December 20, 2007 - Thursday
Current mood: disgusted
Since moving to my new (old) house, I have had to cope with the lack of a washer and dryer. Up until now, this has been fair, considering I am living in a huge new (old) house rent free. I have simply adopted the ritual of, approximately every 10 days, gathering my clothing items in need of washing and heading over to my parents' house to take care of that, and to (hopefully) get a free meal in while I'm there. You know, just like most single people in their twenties.
Well, one monumental event has forever altered my ritual. One cataclysmic occurrence has rendered my habit of laundry-doing at my parents' house nearly impossible.
It all started last weekend with the Great Blizzard of 2007. I'm allowed to call it a blizzard because of the puny excuse for snow I experienced in Nashville last year. CNN said we had 9 1/2 inches of snow over here in Decatur. I still estimate it was no more than 8, but tomatoes tomatoes, as they say (that expression really doesn't make as much sense in print as it does when you say it).
Anyway, last weekend, I was stuck at my parents' house on Saturday night. On Sunday, I ventured over to my place to pick up my laundry and a few other things. On Sunday night, I began washing my clothes. I had 3 loads total to do. One load with jeans, towels, and darks, one load with whites and grays, and one load with brights...I know, I do laundry like a dude.
I have, for the last ten years of my life, taken care of my laundry needs at my parents' house with no problems other than the fact that the washing machine sounds like a rocket launching in our back room every time it gets into the spin cycle (something about a bearing.....my dad has told me several times before, but I really don't remember what he said, nor do I care). And so because I had never had a complaint about my laundry in the past, how was I to know what would happen this time?
Once I had pulled the last load of clothes out of the dryer, I said goodbye to my family and retreated to the laundry room to pick up my basket. As I picked up the basket, I thought to myself, "Man, something in here just doesn't smell right." But I placed the basket in my car and made the treacherous 3 mile drive back to my place.
You must understand that I have a horrible habit of leaving my laundry in the basket for a few days before I finally fold and hang up the necessary items. I'm a little lazy on that part of the job.
The next morning I woke up and began rifiling through the basket for my work uniform....a pair of jeans and whatever baggy sweatshirt I happen to find first. This morning was not out of the ordinary. I found my blue Old Navy sweatshirt (my very favorite one) and a pair of jeans, along with appropriate under garments. As I was getting dressed I noticed the faint smell of something unpleasant. I remembered that I had smelled something strange the night before as well, but I just chalked it up to my incorrect sense of smell. Sometimes my nose is just off.
For instance, I have always and will forevermore believe that Finesse hair products smell like pepper. I don't know why I feel this way, but my nose just interprets the smell as such. I have also been known to make strange associations with fabric softeners. And I was just sure this is what I was doing this time. I just figured I was misinterpreting the scent of lavender for dirt or something like that. No big deal. And so I spritzed on a couple squirts of my Vickie's Secret perfume and scooted out the door.
Later that night I put my pajamas on and smelled it again. And the next morning when I was, again retrieving clothes from the basket to wear. It was not until later that evening that I finally decided to put my laundry away.
And as I began selecting clothing items from the basket to fold and place in drawers, I noticed that the smell was getting stronger and stronger. And then as I pulled out my brand new black camisole, I realized that it was all clumped up in the corner. And as I began trying to shake it out I understood:
That was no fabric softener I was smelling.
It was cat poop.
Now, I realize it's not very becoming of a woman to speak of such things. A woman should say words like "residue" or "droppings" or "excrement". But I need you to understand, this wasn't a small little morsel of doodie. It was the largest load of cat crap I have ever seen. It was mostly concentrated in two of my garments, with various "prints" left on several others. But seriously, I would have thought it was human poo had I not known better. Never in my life have I seen such a large chunk of kitty caca.
And so I wore cat crap clothing for two days straight: cat crap pants, cat crap socks, cat crap bras, cat crap underwear, cat crap shirts, cat crap pajamas. I'm surprised I still have friends. And I apologize to anyone who had to spend time with me during those two horrible, horrible days.
There are three possible culprits at my parents' house who could have created this masterpiece of muck in my clean laundry.
Veruca, my precious angel kitty would never do such a thing, so that eliminates her.
And my sister's cat Mardi....well the pile of crap was bigger than she was, so I seirously doubt it was her.
Which only leaves Flave-a-Flave. This particular cat belongs to my brother. My brother happened to be extremely angry with me at the time, and plus this particular cat had previously bitten me that day. And so I hereby find one Flave-A-Flave, owned by my brother Mitchell, guilty of relieving himself (in the worst possible way) on my freshly laundered clothing.
There are several important life-lessons that can be garnered from this story:
1. Trust your sense of smell: If something smells like poop, don't wear it.
2. If your brother is angry with you, be sure to keep his cat away from your laundry basket.
3. My parents' probably need to put a litter box in the house again while the cats are inside for the winter.
4. Always fold your clothing promptly after taking it home. Do not allow the feces-infested basket to ruminate the air in your house for two full days before attending to the problem.
I sincerely hope every single person whose eyes gaze upon this story will learn from the pain I had to endure. Do not put yourself through this. Please, let my experience be your lesson. I don't want to have suffered through this traumatic event in vain.
Currently listening : Real By Jake Smith Release date: 31 July, 2007
Thursday, December 20, 2007
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
Argyle Pizza and My True Calling
December 18, 2007 - Tuesday
Current mood: electric
As Christmas is fast approaching, the presents are slowly piling themselves up under my tree.....and at the office.....and in my car. After coming to the realization that these gifts were beginning to take over my most frequented spots, I surmised it was most probably time to attend to the problem.
And I invited my lovely and beautiful friend Amanda over for a wrapping party.
Little did we know the hilarity and wonderment that would soon envelop our little soiree.
Upon Amanda's arrival, we promptly phoned in an order for pizza from our local gourmet (albeit overpriced) pizzeria, Monicals. We were told our pizza would be $538.60, and that it would arrive in 45 minutes to half an hour.
And so we proceeded to wrap. We wrapped our little hearts out. From sweaters to books to DVDs to shoes, we wrapped with every force inside of ourselves. We wrapped to our fullest potential.
And then our pizza came. As we jaunted down to the basement, the fragrance of melted cheese, green peppers and sausage permeated the air. I knew we were in for a treat. As I found my seat and prepared our food for the partaking, I helped myself to a breadstick. Yummy.
When I had devoured the breadstick, I decided that it was time to enjoy some of that fine pizza we had anticipated for such a long time. And as I removed the foil from the top of the pizza (you see, Monicals pizza does not come in the traditional cardboard box used by most other pizza outlets, but rather they delicately place their pizzas on a cardboard flat, strategically put a couple of the Barbie tables into the pizza, and then wrap the entire pie in foil. Once this is accomplished, they place the foiled pizza into a paper sleeve), I noticed that something looked strange on the pizza, but I couldn't quite place my finger on it.
Until I tried to grab my first slice. Someone had cut our pizza into diamond shapes, rendering the act of actually choosing one slice at a time a virtual impossibility. It looked like an argyle sweater.
Now, you may be wondering what could have possibly been so difficult about selecting a slice of pizza if it was cut diagonally. All I can say to you is: You try it. You're expecting to choose a square slice and everything is all melted together. When consuming any ordinary pizza, we don't typically assess where the slices have been made each time we reach for a piece. We normally just assume we will grasp somewhere close and that the pizza is sliced well enough to go with the flow.
Argyle pizza is very challenging to eat, but it tastes the same as any other pizza.
Incidentally, if anyone can tell me why thick crust pizza is sliced into triangular shapes while thin crust is normally cut into squares, they will receive 1,057 bonus points.
After we had done what we could with the argyle pizza, we adjourned to the couch to watch the season finale of NBC's The Biggest Loser. Amanda had not been particularly into this show, but I had watched it nearly every week this season, and I was eagerly anticipating seeing the final results.
I am certain that my readers all know the premise of The Biggest Loser. You try to lose the most weight and not get eliminated so you will win $250,000.00. For most, watching this show would inspire them to begin exercising more and eating less. When I watch this show, I am inspired to eat cookies.
But regardless, I love the show. I have a normal routine as I partake of this program every week. My mother and I guess the weights of the contestants on the show as they step onto the giant scale. Since my mother was not with me tonight, Amanda and I decided to continue the tradition. And as I began guessing, I shocked and amazed my dear friend by estimating the weight of the contestants within one pound....three times in a row!
I think I have discovered my true calling. I will become one of those carnies who guesses people's weight at the fair.
Granted, I was pretty far off base for the rest of the contestants I was guessing, but for that brief span of five minutes or so, I was in a zone.
Currently listening : Biggest Loser By Biggest Loser Release date: 20 March, 2007
Current mood: electric
As Christmas is fast approaching, the presents are slowly piling themselves up under my tree.....and at the office.....and in my car. After coming to the realization that these gifts were beginning to take over my most frequented spots, I surmised it was most probably time to attend to the problem.
And I invited my lovely and beautiful friend Amanda over for a wrapping party.
Little did we know the hilarity and wonderment that would soon envelop our little soiree.
Upon Amanda's arrival, we promptly phoned in an order for pizza from our local gourmet (albeit overpriced) pizzeria, Monicals. We were told our pizza would be $538.60, and that it would arrive in 45 minutes to half an hour.
And so we proceeded to wrap. We wrapped our little hearts out. From sweaters to books to DVDs to shoes, we wrapped with every force inside of ourselves. We wrapped to our fullest potential.
And then our pizza came. As we jaunted down to the basement, the fragrance of melted cheese, green peppers and sausage permeated the air. I knew we were in for a treat. As I found my seat and prepared our food for the partaking, I helped myself to a breadstick. Yummy.
When I had devoured the breadstick, I decided that it was time to enjoy some of that fine pizza we had anticipated for such a long time. And as I removed the foil from the top of the pizza (you see, Monicals pizza does not come in the traditional cardboard box used by most other pizza outlets, but rather they delicately place their pizzas on a cardboard flat, strategically put a couple of the Barbie tables into the pizza, and then wrap the entire pie in foil. Once this is accomplished, they place the foiled pizza into a paper sleeve), I noticed that something looked strange on the pizza, but I couldn't quite place my finger on it.
Until I tried to grab my first slice. Someone had cut our pizza into diamond shapes, rendering the act of actually choosing one slice at a time a virtual impossibility. It looked like an argyle sweater.
Now, you may be wondering what could have possibly been so difficult about selecting a slice of pizza if it was cut diagonally. All I can say to you is: You try it. You're expecting to choose a square slice and everything is all melted together. When consuming any ordinary pizza, we don't typically assess where the slices have been made each time we reach for a piece. We normally just assume we will grasp somewhere close and that the pizza is sliced well enough to go with the flow.
Argyle pizza is very challenging to eat, but it tastes the same as any other pizza.
Incidentally, if anyone can tell me why thick crust pizza is sliced into triangular shapes while thin crust is normally cut into squares, they will receive 1,057 bonus points.
After we had done what we could with the argyle pizza, we adjourned to the couch to watch the season finale of NBC's The Biggest Loser. Amanda had not been particularly into this show, but I had watched it nearly every week this season, and I was eagerly anticipating seeing the final results.
I am certain that my readers all know the premise of The Biggest Loser. You try to lose the most weight and not get eliminated so you will win $250,000.00. For most, watching this show would inspire them to begin exercising more and eating less. When I watch this show, I am inspired to eat cookies.
But regardless, I love the show. I have a normal routine as I partake of this program every week. My mother and I guess the weights of the contestants on the show as they step onto the giant scale. Since my mother was not with me tonight, Amanda and I decided to continue the tradition. And as I began guessing, I shocked and amazed my dear friend by estimating the weight of the contestants within one pound....three times in a row!
I think I have discovered my true calling. I will become one of those carnies who guesses people's weight at the fair.
Granted, I was pretty far off base for the rest of the contestants I was guessing, but for that brief span of five minutes or so, I was in a zone.
Currently listening : Biggest Loser By Biggest Loser Release date: 20 March, 2007
Saturday, October 13, 2007
Questions
October 13, 2007 - Saturday
Current mood: contemplative
I have been living in discontentment lately. I look at my friends who are married with children or in serious relationships and I wonder, "When is my turn?" And I see more friends who are established in their careers and I think, "Why can't I have that?" And then I see people around me involved in successful ministries and I say, "Where's mine?" My life has become focused on the things I see as missing. And so I have been trying to figure out exactly who I am. I feel like I am missing my own identity. How would I introduce myself to someone? "Hello. My name is Nicole and I.....don't have a husband, work as a secretary for my dad, and I'm not really doing much in the way of living out my faith. I am unsure of where I actually belong....or even feel at home in the world, and I have absolutely no idea what I want to do with my life. It's nice to meet you."
I have pondered. I have analyzed. I have sought answers.
And then I realized my problem. I was spending so much time self-reflecting, self-searching, self-helping...when I should have asked the one who knows the answers.
Will God always provide me with answers when I ask? Not necessarily. I have learned that sometimes God chooses to answer with more questions. His thought are higher than mine.
And when I ask "Where is mine?" He says, "Am I not enough?"And when I ask "When is my turn?" He responds, "Do you trust my timing?"And when I ask "Why can't I have that?" He replies, "Do you remember 2 Corinthians 12:9?"
When I am searching for who I am, He tells me, "You know I AM."And when I am contemplating where I belong, He says, "You are in Your Father's arms. Where else would you want to be?"
I can ask where I should go to church, and His response is, "What's more important, going to a certain church or being the church?
I've been listening to a CD I bought the other day (see below), and in the opening song of the album Todd Agnew sings,
As a person who always has to have the answers...or even make answers up if I don't know...that is a peaceful realization to come to. And as true as that statement is, I have found that God has even better questions than I do.
Currently listening : Better Questions By Todd Agnew Release date: 17 July, 2007
Current mood: contemplative
I have been living in discontentment lately. I look at my friends who are married with children or in serious relationships and I wonder, "When is my turn?" And I see more friends who are established in their careers and I think, "Why can't I have that?" And then I see people around me involved in successful ministries and I say, "Where's mine?" My life has become focused on the things I see as missing. And so I have been trying to figure out exactly who I am. I feel like I am missing my own identity. How would I introduce myself to someone? "Hello. My name is Nicole and I.....don't have a husband, work as a secretary for my dad, and I'm not really doing much in the way of living out my faith. I am unsure of where I actually belong....or even feel at home in the world, and I have absolutely no idea what I want to do with my life. It's nice to meet you."
I have pondered. I have analyzed. I have sought answers.
And then I realized my problem. I was spending so much time self-reflecting, self-searching, self-helping...when I should have asked the one who knows the answers.
Will God always provide me with answers when I ask? Not necessarily. I have learned that sometimes God chooses to answer with more questions. His thought are higher than mine.
And when I ask "Where is mine?" He says, "Am I not enough?"And when I ask "When is my turn?" He responds, "Do you trust my timing?"And when I ask "Why can't I have that?" He replies, "Do you remember 2 Corinthians 12:9?"
When I am searching for who I am, He tells me, "You know I AM."And when I am contemplating where I belong, He says, "You are in Your Father's arms. Where else would you want to be?"
I can ask where I should go to church, and His response is, "What's more important, going to a certain church or being the church?
I've been listening to a CD I bought the other day (see below), and in the opening song of the album Todd Agnew sings,
I have better questions than I have answers
As a person who always has to have the answers...or even make answers up if I don't know...that is a peaceful realization to come to. And as true as that statement is, I have found that God has even better questions than I do.
Currently listening : Better Questions By Todd Agnew Release date: 17 July, 2007
Thursday, May 31, 2007
Of Mice and Women
May 31, 2007 - Thursday
Current mood: exhausted
I have come to be known by my friends and family as somewhat of a "take charge" person. Regardless of whether I'm asked to, I will most likely begin ordering people around in any given circumstance. I've told my friends that I'm not bossy, just……directive. I'm not afraid to assert myself when someone crosses me the wrong way. And I can handle virtually anyone with a perfect combination of sass and nerve.
Despite the façade of valor I emanate, there is one thing that sets me on edge. One fierce and terrible force in the world that, when confronted with it, causes me to turn semi-schizophrenic. One tumultuous and loathsome antagonist in my life that always drives me to my knees….in prayer, not surrender.
Mice.
I don't. Like. Mice.
I'm not particularly afraid of them, as in running and jumping onto the nearest table in an effort to get away from them. No, I'm more nervous around them. I don't enjoy the sight of a little mouse scurrying across the floor and then disappearing for approximately 11 minutes until it, once again, scurries across the floor from behind the couch on which I am sitting.
I'm used to mice. My parents live across from a wildlife conservation area, and one fateful autumn (I affectionately refer to it as "The Year of the Mouse") we caught 17 of these furry monsters, including one that had to be drowned in a sink full of water…that was a rough one.
So it's not like these pests are a foreign entity to me. It's just that...my dad has always been the one to handle the mouse occurrences that arose in the past.
About 6 weeks ago, on a hot and muggy April day, my roommates and I decided to turn on our air conditioner. And that's when we saw the first one. My cousin Tom and I were sitting in my living room, watching TV when he spotted it running behind my television, behind my DVDs, and directly behind the couch where I was sitting. I kept my cool….just walked downstairs and asked my roommate Jen for her mousetrap, so we could take care of the little guy. My brave and valiant cousin handled the problem by setting the trap and ingeniously shaking a paper bag near where the mouse was sitting, scaring the mouse and forcing it directly into the trap he had set. Talk about Mac Giver. I was so grateful to have ridded our house of the pesky problem.
The weather hit another cold spell and about a month passed without any vermin. And then we turned the air on again.
The first day we turned the air on, I was sitting on my couch watching television and I saw one make its way across the floor. Katie was out of town for the weekend and Jen was not home, so it was just me and the mouse in our immense townhome that evening. I set the trap and placed it in the precise location by which we had caught the other one. And I waited.
When Jen got home, I was still waiting. I had seen it scurry across the floor several times, but apparently this particular mouse wasn't interested in peanut butter. So I explained the situation to Jen and prepared her so she wouldn't be frightened at the sight of the nasty little creature that had taken up residence in our dwelling place.
That night was a tough one. Jen lives on the bottom floor of our townhouse, and I on the top. Both of us would swear we heard the rodent rummaging around in our respective rooms that night. In my case, I heard papers rattling under the nightstand beside my bed. Now, you must understand that I sleep on a huge King-size bed, but I only use one corner of the bed for actual sleeping purposes. The remainder of the bed is normally used for temporarily housing items such as clothing and books, until I decide it's time to clean. When I heard the papers rattling, they were (of course) directly underneath the corner of the bed where I sleep. I shot up from my slumber, tentatively reached over and turned on my lamp to see if I could find the evil intruder, and when I couldn't find anything, I decided that desperate times call for desperate measures. I did an army roll to the other side of my bed, jumped over to the floor lamp by the door, and turned it on. Then an untamed thought process ran rampant through my mind.
If I don't see the mouse now, then where did he go?
He's probably paralyzed by the fear of me wrestling around and turning on the light.
Do mice have claws?
If they have claws, then he probably grabbed on to the blanket on my bed and climbed up it.
THAT MOUSE IS PROBABLY TRAPPED UNDER MY COVERS RIGHT NOW!
I'm not getting under the covers…I know there's a mouse in there.
I have to make my bed and sleep on top of the covers.
Yeah, that way if the mouse is in there, he'll be trapped because I'll be on top of him.
He'll suffocate and die.
But then I'll have a dead mouse in my bed.
That's gross.
I'll make the bed and sleep lightly on top of the covers.
Hopefully then it will have enough room to wiggle out if it wants to.
Yeah. And I'll keep the light on so I can see it if it gets on me.
And I'll turn the TV on so I can't hear it rattling around anymore.
And I'll turn the fan on, too…just to be doubly safe.
Needless to say, that was a sleepless night for me. And the next day I left (still no mouse in the trap) for a weekend in Decatur.
I returned on Sunday night to an empty house, as Katie was still out of town, and Jen had gone home for the weekend, too. I promptly set my luggage down, turned the air back on (we had turned it off for the weekend, since no one would be home) and found a stiff mouse in our trap.
This was no ordinary mouse trap. It was black plastic and had a cover over the top of it, so you couldn't see the dead mouse….all that was showing was a stiff little tail hanging out the back. I was so delighted to have caught the disgusting house guest that I didn't even have time to get squeamish about picking up the trap. But then it hit me
I am holding a dead mouse, and I don't know how to open this elaborate trap.
So I shrugged my shoulders and threw the entire thing in the trash can. I had every intention of purchasing a new trap for Jen, since I had thrown hers away, but I had no interest in holding the trap with the dead mouse in it and trying to figure out how to open it. I scooped up the trash bag, and carried it outside to throw it in our trash bin out back. Carrying a huge sense of accomplishment, I threw the bag away, closed the lid and smacked my hands together.
Now I can live in peace.
Approximately seven minutes later, I was sitting on the couch watching television when I saw something scurry from downstairs and into my living room.
You have got to be kidding me.
Yes, we had yet another mouse…only now I had thrown away our only trap. I promptly put my shoes on, grabbed my purse and headed to Wal-Mart to purchase some traps.
Wal-Mart did not have the fancy, "you don't have to see them once you smash their little heads with a big heavy bar" traps. I had my choice between sticky traps and wooden. I chose the wooden. I also purchased a bag of rubber gloves, because I knew I didn't want to pick up the traps with my bare hands.
As I stated earlier, my dad was the one who had always taken care of the mice in our house when I was growing up, so I didn't know how to set a mouse trap. I called him and he talked me through it. 15 minutes, two snapped fingers, some tears, a lot of sniffles, and a good deal of frustration later…I had finally figured out how to set the stupid things.
As I was baiting a few of the traps (I believe I set three or four of them that night), something caught my eye. That little mouse was climbing out of our air conditioning vent.
So I placed several traps next to our vents to no avail. I sat back on the couch for a few minutes and then decided I would go check the trap I had placed behind the trash can. I opened the pantry door and realized I had forgotten to change the trash can liner from the previous mouse…and then I saw it.
Sitting in our trash can, staring up at me….begging for mercy was a live tiny brown mouse.
Now, what am I supposed to do? I knew I couldn't kill the thing. And I wasn't about to "set it free outside" just for it to come back in again. I knew there was only one thing to do. I was going to have to carry the entire trash can down two flights of stairs and out the back door and then out the gate and dump this little guy into our trash bin and close the lid.
Mice can't jump well. They can climb, but with this plastic trash can there was nothing for him to grab on to. I knew he would attempt to jump out, but he wouldn't be successful. I grabbed my keys (I guess they made me feel safer), picked up the trash can with one hand and thought, "Nicole. You know this mouse is going to try to jump out…and you're going to freak and drop the trash can and then he will still be in your house." So I firmly held the trash can with both hands.
As I made my way to the bottom floor of the house, the little guy started his escape attempt. I was determined not to drop the trash can, but I was majorly freaking out, and I needed to do something. So while this little mouse was jumping up and down in this small trash can I was holding, I also was hopping from one foot to the other and emitting a low, whispery scream. A few seconds of the hopping and I regained my composure. I quickly opened the back door and walked to the gate. I am certain I had a disgusted/petrified/nervous look on my face because as I opened the gate a neighbor happened to be walking by,
"Those gates are weird, huh?" She said…apparently she assumed the look on my face was due to the gate.
"Uhh. Yeah. They're. Really……Uhhh……Loud." And then I made my way to the trash bin, dumped junior in and slammed the lid.
After all of this mouse business, I was tired and decided it was time for bed. As I went upstairs the thought struck me,
"I bet these mice are coming from our air conditioner. They have only ever come out when we've had the air on."
Oh no. I have an air conditioning vent right above my bed. I clamored up the stairs and bolted to the vent to close it before a mouse could fall out onto my bed. I closed all the vents in my room, stuffed a thick blanket against the bottom of my door, slept (once again) with the light, television and fan on…on top of the covers..and awoke the next morning still a little nervous about finding other mice.
Seven mice and two weeks later, after catching them on sticky traps, wooden traps, coming out of vents, and even one in a crouton box, we determined it was time to call an exterminator.
This exterminator assured us that we would not have any more mouse troubles. He placed a special chemical called "Mouse Bait" in various locations of the house and told us that the mice would crawl into our walls and die. He said that this special mouse bait would dry up all the fluids in the mouse's body and so we would not smell the mice once they died. He said we would never know how many mice we had caught and then had consequently crawled into our walls and died.
Now, I'm not sure I entirely buy into the idea that a rotting rodent trapped in our wall won't emit some kind of aroma…but we haven't seen a mouse for at least two weeks…..so we have peace of mind. And today I will reopen the air conditioning vents in my room.
Currently listening : Elliott Yamin By Elliott Yamin Release date: 20 March, 2007
Current mood: exhausted
I have come to be known by my friends and family as somewhat of a "take charge" person. Regardless of whether I'm asked to, I will most likely begin ordering people around in any given circumstance. I've told my friends that I'm not bossy, just……directive. I'm not afraid to assert myself when someone crosses me the wrong way. And I can handle virtually anyone with a perfect combination of sass and nerve.
Despite the façade of valor I emanate, there is one thing that sets me on edge. One fierce and terrible force in the world that, when confronted with it, causes me to turn semi-schizophrenic. One tumultuous and loathsome antagonist in my life that always drives me to my knees….in prayer, not surrender.
Mice.
I don't. Like. Mice.
I'm not particularly afraid of them, as in running and jumping onto the nearest table in an effort to get away from them. No, I'm more nervous around them. I don't enjoy the sight of a little mouse scurrying across the floor and then disappearing for approximately 11 minutes until it, once again, scurries across the floor from behind the couch on which I am sitting.
I'm used to mice. My parents live across from a wildlife conservation area, and one fateful autumn (I affectionately refer to it as "The Year of the Mouse") we caught 17 of these furry monsters, including one that had to be drowned in a sink full of water…that was a rough one.
So it's not like these pests are a foreign entity to me. It's just that...my dad has always been the one to handle the mouse occurrences that arose in the past.
About 6 weeks ago, on a hot and muggy April day, my roommates and I decided to turn on our air conditioner. And that's when we saw the first one. My cousin Tom and I were sitting in my living room, watching TV when he spotted it running behind my television, behind my DVDs, and directly behind the couch where I was sitting. I kept my cool….just walked downstairs and asked my roommate Jen for her mousetrap, so we could take care of the little guy. My brave and valiant cousin handled the problem by setting the trap and ingeniously shaking a paper bag near where the mouse was sitting, scaring the mouse and forcing it directly into the trap he had set. Talk about Mac Giver. I was so grateful to have ridded our house of the pesky problem.
The weather hit another cold spell and about a month passed without any vermin. And then we turned the air on again.
The first day we turned the air on, I was sitting on my couch watching television and I saw one make its way across the floor. Katie was out of town for the weekend and Jen was not home, so it was just me and the mouse in our immense townhome that evening. I set the trap and placed it in the precise location by which we had caught the other one. And I waited.
When Jen got home, I was still waiting. I had seen it scurry across the floor several times, but apparently this particular mouse wasn't interested in peanut butter. So I explained the situation to Jen and prepared her so she wouldn't be frightened at the sight of the nasty little creature that had taken up residence in our dwelling place.
That night was a tough one. Jen lives on the bottom floor of our townhouse, and I on the top. Both of us would swear we heard the rodent rummaging around in our respective rooms that night. In my case, I heard papers rattling under the nightstand beside my bed. Now, you must understand that I sleep on a huge King-size bed, but I only use one corner of the bed for actual sleeping purposes. The remainder of the bed is normally used for temporarily housing items such as clothing and books, until I decide it's time to clean. When I heard the papers rattling, they were (of course) directly underneath the corner of the bed where I sleep. I shot up from my slumber, tentatively reached over and turned on my lamp to see if I could find the evil intruder, and when I couldn't find anything, I decided that desperate times call for desperate measures. I did an army roll to the other side of my bed, jumped over to the floor lamp by the door, and turned it on. Then an untamed thought process ran rampant through my mind.
If I don't see the mouse now, then where did he go?
He's probably paralyzed by the fear of me wrestling around and turning on the light.
Do mice have claws?
If they have claws, then he probably grabbed on to the blanket on my bed and climbed up it.
THAT MOUSE IS PROBABLY TRAPPED UNDER MY COVERS RIGHT NOW!
I'm not getting under the covers…I know there's a mouse in there.
I have to make my bed and sleep on top of the covers.
Yeah, that way if the mouse is in there, he'll be trapped because I'll be on top of him.
He'll suffocate and die.
But then I'll have a dead mouse in my bed.
That's gross.
I'll make the bed and sleep lightly on top of the covers.
Hopefully then it will have enough room to wiggle out if it wants to.
Yeah. And I'll keep the light on so I can see it if it gets on me.
And I'll turn the TV on so I can't hear it rattling around anymore.
And I'll turn the fan on, too…just to be doubly safe.
Needless to say, that was a sleepless night for me. And the next day I left (still no mouse in the trap) for a weekend in Decatur.
I returned on Sunday night to an empty house, as Katie was still out of town, and Jen had gone home for the weekend, too. I promptly set my luggage down, turned the air back on (we had turned it off for the weekend, since no one would be home) and found a stiff mouse in our trap.
This was no ordinary mouse trap. It was black plastic and had a cover over the top of it, so you couldn't see the dead mouse….all that was showing was a stiff little tail hanging out the back. I was so delighted to have caught the disgusting house guest that I didn't even have time to get squeamish about picking up the trap. But then it hit me
I am holding a dead mouse, and I don't know how to open this elaborate trap.
So I shrugged my shoulders and threw the entire thing in the trash can. I had every intention of purchasing a new trap for Jen, since I had thrown hers away, but I had no interest in holding the trap with the dead mouse in it and trying to figure out how to open it. I scooped up the trash bag, and carried it outside to throw it in our trash bin out back. Carrying a huge sense of accomplishment, I threw the bag away, closed the lid and smacked my hands together.
Now I can live in peace.
Approximately seven minutes later, I was sitting on the couch watching television when I saw something scurry from downstairs and into my living room.
You have got to be kidding me.
Yes, we had yet another mouse…only now I had thrown away our only trap. I promptly put my shoes on, grabbed my purse and headed to Wal-Mart to purchase some traps.
Wal-Mart did not have the fancy, "you don't have to see them once you smash their little heads with a big heavy bar" traps. I had my choice between sticky traps and wooden. I chose the wooden. I also purchased a bag of rubber gloves, because I knew I didn't want to pick up the traps with my bare hands.
As I stated earlier, my dad was the one who had always taken care of the mice in our house when I was growing up, so I didn't know how to set a mouse trap. I called him and he talked me through it. 15 minutes, two snapped fingers, some tears, a lot of sniffles, and a good deal of frustration later…I had finally figured out how to set the stupid things.
As I was baiting a few of the traps (I believe I set three or four of them that night), something caught my eye. That little mouse was climbing out of our air conditioning vent.
So I placed several traps next to our vents to no avail. I sat back on the couch for a few minutes and then decided I would go check the trap I had placed behind the trash can. I opened the pantry door and realized I had forgotten to change the trash can liner from the previous mouse…and then I saw it.
Sitting in our trash can, staring up at me….begging for mercy was a live tiny brown mouse.
Now, what am I supposed to do? I knew I couldn't kill the thing. And I wasn't about to "set it free outside" just for it to come back in again. I knew there was only one thing to do. I was going to have to carry the entire trash can down two flights of stairs and out the back door and then out the gate and dump this little guy into our trash bin and close the lid.
Mice can't jump well. They can climb, but with this plastic trash can there was nothing for him to grab on to. I knew he would attempt to jump out, but he wouldn't be successful. I grabbed my keys (I guess they made me feel safer), picked up the trash can with one hand and thought, "Nicole. You know this mouse is going to try to jump out…and you're going to freak and drop the trash can and then he will still be in your house." So I firmly held the trash can with both hands.
As I made my way to the bottom floor of the house, the little guy started his escape attempt. I was determined not to drop the trash can, but I was majorly freaking out, and I needed to do something. So while this little mouse was jumping up and down in this small trash can I was holding, I also was hopping from one foot to the other and emitting a low, whispery scream. A few seconds of the hopping and I regained my composure. I quickly opened the back door and walked to the gate. I am certain I had a disgusted/petrified/nervous look on my face because as I opened the gate a neighbor happened to be walking by,
"Those gates are weird, huh?" She said…apparently she assumed the look on my face was due to the gate.
"Uhh. Yeah. They're. Really……Uhhh……Loud." And then I made my way to the trash bin, dumped junior in and slammed the lid.
After all of this mouse business, I was tired and decided it was time for bed. As I went upstairs the thought struck me,
"I bet these mice are coming from our air conditioner. They have only ever come out when we've had the air on."
Oh no. I have an air conditioning vent right above my bed. I clamored up the stairs and bolted to the vent to close it before a mouse could fall out onto my bed. I closed all the vents in my room, stuffed a thick blanket against the bottom of my door, slept (once again) with the light, television and fan on…on top of the covers..and awoke the next morning still a little nervous about finding other mice.
Seven mice and two weeks later, after catching them on sticky traps, wooden traps, coming out of vents, and even one in a crouton box, we determined it was time to call an exterminator.
This exterminator assured us that we would not have any more mouse troubles. He placed a special chemical called "Mouse Bait" in various locations of the house and told us that the mice would crawl into our walls and die. He said that this special mouse bait would dry up all the fluids in the mouse's body and so we would not smell the mice once they died. He said we would never know how many mice we had caught and then had consequently crawled into our walls and died.
Now, I'm not sure I entirely buy into the idea that a rotting rodent trapped in our wall won't emit some kind of aroma…but we haven't seen a mouse for at least two weeks…..so we have peace of mind. And today I will reopen the air conditioning vents in my room.
Currently listening : Elliott Yamin By Elliott Yamin Release date: 20 March, 2007
Friday, May 4, 2007
The Dove Awards...Or, I'm Glad My Butt's Good for Something.
May 4, 2007 - Friday
Current mood: pleased
I'm glad my butt is good for something...
GMA Music Week, or Gospel Music Association Music Week (its ridiculously absurd formal name) is a convention of sorts held in downtown Nashville during mid-April. The week is a gathering of all the names in Gospel music: artists, radio personalities, producers, Christian retailers, managers, record label executives and groupies come together to learn, to celebrate, to get attention, to "network" (whatever that means), and to commemorate the common bond that brings them all together: music. The week culminates with the Christian music equivalent of the Grammy's. The GMA Dove Awards.
I had heard of this wondrous event in my previous career as a Christian music buyer in Illinois, but I had only ever dreamed of being able to partake in the glory of it all. Until one fateful day in February, I logged onto the Gospel Music Association's website to find that they were looking for volunteers for GMA Week 2007 and also for the GMA Dove Awards. I filled out my volunteer applications for both events, faxed them in to their respective overseers, and eagerly waited by my computer for their response. Phew, fortunately I made both cuts and registered as a volunteer for both GMA Music Week (again Gospel Music Association Music Week) and the 38th Annual GMA Dove Awards.
I'll bypass the GMA Music Week stuff because it was rather boring and mundane compared to the rest of this story.
As a seat-filler, a person is actually required to stand at the back of the auditorium along the wall in a line, similar to the water fountain line in grade school. You wait in this line, until someone from the production team comes and asks you to follow them. The production person then points you to a seat and you literally fill the seat, until the person comes back. The person you are filling a seat for may be accepting an award, presenting an award, performing, or they may simply be visiting the ladies' room or the concession stand. When the person returns to his or her seat you get up and walk back to the back of the line to begin the whole process again. Not as glamorous or fun as I had anticipated.
The seat-fillers were told to arrive no later than 4:00 pm for the Dove Awards. We were instructed to wear dark, solid colors and clothing ranging in formality from "church" to "prom". That's a pretty big gap, if you ask me. I chose a lovely little black number which I purchased for only $24.99 from the fabulous discount boutique known as Target. I paired it with a bright red camisole (only slightly bending the rules), black heels, a huge gaudy red plastic bracelet , red earrings, a black necklace, the dramatic makeup of a showgirl or Tammy Faye Bakker, and my hair loosely up in some sort of twisted pattern, affixed just so with a conglomeration of bobby pins and hair spray. If you, my reader, will kindly indulge me for a brief moment of vanity…I looked p.d. good*. I approached the front doors of the Opry House at the Opryland convention center and showed my ID, just as we were instructed. Now, I know I have lived in Tennessee for over eight months now, but I still have not made my way to the Tennessee Department of Motor Vehicles to obtain a new Driver's License and/or tags for my car. But as I handed my driver's license over to the kid who was checking ID's, he said, in his best valley girl voice, "Oh. I am like so glad to finally see someone from Illinois. Decatur is so………(long pause)………isolated." What? What is that supposed to mean? Decatur happens to have many surrounding towns and even a couple major cities within a two-hour radius. It is my estimation that the ID kid did not understand the meaning of the word "isolated". But I didn't have time for a grammar lesson, I had an important role to fill at the 38th Annual GMA Dove Awards…so I shrugged him off and walked inside.
The seat-fillers were all told to fill a section of the upper balcony of the auditorium and to await further instruction. After sitting there for approximately one hour and fifteen minutes, we were told to leave our seats in the upper balcony and head down to the lobby for snacks or whatever we needed, to take our purses, jackets, etc. back to our cars so we didn't have to fight with them all evening, and to reconvene in the lobby at 6:45. At 6:45, I promptly reunited with my group (after having met a very creepy young man who was freely giving out high fives for no apparent reason and preferred lingering, piercing stares to the more traditional, and more widely accepted occasional break from eye contact in conversation). My group consisted of a friend from church, my roommate, three of her friends from college and myself. So there were six of us in all. We continued to stand in the lobby for the better part of an hour until we were finally told to reclaim our seats in the upper balcony until someone from production would come and collect us, small groups at a time, to perform our duties of filling seats. The Awards show began taping at 8:00, and immediately four members of my group were whisked away to fill the seats of the greatest heroes of Christian music the world has ever known. My friend Jennifer and I were still stuck in the balcony, watching the performance on a screen.
Probably half an hour had passed when a production team member (who happened to be the ID kid from earlier who told me my home town was "isolated") asked us to follow him. We were instructed to walk over and stand outside of the huge double doors and to wait for someone to retrieve us.
Twenty minutes passed and nobody came, so my friend Jennifer and I, in our rebellious spirits, decided to head back up to the balcony where we could at least see the show, rather than standing outside the doors.
As we sustained our former positions in the balcony, we were rejoined by my roommate Katie and her friend Claire. Just when we had all gotten settled, the ID kid came back and, once again, asked us to go to the lobby and await further instruction. We walked inside and stood along the wall with all of the other seat-fillers. One by one, each seat filler was escorted to a seat in need of filling, and finally, after about 25 minutes of waiting (standing in stilettos), it was finally our turn. Claire was taken away to fill a seat, and Katie would be next, followed by myself and then Jennifer. Jennifer and I had resolved that if we hadn't been placed in seats by the next commercial break, we were going to sneak back up to the upper balcony, but sit in a different location so the ID kid couldn't find us.
Just as we had made our decision, the producer came up to us and said she needed three people. Katie, Myself and Jennifer followed her, like baby ducklings following their mother across a busy street. We were walking through the auditorium, with all the bright lights, cameras rolling, the show in progress. Katie was placed in a seat near the back on the aisle, and Jennifer was taken by another producer to the opposite side of the auditorium. I was still following the original producer….through the middle of the auditorium…..in the midst of filming the show, when she turned and said to me, "I'm sorry. We don't have a spot for you after all. I'm really sorry." She then instructed me to remain right where I was and not to move, that she would be right back. So there I was, standing in the middle of the aisle, I felt like all the lights in the room were shining on me as I waited for an eternity for her to come back. I was blocking people behind me. I stood there, rocked back and forth on my heels a little, pursed my lips, looked to my left, looked to my right, continued holding my purse in front of me (once again feeling rebellious, I had refused to return it to my car…it was only a little clutch. It wasn't going to ruin the Dove Awards).
Finally, my agony came to an end when the producer returned and said, "Ok. We had a seat open up in the front row. So can you just go down there and sit for a minute?" She must have understood my "Woman, you have GOT to be crazy if you think I'm about to walk down to the front row of this thing all by myself and start looking for a vacant seat when I have no idea where it is" look because then she grabbed my arm and said, "Come on. I'll show you where it is."
As I took my seat, I noticed to my left, a VERY handsome young man. I recognized him, but I couldn't quite figure out who he was. He gently leaned over and quietly said, "Hey. How are you?" "I'm fine," I coolly and eloquently replied, "How are you?"
And before he had the chance to respond, a tall, beautiful Brazilian woman was standing in front of me and the handsome man said, "Oh. Here she is."
"Great," I thought to myself, "My seat-filling experience lasted a grand total of three seconds." And as I began to stand up and walk away, the Brazilian woman said to me, "Oh. That's okay. We make room for you."
Now, I know that my responsibility as a seat-filler was to fill the empty seats as their normal fillers vacated them. I understand that was the premise of my receiving complimentary admittance to the Awards ceremony.
BUT I WAS SITTING ON THE STINKING FRONT ROW AND THEY HAD PLENTY OF ROOM FOR ME AND SHE OFFERED!
So I thought about it for a second, and sat back down in my spot. I figured the Brazilian woman was with the couple sitting to my right, and perhaps I could continue my conversation with Mr. Incredible to my left.
A couple minutes passed, and the Brazilian woman retrieved a half-eaten Milky Way Candy Bar from her purse. She reached over me and tapped the gorgeous man on his arm, "Here. Are you hungry?" She said.
"Yeah. Thanks. I was wondering if you went out there and got something to eat." He reached over me and grabbed the candy bar from her.
"Well, they didn't have much out there. So I went to the ladies' room and then bought this." She said.
"Yeah. They never have very much good food at these things," was his reply.
It was then that I determined I had just invaded this happy couple's date. Had I been on top of my game that night, I would have turned to him and said, "Excuse me, why don't we switch spots?" thus enabling him to sit next to his beautiful Brazilian date, while also allowing me to continue in our deep and meaningful conversation which had so far consisted of "How are you?"
But instead, I turned to the Brazilian girl and told her that we should switch spots. ARGH. Hindsight is 20/20, as they say. And I knew I would still enjoy my front-row seat at the 38th Annual GMA Dove Awards. I looked around to take in the whole experience.
Sitting on the same bench with me was Watermark, also known as the dynamic duo of Nathan and Christy Nockels, who recently announced that they are leaving the music business in order to focus more on raising their family. Ahead of me and to my left were Steven Curtis Chapman and his wife. Directly behind them were Jeremy Camp and his wife Adie, followed by Aaron Shust and his wife and Mark Schultz and his wife. Behind them was Third Day in its entirety and a little further back were David Crowder and his wife. Surprisingly, his wife does not have hair that stands straight up, nor does she sport a long goatee. Directly behind me was Natalie Grant's entourage, followed by Nichole Nordeman. And behind me to my right was the band Leeland. I had faired pretty well at my first venture as a seat-filler at the Doves.
There was about an hour and a half left of taping, so I got comfortable and proceeded to listen in on the conversation of the couple sitting next to me. Please allow me to give you a mental picture of what was unfolding before my eyes. The man I had been talking to earlier was wearing faded jeans, brown shoes, a patterned button-down shirt and a vintage semi-fitted jacket. He had an unshaven face and blonde, spiky hair, and he was probably about 5'10 or 5'11…average height…not that I really noticed him or anything. The Brazilian woman was approximately 6 feet tall. She was beautiful. She looked as if she could have hailed from an Asian country, although she had very light blue eyes. She was wearing the latest trend in lipstick…bright red (I'm not planning to fall into that trend anytime soon). She was wearing a raisin colored ball gown (not prom dress, mind you….but a full-on ball gown), with a gold shawl. She had on leopard print lacy shoes and a small tiara. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail with a faded black scrunchie…I suppose she didn't want to go overboard with the hair as she was wearing such a fancy dress. And I'm not blaming her for overdressing. She probably had no idea what to wear…..and I am convinced that she was a mail-order date.
We've all heard of a mail-order bride. A middle-aged man becomes tired of the single life, but can't seem to find someone he loves in his own culture, so he calls the Philippines or Nicaragua and orders up a woman who will be subservient, quiet, demure, beautiful, and desiring of him. She won't talk back because she won't be able to speak his language, and she will treat him like a king because she is so grateful to have come out of poverty in her home country and to live in the land of opportunity in the United States. It is a truly barbaric and racist process, if you ask me…but that soapbox is for a different time and place.
I am being slightly facetious here. I don't really believe this Brazilian woman was a mail-order date…but I do believe that this handsome young man, who had previously engaged me in such a meaningful and deep conversation (remember, "hey. How are you?"), I believe that he had not ever met this woman prior to the Dove Awards. Perhaps a mutual friend set them up. Perhaps he called an escort service. Perhaps he found her at the mall working at the Gap and asked her to join him. Whatever the case….I'm certain he had never spent time with her before that fateful night.
Now I have already explained to you her attire for the evening….a little much. And her look, paired with her behavior was enough to make me sympathize for this kind, gentle young Casanova to my left. This woman repeatedly pulled her tiny pink Sony Cybershot camera from her little purse (I'm surprised she was not carrying a Hello Kitty or Bratz purse). She took pictures of everything. She snapped people in the audience, performers, presenters, award winners…there is no possible way she knew who most of these people were…but still, she snapped pictures of them. The Dove Awards are a big event in Christian music.
As with any Awards show, audience members are asked not to use cameras or cell phones of any kind. Particularly if you are sitting in the front row of the freaking auditorium.
As if the pink camera were not enough, the woman also uttered phrases such as, "Oh. That's so cool." Or "Awesome" to everything that took place.
And then Bob and Larry came out. You know, the tomato and the cucumber (respectively) from Big Idea's VeggieTales. This woman went nuts. There was clapping, jumping in her seat, incessant laughter, pink cameras lighting flashes into the atmosphere and exclamations of awe and wonder. I was surprised every eye in the auditorium didn't turn to watch the outburst that was occurring next to me. I guess she must be a huge VeggieTale fan.
I was severely annoyed, and I was certain that my handsome friend on the other side of her was grateful during that brief moment I had sat down next to him. He probably enjoyed conversing with someone who was a little more…how shall I say….down to earth.
The remainder of the evening included more picture taking, more amazement, more "that's so cool," and even the periodical checking of the email via her sidekick phone.
I was entertained by her, and very grateful that she had provided me with a place to sit for the rest of the evening….but I'm positive this handsome man could have found someone else to go with.
Incidentally, you may see me on TV when the show is televised. I know the camera was pointing in my direction when Aaron Shust accepted his award for song of the year, and also when Chris Tomlin accepted his award for Artist of the Year.
Check here for when the Doves will be showing in your area:
http://www.gmamusicawards.com/pdf/38th_DoveAwards_SyndList.pdf
Despite the distraction sitting to my immediate left, I still managed to ascertain a few important lessons from the 38th Annual GMA Dove Awards:
Chris Tomlin is the new Steven Curtis Chapman in that he will win in EVERY category for which he is nominated.
Aaron Shust is the new Chris Tomlin in that he will win in every category for which he is nominated except when he's up against the real Chris Tomlin.
The Gospel Music Association uses the term "Of the Year" very loosely:
Aaron Shust won for New Artist of the Year…his album was released in August of 2005.
Natalie Grant won for Female Vocalist of the Year…her album came out in early 2005.
Chris Tomlin's "Holy is the Lord" took home a Dove for Worship Song of the Year…this song was released on Tomlin's Arriving project, which streeted in 2004! Chris has since released a plethora of singles and a new full-length album.
The Gospel Music Association members who select the winners are rather stale. They are not wiling or able to expand their horizons and select winners who are making ripples in the industry. There is no room for innovation (i.e. Leeland and Mat Kearney).
Regardless of my discrepancies with the Gospel Music Association, I still had an amazing time. Hopefully one year I'll be able to attend as an artist manager or something equally as involved.
*p.d. good – Pretty Darn Good, for those who are not up to speed with the teenage slang language of our day.
Currently listening : Sound of Melodies By Leeland Release date: 15 August, 2006
Current mood: pleased
I'm glad my butt is good for something...
GMA Music Week, or Gospel Music Association Music Week (its ridiculously absurd formal name) is a convention of sorts held in downtown Nashville during mid-April. The week is a gathering of all the names in Gospel music: artists, radio personalities, producers, Christian retailers, managers, record label executives and groupies come together to learn, to celebrate, to get attention, to "network" (whatever that means), and to commemorate the common bond that brings them all together: music. The week culminates with the Christian music equivalent of the Grammy's. The GMA Dove Awards.
I had heard of this wondrous event in my previous career as a Christian music buyer in Illinois, but I had only ever dreamed of being able to partake in the glory of it all. Until one fateful day in February, I logged onto the Gospel Music Association's website to find that they were looking for volunteers for GMA Week 2007 and also for the GMA Dove Awards. I filled out my volunteer applications for both events, faxed them in to their respective overseers, and eagerly waited by my computer for their response. Phew, fortunately I made both cuts and registered as a volunteer for both GMA Music Week (again Gospel Music Association Music Week) and the 38th Annual GMA Dove Awards.
I'll bypass the GMA Music Week stuff because it was rather boring and mundane compared to the rest of this story.
As a seat-filler, a person is actually required to stand at the back of the auditorium along the wall in a line, similar to the water fountain line in grade school. You wait in this line, until someone from the production team comes and asks you to follow them. The production person then points you to a seat and you literally fill the seat, until the person comes back. The person you are filling a seat for may be accepting an award, presenting an award, performing, or they may simply be visiting the ladies' room or the concession stand. When the person returns to his or her seat you get up and walk back to the back of the line to begin the whole process again. Not as glamorous or fun as I had anticipated.
The seat-fillers were told to arrive no later than 4:00 pm for the Dove Awards. We were instructed to wear dark, solid colors and clothing ranging in formality from "church" to "prom". That's a pretty big gap, if you ask me. I chose a lovely little black number which I purchased for only $24.99 from the fabulous discount boutique known as Target. I paired it with a bright red camisole (only slightly bending the rules), black heels, a huge gaudy red plastic bracelet , red earrings, a black necklace, the dramatic makeup of a showgirl or Tammy Faye Bakker, and my hair loosely up in some sort of twisted pattern, affixed just so with a conglomeration of bobby pins and hair spray. If you, my reader, will kindly indulge me for a brief moment of vanity…I looked p.d. good*. I approached the front doors of the Opry House at the Opryland convention center and showed my ID, just as we were instructed. Now, I know I have lived in Tennessee for over eight months now, but I still have not made my way to the Tennessee Department of Motor Vehicles to obtain a new Driver's License and/or tags for my car. But as I handed my driver's license over to the kid who was checking ID's, he said, in his best valley girl voice, "Oh. I am like so glad to finally see someone from Illinois. Decatur is so………(long pause)………isolated." What? What is that supposed to mean? Decatur happens to have many surrounding towns and even a couple major cities within a two-hour radius. It is my estimation that the ID kid did not understand the meaning of the word "isolated". But I didn't have time for a grammar lesson, I had an important role to fill at the 38th Annual GMA Dove Awards…so I shrugged him off and walked inside.
The seat-fillers were all told to fill a section of the upper balcony of the auditorium and to await further instruction. After sitting there for approximately one hour and fifteen minutes, we were told to leave our seats in the upper balcony and head down to the lobby for snacks or whatever we needed, to take our purses, jackets, etc. back to our cars so we didn't have to fight with them all evening, and to reconvene in the lobby at 6:45. At 6:45, I promptly reunited with my group (after having met a very creepy young man who was freely giving out high fives for no apparent reason and preferred lingering, piercing stares to the more traditional, and more widely accepted occasional break from eye contact in conversation). My group consisted of a friend from church, my roommate, three of her friends from college and myself. So there were six of us in all. We continued to stand in the lobby for the better part of an hour until we were finally told to reclaim our seats in the upper balcony until someone from production would come and collect us, small groups at a time, to perform our duties of filling seats. The Awards show began taping at 8:00, and immediately four members of my group were whisked away to fill the seats of the greatest heroes of Christian music the world has ever known. My friend Jennifer and I were still stuck in the balcony, watching the performance on a screen.
Probably half an hour had passed when a production team member (who happened to be the ID kid from earlier who told me my home town was "isolated") asked us to follow him. We were instructed to walk over and stand outside of the huge double doors and to wait for someone to retrieve us.
Twenty minutes passed and nobody came, so my friend Jennifer and I, in our rebellious spirits, decided to head back up to the balcony where we could at least see the show, rather than standing outside the doors.
As we sustained our former positions in the balcony, we were rejoined by my roommate Katie and her friend Claire. Just when we had all gotten settled, the ID kid came back and, once again, asked us to go to the lobby and await further instruction. We walked inside and stood along the wall with all of the other seat-fillers. One by one, each seat filler was escorted to a seat in need of filling, and finally, after about 25 minutes of waiting (standing in stilettos), it was finally our turn. Claire was taken away to fill a seat, and Katie would be next, followed by myself and then Jennifer. Jennifer and I had resolved that if we hadn't been placed in seats by the next commercial break, we were going to sneak back up to the upper balcony, but sit in a different location so the ID kid couldn't find us.
Just as we had made our decision, the producer came up to us and said she needed three people. Katie, Myself and Jennifer followed her, like baby ducklings following their mother across a busy street. We were walking through the auditorium, with all the bright lights, cameras rolling, the show in progress. Katie was placed in a seat near the back on the aisle, and Jennifer was taken by another producer to the opposite side of the auditorium. I was still following the original producer….through the middle of the auditorium…..in the midst of filming the show, when she turned and said to me, "I'm sorry. We don't have a spot for you after all. I'm really sorry." She then instructed me to remain right where I was and not to move, that she would be right back. So there I was, standing in the middle of the aisle, I felt like all the lights in the room were shining on me as I waited for an eternity for her to come back. I was blocking people behind me. I stood there, rocked back and forth on my heels a little, pursed my lips, looked to my left, looked to my right, continued holding my purse in front of me (once again feeling rebellious, I had refused to return it to my car…it was only a little clutch. It wasn't going to ruin the Dove Awards).
Finally, my agony came to an end when the producer returned and said, "Ok. We had a seat open up in the front row. So can you just go down there and sit for a minute?" She must have understood my "Woman, you have GOT to be crazy if you think I'm about to walk down to the front row of this thing all by myself and start looking for a vacant seat when I have no idea where it is" look because then she grabbed my arm and said, "Come on. I'll show you where it is."
As I took my seat, I noticed to my left, a VERY handsome young man. I recognized him, but I couldn't quite figure out who he was. He gently leaned over and quietly said, "Hey. How are you?" "I'm fine," I coolly and eloquently replied, "How are you?"
And before he had the chance to respond, a tall, beautiful Brazilian woman was standing in front of me and the handsome man said, "Oh. Here she is."
"Great," I thought to myself, "My seat-filling experience lasted a grand total of three seconds." And as I began to stand up and walk away, the Brazilian woman said to me, "Oh. That's okay. We make room for you."
Now, I know that my responsibility as a seat-filler was to fill the empty seats as their normal fillers vacated them. I understand that was the premise of my receiving complimentary admittance to the Awards ceremony.
BUT I WAS SITTING ON THE STINKING FRONT ROW AND THEY HAD PLENTY OF ROOM FOR ME AND SHE OFFERED!
So I thought about it for a second, and sat back down in my spot. I figured the Brazilian woman was with the couple sitting to my right, and perhaps I could continue my conversation with Mr. Incredible to my left.
A couple minutes passed, and the Brazilian woman retrieved a half-eaten Milky Way Candy Bar from her purse. She reached over me and tapped the gorgeous man on his arm, "Here. Are you hungry?" She said.
"Yeah. Thanks. I was wondering if you went out there and got something to eat." He reached over me and grabbed the candy bar from her.
"Well, they didn't have much out there. So I went to the ladies' room and then bought this." She said.
"Yeah. They never have very much good food at these things," was his reply.
It was then that I determined I had just invaded this happy couple's date. Had I been on top of my game that night, I would have turned to him and said, "Excuse me, why don't we switch spots?" thus enabling him to sit next to his beautiful Brazilian date, while also allowing me to continue in our deep and meaningful conversation which had so far consisted of "How are you?"
But instead, I turned to the Brazilian girl and told her that we should switch spots. ARGH. Hindsight is 20/20, as they say. And I knew I would still enjoy my front-row seat at the 38th Annual GMA Dove Awards. I looked around to take in the whole experience.
Sitting on the same bench with me was Watermark, also known as the dynamic duo of Nathan and Christy Nockels, who recently announced that they are leaving the music business in order to focus more on raising their family. Ahead of me and to my left were Steven Curtis Chapman and his wife. Directly behind them were Jeremy Camp and his wife Adie, followed by Aaron Shust and his wife and Mark Schultz and his wife. Behind them was Third Day in its entirety and a little further back were David Crowder and his wife. Surprisingly, his wife does not have hair that stands straight up, nor does she sport a long goatee. Directly behind me was Natalie Grant's entourage, followed by Nichole Nordeman. And behind me to my right was the band Leeland. I had faired pretty well at my first venture as a seat-filler at the Doves.
There was about an hour and a half left of taping, so I got comfortable and proceeded to listen in on the conversation of the couple sitting next to me. Please allow me to give you a mental picture of what was unfolding before my eyes. The man I had been talking to earlier was wearing faded jeans, brown shoes, a patterned button-down shirt and a vintage semi-fitted jacket. He had an unshaven face and blonde, spiky hair, and he was probably about 5'10 or 5'11…average height…not that I really noticed him or anything. The Brazilian woman was approximately 6 feet tall. She was beautiful. She looked as if she could have hailed from an Asian country, although she had very light blue eyes. She was wearing the latest trend in lipstick…bright red (I'm not planning to fall into that trend anytime soon). She was wearing a raisin colored ball gown (not prom dress, mind you….but a full-on ball gown), with a gold shawl. She had on leopard print lacy shoes and a small tiara. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail with a faded black scrunchie…I suppose she didn't want to go overboard with the hair as she was wearing such a fancy dress. And I'm not blaming her for overdressing. She probably had no idea what to wear…..and I am convinced that she was a mail-order date.
We've all heard of a mail-order bride. A middle-aged man becomes tired of the single life, but can't seem to find someone he loves in his own culture, so he calls the Philippines or Nicaragua and orders up a woman who will be subservient, quiet, demure, beautiful, and desiring of him. She won't talk back because she won't be able to speak his language, and she will treat him like a king because she is so grateful to have come out of poverty in her home country and to live in the land of opportunity in the United States. It is a truly barbaric and racist process, if you ask me…but that soapbox is for a different time and place.
I am being slightly facetious here. I don't really believe this Brazilian woman was a mail-order date…but I do believe that this handsome young man, who had previously engaged me in such a meaningful and deep conversation (remember, "hey. How are you?"), I believe that he had not ever met this woman prior to the Dove Awards. Perhaps a mutual friend set them up. Perhaps he called an escort service. Perhaps he found her at the mall working at the Gap and asked her to join him. Whatever the case….I'm certain he had never spent time with her before that fateful night.
Now I have already explained to you her attire for the evening….a little much. And her look, paired with her behavior was enough to make me sympathize for this kind, gentle young Casanova to my left. This woman repeatedly pulled her tiny pink Sony Cybershot camera from her little purse (I'm surprised she was not carrying a Hello Kitty or Bratz purse). She took pictures of everything. She snapped people in the audience, performers, presenters, award winners…there is no possible way she knew who most of these people were…but still, she snapped pictures of them. The Dove Awards are a big event in Christian music.
As with any Awards show, audience members are asked not to use cameras or cell phones of any kind. Particularly if you are sitting in the front row of the freaking auditorium.
As if the pink camera were not enough, the woman also uttered phrases such as, "Oh. That's so cool." Or "Awesome" to everything that took place.
And then Bob and Larry came out. You know, the tomato and the cucumber (respectively) from Big Idea's VeggieTales. This woman went nuts. There was clapping, jumping in her seat, incessant laughter, pink cameras lighting flashes into the atmosphere and exclamations of awe and wonder. I was surprised every eye in the auditorium didn't turn to watch the outburst that was occurring next to me. I guess she must be a huge VeggieTale fan.
I was severely annoyed, and I was certain that my handsome friend on the other side of her was grateful during that brief moment I had sat down next to him. He probably enjoyed conversing with someone who was a little more…how shall I say….down to earth.
The remainder of the evening included more picture taking, more amazement, more "that's so cool," and even the periodical checking of the email via her sidekick phone.
I was entertained by her, and very grateful that she had provided me with a place to sit for the rest of the evening….but I'm positive this handsome man could have found someone else to go with.
Incidentally, you may see me on TV when the show is televised. I know the camera was pointing in my direction when Aaron Shust accepted his award for song of the year, and also when Chris Tomlin accepted his award for Artist of the Year.
Check here for when the Doves will be showing in your area:
http://www.gmamusicawards.com/pdf/38th_DoveAwards_SyndList.pdf
Despite the distraction sitting to my immediate left, I still managed to ascertain a few important lessons from the 38th Annual GMA Dove Awards:
Chris Tomlin is the new Steven Curtis Chapman in that he will win in EVERY category for which he is nominated.
Aaron Shust is the new Chris Tomlin in that he will win in every category for which he is nominated except when he's up against the real Chris Tomlin.
The Gospel Music Association uses the term "Of the Year" very loosely:
Aaron Shust won for New Artist of the Year…his album was released in August of 2005.
Natalie Grant won for Female Vocalist of the Year…her album came out in early 2005.
Chris Tomlin's "Holy is the Lord" took home a Dove for Worship Song of the Year…this song was released on Tomlin's Arriving project, which streeted in 2004! Chris has since released a plethora of singles and a new full-length album.
The Gospel Music Association members who select the winners are rather stale. They are not wiling or able to expand their horizons and select winners who are making ripples in the industry. There is no room for innovation (i.e. Leeland and Mat Kearney).
Regardless of my discrepancies with the Gospel Music Association, I still had an amazing time. Hopefully one year I'll be able to attend as an artist manager or something equally as involved.
*p.d. good – Pretty Darn Good, for those who are not up to speed with the teenage slang language of our day.
Currently listening : Sound of Melodies By Leeland Release date: 15 August, 2006
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
A Sad Day in Sandwiches
April 17, 2007 - Tuesday
Current mood: melancholy
About a month ago I purchased a variety of Healthy Choice meals in a (vain) attempt to begin eating healthier and consequently, losing the "i-don't-want-to-tell-you-how-much-weight-i've-gained-since-college" pounds. I thought I had consumed all of these gourmet delicacies, but much to my surprise (or chagrin, depending on how you look at it), I found one last Healthy Choice meal in the freezer the other day, as I was attempting to scoop the remainder of the ice from our ice bucket. Fiesta Chicken: Tender grilled chicken pieces drizzled with tangy Fiesta sauce, and zesty Mexican vegetables, with creamy, warm apple crisp for dessert. The picture actually looked like frozen chicken segments covered in brown gravy with corn and black beans and a bite of freezer burnt apple crisp to wash it all down.
Not wanting to be a waster, I brought this scrumptious meal with me to work yesterday. 12:00 rolled around and I decided I was hungry for real Mexican food. I opted to go downstairs to the Mexican restaurant and to eat my Healthy Choice meal Tuesday (today) instead. Well, today at noon, I decided that since I had Mexican food yesterday, I really didn't want that Fiesta chicken. I wouldn't want to have Mexican food two days in a row. I was going to go downstairs to the gourmet sandwich shop on the bottom floor of my building, but as I stepped outside into the perfect, sunny, crisp spring air, I decided I would rather walk a block and a half to Quiznos.
Before moving to Nashville, I had never eaten at Quiznos before. I don't believe there were any Quiznos readily available to me in Decatur and besides that, I considered myself more of a Subway girl. I preferred the autonomy of creating one's own sandwich out of the smorgasboard of toppings directly on the other side of that plexiglass.
But then I moved to Nashville and one nervous trip to Quiznos with my cousin forever changed my life. I fell in love with the Cabo Chicken Sandwich.
Tender and juicy slices of grilled chicken smothered in a zesty, but not too spicy chipotle mayonnaise, topped with lettuce, onion, bacon pieces, melted cheese and a schmearing of guacamole on your choice of white or wheat (wheat is better). Somehow in a cosmic, molecular miracle, the parts that needed to be warm remained warm, while the parts that were cold stayed cool. Oh, this sandwich was to die for.
I believe I have probably consumed approximately one Cabo Chicken sandwich per week since that fateful September evening. Never have I even considered sampling a different Quiznos concoction. I'm a faithful lover...in sandwiches and in life.
But today, as I approached the counter (I have also become an expert orderer at Quiznos. I know precisely which items need to be mentioned and in what order they need to be spoken...but that is neither here nor there.), as I proudly uttered my statement, beautifully, eloquently and perfectly executed, "I would like a Regular Cabo Chicken on Wheat, please." the lady behind the counter coyly grinned, and said, "I'm sorry ma'am. We don't serve the cabo chicken anymore."
The entire restaurant silenced and watched to see what I would do. How would I handle this tragedy? I had watched my world come crashing down at my feet in an instant.
I had one remaining hope for my Cabo Chicken that day. One shred of possiblity that I might still be able to get the sandwich I wanted....perhaps she was joking. I smiled back in my disbelief and said in a low, serious tone, "Oh no (pause) Are you serious?"
"Yes," she replied as she pointed at the overhead menu board, "whole new menu."
I didn't care about that new menu board. I hadn't so much as glanced at it since last September.
I just stared at it, buggy-eyed, in shock and uncertain of my next move as the line was progressively becoming longer and more impatient with every passing moment of indecision.
"Well, I guess I'll try....ummmm....uhhhhh.....I don't know......the mesquite chicken then." All I really wanted to do was curl up in a ball and cry.
The nice sandwich lady reassured me that the mesquite chicken was a very good sandwich and I would not be disappointed. She could even put some of their special Batch 51 sauce (or whatever it's called) on my sandwich and add some guacamole to make it seem more like a Cabo.
"Well, okay," I begrudgingly replied. I didn't know what else to do. What else could I do? My perfect sandwich had been discontinued.
Sensing my despair, the lady yelled to the sandwich creator at the opposite end of the line, "We're going to make this into a Cabo chicken, Ron...okay?"
And so I proceeded in the line, looking down at the floor, just shaking my head. How could Quiznos have done this to me?
The man who operates the cash register knows me and he knows that I come in there once every week and order my regular Cabo Chicken on wheat. He looked at the sullen expression on my face and said, "What are you having today?" I could tell by his tone he was trying to lighten my spirits....but how could he expect to lift my spirits with a casual conversation when his company had just robbed me of the one thing in life I truly loved? I looked at him, tears gathering in my eyes, and said, "Oh. I don't know. I guess it's the Mesquite chicken or something like that." He apologetically consoled me, "I'm sorry. You can't have your Cabo Chicken anymore, can you?"
I tried to remain chipper, but I'm sure he could see the gloom in my demeanor. "Yeah. I guess not. They changed the menu on me."
"Well. We've had a lot of people disappointed that they can't get that sandwich anymore." His last comment gave me a faint glimmer of hope. Something to hold on to for the future. Perhaps if enough people voiced their disapproval and subsequent outrage over the death of this edible masterpiece...perhaps then Quiznos would bring back the Cabo Chicken.
And so my friends, companions, fellow travelers on this journey called life...I am requesting one act on behalf of the Cabo Chicken.....I beseech you, please follow this link and fill out a form requesting the return of the Cabo Chicken. Let them know that what they have done to the Cabo is unacceptable and that they should bring it back forthwith.
CLICK HERE TO BRING BACK THE CABO CHICKEN
Currently listening : Blues to the Bone By Etta James Release date: 08 June, 2004
Current mood: melancholy
About a month ago I purchased a variety of Healthy Choice meals in a (vain) attempt to begin eating healthier and consequently, losing the "i-don't-want-to-tell-you-how-much-weight-i've-gained-since-college" pounds. I thought I had consumed all of these gourmet delicacies, but much to my surprise (or chagrin, depending on how you look at it), I found one last Healthy Choice meal in the freezer the other day, as I was attempting to scoop the remainder of the ice from our ice bucket. Fiesta Chicken: Tender grilled chicken pieces drizzled with tangy Fiesta sauce, and zesty Mexican vegetables, with creamy, warm apple crisp for dessert. The picture actually looked like frozen chicken segments covered in brown gravy with corn and black beans and a bite of freezer burnt apple crisp to wash it all down.
Not wanting to be a waster, I brought this scrumptious meal with me to work yesterday. 12:00 rolled around and I decided I was hungry for real Mexican food. I opted to go downstairs to the Mexican restaurant and to eat my Healthy Choice meal Tuesday (today) instead. Well, today at noon, I decided that since I had Mexican food yesterday, I really didn't want that Fiesta chicken. I wouldn't want to have Mexican food two days in a row. I was going to go downstairs to the gourmet sandwich shop on the bottom floor of my building, but as I stepped outside into the perfect, sunny, crisp spring air, I decided I would rather walk a block and a half to Quiznos.
Before moving to Nashville, I had never eaten at Quiznos before. I don't believe there were any Quiznos readily available to me in Decatur and besides that, I considered myself more of a Subway girl. I preferred the autonomy of creating one's own sandwich out of the smorgasboard of toppings directly on the other side of that plexiglass.
But then I moved to Nashville and one nervous trip to Quiznos with my cousin forever changed my life. I fell in love with the Cabo Chicken Sandwich.
Tender and juicy slices of grilled chicken smothered in a zesty, but not too spicy chipotle mayonnaise, topped with lettuce, onion, bacon pieces, melted cheese and a schmearing of guacamole on your choice of white or wheat (wheat is better). Somehow in a cosmic, molecular miracle, the parts that needed to be warm remained warm, while the parts that were cold stayed cool. Oh, this sandwich was to die for.
I believe I have probably consumed approximately one Cabo Chicken sandwich per week since that fateful September evening. Never have I even considered sampling a different Quiznos concoction. I'm a faithful lover...in sandwiches and in life.
But today, as I approached the counter (I have also become an expert orderer at Quiznos. I know precisely which items need to be mentioned and in what order they need to be spoken...but that is neither here nor there.), as I proudly uttered my statement, beautifully, eloquently and perfectly executed, "I would like a Regular Cabo Chicken on Wheat, please." the lady behind the counter coyly grinned, and said, "I'm sorry ma'am. We don't serve the cabo chicken anymore."
The entire restaurant silenced and watched to see what I would do. How would I handle this tragedy? I had watched my world come crashing down at my feet in an instant.
I had one remaining hope for my Cabo Chicken that day. One shred of possiblity that I might still be able to get the sandwich I wanted....perhaps she was joking. I smiled back in my disbelief and said in a low, serious tone, "Oh no (pause) Are you serious?"
"Yes," she replied as she pointed at the overhead menu board, "whole new menu."
I didn't care about that new menu board. I hadn't so much as glanced at it since last September.
I just stared at it, buggy-eyed, in shock and uncertain of my next move as the line was progressively becoming longer and more impatient with every passing moment of indecision.
"Well, I guess I'll try....ummmm....uhhhhh.....I don't know......the mesquite chicken then." All I really wanted to do was curl up in a ball and cry.
The nice sandwich lady reassured me that the mesquite chicken was a very good sandwich and I would not be disappointed. She could even put some of their special Batch 51 sauce (or whatever it's called) on my sandwich and add some guacamole to make it seem more like a Cabo.
"Well, okay," I begrudgingly replied. I didn't know what else to do. What else could I do? My perfect sandwich had been discontinued.
Sensing my despair, the lady yelled to the sandwich creator at the opposite end of the line, "We're going to make this into a Cabo chicken, Ron...okay?"
And so I proceeded in the line, looking down at the floor, just shaking my head. How could Quiznos have done this to me?
The man who operates the cash register knows me and he knows that I come in there once every week and order my regular Cabo Chicken on wheat. He looked at the sullen expression on my face and said, "What are you having today?" I could tell by his tone he was trying to lighten my spirits....but how could he expect to lift my spirits with a casual conversation when his company had just robbed me of the one thing in life I truly loved? I looked at him, tears gathering in my eyes, and said, "Oh. I don't know. I guess it's the Mesquite chicken or something like that." He apologetically consoled me, "I'm sorry. You can't have your Cabo Chicken anymore, can you?"
I tried to remain chipper, but I'm sure he could see the gloom in my demeanor. "Yeah. I guess not. They changed the menu on me."
"Well. We've had a lot of people disappointed that they can't get that sandwich anymore." His last comment gave me a faint glimmer of hope. Something to hold on to for the future. Perhaps if enough people voiced their disapproval and subsequent outrage over the death of this edible masterpiece...perhaps then Quiznos would bring back the Cabo Chicken.
And so my friends, companions, fellow travelers on this journey called life...I am requesting one act on behalf of the Cabo Chicken.....I beseech you, please follow this link and fill out a form requesting the return of the Cabo Chicken. Let them know that what they have done to the Cabo is unacceptable and that they should bring it back forthwith.
CLICK HERE TO BRING BACK THE CABO CHICKEN
Currently listening : Blues to the Bone By Etta James Release date: 08 June, 2004
Wednesday, April 4, 2007
Doggy Digestion and Hearing God's Voice
April 4, 2007 - Wednesday
Current mood: amused
I've been reading through Donald Miller's Blue Like Jazz (for the second time) over the past couple months. It is a phenomenal and eye-opening portrait of our lives as Christians....a little hazy in some spots.....some patchy theology over there....a few scattered revelations in various locations, but littered with the clear, abundant love of God for His people throughout. And while I find myself enamored by this masterpiece, there are some points on which Donald and I do not see eye to eye.
One such occurrence is in his chapter entitled "Worship". I believe it's chapter seventeen, and I am very sorry that I do not currently have the book with me while I am writing. In this chapter, Don (I can call him Don since I'm reading the book for the second time....that makes us friends) is discussing God's mystery, which I contend he must be confusing with God's majesty. In one paragraph in particular, Don alludes to the fact that God is so much bigger than we are, so much more, so much higher...and there is no way we could ever figure him out with our limited, earthly, fallen and sinful minds. He contends that God is a mystery. He cannot be known to us. And that we should find comfort in the fact that we worship a God who is so beyond us that we cannot possibly comprehend Him. That if we worshiped a God who we knew, that would put us on the same level as this god, and would render him un-sovereign. I understand the point Don is making here. He is illustrating that there would be little benefit or significance to worship a God we had completely figured out. We may as well worship Pauly Shore. Our God is beyond the grasp of our ideas. He is indecipherable. He is unpredictable. He is…a mystery.
And I agree that God is indeed much bigger than our minds can fathom. He is beyond us. To use Bible college terminology…he is sovereign and Transcendent.
Dictionary.com defines the word Mystery as "anything that is kept secret or remains unexplained or unknown."
Now, hold on to that while I pause to share with you a brief narrative. I read a book once by a comedian/writer named Mark Steele. It's called Flashbang: How I Got Over Myself. It is the most hysterical book I have ever read. I would read a chapter, laugh out loud, read it again, laugh harder, read it again, etc. It took me a very long time to finish the book in its entirety. Anyway, in the middle of his chapters, Mark would insert what he called "A Brief Pause for Important Autobiographical Information." In this break in the chapter, Mark would share a story about his life that would later tie into the topic he was writing about.
That's what this is.
In church on Sunday my Preacher was talking about serving others. He used the illustration of a family that was out to dinner. One of the sons was about five years old and he was asked to bless the meal before the family ate. The little boy thanked God for his family, thanked Him for the food they were about to eat, and then prayed that they would all get ice cream at the end of their meal.
A woman sitting in a nearby booth overheard the little boy's prayer and said, loudly enough for the family to overhear her, "Oh. Can you believe that? Asking God for ice cream – this is what is wrong with children these days!" Tears instantly welled in the little boy's eyes as he asked his mother what he had done wrong. He was afraid he might have made God mad.
An older gentleman with a kind face walked over to the table after witnessing what had just occurred. He leaned over and whispered to the boy, "I happen to know that God loved your prayer. A little ice cream is good for the soul sometimes. Ice cream would probably do some good for her."
The family finished their meals and of course, the parents ordered ice cream for their children. When the little boy received his, he didn't say a word. He stood, picked up his ice cream and walked over to the woman. "A little ice cream is good for the soul," he said, "My soul is already full enough. Here, you can have my ice cream."
Our preacher explained that God wants us to serve others. He will reveal those opportunities to us if we just ask. So we took a few minutes to pray for God to show us some opportunities to serve others that day.
After church I went out to lunch, ran a couple of errands and then went home. When I returned home I walked in and set my things down. I noticed that something in the house smelled very strange, but I couldn't quite peg what the odor was or where it was coming from.
**Please be warned that this is the point in the story where things get a little gruesome. The following few paragraphs are not for pansies.**
I walked into the kitchen and noticed, there on my roommate's living room carpet, the hugest, most disgusting pile of dog poo I had ever seen.
Now you have to know, my roommate Katie has this sweet elderly dog named Speck. To my knowledge, Speck has never gone #2 in the house. He has rarely done #1 and then only in mocking defiance toward Katie when she was doing something he didn't like…such as leaving. And you also must understand the layout of our house. Katie's (carpeted) living room is right next to our hardwood floor kitchen. Speck missed the hardwood by approximately 1 ½ inches and decided to relieve himself on the carpet instead. I suppose it was cushier on his paws or something.
Upon seeing the pile of poo, I thought to myself, "OH. Wow it sucks to be Katie. I wonder when she'll get home from church so she can clean that up."
No sooner had I turned to walk out of the room, when I heard a little voice, "Nicole. Remember what you heard in church this morning?"
"umm. No."
"Really? Do you remember what you prayed about?"
"sorry. I got nothing."
"Jamie talked about serving others and you prayed for God to give you the opportunity to serve someone today."
"What's that? I can't hear you. You're mumbling a little bit."
And with that I chose to ignore the prompting I was receiving and go to check my email. As I was sitting on my couch, realizing that I had no email, the Holy Spirit's sudden silence was loud enough for me to realize what I needed to do. God will never force us to do something we don't want to do. But He will most assuredly let us know what He wants us to do.
I walked into the kitchen…looked at the pile of poo….looked at Speck who was lying nonchalantly on the floor, pretending he didn't know how it had gotten there….looked back at the pile of poo….looked at the ceiling, and decided to go upstairs to look for some carpet cleaner. I didn't find any. I walked back to the kitchen and again looked at Speck's masterpiece, then I said to God, "Are you sure? There's not something else I could do to serve someone today?"
"Go look in the basement for the carpet cleaner" was the only response I got. As I re-entered the kitchen, carpet cleaner in hand, I again looked at the poo.
Now, you need to understand exactly why this was so difficult for me. And in order for you to really grasp this image in your mind, I'm going to have to get a little graphic. So strap yourself in. Here we go.
This was not just your run-of-the-mill, piece of dog poo you see on the sidewalk sometimes. This was a pile of runny, gooey, sloppy dense doggie diarrhea with subsequent diarrhea droplets making a trail almost to the kitchen but falling just short. It smelled of hot dogs…or maybe that was someone grilling outside. I'm not sure and I didn't really try to find out the answer to that question, for fear of making myself vomit or forever turning myself off to hotdogs…I like hot dogs. I would swear there was steam coming off of the pile if I didn't know that kind of thing only happened in the cartoons.
Again, I glanced at the ceiling, smirked and said, "That's funny, God." Then I hunkered down and began cleaning…Speck watching me the whole time…trying to give the appearance of innocence, as if I didn't know he was the culprit.
***Now, back to what I was saying earlier. Donald Miller contends that God is a mystery. He cannot be fully known by humans who have such finite minds. And while I agree that God is so much beyond our normal comprehension (insert those big Bible college words here again)…I disagree that God is a mystery.
A mystery is something that is unknown or unexplained. Something that can't be figured out.
I would say that God is mysterious, but he is not a mystery.
By this I mean that there are some mysterious aspects to God. We cannot always predict what He will do next, or how he will lead us in a certain situation.
But God, in His Sovereignty, allows us to know Him. He is bigger than our minds. He is transcendent over all of creation. But he is also imminent (deeply and passionately involved in the world, in our lives, in our hearts). There's another Bible college term for you. God is so powerful, so all-knowing, so beyond us…that He allows our finite, fallen minds to know Him personally. To walk with Him daily. To talk to Him whenever we want to. We often use the phrase, "I don't know. It's a mystery to me," when we're describing something that we can't explain. But I don't think this applies to God at all. I think God intervenes in our lives and moves so that He grabs our attention and we take hold of Him and allow Him to reveal Himself to us.
No, we cannot completely figure God out. We don't know how He will move, or where He will lead us. But we do know Him, as a person and as our Savior. He is not a mystery. He is someone I know intimately.God works in mysterious ways. I don't know why he wanted me to clean up dog crap rather than help an old woman to the car with her groceries that day. But it was no mystery to me that cleaning up the poo was exactly how He wanted me to serve in that moment.
May you find yourself surrounded with opportunities to serve others today…and may you constantly be perplexed by the mysterious things God does in your life every day. But may you always know that He loves you intimately and deeply, and that He will not keep Himself a mystery to those who seek after Him.
Currently listening : Queen - Greatest Hits, Vols. 1 &2 By Queen Release date: 14 November, 1995
Current mood: amused
I've been reading through Donald Miller's Blue Like Jazz (for the second time) over the past couple months. It is a phenomenal and eye-opening portrait of our lives as Christians....a little hazy in some spots.....some patchy theology over there....a few scattered revelations in various locations, but littered with the clear, abundant love of God for His people throughout. And while I find myself enamored by this masterpiece, there are some points on which Donald and I do not see eye to eye.
One such occurrence is in his chapter entitled "Worship". I believe it's chapter seventeen, and I am very sorry that I do not currently have the book with me while I am writing. In this chapter, Don (I can call him Don since I'm reading the book for the second time....that makes us friends) is discussing God's mystery, which I contend he must be confusing with God's majesty. In one paragraph in particular, Don alludes to the fact that God is so much bigger than we are, so much more, so much higher...and there is no way we could ever figure him out with our limited, earthly, fallen and sinful minds. He contends that God is a mystery. He cannot be known to us. And that we should find comfort in the fact that we worship a God who is so beyond us that we cannot possibly comprehend Him. That if we worshiped a God who we knew, that would put us on the same level as this god, and would render him un-sovereign. I understand the point Don is making here. He is illustrating that there would be little benefit or significance to worship a God we had completely figured out. We may as well worship Pauly Shore. Our God is beyond the grasp of our ideas. He is indecipherable. He is unpredictable. He is…a mystery.
And I agree that God is indeed much bigger than our minds can fathom. He is beyond us. To use Bible college terminology…he is sovereign and Transcendent.
Dictionary.com defines the word Mystery as "anything that is kept secret or remains unexplained or unknown."
Now, hold on to that while I pause to share with you a brief narrative. I read a book once by a comedian/writer named Mark Steele. It's called Flashbang: How I Got Over Myself. It is the most hysterical book I have ever read. I would read a chapter, laugh out loud, read it again, laugh harder, read it again, etc. It took me a very long time to finish the book in its entirety. Anyway, in the middle of his chapters, Mark would insert what he called "A Brief Pause for Important Autobiographical Information." In this break in the chapter, Mark would share a story about his life that would later tie into the topic he was writing about.
That's what this is.
In church on Sunday my Preacher was talking about serving others. He used the illustration of a family that was out to dinner. One of the sons was about five years old and he was asked to bless the meal before the family ate. The little boy thanked God for his family, thanked Him for the food they were about to eat, and then prayed that they would all get ice cream at the end of their meal.
A woman sitting in a nearby booth overheard the little boy's prayer and said, loudly enough for the family to overhear her, "Oh. Can you believe that? Asking God for ice cream – this is what is wrong with children these days!" Tears instantly welled in the little boy's eyes as he asked his mother what he had done wrong. He was afraid he might have made God mad.
An older gentleman with a kind face walked over to the table after witnessing what had just occurred. He leaned over and whispered to the boy, "I happen to know that God loved your prayer. A little ice cream is good for the soul sometimes. Ice cream would probably do some good for her."
The family finished their meals and of course, the parents ordered ice cream for their children. When the little boy received his, he didn't say a word. He stood, picked up his ice cream and walked over to the woman. "A little ice cream is good for the soul," he said, "My soul is already full enough. Here, you can have my ice cream."
Our preacher explained that God wants us to serve others. He will reveal those opportunities to us if we just ask. So we took a few minutes to pray for God to show us some opportunities to serve others that day.
After church I went out to lunch, ran a couple of errands and then went home. When I returned home I walked in and set my things down. I noticed that something in the house smelled very strange, but I couldn't quite peg what the odor was or where it was coming from.
**Please be warned that this is the point in the story where things get a little gruesome. The following few paragraphs are not for pansies.**
I walked into the kitchen and noticed, there on my roommate's living room carpet, the hugest, most disgusting pile of dog poo I had ever seen.
Now you have to know, my roommate Katie has this sweet elderly dog named Speck. To my knowledge, Speck has never gone #2 in the house. He has rarely done #1 and then only in mocking defiance toward Katie when she was doing something he didn't like…such as leaving. And you also must understand the layout of our house. Katie's (carpeted) living room is right next to our hardwood floor kitchen. Speck missed the hardwood by approximately 1 ½ inches and decided to relieve himself on the carpet instead. I suppose it was cushier on his paws or something.
Upon seeing the pile of poo, I thought to myself, "OH. Wow it sucks to be Katie. I wonder when she'll get home from church so she can clean that up."
No sooner had I turned to walk out of the room, when I heard a little voice, "Nicole. Remember what you heard in church this morning?"
"umm. No."
"Really? Do you remember what you prayed about?"
"sorry. I got nothing."
"Jamie talked about serving others and you prayed for God to give you the opportunity to serve someone today."
"What's that? I can't hear you. You're mumbling a little bit."
And with that I chose to ignore the prompting I was receiving and go to check my email. As I was sitting on my couch, realizing that I had no email, the Holy Spirit's sudden silence was loud enough for me to realize what I needed to do. God will never force us to do something we don't want to do. But He will most assuredly let us know what He wants us to do.
I walked into the kitchen…looked at the pile of poo….looked at Speck who was lying nonchalantly on the floor, pretending he didn't know how it had gotten there….looked back at the pile of poo….looked at the ceiling, and decided to go upstairs to look for some carpet cleaner. I didn't find any. I walked back to the kitchen and again looked at Speck's masterpiece, then I said to God, "Are you sure? There's not something else I could do to serve someone today?"
"Go look in the basement for the carpet cleaner" was the only response I got. As I re-entered the kitchen, carpet cleaner in hand, I again looked at the poo.
Now, you need to understand exactly why this was so difficult for me. And in order for you to really grasp this image in your mind, I'm going to have to get a little graphic. So strap yourself in. Here we go.
This was not just your run-of-the-mill, piece of dog poo you see on the sidewalk sometimes. This was a pile of runny, gooey, sloppy dense doggie diarrhea with subsequent diarrhea droplets making a trail almost to the kitchen but falling just short. It smelled of hot dogs…or maybe that was someone grilling outside. I'm not sure and I didn't really try to find out the answer to that question, for fear of making myself vomit or forever turning myself off to hotdogs…I like hot dogs. I would swear there was steam coming off of the pile if I didn't know that kind of thing only happened in the cartoons.
Again, I glanced at the ceiling, smirked and said, "That's funny, God." Then I hunkered down and began cleaning…Speck watching me the whole time…trying to give the appearance of innocence, as if I didn't know he was the culprit.
***Now, back to what I was saying earlier. Donald Miller contends that God is a mystery. He cannot be fully known by humans who have such finite minds. And while I agree that God is so much beyond our normal comprehension (insert those big Bible college words here again)…I disagree that God is a mystery.
A mystery is something that is unknown or unexplained. Something that can't be figured out.
I would say that God is mysterious, but he is not a mystery.
By this I mean that there are some mysterious aspects to God. We cannot always predict what He will do next, or how he will lead us in a certain situation.
But God, in His Sovereignty, allows us to know Him. He is bigger than our minds. He is transcendent over all of creation. But he is also imminent (deeply and passionately involved in the world, in our lives, in our hearts). There's another Bible college term for you. God is so powerful, so all-knowing, so beyond us…that He allows our finite, fallen minds to know Him personally. To walk with Him daily. To talk to Him whenever we want to. We often use the phrase, "I don't know. It's a mystery to me," when we're describing something that we can't explain. But I don't think this applies to God at all. I think God intervenes in our lives and moves so that He grabs our attention and we take hold of Him and allow Him to reveal Himself to us.
No, we cannot completely figure God out. We don't know how He will move, or where He will lead us. But we do know Him, as a person and as our Savior. He is not a mystery. He is someone I know intimately.God works in mysterious ways. I don't know why he wanted me to clean up dog crap rather than help an old woman to the car with her groceries that day. But it was no mystery to me that cleaning up the poo was exactly how He wanted me to serve in that moment.
May you find yourself surrounded with opportunities to serve others today…and may you constantly be perplexed by the mysterious things God does in your life every day. But may you always know that He loves you intimately and deeply, and that He will not keep Himself a mystery to those who seek after Him.
Currently listening : Queen - Greatest Hits, Vols. 1 &2 By Queen Release date: 14 November, 1995
Monday, January 8, 2007
Pride & Prejudice...and Passion
January 8, 2007 - Monday
Current mood: impressed
She walks out into a foggy meadow at daybreak after a sleepless, troublesome night. As she is left alone with her thoughts, she gazes into the distance to see a mysterious, shadowy figure slowly and confidently approaching. The music swells as he comes into view. He walks straight for her, carrying the sunrise on his shoulders, his soft brown hair bouncing with each step.She peers into the fog wondering if this is a dream.
He is wearing the type of shirt one might expect from Fabio or some other man on the cover of a romance novel. It is made from white cotton with a V-neck, showing just enough chest hair to keep you interested. As he finally reaches her, the sun begins to bounce off of her wavy brown locks and he says, "You must know. Surely, you must know it was all for you. You are too generous to trifle with me. I believe you spoke with my aunt last night and it has taught me to hope...as I had scarcely allowed myself before.
If your feelings are still what they were last April, tell me so at once. My affections and wishes have not changed, but one word from you will silence me forever. If, however, your feelings have changed, I would have to tell you, you have bewitched me, body and soul. And I love, I love...I love you. I never wish to be parted from you from this day on."
She tenderly steps toward him and grasps his hand in both of hers."Well then," she softly kisses his hand. It is the kind of kiss in which the lips barely graze the skin, yet the deepest, truest love is conveyed through the brief contact they make with his knuckles."Your hands are cold," she says.
The music swells even more and the sound of birds chirping in the morning sky fills the air. As they continue to stare into one another's eyes, the blazing orange sun can now be seen between their two faces. Rather than sharing in a long, passionate kiss, they simply place their foreheads together, close their eyes and enjoy this moment, for it is all they need to know they will be together forever.
On any ordinary day, cheesey, obnoxiously romantic dialog and a horrendously cliche setting such as this would cause my body to go into involuntary and violent convulsions followed by a severe and painful round of dry heaves.
But last night Pride & Prejudice revealed something to me that I had never seen before...or maybe I had seen it, but chosen to ignore it. Either way, I feel as though I have been awakened to a new thought.
Darcy and Elizabeth Bennett did not have a storybook romance. They struggled. They hated one another. They were terribly embarrassed around each other. They misunderstood. They were stubborn.
Prior to this scene, every encounter between the two of them had been filled with an awkward interaction. They stumbled over their words. They yelled at one another. They were disgusted with each other, yet they were alike in every way.
If I hadn't known the story before watching this film, I never would have thought the two of them would end up together. They (okay, bear with me because this is going to sound overly simplified and probably rather corny) were too prideful and too prejudiced to be able to see the potential for what would come.
Even in their rocky beginning one thing can be said about the tumultuous relationship between these two: they were passionate.
Every encounter between Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth throughout the story is filled with passion, whether it is passionate fury, passionate disgust, passionate humor, passionate embarrasment, and eventually, passionate affection...passion was not something either of them was lacking for in terms of personality. Even their awkward encounters were filled with a strange sort of fervor and longing.
Watching this movie, yet again, has opened my eyes. Love is meant to be passionate.
Passionately patient, passionately kind, passionately humble, passionately selfless, passionately pleasant, passionately forgiving, passionately truthful, passionately protecting, passionately trusting, passionately hopeful, and passionately persevering.Love is not something to be taken lightly.
Love is an expression, an emotion, an action God provided us to express, emote, and act out with fervor. There is no room in love for half-heartedness. The proverbial "old college try" simply won't do. Love is something that requires all of our energy, all of our attention, all of our dilligence. Why do we throw the word "love" around so carlessly? I love hot dogs? I love Starbucks? I am the guiltiest one of all. I have oft been caught telling friends that I am madly in love with whomever happens to be my flavor of the week on television or in music or...whatever.
No wonder we go about love with lax and whimsical attitudes...we have over-used it, over-hyped it, over glamourized it, even over-romanticized it.
True, honest, passionate love requires the lover to be completely willing to dive into the grit and grime of human relationships. It begs for compassion and mercy when betrayal wins the battle over virtue. Passionate love demands a passionate forgiveness when we can't see ourselves as our lover does, and we lack the confidence to fully engage ourselves in that love relationship. Passionate love asks us to passionately confront our lover with the problems that need to be addressed, for passionate love knows that the passive-aggressive way of dealing with things leads to nothing but bitterness and resentment.
Passionate love makes us commit to strongly and deeply loving that person, even when we don't feel like it. It causes us to want to work through the dirt and the filth and the pain we bring each other and resurface stronger and more in love than ever before.
Does this longing for passion in any way negate my previous anti-romance rants-disguised-as-blogs? Not at all. I still don't want to fall whimsically, hopelessly, desperately and helplessly in love. I still don't want a man to come in and fix all of my problems and make me a whole person. I still don't think it's unbiblilcal for me to be a single woman who is waiting for God to bring someone to me. But when love does happen, I want it to be a passionate, real, authentic, gritty love.
I've never been married before. I don't have a boyfriend. I don't even have a date...so I could be all wrong about this whole love thing. Please, correct me and instruct me in the ways of love if you want to...I've got a lot to learn.And, okay, if I'm going to be terribly honest, that final scene in Pride & Prejudice, as much as I love that film, does leave me feeling a bit nauseated...just a little.
Current mood: impressed
She walks out into a foggy meadow at daybreak after a sleepless, troublesome night. As she is left alone with her thoughts, she gazes into the distance to see a mysterious, shadowy figure slowly and confidently approaching. The music swells as he comes into view. He walks straight for her, carrying the sunrise on his shoulders, his soft brown hair bouncing with each step.She peers into the fog wondering if this is a dream.
He is wearing the type of shirt one might expect from Fabio or some other man on the cover of a romance novel. It is made from white cotton with a V-neck, showing just enough chest hair to keep you interested. As he finally reaches her, the sun begins to bounce off of her wavy brown locks and he says, "You must know. Surely, you must know it was all for you. You are too generous to trifle with me. I believe you spoke with my aunt last night and it has taught me to hope...as I had scarcely allowed myself before.
If your feelings are still what they were last April, tell me so at once. My affections and wishes have not changed, but one word from you will silence me forever. If, however, your feelings have changed, I would have to tell you, you have bewitched me, body and soul. And I love, I love...I love you. I never wish to be parted from you from this day on."
She tenderly steps toward him and grasps his hand in both of hers."Well then," she softly kisses his hand. It is the kind of kiss in which the lips barely graze the skin, yet the deepest, truest love is conveyed through the brief contact they make with his knuckles."Your hands are cold," she says.
The music swells even more and the sound of birds chirping in the morning sky fills the air. As they continue to stare into one another's eyes, the blazing orange sun can now be seen between their two faces. Rather than sharing in a long, passionate kiss, they simply place their foreheads together, close their eyes and enjoy this moment, for it is all they need to know they will be together forever.
On any ordinary day, cheesey, obnoxiously romantic dialog and a horrendously cliche setting such as this would cause my body to go into involuntary and violent convulsions followed by a severe and painful round of dry heaves.
But last night Pride & Prejudice revealed something to me that I had never seen before...or maybe I had seen it, but chosen to ignore it. Either way, I feel as though I have been awakened to a new thought.
Darcy and Elizabeth Bennett did not have a storybook romance. They struggled. They hated one another. They were terribly embarrassed around each other. They misunderstood. They were stubborn.
Prior to this scene, every encounter between the two of them had been filled with an awkward interaction. They stumbled over their words. They yelled at one another. They were disgusted with each other, yet they were alike in every way.
If I hadn't known the story before watching this film, I never would have thought the two of them would end up together. They (okay, bear with me because this is going to sound overly simplified and probably rather corny) were too prideful and too prejudiced to be able to see the potential for what would come.
Even in their rocky beginning one thing can be said about the tumultuous relationship between these two: they were passionate.
Every encounter between Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth throughout the story is filled with passion, whether it is passionate fury, passionate disgust, passionate humor, passionate embarrasment, and eventually, passionate affection...passion was not something either of them was lacking for in terms of personality. Even their awkward encounters were filled with a strange sort of fervor and longing.
Watching this movie, yet again, has opened my eyes. Love is meant to be passionate.
Passionately patient, passionately kind, passionately humble, passionately selfless, passionately pleasant, passionately forgiving, passionately truthful, passionately protecting, passionately trusting, passionately hopeful, and passionately persevering.Love is not something to be taken lightly.
Love is an expression, an emotion, an action God provided us to express, emote, and act out with fervor. There is no room in love for half-heartedness. The proverbial "old college try" simply won't do. Love is something that requires all of our energy, all of our attention, all of our dilligence. Why do we throw the word "love" around so carlessly? I love hot dogs? I love Starbucks? I am the guiltiest one of all. I have oft been caught telling friends that I am madly in love with whomever happens to be my flavor of the week on television or in music or...whatever.
No wonder we go about love with lax and whimsical attitudes...we have over-used it, over-hyped it, over glamourized it, even over-romanticized it.
True, honest, passionate love requires the lover to be completely willing to dive into the grit and grime of human relationships. It begs for compassion and mercy when betrayal wins the battle over virtue. Passionate love demands a passionate forgiveness when we can't see ourselves as our lover does, and we lack the confidence to fully engage ourselves in that love relationship. Passionate love asks us to passionately confront our lover with the problems that need to be addressed, for passionate love knows that the passive-aggressive way of dealing with things leads to nothing but bitterness and resentment.
Passionate love makes us commit to strongly and deeply loving that person, even when we don't feel like it. It causes us to want to work through the dirt and the filth and the pain we bring each other and resurface stronger and more in love than ever before.
Does this longing for passion in any way negate my previous anti-romance rants-disguised-as-blogs? Not at all. I still don't want to fall whimsically, hopelessly, desperately and helplessly in love. I still don't want a man to come in and fix all of my problems and make me a whole person. I still don't think it's unbiblilcal for me to be a single woman who is waiting for God to bring someone to me. But when love does happen, I want it to be a passionate, real, authentic, gritty love.
I've never been married before. I don't have a boyfriend. I don't even have a date...so I could be all wrong about this whole love thing. Please, correct me and instruct me in the ways of love if you want to...I've got a lot to learn.And, okay, if I'm going to be terribly honest, that final scene in Pride & Prejudice, as much as I love that film, does leave me feeling a bit nauseated...just a little.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)