 Memoirs of a Geisha - Arthur Golden
40 Winnie the Pooh - AA Milne x +
41 Animal Farm - George Orwell
42 The Da Vinci Code - Dan Brown x
43 One Hundred Years of Solitude - Gabriel Garcia Marquez
44 A Prayer for Owen Meany - John Irving x
45 The Woman in White - Wilkie Collins
46 Anne of Green Gables - LM Montgomery x +
47 Far From The Madding Crowd - Thomas Hardy x
48 The Handmaid’s Tale - Margaret Atwood
49 Lord of the Flies - William Golding
50 Atonement - Ian McEwan (couldn't get into it)
51 Life of Pi - Yann Martel (couldn't get into it)
52 Dune - Frank Herbert
53 Cold Comfort Farm - Stella Gibbons x
54 Sense and Sensibility - Jane Austen x
55 A Suitable Boy - Vikram Seth
56 The Shadow of the Wind - Carlos Ruiz Zafon
57 A Tale Of Two Cities - Charles Dickens x +
58 Brave New World - Aldous Huxley
59 The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time - Mark Haddon x
60 Love In The Time Of Cholera - Gabriel Garcia Marquez (couldn't get into it)
61 Of Mice and Men - John Steinbeck
62 Lolita - Vladimir Nabokov
63 The Secret History - Donna Tartt
64 The Lovely Bones - Alice Sebold
65 Count of Monte Cristo - Alexandre Dumas
66 On The Road - Jack Kerouac
67 Jude the Obscure - Thomas Hardy
68 Bridget Jones’s Diary - Helen Fielding
69 Midnight’s Children - Salman Rushdie
70 Moby Dick - Herman Melville x
71 Oliver Twist - Charles Dickens x
72 Dracula - Bram Stoker
73 The Secret Garden - Frances Hodgson Burnett x +
74 Notes From A Small Island - Bill Bryson
75 Ulysses - James Joyce
76 The Bell Jar - Sylvia Plath x
77 Swallows and Amazons - Arthur Ransome
78 Germinal - Emile Zola
79 Vanity Fair - William Makepeace Thackeray
80 Possession - AS Byatt
81 A Christmas Carol - Charles Dickens x
82 Cloud Atlas - David Mitchel
83 The Color Purple - Alice Walker
84 The Remains of the Day - Kazuo Ishiguro
85 Madame Bovary - Gustave Flaubert
86 A Fine Balance - Rohinton Mistry
87 Charlotte’s Web - EB White x
88 The Five People You Meet In Heaven - Mitch Albom
89 Adventures of Sherlock Holmes - Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
90 The Faraway Tree Collection - Enid Blyton
91 Heart of Darkness - Joseph Conrad x
92 The Little Prince - Antoine De Saint-Exupery x
93 The Wasp Factory - Iain Banks
94 Watership Down - Richard Adams x +
95 A Confederacy of Dunces - John Kennedy Toole
96 A Town Like Alice - Nevil Shute
97 The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas
98 Hamlet - William Shakespeare x
99 Charlie and the Chocolate Factory - Roald Dahl x
100 Les Miserables - Victor Hugo
I think I counted 45 x's, me. How about you?
However, this week a long-lost friend from elementary school tagged me in the following note and this one I thought was pretty cool. Mostly because the only thinking I have to do involves putting the correct symbol after each selection. But also because I'm pleased to report that I've read more than 6 of the books in this list. And also because it's intriguing to see what they list. I'm not going to tag anybody, but if any of you want to pick this up and do it yourselves, by all means go for it.
Apparently the BBC reckons most people will have only read 6 of the 100 books here.
Instructions:
1) Look at the list and put an 'x' after those you have read.
2) Add a '+' to the ones you LOVE.
3) Star (*) those you plan on reading.
4) Tally up the ones you've read and put the number at the bottom
1 Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen x +
2 The Lord of the Rings - JRR Tolkien x +
3 Jane Eyre - Charlotte Bronte x +
4 Harry Potter series - JK Rowling x
5 To Kill a Mockingbird - Harper Lee x +
6 The Bible x +
7 Wuthering Heights - Emily Bronte x
8 Nineteen Eighty Four - George Orwell x
9 His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman
10 Great Expectations - Charles Dickens x
11 Little Women - Louisa M Alcott x
12 Tess of the D’Urbervilles - Thomas Hardy x +
13 Catch 22 - Joseph Heller
14 Complete Works of Shakespeare (no--but many of the works of Shakespeare!)
15 Rebecca - Daphne Du Maurier x
16 The Hobbit - JRR Tolkien x +
17 Birdsong - Sebastian Faulks
18 Catcher in the Rye - JD Salinger
19 The Time Traveller’s Wife - Audrey Niffenegger
20 Middlemarch - George Eliot x +
21 Gone With The Wind - Margaret Mitchell
22 The Great Gatsby - F Scott Fitzgerald x +
23 Bleak House - Charles Dickens
24 War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy
25 The Hitch Hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy - Douglas Adams
26 Brideshead Revisited - Evelyn Waugh x
27 Crime and Punishment - Fyodor Dostoyevsky x
28 Grapes of Wrath - John Steinbeck
29 Alice in Wonderland - Lewis Carroll x
30 The Wind in the Willows - Kenneth Grahame x
31 Anna Karenina - Leo Tolstoy
32 David Copperfield - Charles Dickens x
33 Chronicles of Narnia - CS Lewis x +
34 Emma - Jane Austen x
35 Persuasion - Jane Austen x
36 The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe - CS Lewis x +
37 The Kite Runner - Khaled Hosseini x +
38 Captain Corelli’s Mandolin - Louis De Bernieres
39 Memoirs of a Geisha - Arthur Golden
40 Winnie the Pooh - AA Milne x +
41 Animal Farm - George Orwell
42 The Da Vinci Code - Dan Brown x
43 One Hundred Years of Solitude - Gabriel Garcia Marquez
44 A Prayer for Owen Meany - John Irving x
45 The Woman in White - Wilkie Collins
46 Anne of Green Gables - LM Montgomery x +
47 Far From The Madding Crowd - Thomas Hardy x
48 The Handmaid’s Tale - Margaret Atwood
49 Lord of the Flies - William Golding
50 Atonement - Ian McEwan (couldn't get into it)
51 Life of Pi - Yann Martel (couldn't get into it)
52 Dune - Frank Herbert
53 Cold Comfort Farm - Stella Gibbons x
54 Sense and Sensibility - Jane Austen x
55 A Suitable Boy - Vikram Seth
56 The Shadow of the Wind - Carlos Ruiz Zafon
57 A Tale Of Two Cities - Charles Dickens x +
58 Brave New World - Aldous Huxley
59 The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time - Mark Haddon x
60 Love In The Time Of Cholera - Gabriel Garcia Marquez (couldn't get into it)
61 Of Mice and Men - John Steinbeck
62 Lolita - Vladimir Nabokov
63 The Secret History - Donna Tartt
64 The Lovely Bones - Alice Sebold
65 Count of Monte Cristo - Alexandre Dumas
66 On The Road - Jack Kerouac
67 Jude the Obscure - Thomas Hardy
68 Bridget Jones’s Diary - Helen Fielding
69 Midnight’s Children - Salman Rushdie
70 Moby Dick - Herman Melville x
71 Oliver Twist - Charles Dickens x
72 Dracula - Bram Stoker
73 The Secret Garden - Frances Hodgson Burnett x +
74 Notes From A Small Island - Bill Bryson
75 Ulysses - James Joyce
76 The Bell Jar - Sylvia Plath x
77 Swallows and Amazons - Arthur Ransome
78 Germinal - Emile Zola
79 Vanity Fair - William Makepeace Thackeray
80 Possession - AS Byatt
81 A Christmas Carol - Charles Dickens x
82 Cloud Atlas - David Mitchel
83 The Color Purple - Alice Walker
84 The Remains of the Day - Kazuo Ishiguro
85 Madame Bovary - Gustave Flaubert
86 A Fine Balance - Rohinton Mistry
87 Charlotte’s Web - EB White x
88 The Five People You Meet In Heaven - Mitch Albom
89 Adventures of Sherlock Holmes - Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
90 The Faraway Tree Collection - Enid Blyton
91 Heart of Darkness - Joseph Conrad x
92 The Little Prince - Antoine De Saint-Exupery x
93 The Wasp Factory - Iain Banks
94 Watership Down - Richard Adams x +
95 A Confederacy of Dunces - John Kennedy Toole
96 A Town Like Alice - Nevil Shute
97 The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas
98 Hamlet - William Shakespeare x
99 Charlie and the Chocolate Factory - Roald Dahl x
100 Les Miserables - Victor Hugo
I think I counted 45 x's, me. How about you?
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Of Blood Clots and Financial Haemorhage
I saw the doctor last week. She said I'm so young, my chances of either blood clots or uterine cancer are practically nil. I didn't even have to look like a hypochondriac by asking about them . . . she offered this information of her own volition. That was nice . . .
So . . . I've been on Tamoxifen for six days. Six days out of five years? Okay--I'd better not start thinking like that.
I found out in the same week that my insurance has decided against covering my Oncotype-DX test. Which is disappointing. I'm glad that the test (and some prodding from the Milk Guy, my mother, and Pastor Val) enabled me to decide not to have chemo. I'm less glad that the people conducting it seemed to have told me my insurance would pay for it when it was evidently not a foregone conclusion.
Still, it was all put in perspective when the insurance statement came in for my radiation treatments. Having met and exceeded my out-of-pocket expenses, my insurance is covering these. The December treatments alone (not even a full month) exceeded $18,000. Good grief! If I had to pay that, I'd be taking out a mortgage on my life right now . . . !
So . . . I've been on Tamoxifen for six days. Six days out of five years? Okay--I'd better not start thinking like that.
I found out in the same week that my insurance has decided against covering my Oncotype-DX test. Which is disappointing. I'm glad that the test (and some prodding from the Milk Guy, my mother, and Pastor Val) enabled me to decide not to have chemo. I'm less glad that the people conducting it seemed to have told me my insurance would pay for it when it was evidently not a foregone conclusion.
Still, it was all put in perspective when the insurance statement came in for my radiation treatments. Having met and exceeded my out-of-pocket expenses, my insurance is covering these. The December treatments alone (not even a full month) exceeded $18,000. Good grief! If I had to pay that, I'd be taking out a mortgage on my life right now . . . !
Monday, February 09, 2009
Crossover
I'm having a little trouble deciding which posts to write over here and which ones to write at A Wandering Line, but I just posted something about fighting with Dinosaurs and something else about antidepressants over there, and I'm gearing up to start musing about happiness, if you're curious and want to start peppering me with difficult questions.
Saturday, February 07, 2009
Whoa. That Was Weird
After writing that last post, I tried one more search on my computer and found what appears to be my songs, lurking in the shadows. I dragged and dropped them into itunes, and they seem to have gone there, and, randomly, one of the songs started playing.
It was Jason Harrod's "Messed Up Everywhere Blues." Ironically. And also which I love. And which I had been singing earlier. As the melody tugs on my heart, the album covers reappear in the itunes screen . . . one . . . by . . . one . . . like little stars . . .
So melodramatic. So silly. But somehow the music seemed to imbue even that with meaning.
All that to say: basically better. I still need to check a couple of things, but I think we're good. And . . . I'd better back up my ipod.
It was Jason Harrod's "Messed Up Everywhere Blues." Ironically. And also which I love. And which I had been singing earlier. As the melody tugs on my heart, the album covers reappear in the itunes screen . . . one . . . by . . . one . . . like little stars . . .
So melodramatic. So silly. But somehow the music seemed to imbue even that with meaning.
All that to say: basically better. I still need to check a couple of things, but I think we're good. And . . . I'd better back up my ipod.
Plus, We Are Again Having Technical Difficulties
Although my gratitude remains heartfelt to Matthew-the-Macintosh-Evangelist, I confess it only took a couple of months to realise that I wasn't as convinced by the product as he is. I like my Macbook a lot. I just tend to think . . . it's a computer. I know my tastes aren't honed to appreciate the subtleties in computers the way they are able to tell coffee from coffee. Heck, I can't even do half the things on my computer that my computer could allow me to do if I knew how. (Does that make any sense?)
Mostly I think I mean . . . Macs are touted as being these perfect machines. And they aren't. Or at least . . . mine isn't. I don't know why I would expect any computer owned by me to be perfect, but I confess I sort of had that in the back of my mind.
What I have discovered instead, however, is that Mack, my generally cooperative Macbook, likes to snack on CD-ROMs. Sometimes they get stuck. When that happens, I have to shut him down unceremoniously and turn him back on and hope he will release the disk without any more fighting. Usually he does.
Today I bought the 2008 version of TaxCut, which I always use. I inserted the disk. It got stuck. I shut down the computer. I turned on the computer. I ejected the disk. But I still wanted to do my taxes, so I re-inserted the disk. I installed the software. I ejected the disk. Then the software wouldn't run properly. The whole system got stuck. I shut the computer down again. I turned it back on again. This process (minus the disk, now that the software was supposedly installe) repeated about three times. Finally I decided to return the software and give up for the night. It's not April yet.
I turned the computer back on. I inserted a music disk so I could copy some files. ITunes opened with a horrifying error message to the effect that it couldn't locate my music library because my music library had been damaged. I think I had three days worth of songs on there. I had not backed up my ipod in some time. My itunes library is nowhere to be found.
I called the Milk Guy, more for moral support than because I thought he could fix it; he hasn't had a Mac in years. He said, "It sounds like the computer tried to upload the programme into itunes and it messed up the whole system." Yep. I think he's right. I just . . . couldn't be more frustrated right now.
Mostly I think I mean . . . Macs are touted as being these perfect machines. And they aren't. Or at least . . . mine isn't. I don't know why I would expect any computer owned by me to be perfect, but I confess I sort of had that in the back of my mind.
What I have discovered instead, however, is that Mack, my generally cooperative Macbook, likes to snack on CD-ROMs. Sometimes they get stuck. When that happens, I have to shut him down unceremoniously and turn him back on and hope he will release the disk without any more fighting. Usually he does.
Today I bought the 2008 version of TaxCut, which I always use. I inserted the disk. It got stuck. I shut down the computer. I turned on the computer. I ejected the disk. But I still wanted to do my taxes, so I re-inserted the disk. I installed the software. I ejected the disk. Then the software wouldn't run properly. The whole system got stuck. I shut the computer down again. I turned it back on again. This process (minus the disk, now that the software was supposedly installe) repeated about three times. Finally I decided to return the software and give up for the night. It's not April yet.
I turned the computer back on. I inserted a music disk so I could copy some files. ITunes opened with a horrifying error message to the effect that it couldn't locate my music library because my music library had been damaged. I think I had three days worth of songs on there. I had not backed up my ipod in some time. My itunes library is nowhere to be found.
I called the Milk Guy, more for moral support than because I thought he could fix it; he hasn't had a Mac in years. He said, "It sounds like the computer tried to upload the programme into itunes and it messed up the whole system." Yep. I think he's right. I just . . . couldn't be more frustrated right now.
Whatever Could Be Next?
Tamoxifen. That's what.
I've been kind of nervous the last few months about Tamoxifen. Way more nervous than I was about radiation--which I wasn't that nervous about, though. Mostly I'm nervous about going into early menopause. I'm not sure why. I don't plan to have children and I am not a terrific fan of The Cycle, so you would think I might kind of be looking forward to this prospective side effect or something.
But I guess I feel like I will be aging my body before its time. While I don't consider 50 to be old, exactly, I do consider myself to be not-50, and I don't want my body to be all acting like it's 50 when it isn't. Also, one time I was on the Pill to treat my acne, and it didn't help that at all, but it did make me very sick. I'm now kind of afraid that anything that messes with my hormones will mess with my entire body.
So I voicemailed the Nurse Practitioner. I haven't seen her in a long time and I like her, and I thought maybe I could chat to her about some of my concerns. I said, "I'm a little nervous about Tamoxifen, and I am planning on taking it, but I wondered if I could maybe ask you a few questions about it."
She emailed me back: "Attached are a couple of handouts I use in my high risk clinic that I developed on Tamoxifen..see if they answer your questions...if not let me know and we'll see what else we can come up with..."
I was okay with this until I read them and learned that I could also develop blood clots and deep vein thrombosis. Who knew? After that I thought, "This was probably not the best approach for dealing with someone who has just admitted they're nervous about the prospect to begin with."
Then, a few weeks later I was in the bank changing tip change into bills for Starbucks and the Bank Ladies asked me how I was doing. "I'm doing okay," I said. "I'm almost done with radiation. But I have to start Tamoxifen soon. I'm actually a little more nervous about that."
"Yeah," said a Bank Lady seriously. "My mother had to take that. And she did get uterine cancer from it, but the great thing is that they monitor you all the time, so they can catch stuff like that right away."
?!
If we didn't have the right to free speech, I would not be able to write this blog, but sometimes I think that people should be prevented from talking without a license.
I've been kind of nervous the last few months about Tamoxifen. Way more nervous than I was about radiation--which I wasn't that nervous about, though. Mostly I'm nervous about going into early menopause. I'm not sure why. I don't plan to have children and I am not a terrific fan of The Cycle, so you would think I might kind of be looking forward to this prospective side effect or something.
But I guess I feel like I will be aging my body before its time. While I don't consider 50 to be old, exactly, I do consider myself to be not-50, and I don't want my body to be all acting like it's 50 when it isn't. Also, one time I was on the Pill to treat my acne, and it didn't help that at all, but it did make me very sick. I'm now kind of afraid that anything that messes with my hormones will mess with my entire body.
So I voicemailed the Nurse Practitioner. I haven't seen her in a long time and I like her, and I thought maybe I could chat to her about some of my concerns. I said, "I'm a little nervous about Tamoxifen, and I am planning on taking it, but I wondered if I could maybe ask you a few questions about it."
She emailed me back: "Attached are a couple of handouts I use in my high risk clinic that I developed on Tamoxifen..see if they answer your questions...if not let me know and we'll see what else we can come up with..."
I was okay with this until I read them and learned that I could also develop blood clots and deep vein thrombosis. Who knew? After that I thought, "This was probably not the best approach for dealing with someone who has just admitted they're nervous about the prospect to begin with."
Then, a few weeks later I was in the bank changing tip change into bills for Starbucks and the Bank Ladies asked me how I was doing. "I'm doing okay," I said. "I'm almost done with radiation. But I have to start Tamoxifen soon. I'm actually a little more nervous about that."
"Yeah," said a Bank Lady seriously. "My mother had to take that. And she did get uterine cancer from it, but the great thing is that they monitor you all the time, so they can catch stuff like that right away."
?!
If we didn't have the right to free speech, I would not be able to write this blog, but sometimes I think that people should be prevented from talking without a license.
The Last Day
I feel that I should follow up this post with one that tells how it actually turned out:
I did not get a convenient parking space. BUT . . . I did get my favourite dressing room and some not-too-faded gowns and a warm blanket without asking. I also got a little computer-printed "diploma" to certify that I had completed my prescribed radiation treatment, with the names of all the technicians on it, and tied with a little blue bow. That was better than a bouquet of hazardous toiletries, by a long shot. Also--takes up less space.
I did not get a convenient parking space. BUT . . . I did get my favourite dressing room and some not-too-faded gowns and a warm blanket without asking. I also got a little computer-printed "diploma" to certify that I had completed my prescribed radiation treatment, with the names of all the technicians on it, and tied with a little blue bow. That was better than a bouquet of hazardous toiletries, by a long shot. Also--takes up less space.
Wednesday, February 04, 2009
Just Like Magic
So, you know when people talk about "kids these days" texting all the time. It is really true.
Ever since I started my job at New Church, I've been trying to figure out the best way to let the youth (and leaders) know about upcoming events, or to get feedback about things or whatever. I tried the "group" thing on facebook (there was already a group set up, so I didn't even have to get it going). And I tried the email thing. But not every kid, evidently, checks their email. What? This does not compute . . .
Then one Sunday I was discussing with some parents how I would communicate something with their daughter and her mother said, "Just get her cell phone number and text her. She'll get right back to you."
She wasn't kidding.
I now have most of the cell numbers of the kids who at least usually come to youth group. This afternoon I found out that the church would like us to help out with some "Lenten suppers" they offer on Wednesday nights during Lent, apparently. I sent everybody an email about it. Then I decided to text them and see what happened. So far (and school isn't even out yet as far as I know), I have received 14 text messages in response to mine. There aren't even 14 kids in the group. I think over the course of the last six months, I've only received a total of 3 emails in response to about 10 of those I've sent.
I'm just happy to have been clued into this phenomenon. But I might have to up my texting capabilities on my cell phone plan . . .
Ever since I started my job at New Church, I've been trying to figure out the best way to let the youth (and leaders) know about upcoming events, or to get feedback about things or whatever. I tried the "group" thing on facebook (there was already a group set up, so I didn't even have to get it going). And I tried the email thing. But not every kid, evidently, checks their email. What? This does not compute . . .
Then one Sunday I was discussing with some parents how I would communicate something with their daughter and her mother said, "Just get her cell phone number and text her. She'll get right back to you."
She wasn't kidding.
I now have most of the cell numbers of the kids who at least usually come to youth group. This afternoon I found out that the church would like us to help out with some "Lenten suppers" they offer on Wednesday nights during Lent, apparently. I sent everybody an email about it. Then I decided to text them and see what happened. So far (and school isn't even out yet as far as I know), I have received 14 text messages in response to mine. There aren't even 14 kids in the group. I think over the course of the last six months, I've only received a total of 3 emails in response to about 10 of those I've sent.
I'm just happy to have been clued into this phenomenon. But I might have to up my texting capabilities on my cell phone plan . . .
Tuesday, February 03, 2009
One Day More
Today was supposed to be my last day of radiation, but last Friday the Other Machine (which, for the last seven sessions, has become "my" machine) was broken, so I effectively had to make up a day the way all the school kids in the Northeast are going to have to make up the rest of their lives because of all the school they've missed this winter.
So anyway, tomorrow is my last day of radiation. Did you hear that?! It's my last day of radiation!
Radiation wasn't even that bad. I got tired, but that was because last Saturday we had a lock-in with the teens at New Church, not because of radiation. Still, in spite of its being Not That Bad, I feel that some sort of celebration is in order. I think they should make "Congratulations on your weird sunburn and not having to get it anymore" cards, and maybe bouquets of hazardous aluminum-filled deodorant and bubble baths and ladies' razors and stuff. I think, though, that getting appetizers and beverages on Thursday with 409-Caitlin and various other friends is going to be just the thing in lieu of that nonsense.
However, I also think that for my last day, I should get a parking space right next to the exit door of the parking garage, and I should get to change in my favourite dressing room, and I should get "gowns" that are not faded, and I should get a warm blanket without having to ask for it.
Why do I want to be spoiled when this wasn't even hard?
So anyway, tomorrow is my last day of radiation. Did you hear that?! It's my last day of radiation!
Radiation wasn't even that bad. I got tired, but that was because last Saturday we had a lock-in with the teens at New Church, not because of radiation. Still, in spite of its being Not That Bad, I feel that some sort of celebration is in order. I think they should make "Congratulations on your weird sunburn and not having to get it anymore" cards, and maybe bouquets of hazardous aluminum-filled deodorant and bubble baths and ladies' razors and stuff. I think, though, that getting appetizers and beverages on Thursday with 409-Caitlin and various other friends is going to be just the thing in lieu of that nonsense.
However, I also think that for my last day, I should get a parking space right next to the exit door of the parking garage, and I should get to change in my favourite dressing room, and I should get "gowns" that are not faded, and I should get a warm blanket without having to ask for it.
Why do I want to be spoiled when this wasn't even hard?
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