February 20, 2008 - Wednesday
Current mood: morose
Today I find myself in mourning. I could barely muster the strength to pull myself out of my grief this morning and get out of bed. Begrudgingly, I brushed my teeth, put on a sweatshirt and jeans and gathered my hair into a messy ponytail. In my state of desperation, the bright sun seems dark. The music I am listening to seems like sheer noise. And the cold winter air seems to sting my body as I jaunt out into a world that knows not the pain infiltrating my soul. It's cruel that the world can continue on, oblivious to the tragedy in my heart.
My favorite pants have died.
These were not any old pair of dress slacks. They were not designer jeans. They were not the epitome of fashion and style. My favorite pants were my men's flannel Santa Claus print pajama bottoms from Old Navy.
My sister gave me these pants as a Christmas gift a long time ago. My mind is in such a state of shock right now, that I can't remember exactly when she gave them to me...but I know it was sometime when I was in college.
These pants were very large. There were many times I would be wearing them, and accidentally flash my underwear to the people around me because the pants wouldn't stay up.
They were red flannel, with vintage Santa Claus heads scattered about, spreading Christmas cheer and smiles to everyone who gazed upon them. They were too long and too big for me, but I loved them anyhow. They tied with a red flannel drawstring.
The pants offered me comfort, not only on my body, but in my heart. They were what made me feel at home after a long day. They were the security wrapped around me when I awoke shaken from a bad dream. They were the protection coating my legs if I spilled coffee on myself. They were my best friend.
One might tend to think that, given the holiday theme of these pants, they would lend themselves to only be worn during the Christmas season. But these pants transcended all seasons. They may have been covered in Santa Claus heads, but they were with me throughout every season of my life, bringing happiness and warmth through the good times and the bad.
They were with me through breakups, make ups, spills, cleanups, sickness, health, laughter, crying, anger, joy....these pants have been a sustaining force in my life since that fateful Christmas day when I carefully tore off the paper surrounding the box in which they were encased. As soon as I set eyes on them, I knew we would be lifelong friends.
But the other day, as I was putting the pants on, I noticed something was amiss. And I gasped in horror as I realized what it was. The fabric had worn and I had ripped a giant hole in the upper thigh of the pants!
I feel like I am partially to blame here. I should have known that the pants were getting on in years, and I should have taken into account that the fabric would be vulnerable and frail. But instead, I was so eager for my instant comfort, that I yanked the pants up and they ripped. I killed the pants in my zeal.
This is not how I had envisioned the end. I thought these pants would be with me forever. And if they weren't with me forever, I figured they would eventually be shipped off to Goodwill, so they could bring the same level of comfort and peace to someone else as they did for me. I thought perhaps I would travel to an exotic location and accidentally leave the pants behind, allowing them to live a new adventure with whomever happened to pick them up. I thought that maybe, just maybe, I would one day give the pants to my own daughter when her first boyfriend broke up with her...so that she could experience their healing power.
I never thought their life would be cut so short, and so abruptly. I am so ashamed of my inattentiveness and my lack of concern. But I know I have to somehow...some way, figure out how to move on without them.
My friends, I admonish you, please be with me during this difficult time. Sometimes I need a friend to tell me a joke and cheer me up; and other times all I need is someone to sit with my quietly as I reflect on these pants that were taken long before their time.
Let's all raise our glasses in loving memory of my Santa Claus pants...They will be missed, but forever celebrated in our hearts!
Showing posts with label life. Show all posts
Showing posts with label life. Show all posts
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Spiritual Implications from Bob Ross
February 19, 2008 - Tuesday
Current mood: artistic
I can't wait for spring. Winter has turned me into a TV junkie and...well....a lazy bum. When the weather finally climbs to 50 degrees or so, I will be ready to go outside and run with my arms in the air, screaming as loud as I can for the freedom brought by warmer weather. Of course, I don't run....and I don't remember ever screaming like that. But you know, this is figurative.
During my winter imprisonment, I often find myself flipping the channels, and for some unknown reason, I always stop on the Public Broadcasting Channel called simply "Create". This channel has many different shows ranging in topic from scrapbooking to quilting to making an entire Winter Wonderland themed party kit out of recycled chewing gum, toothpicks, and glitter. My normal routine is to stop on this station, watch for about 2 minutes or so, and then carry on with my channel flipping. One show, however, always captivates my attention for longer...The Joy of Painting with Bob Ross.
Current mood: artistic
I can't wait for spring. Winter has turned me into a TV junkie and...well....a lazy bum. When the weather finally climbs to 50 degrees or so, I will be ready to go outside and run with my arms in the air, screaming as loud as I can for the freedom brought by warmer weather. Of course, I don't run....and I don't remember ever screaming like that. But you know, this is figurative.
During my winter imprisonment, I often find myself flipping the channels, and for some unknown reason, I always stop on the Public Broadcasting Channel called simply "Create". This channel has many different shows ranging in topic from scrapbooking to quilting to making an entire Winter Wonderland themed party kit out of recycled chewing gum, toothpicks, and glitter. My normal routine is to stop on this station, watch for about 2 minutes or so, and then carry on with my channel flipping. One show, however, always captivates my attention for longer...The Joy of Painting with Bob Ross.
Bob Ross is my friend Kim's future late uncle-in-law. We all know Bob's mellow narration and penchant for happy trees. His calm demeanor and soothing voice have occasionally lulled me to sleep. However, when I have managed to stay awake, I have always encountered a slight problem.
I don't trust Bob.
I have seen his work before. I know that all of his paintings turn out great. I have never seen one I didn't like. Granted, they are not particularly the style I with which I would choose to decorate my home, but I can appreciate a work of art when I see one. Give him 25 minutes and Bob can transform a plain canvas into a majestic mountainscape, or a snowy winter scene. He has never failed in his work, and I have always stood amazed at the end of his show.
But every time I watch, I get worried. I think, "Oh, Bob, why did you put that big ugly streak of van dyke brown right down the middle of your painting?" or "Yeah, he's painting all that gray around the edges; it's going to look ugly now." or "How could he ruin all that beautiful water by adding those highlights?"
Now, I know nothing of painting. I've made a few modest attempts, but they have all turned out looking like, well...looking like I painted them.
Somehow, I still feel like I can criticize and scrutinize Bob Ross's paintings, while he is in the process of creating them. I think I can somehow know that Bob is going to ruin his beautiful work by adding this tree here or that highlight there.
But in the end, Bob's paintings always turn out looking spectacular and perfect, and I turn the channel with a renewed faith in Bob and his ability to see beyond my scope of knowledge.
Doesn't this sort of parallel our own lives?
Think of it this way, our lives are the canvas; God is Bob Ross; and we are...us.
How often do we watch our lives unfolding before us and wonder what in the world God is thinking? "God, how could you put that obstacle there, right in the middle of everything?" "Why would you choose to insert this thing into my life, when it was already looking so nice and perfect?" "Why did you smudge this section, I liked it the way it was?"
God has never failed us before. We have seen him create miracles and beauty and fix problems in the world and in the lives of others around us. Yet, in some strange way, we still think we know what's best...and we still think he needs our advice.
In the end, just like Bob Ross's paintings always turned out perfectly, we have to trust that God knows what he's doing with our lives. God is God, and we don't have the capacity to know where he's going next or what he's thinking. It may look like things in our life are getting ugly, or cluttered, or smudged. But we have to trust the Painter, for he has not created an ugly painting yet.
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
A Love Story that is Completely Fabricated and Appallingly Sarcastic, in Honor of St. Valentine
February 12, 2008 - Tuesday
Current mood: smitten
Ladies and Gentlemen, I am elated to inform you that I have fallen in love with a rock star. Well, I am not so much "in love", as I have a little crush, and he is not so much a rock star, as the lead singer for a dual-marketed Christian/mainstream light rock band.
Let's call him Buck Hartman. I enjoy his songs and his gruff voice melts me. Buck has long, blonde hair that may or may not be a little greasy. He occasionally wears a beard, and his clothing is typically relatively stylish (except that Don Johnson jacket I saw him wear once). I have never actually met Buck, or seen his face in good lighting, for that matter. But I imagine he smells nice and has a brooding stare. And, being that he and his band mates are from the southeastern part of these United States, I assume he probably uses words like y'all, brisket, sweet tea and ma'am. And he can probably call a woman "baby" without sounding like a creep.
On February 22, 2008, just ten short days from now, Buck and I will finally meet.
My friend Kim has probably been encouraging this crush a little too much, but I don't blame her. What follows has been copied and pasted from an actual email exchange between Kim and me, regarding mine and Buck's potential love story that will begin to unfold on this upcoming Friday evening:
What preceded this email is of no consequence…
Kim: Good job Nic!! That's awesome. Just don't become a floosie. Buck Hartman wouldn't like that ; )
Nicole: Oh yeah, I forgot that I'm going to put all my eggs into the proverbial basket of Buck Hartman. I'm positive that I will meet him and he will instantaneously fall madly and desperately in love with me because in my single word "hello", I will somehow have captivated him more than all the other girls who have been in his life or attended his concerts before...yes, even Haley. Because I am just that magnetic.
Based on my one word, "hello", he will grab me around my waist, pull me into him, and kiss me more passionately than anyone has ever kissed another person before in the history of the world. He will invite me (and my friends, of course), to dinner with them after the show. We will go to IHOP. We will feed each other bites of pancake. We will share a joint orange juice with two straws and both marvel at the horrible taste of the orange juice mixed with the sweetness of the syrup for our pancakes. We will rub our noses together and feel that spark once again.
We will exchange phone numbers and he, because of his unlimited wealth as the front man of a lesser-known dirty rock band, will fly me to every one of their concerts for the remainder of this tour. After the tour, he will spend his weekends in Decatur, wining and dining me to my capacity of wining and dining (minus the wine part, of course).
Then, sometime in July he will ask for my hand, and I will oblige. We will marry exactly one year from now, and ride off into the sunset on a black, diamond-studded horse...because that is just the rocker way.
And so will go the love story of Buck and me. Once February 23 rolls around, if you don't hear from me for awhile, this is why. By February 23, you see, Buck will have so captured my heart that I will have little room for any other social interaction because by day I will be traveling the world with him on his tour, and by night, I will be dreaming of the next day when I will again see my Buck. Please forgive me if I don't return phone calls or emails, but I will simply be too preoccupied with my new love to respond to you. However, you can be expecting a wedding invitation sometime in late December of this year, or early January of 2009.
Kim: Gosh...I love you. You are so hilarious! Do you really want a husband named Buck?
Nicole: yeah...if he plays me songs on his guitar, I'll take a husband named poop!
Currently listening : The Heat By Needtobreathe Release date: 28 August, 2007
Current mood: smitten
Ladies and Gentlemen, I am elated to inform you that I have fallen in love with a rock star. Well, I am not so much "in love", as I have a little crush, and he is not so much a rock star, as the lead singer for a dual-marketed Christian/mainstream light rock band.
Let's call him Buck Hartman. I enjoy his songs and his gruff voice melts me. Buck has long, blonde hair that may or may not be a little greasy. He occasionally wears a beard, and his clothing is typically relatively stylish (except that Don Johnson jacket I saw him wear once). I have never actually met Buck, or seen his face in good lighting, for that matter. But I imagine he smells nice and has a brooding stare. And, being that he and his band mates are from the southeastern part of these United States, I assume he probably uses words like y'all, brisket, sweet tea and ma'am. And he can probably call a woman "baby" without sounding like a creep.
On February 22, 2008, just ten short days from now, Buck and I will finally meet.
My friend Kim has probably been encouraging this crush a little too much, but I don't blame her. What follows has been copied and pasted from an actual email exchange between Kim and me, regarding mine and Buck's potential love story that will begin to unfold on this upcoming Friday evening:
What preceded this email is of no consequence…
Kim: Good job Nic!! That's awesome. Just don't become a floosie. Buck Hartman wouldn't like that ; )
Nicole: Oh yeah, I forgot that I'm going to put all my eggs into the proverbial basket of Buck Hartman. I'm positive that I will meet him and he will instantaneously fall madly and desperately in love with me because in my single word "hello", I will somehow have captivated him more than all the other girls who have been in his life or attended his concerts before...yes, even Haley. Because I am just that magnetic.
Based on my one word, "hello", he will grab me around my waist, pull me into him, and kiss me more passionately than anyone has ever kissed another person before in the history of the world. He will invite me (and my friends, of course), to dinner with them after the show. We will go to IHOP. We will feed each other bites of pancake. We will share a joint orange juice with two straws and both marvel at the horrible taste of the orange juice mixed with the sweetness of the syrup for our pancakes. We will rub our noses together and feel that spark once again.
We will exchange phone numbers and he, because of his unlimited wealth as the front man of a lesser-known dirty rock band, will fly me to every one of their concerts for the remainder of this tour. After the tour, he will spend his weekends in Decatur, wining and dining me to my capacity of wining and dining (minus the wine part, of course).
Then, sometime in July he will ask for my hand, and I will oblige. We will marry exactly one year from now, and ride off into the sunset on a black, diamond-studded horse...because that is just the rocker way.
And so will go the love story of Buck and me. Once February 23 rolls around, if you don't hear from me for awhile, this is why. By February 23, you see, Buck will have so captured my heart that I will have little room for any other social interaction because by day I will be traveling the world with him on his tour, and by night, I will be dreaming of the next day when I will again see my Buck. Please forgive me if I don't return phone calls or emails, but I will simply be too preoccupied with my new love to respond to you. However, you can be expecting a wedding invitation sometime in late December of this year, or early January of 2009.
Kim: Gosh...I love you. You are so hilarious! Do you really want a husband named Buck?
Nicole: yeah...if he plays me songs on his guitar, I'll take a husband named poop!
Currently listening : The Heat By Needtobreathe Release date: 28 August, 2007
Friday, February 1, 2008
High Heels, A Foot of Snow, and My Hero
February 1, 2008 - Friday
Current mood: adventurous
Last winter I lived in the South. Winter weather is handled very differently there than it is here, and I must say that while I thought I was a tough Illinois chick, the snow nearly got the best of me this morning. I missed the snow last year, and I have been longing for a nice snowstorm since I returned to Illinois. Mr. Snow, however, picked the worst possible weekend to try to win me back.
I have been planning to travel back to Nashville to visit for the first time since I moved back to Illinois. The most convenient time for my friends and me happened to be this very weekend. I searched the Internet time and again for the perfect deal on a hotel, and finally came across something that couldn't be beat. A deluxe King Suite in beautiful Brentwood, TN, in a luxury hotel. The catch? It was a non-refundable reservation.
As I watched the weathermen this week, discussing the inevitable snowstorm that was quickly approaching, I resolved to stay positive. "I'm GOING to Nashville," I thought, "And a little bit of snow is NOT going to stop me." And so in mocking defiance, I glared up at the sky and told the snow to bring it.
Last night as I watched the snow falling down, piling itself on my driveway, I maintained my stance. I would not let this snow hinder my weekend plans.
Even this morning, when I glanced out the window to see that our back steps were not visible and my car was buried, I did not lose heart. I just put on my high heel, knee-high boots, my houndstooth print winter coat, my matching scarf and hat and my gloves, and headed outside to show this snow who was boss. You may wonder why I chose to employ the use of my high heeled boots for this experience...well, these boots are the only ones I have that came up far enough on my leg to where snow would not be able to get in. I do own a pair of snow boots (my sister calls them Spice Girl boots because they are all white and maybe a little trampy), but they only come up to about mid-calf, and I was not in the mood to have frostbite on my feet this morning.
So I walked outside in my fashion-forward yet ever-so-practical winter gear, and began brushing off my car. After I had brushed my car, I decided it would be nice for me to shovel a path from the back door of our house, to my sister's car door. I think it was less about me being nice to my sister, and more about me proving that the snow would not bring me down.
By this time, I had already been outside for about half an hour, but I was not cold. As a matter of fact, I was sweating and gross. And my back hurt. I went inside and called my dad, who told me it would be okay for me to just drive through the snow on the driveway, rather than shoveling the whole thing. So I tried it. I made it all the way up to the front of the driveway and got stuck. My car absolutely would not budge. The snow plows had baracaded me in my driveway.
And now I was angry. This snow would NOT have the victory over me and my trip to Nashville today. And so I stomped back up to the house, grabbed my ergonomic shovel, and stomped right back to my car, where I began shoveling. I shoveled like you have never seen before. Snow was flying everywhere. I was grunting with the force of every heavy shovel full of snow I hoisted into the air. After about twenty minutes of this hard work, I was about halfway finished. People had been driving by and staring at me, I think a few even pointed and laughed. It's not every day you see a woman at the front of her driveway in high heels, shoveling snow.
I was almost to my breaking point when I saw him. He was off in the distance and headed straight for me. My hero was on his way. This knight in shining armor did not ride up on a valiant steed, but instead, he was driving a CAT bulldozer. My hero was not clad in a suit of armor, but rather a flannel shirt, jeans and a ball cap. And as he drew near, his smile made me know everything would be better soon. I began to walk backwards to get out of his way and bumped right into my car, nearly falling face first into the snow surrounding my vehicle. The Bridget Jones in me had to rear her ugly head at some point in this romantic fairy tale, I suppose.
I regained my composer as I watched my Superman pull into the driveway once to gather the snow, and then as he repeated again. Had he rolled down his window and asked me to marry him, I would have been in that bulldozer in two seconds. But instead, he didn't say a word. He just nodded, smiled, tipped his ballcap to me, and drove off into the distance leaving only his memory behind.
I felt like Lois Lane....or a princess. And as I prepare to leave for Nashville today, I will once again scoff at the snow and remember my brave champion who so perfectly rescued me from my distress this morning.
Currently listening : The Heat By Needtobreathe Release date: 28 August, 2007
Current mood: adventurous
Last winter I lived in the South. Winter weather is handled very differently there than it is here, and I must say that while I thought I was a tough Illinois chick, the snow nearly got the best of me this morning. I missed the snow last year, and I have been longing for a nice snowstorm since I returned to Illinois. Mr. Snow, however, picked the worst possible weekend to try to win me back.
I have been planning to travel back to Nashville to visit for the first time since I moved back to Illinois. The most convenient time for my friends and me happened to be this very weekend. I searched the Internet time and again for the perfect deal on a hotel, and finally came across something that couldn't be beat. A deluxe King Suite in beautiful Brentwood, TN, in a luxury hotel. The catch? It was a non-refundable reservation.
As I watched the weathermen this week, discussing the inevitable snowstorm that was quickly approaching, I resolved to stay positive. "I'm GOING to Nashville," I thought, "And a little bit of snow is NOT going to stop me." And so in mocking defiance, I glared up at the sky and told the snow to bring it.
Last night as I watched the snow falling down, piling itself on my driveway, I maintained my stance. I would not let this snow hinder my weekend plans.
Even this morning, when I glanced out the window to see that our back steps were not visible and my car was buried, I did not lose heart. I just put on my high heel, knee-high boots, my houndstooth print winter coat, my matching scarf and hat and my gloves, and headed outside to show this snow who was boss. You may wonder why I chose to employ the use of my high heeled boots for this experience...well, these boots are the only ones I have that came up far enough on my leg to where snow would not be able to get in. I do own a pair of snow boots (my sister calls them Spice Girl boots because they are all white and maybe a little trampy), but they only come up to about mid-calf, and I was not in the mood to have frostbite on my feet this morning.
So I walked outside in my fashion-forward yet ever-so-practical winter gear, and began brushing off my car. After I had brushed my car, I decided it would be nice for me to shovel a path from the back door of our house, to my sister's car door. I think it was less about me being nice to my sister, and more about me proving that the snow would not bring me down.
By this time, I had already been outside for about half an hour, but I was not cold. As a matter of fact, I was sweating and gross. And my back hurt. I went inside and called my dad, who told me it would be okay for me to just drive through the snow on the driveway, rather than shoveling the whole thing. So I tried it. I made it all the way up to the front of the driveway and got stuck. My car absolutely would not budge. The snow plows had baracaded me in my driveway.
And now I was angry. This snow would NOT have the victory over me and my trip to Nashville today. And so I stomped back up to the house, grabbed my ergonomic shovel, and stomped right back to my car, where I began shoveling. I shoveled like you have never seen before. Snow was flying everywhere. I was grunting with the force of every heavy shovel full of snow I hoisted into the air. After about twenty minutes of this hard work, I was about halfway finished. People had been driving by and staring at me, I think a few even pointed and laughed. It's not every day you see a woman at the front of her driveway in high heels, shoveling snow.
I was almost to my breaking point when I saw him. He was off in the distance and headed straight for me. My hero was on his way. This knight in shining armor did not ride up on a valiant steed, but instead, he was driving a CAT bulldozer. My hero was not clad in a suit of armor, but rather a flannel shirt, jeans and a ball cap. And as he drew near, his smile made me know everything would be better soon. I began to walk backwards to get out of his way and bumped right into my car, nearly falling face first into the snow surrounding my vehicle. The Bridget Jones in me had to rear her ugly head at some point in this romantic fairy tale, I suppose.
I regained my composer as I watched my Superman pull into the driveway once to gather the snow, and then as he repeated again. Had he rolled down his window and asked me to marry him, I would have been in that bulldozer in two seconds. But instead, he didn't say a word. He just nodded, smiled, tipped his ballcap to me, and drove off into the distance leaving only his memory behind.
I felt like Lois Lane....or a princess. And as I prepare to leave for Nashville today, I will once again scoff at the snow and remember my brave champion who so perfectly rescued me from my distress this morning.
Currently listening : The Heat By Needtobreathe Release date: 28 August, 2007
Thursday, December 20, 2007
Feline Defecation
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
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
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
Monday, October 16, 2006
Archives: Confessions and Revelations
October 16, 2006 - Monday
Current mood: curious
Confession breeds Revelation.Or is it the other way around?
Confession: Although I am morally opposed to whiny punk bands (see my profile page), I like...nay...love the new Hawk Nelson single. It's called The Show, and it's a really good song. I first confessed this when I caught myself reaching for the volume button as this song came on and, instead of turning it down to a sub-audible level, I cranked it up and sang along. I was horrified.
Revelation: Perhaps punk music does have something to offer those of us who have reached our post-pubescent years.
Confession: I have pre-judged punk and punk-kind.
Confession: Despite my jesting toward certain friends and family members who watched the show last season, I have begun watching Deal or No Deal...regularly.
Revelation: While I still refer to the Deal or No Deal Girls as "The Hussies", the show has actually proved a fun and entertaining way to fill an hour.
Confession: I must now admit that Howie Mandel is not the creepy, old bald man I once presumed him to be. I will NOT, however, adhere to the idea of someone close to me that Howie is sexy (KIM).
Confession: Nashville hasn't been the amazing land of opportunity I thought it would be. I can't seem to meet the people I need to meet in order to get the job I want to get.
Revelation: There isn't a Road to Perfect in this life. Whether I am in Decatur or Nashville or Canada, life will always ben far from perfect. I will not be satisfied until I am finally where I was created to be...in the eternal presence of the Father.
Confession: I need to stop searching for fulfillment and happiness and continue pursuing God. He has promised that if I do seek Him, everything else will fall into place.
Confession: I have just committed the ultimate follicle sin: I chopped my own hair.
Revelation: I won't know until tomorrow morning for sure, but I think I did alright. I first received this revelation when I got a haircut from a spiky mullet-wearing man at Wal-Mart (see my blog about Rod Stewart), but needed a friendly reminder.
Confession: I am not the kind of woman who requires a $75 haircut every 4-6 weeks...even though I am going for punk-glam, right Keeks?
Confession: I have been holding a grudge with an authority figure ever since I got to Nashville. I labeled this person as distracted, arrogant, lazy and inconsiderate.
Revelation: I just found out last week that this person is battling cancer, and is dealing with all of the emotional issues brought on by a sudden and unexpected illness.
Confession: Maybe I need to take a better look at myself before I begin pointing the finger at someone else.
Confession: I miss my friends and family more than I ever thought possible.
Revelation: Did I bring myself to Nashville only to discover that matters of career and ambition bare little significance in the absence of loved ones? Maybe absence really does make the heart grow fonder. Maybe my job is unimportant as long as I can be surrounded by loved ones.
Confession: The relationships I thought had grown stale and old are the ones I have clung to the most when everything else around me is foreign.
Confession: I love McDonald's Monopoly!
Revelation: I know the food is horrible for me, and I know that my chances of winning anything other than more food are slim, but I have some kind of strange addiction.
Confession: I think it's just an issue of collecting those little game pieces and attaching them to that little board. But then in January, you look at your board and count......73 times I have eaten McDonald's since October??!!!?!?! That's disgusting!
Currently listening : Stereo: The Evolution of Hiprocksoul By 4th Avenue Jones Release date: 29 March, 2005
Current mood: curious
Confession breeds Revelation.Or is it the other way around?
Confession: Although I am morally opposed to whiny punk bands (see my profile page), I like...nay...love the new Hawk Nelson single. It's called The Show, and it's a really good song. I first confessed this when I caught myself reaching for the volume button as this song came on and, instead of turning it down to a sub-audible level, I cranked it up and sang along. I was horrified.
Revelation: Perhaps punk music does have something to offer those of us who have reached our post-pubescent years.
Confession: I have pre-judged punk and punk-kind.
Confession: Despite my jesting toward certain friends and family members who watched the show last season, I have begun watching Deal or No Deal...regularly.
Revelation: While I still refer to the Deal or No Deal Girls as "The Hussies", the show has actually proved a fun and entertaining way to fill an hour.
Confession: I must now admit that Howie Mandel is not the creepy, old bald man I once presumed him to be. I will NOT, however, adhere to the idea of someone close to me that Howie is sexy (KIM).
Confession: Nashville hasn't been the amazing land of opportunity I thought it would be. I can't seem to meet the people I need to meet in order to get the job I want to get.
Revelation: There isn't a Road to Perfect in this life. Whether I am in Decatur or Nashville or Canada, life will always ben far from perfect. I will not be satisfied until I am finally where I was created to be...in the eternal presence of the Father.
Confession: I need to stop searching for fulfillment and happiness and continue pursuing God. He has promised that if I do seek Him, everything else will fall into place.
Confession: I have just committed the ultimate follicle sin: I chopped my own hair.
Revelation: I won't know until tomorrow morning for sure, but I think I did alright. I first received this revelation when I got a haircut from a spiky mullet-wearing man at Wal-Mart (see my blog about Rod Stewart), but needed a friendly reminder.
Confession: I am not the kind of woman who requires a $75 haircut every 4-6 weeks...even though I am going for punk-glam, right Keeks?
Confession: I have been holding a grudge with an authority figure ever since I got to Nashville. I labeled this person as distracted, arrogant, lazy and inconsiderate.
Revelation: I just found out last week that this person is battling cancer, and is dealing with all of the emotional issues brought on by a sudden and unexpected illness.
Confession: Maybe I need to take a better look at myself before I begin pointing the finger at someone else.
Confession: I miss my friends and family more than I ever thought possible.
Revelation: Did I bring myself to Nashville only to discover that matters of career and ambition bare little significance in the absence of loved ones? Maybe absence really does make the heart grow fonder. Maybe my job is unimportant as long as I can be surrounded by loved ones.
Confession: The relationships I thought had grown stale and old are the ones I have clung to the most when everything else around me is foreign.
Confession: I love McDonald's Monopoly!
Revelation: I know the food is horrible for me, and I know that my chances of winning anything other than more food are slim, but I have some kind of strange addiction.
Confession: I think it's just an issue of collecting those little game pieces and attaching them to that little board. But then in January, you look at your board and count......73 times I have eaten McDonald's since October??!!!?!?! That's disgusting!
Currently listening : Stereo: The Evolution of Hiprocksoul By 4th Avenue Jones Release date: 29 March, 2005
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
Archives: An Interesting Hygiene Experience
September 26, 2006 - Tuesday
Current mood: numb
Last night I stayed at my friend Misti's house. No big deal. I had all my stuff (except I forgot my pillow, but she had an extra), I made sure I set my alarm with plenty of time for me to get up and get ready in the morning. I ate dinner before I went...I was just looking forward to spending a relaxing evening in front of the television with one of my best friends...just like college (and virutally every other evening of my life right now).
Around 9:30, I decided I wanted to go take a shower...Again, no big deal. I brought all the necessities to the bathroom with me, paying careful attention not to forget anything.
I have a horribly wasteful habit of running the water for a few minutes before actually getting in the shower...I like the water to be nice and hot before I jump in. So I started the shower and proceeded to do whatever it is that one does while waiting for the water to warm up.
All of a sudden, I noticed that the atmosphere in the bathroom felt very heavy. I looked up and I was engulfed in a cloud of steam. It was so oppressive that I found it difficult to breathe...strange, I know. The mirrors were long gone, covered with that opaque white fog. And even the shower curtains were completely clouded.
At this point, I decided that the water was probably too hot for a normal human's skin. And although I do enjoy being slightly scalded when stepping into a steaming shower, I figured second degree burns and a trip to emergency would present more of an inconvenience than anything.
I approached the shower, pulled the curtain back, and extended my arm toward the faucet in an attempt to turn the water cooler, but just as my fingers reached the knob, I was sprayed in the face with searing water...this shower was not turning out like I had anticipated...and I wasn't even in it yet.
As I continued to struggle with the faucet, I had moved out of the line of the spraying shower head, and while I was saving my face (literally), water was still spraying all over the bathroom, soaking the toilet seat, toilet cover, and the floor next to the tub. I continued trying to turn the knob, straining to keep my face out of the stray water stream. Were my hands really so wet that I couldn't grip the stupid faucet and turn the water down? After a couple more minutes of struggling, I determined that the problem must not be with my hands, but instead, with the faucet itself.
I turned the water completely off in order to assess the situation. After much careful observation, I realized that while the faucet looked like a normal everyday, turn-in-a-clockwise-fashion-to-make-it-hotter spicket, but instead, you were to push the entire knob to the right or left, depending on your desired temperature...weird, I know.
Three minutes later, the water was at an appropriate degree, much of the steam had cleared, and the shower was as satisfactory as any other shower. And then I noticed something intriguing. Hanging from the shower head was a large plastic container filled with a silverish-clear liquid. Its large blue button was right at eye level, staring me in the face, commanding my attention. "Hmm," I thought, "that must be one of those cool soap dispensers like they have in those junk mail catalogs." After about 15 seconds of deliberating, my curiosity got the better of me and I pushed the button. I placed my hand under what I thought was the nozzle of the soap dispenser.
Nothing happened.
The thought occurred to me that this may in fact not be the soap dispenser I thought it was, and I looked at the back of the container.
"Automatic Shower Cleaner"
Oh great.
And not five seconds after I read the label on the back, I was sprayed, in the mouth, on the face, and all over with shower cleanser.
So after the shower from hell, I proceeded to do my normal post-shower routine, and then mopped up the floor and toilet seat that were still soaked from the afore-mentioned stray stream of water spraying from the shower head.
The moral of the story: Even if you enjoy regular showers, and consider yourself rather an expert at the task, it's probably a good idea to ask the host the essential workings of the shower in a foreign-bathroom situation.
Currently listening : Good Monsters By Jars of Clay Release date: 05 September, 2006
Current mood: numb
Last night I stayed at my friend Misti's house. No big deal. I had all my stuff (except I forgot my pillow, but she had an extra), I made sure I set my alarm with plenty of time for me to get up and get ready in the morning. I ate dinner before I went...I was just looking forward to spending a relaxing evening in front of the television with one of my best friends...just like college (and virutally every other evening of my life right now).
Around 9:30, I decided I wanted to go take a shower...Again, no big deal. I brought all the necessities to the bathroom with me, paying careful attention not to forget anything.
I have a horribly wasteful habit of running the water for a few minutes before actually getting in the shower...I like the water to be nice and hot before I jump in. So I started the shower and proceeded to do whatever it is that one does while waiting for the water to warm up.
All of a sudden, I noticed that the atmosphere in the bathroom felt very heavy. I looked up and I was engulfed in a cloud of steam. It was so oppressive that I found it difficult to breathe...strange, I know. The mirrors were long gone, covered with that opaque white fog. And even the shower curtains were completely clouded.
At this point, I decided that the water was probably too hot for a normal human's skin. And although I do enjoy being slightly scalded when stepping into a steaming shower, I figured second degree burns and a trip to emergency would present more of an inconvenience than anything.
I approached the shower, pulled the curtain back, and extended my arm toward the faucet in an attempt to turn the water cooler, but just as my fingers reached the knob, I was sprayed in the face with searing water...this shower was not turning out like I had anticipated...and I wasn't even in it yet.
As I continued to struggle with the faucet, I had moved out of the line of the spraying shower head, and while I was saving my face (literally), water was still spraying all over the bathroom, soaking the toilet seat, toilet cover, and the floor next to the tub. I continued trying to turn the knob, straining to keep my face out of the stray water stream. Were my hands really so wet that I couldn't grip the stupid faucet and turn the water down? After a couple more minutes of struggling, I determined that the problem must not be with my hands, but instead, with the faucet itself.
I turned the water completely off in order to assess the situation. After much careful observation, I realized that while the faucet looked like a normal everyday, turn-in-a-clockwise-fashion-to-make-it-hotter spicket, but instead, you were to push the entire knob to the right or left, depending on your desired temperature...weird, I know.
Three minutes later, the water was at an appropriate degree, much of the steam had cleared, and the shower was as satisfactory as any other shower. And then I noticed something intriguing. Hanging from the shower head was a large plastic container filled with a silverish-clear liquid. Its large blue button was right at eye level, staring me in the face, commanding my attention. "Hmm," I thought, "that must be one of those cool soap dispensers like they have in those junk mail catalogs." After about 15 seconds of deliberating, my curiosity got the better of me and I pushed the button. I placed my hand under what I thought was the nozzle of the soap dispenser.
Nothing happened.
The thought occurred to me that this may in fact not be the soap dispenser I thought it was, and I looked at the back of the container.
"Automatic Shower Cleaner"
Oh great.
And not five seconds after I read the label on the back, I was sprayed, in the mouth, on the face, and all over with shower cleanser.
So after the shower from hell, I proceeded to do my normal post-shower routine, and then mopped up the floor and toilet seat that were still soaked from the afore-mentioned stray stream of water spraying from the shower head.
The moral of the story: Even if you enjoy regular showers, and consider yourself rather an expert at the task, it's probably a good idea to ask the host the essential workings of the shower in a foreign-bathroom situation.
Currently listening : Good Monsters By Jars of Clay Release date: 05 September, 2006
Friday, September 15, 2006
Archives: And to the Emo Boys in Girl Pants
September 15, 2006 - Friday
Current mood: amused
Dear Emo Boy:
Please allow me to begin by saying that I love you and your kind. Emo boys bring a new sense of pride in male emotion. Where other men are rugged and tough, emo boys are not afraid to display their feelings through music, eyeliner, clothing, etc.
You are a group of trend-setters. You create the pace for other men. They are just slightly behind you in terms of fashion and appearance. You have brought back the comb-over. Where once this hair style was thought of as a method for the elderly to hide (or attempt to hide) their bald spots, you have now turned this follicle masterpiece into a staple of Emo pride. I love how you begin approximately 4 inches above the left ear, create a part, and then swoop the hair across your head. The rest of male-kind is slowly following suit. But nobody can execute the comb-over quite like you.
As much as I adore you, Emo boys, I must take a moment to share one critique. A piece of advice regarding one very minute and insignificant detail of your appearance...
Why must you wear girl jeans?
I have yet to find a boy who actually appears more attractive while wearing pants designed for the female body. Why do you do this? You have to understand, your body is not created like a woman's body. Women have curves. Women have hips and extra padding in the gluteal area. Boys...especially you skinny emo boys...your lower halves are basically straight. Although you may be thin enough to fit into a women's jean size 0 or 2, you lack the curves for which they were designed. What ever happened to the days of wearing baggy carpenter jeans? Those would look great with your black T-shirts.
I'm just afraid that boys' bodies are not the type to be showcased by tight jeans. And it is particularly tragic when you choose stretch girl jeans as a piece of your ensemble. These jeans don't even look good on women...why would you think that hugging every curve (or lack thereof) of your body would be a good thing?
Emo boys, let the ladies love you for your sensitive hearts and your mysterious souls. Let us love you for your brilliant hair and amazing eyeliner technique. Allow us to delight in your music and your troubled minds. But please, don't try to make us love you for your tushies! Boy butts just aren't that great. I'm sorry to have to tell you like this. I wish there were some other way...but please, I implore you....please stop shopping in the women's section. I am begging.
Just find some 28 x 31 pants at American Eagle and let that be enough.
Any woman who would love you for your butt in tight girl jeans is no woman who needs to have you.
Sit on that for awhile...It's for your own good.
Remember I love you, Nicole
Currently listening : Albatross By The Classic Crime Release date: 23 May, 2006
Current mood: amused
Dear Emo Boy:
Please allow me to begin by saying that I love you and your kind. Emo boys bring a new sense of pride in male emotion. Where other men are rugged and tough, emo boys are not afraid to display their feelings through music, eyeliner, clothing, etc.
You are a group of trend-setters. You create the pace for other men. They are just slightly behind you in terms of fashion and appearance. You have brought back the comb-over. Where once this hair style was thought of as a method for the elderly to hide (or attempt to hide) their bald spots, you have now turned this follicle masterpiece into a staple of Emo pride. I love how you begin approximately 4 inches above the left ear, create a part, and then swoop the hair across your head. The rest of male-kind is slowly following suit. But nobody can execute the comb-over quite like you.
As much as I adore you, Emo boys, I must take a moment to share one critique. A piece of advice regarding one very minute and insignificant detail of your appearance...
Why must you wear girl jeans?
I have yet to find a boy who actually appears more attractive while wearing pants designed for the female body. Why do you do this? You have to understand, your body is not created like a woman's body. Women have curves. Women have hips and extra padding in the gluteal area. Boys...especially you skinny emo boys...your lower halves are basically straight. Although you may be thin enough to fit into a women's jean size 0 or 2, you lack the curves for which they were designed. What ever happened to the days of wearing baggy carpenter jeans? Those would look great with your black T-shirts.
I'm just afraid that boys' bodies are not the type to be showcased by tight jeans. And it is particularly tragic when you choose stretch girl jeans as a piece of your ensemble. These jeans don't even look good on women...why would you think that hugging every curve (or lack thereof) of your body would be a good thing?
Emo boys, let the ladies love you for your sensitive hearts and your mysterious souls. Let us love you for your brilliant hair and amazing eyeliner technique. Allow us to delight in your music and your troubled minds. But please, don't try to make us love you for your tushies! Boy butts just aren't that great. I'm sorry to have to tell you like this. I wish there were some other way...but please, I implore you....please stop shopping in the women's section. I am begging.
Just find some 28 x 31 pants at American Eagle and let that be enough.
Any woman who would love you for your butt in tight girl jeans is no woman who needs to have you.
Sit on that for awhile...It's for your own good.
Remember I love you, Nicole
Currently listening : Albatross By The Classic Crime Release date: 23 May, 2006
Friday, September 8, 2006
Archives: Ah...Home Crap Home (Literally)
September 8, 2006 - Friday
Current mood: contemplative
Tonight was my first trip home from Nashville. It has been four weeks since my presence has graced the town of my birth, my childhood, my teenage years, and my early twenties…the town I have affectionately coined "Dequator".
As I entered Illinois, I was instantly hit with a pleasant aroma. A combination of freshly cut farm grass, mixed with manure from a range of various livestock creatures. Where normally these smells would implicate a severe bought of sneezing and wheezing relieved only by taking a couple of puffs of the ever-sustaining life force known as a nebulizer, tonight I welcomed them with open arms. The smell of grass is the smell of life for me…and the smell of manure is the smell of home (well, not my house…but definitely home). This is probably a concept only those of us born and bred in the Midwest could possibly comprehend.
Where once I was simultaneously bored and utterly disgusted at the sight of farms and crops and silos and combines, I now welcomed these features. I gazed to my right: corn about two feet taller than me...and to my left: soybeans. And I thought, "Wow. This isn't so boring afterall. Thanks be to God for crop rotation, for only a quarter mile up the road, each crop had switched sides...the corn was now on the LEFT and the soybeans were on the RIGHT. How....exhilarating!
My drive home was filled with…what else but music. And as I drove the music lifted my emotions in a vast array of directions. I went from misty-eyed conviction to righteous indignation, to self-reflection, to outright laughter. The playlist went as follows:
-Kendall Payne – Grown
-Adam Watts – The Noise Inside
-Michael Olson – Long Arm of Love
-Hyperstatic Union - Lifegiver
- Jimmy Needham – Speak
- Disciple – Special Dual Disc featuring 4 new (incredible) songs
-Ginny Owens – Without Condition
-Day of Fire – Cut & Move
I am pleased to inform you all that I am now suffering from an extremely hoarse and cracky voice as a direct result of singing at the top of my lungs for 6 ½ hours straight.
The low point of my drive home tonight occurred around mile 224. I was under the impression during my trip and up to this point, that the trip from Nashville to the afore-mentioned Dequator, was approximately 300 miles. Much to my dismay, around mile 224, I remembered that the trip is actually about 397 miles…adding another hour and a half to my ETA. I was pretty bummed.
But not for long, because the high point of my trip occurred around mile 300 when I discovered a Starbucks in Effingham. Who knew a grande Chai Tea Latte could once again make everything okay.
As I finally approached Decatur, I was hit with that ever-memorable scent of our fine town. It is the reason for the town slogan, "Decatur, we like it here." It is our daily sustenance and the way we identify ourselves. The very corn and soybeans I had seen only a few miles before, were now being processed in the thriving community I had left only weeks before. I was shocked to find that everything was exactly the same as I had left it. I suppose I was expecting some sort of ghost town because the city could not possibly thrive without my presence here. But, alas, nobody waved or honked at me as I passed through Mt. Zion and onto Eldorado street. And they have even started some much-needed roadwork near my house. It's good they're still concerned with making this town a better place, even though I'm not here to keep everything rolling.
One final thought: During my six hour drive tonight, I had a lot of time to ponder life…and I came to this conclusion:
Courage = Skinny Jeans
And I'm sorry to say, my friends, that is one trend I am not brave enough to try. This fashion fad is one that is not flattering to anyone above 110 lbs. And for those under this weight, legs wind up looking like bird legs or stilts or twigs or…you get the point. Ladies, what ever happened to wearing loose clothing that ever-so-seductively brushed your curves as you passed by a non-suspecting, but soon to become slack-jawed man? What ever happened to leaving something to the imagination? There is NO, I repeat NO benefit to showing the world every bump and lump you have to offer…and yes, thin girls have bumps and lumps, too….and they're not cute. And for those of us who….how shall I say….are not lacking in the calf and cankle department….these jeans are a virtual impossibility. Ladies, I implore you, please stand with me, and rise against this trend. I WILL NOT SUCCOMB TO SOCIETY'S PRESSURE TO SQUEEZE MYSELF INTO A PAIR OF TAPER-LEG, HIGH WAISTED JEANS…I REFUSE TO ADOPT FASHION IDEAS THAT COULD EASILY BE TAKEN FROM MY AUNT LOIS'S GARAGE SALE. What's next? Front pleats? Ankle length? Tight rolling?
**And don't worry, gentleman, an editorial on "boys who wear girl jeans" is coming your way soon.
Current mood: contemplative
Tonight was my first trip home from Nashville. It has been four weeks since my presence has graced the town of my birth, my childhood, my teenage years, and my early twenties…the town I have affectionately coined "Dequator".
As I entered Illinois, I was instantly hit with a pleasant aroma. A combination of freshly cut farm grass, mixed with manure from a range of various livestock creatures. Where normally these smells would implicate a severe bought of sneezing and wheezing relieved only by taking a couple of puffs of the ever-sustaining life force known as a nebulizer, tonight I welcomed them with open arms. The smell of grass is the smell of life for me…and the smell of manure is the smell of home (well, not my house…but definitely home). This is probably a concept only those of us born and bred in the Midwest could possibly comprehend.
Where once I was simultaneously bored and utterly disgusted at the sight of farms and crops and silos and combines, I now welcomed these features. I gazed to my right: corn about two feet taller than me...and to my left: soybeans. And I thought, "Wow. This isn't so boring afterall. Thanks be to God for crop rotation, for only a quarter mile up the road, each crop had switched sides...the corn was now on the LEFT and the soybeans were on the RIGHT. How....exhilarating!
My drive home was filled with…what else but music. And as I drove the music lifted my emotions in a vast array of directions. I went from misty-eyed conviction to righteous indignation, to self-reflection, to outright laughter. The playlist went as follows:
-Kendall Payne – Grown
-Adam Watts – The Noise Inside
-Michael Olson – Long Arm of Love
-Hyperstatic Union - Lifegiver
- Jimmy Needham – Speak
- Disciple – Special Dual Disc featuring 4 new (incredible) songs
-Ginny Owens – Without Condition
-Day of Fire – Cut & Move
I am pleased to inform you all that I am now suffering from an extremely hoarse and cracky voice as a direct result of singing at the top of my lungs for 6 ½ hours straight.
The low point of my drive home tonight occurred around mile 224. I was under the impression during my trip and up to this point, that the trip from Nashville to the afore-mentioned Dequator, was approximately 300 miles. Much to my dismay, around mile 224, I remembered that the trip is actually about 397 miles…adding another hour and a half to my ETA. I was pretty bummed.
But not for long, because the high point of my trip occurred around mile 300 when I discovered a Starbucks in Effingham. Who knew a grande Chai Tea Latte could once again make everything okay.
As I finally approached Decatur, I was hit with that ever-memorable scent of our fine town. It is the reason for the town slogan, "Decatur, we like it here." It is our daily sustenance and the way we identify ourselves. The very corn and soybeans I had seen only a few miles before, were now being processed in the thriving community I had left only weeks before. I was shocked to find that everything was exactly the same as I had left it. I suppose I was expecting some sort of ghost town because the city could not possibly thrive without my presence here. But, alas, nobody waved or honked at me as I passed through Mt. Zion and onto Eldorado street. And they have even started some much-needed roadwork near my house. It's good they're still concerned with making this town a better place, even though I'm not here to keep everything rolling.
One final thought: During my six hour drive tonight, I had a lot of time to ponder life…and I came to this conclusion:
Courage = Skinny Jeans
And I'm sorry to say, my friends, that is one trend I am not brave enough to try. This fashion fad is one that is not flattering to anyone above 110 lbs. And for those under this weight, legs wind up looking like bird legs or stilts or twigs or…you get the point. Ladies, what ever happened to wearing loose clothing that ever-so-seductively brushed your curves as you passed by a non-suspecting, but soon to become slack-jawed man? What ever happened to leaving something to the imagination? There is NO, I repeat NO benefit to showing the world every bump and lump you have to offer…and yes, thin girls have bumps and lumps, too….and they're not cute. And for those of us who….how shall I say….are not lacking in the calf and cankle department….these jeans are a virtual impossibility. Ladies, I implore you, please stand with me, and rise against this trend. I WILL NOT SUCCOMB TO SOCIETY'S PRESSURE TO SQUEEZE MYSELF INTO A PAIR OF TAPER-LEG, HIGH WAISTED JEANS…I REFUSE TO ADOPT FASHION IDEAS THAT COULD EASILY BE TAKEN FROM MY AUNT LOIS'S GARAGE SALE. What's next? Front pleats? Ankle length? Tight rolling?
**And don't worry, gentleman, an editorial on "boys who wear girl jeans" is coming your way soon.
Friday, August 25, 2006
Archives: In Loving Memory of the Celestial Body Formerly Known as the Planet Pluto
August 25, 2006 - Friday
My day began exceptionally cheerfully. I awoke with a smile on my face...a rarity to say the least. I arrived at work with no major problems thus far in my day, and I signed on to my homepage at work, as is the norm for me. I always check the headlines and see what has been happening in the world. I have trouble with newspapers...they are too big and i always get them all mangled. There's no way for me to mess up a news website, though...so that is my source of choice.
As I scrolled through the top headlines covering various issues from the morning after pill, to crisis in the middle east, to terrorism, to vengeance for a young girls' alleged killer, one particular headline caught my eye:
"Hmm," I thought. "I wonder if that has something to do with Disney. So I clicked and that's when my day started to grow sour.
The opening line of the story was all I needed to read. Pluto, the ninth planet in our solar system, has been downgraded to a dwarf planet.
My chest began to feel tight, and my breathing was becoming increasingly sporatic and uncontrolled. I felt a heaviness on my shoulders as I began to think about that poor, lonely planet, hanging out there on the edge of our solar system...too cold to support life, too dark to reveal its beauty...and I began to weep on the inside.
How could they do this? They can't just "decide" something is not a planet anymore! Are they just going to throw out everything I ever learned in grade school? Who defines what a "planet" is anyway? It's just not fair. I've grown up knowing Pluto, loving it...Dreaming about the day when our technology could one day take us there. How can they just throw everything away like that?
Well, Pluto, you will always be a planet in my heart. Some scientists at Nasa can't determine your worth...and I, for one, am going to take a stand against this injustice! Let's stand up for Pluto and Pluto-kind.
...and that feeling lasted for about 5 minutes...until I recalled that the last time the planet Pluto had crossed my mind must have been back in grade school...
Oh well...no harm, no gain. I'm over it.
My day began exceptionally cheerfully. I awoke with a smile on my face...a rarity to say the least. I arrived at work with no major problems thus far in my day, and I signed on to my homepage at work, as is the norm for me. I always check the headlines and see what has been happening in the world. I have trouble with newspapers...they are too big and i always get them all mangled. There's no way for me to mess up a news website, though...so that is my source of choice.
As I scrolled through the top headlines covering various issues from the morning after pill, to crisis in the middle east, to terrorism, to vengeance for a young girls' alleged killer, one particular headline caught my eye:
Pluto Demoted
"Hmm," I thought. "I wonder if that has something to do with Disney. So I clicked and that's when my day started to grow sour.
The opening line of the story was all I needed to read. Pluto, the ninth planet in our solar system, has been downgraded to a dwarf planet.
My chest began to feel tight, and my breathing was becoming increasingly sporatic and uncontrolled. I felt a heaviness on my shoulders as I began to think about that poor, lonely planet, hanging out there on the edge of our solar system...too cold to support life, too dark to reveal its beauty...and I began to weep on the inside.
How could they do this? They can't just "decide" something is not a planet anymore! Are they just going to throw out everything I ever learned in grade school? Who defines what a "planet" is anyway? It's just not fair. I've grown up knowing Pluto, loving it...Dreaming about the day when our technology could one day take us there. How can they just throw everything away like that?
Well, Pluto, you will always be a planet in my heart. Some scientists at Nasa can't determine your worth...and I, for one, am going to take a stand against this injustice! Let's stand up for Pluto and Pluto-kind.
...and that feeling lasted for about 5 minutes...until I recalled that the last time the planet Pluto had crossed my mind must have been back in grade school...
Oh well...no harm, no gain. I'm over it.
Thursday, August 24, 2006
Archives: What Did Rod Stewart Ever Do to Anyone?
August 24, 2006 - Thursday
Current mood: grateful
I have a bad habit...it could get me into a lot of trouble, actually. It is one that, when this particular thought enters my mind, it sets up camp and vows not to leave until I give it full attention. It eats at the fiber of my very existence, begging me, screaming at me, pleading, groveling...doing whatever is necessary to make me take note....It's getting my hair cut. What did you think?
Life can be fine one minute, and then a sideways glance in the mirror sets this world of follicle obsession into motion. It starts out innocently enough, "Wow. It's been a long time since I got my hair cut." Just a fleeting thought for the first few hours, until I see myself in the mirror again and think, "Wow. My hair looks really bad today." And then I begin sort of combing through it with my fingers (I know that when I begin the finger-comb, I've been had). My eyes suddenly begin to focus on everyone else's hair. From co-workers, to celbrities, to people I pass in the hallway...I think, "I like her hair." "Wow. That guy has a cool style." "Maybe I should try that." And then my trips to the mirror become more frequent. I begin imagining what my hair might look like short and spiky, or punky, or black or red...And the climactic culmination of the story, the defining moment that calls me into action. I return to the mirror for one more glance, "Oh my gosh, I think I have a mullet!"
For me this process began last Friday. I assumed no salons would be open Friday, so I resolved to hold myself off until Saturday. And Saturday morning, when I began calling places in the area, I forgot that I am in a large, metropolitan city, and Saturday hair appointments must be made weeks in advance. My friends tell me to go to Supercuts...I decided to wait a little longer.
And then Monday came...after realizing that Mondays are Sundays for salons...because Sundays are like Saturdays...because Saturdays are like Fridays and so on, I was still determined to achieve my makeover.
I remembered going to Wal-Mart to pick up a few necessities the previous weekend. I happened to glance in to the salon there, and took note that all the women working seemed to have very trendy, up to date, cute hair cuts. --Now, I know what you're thinking--but, bear with me. It was in the desperation of the moment, and I had been waiting an entire weekend wearing a mullet on my head.
So I walked into Wal-Mart around 8:00 Monday evening. The stylists I had seen Saturday were nowhere to be found. There were two people working that fateful night: a young girl in her early twenties, with very cute hair; and a large, forty-something man with a black, spiky pseudo-mullet (think, Rod Stewart minus the highlights). I calculated my options. The female stylist was blow-drying a woman's hair...that could take awhile. The male was almost done, and there was one person waiting ahead of me. Good. If everything went according to plan, I would be able to have the female stylist.
As I walked in to the salon, I stood in the lobby...I didn't know what to do and no one acknowledged me, so I just figured it must be because of my mullet. Then the man finished with his customer. And while I was still standing there, two little Latino boys approached the counter. The male stylist looked right past me and told the first little boy to come over to his chair. I then asked the Rod Stewart look-alike whether I should just go sit in the waiting area or what.
Rod kindly apologized and explained he didn't know I was waiting. He instructed me to sign in and they would be with me shortly. Little did he know that I was secretly vying for the female stylist...so I wasn't upset in the least. I told him, "Oh, that's okay. I know it won't take long to give those little boys their haircuts. I don't mind."
After the boys were finished, the Rod kindly approached me again and explained that he was scheduled to leave at 8:30. There was still one more gentleman waiting. Rod asked me if it was okay for the guy waiting to go ahead of me, since he just needed his hair buzzed, and then the female stylist would be with me as soon as possible. I was thinking this evening was all working in my favor...until the gentleman waiting smirked (and I would almost swear he kind of scoffed, too) and said, "Oh. I'm waiting for her," and motioned to the female stylist. My mind immediately began to race. "Come on, Nicole...Think of a quick solution. You don't want this mullet-man Rod Stewart guy cutting your hair...think...think...THINK."
"Oh...It's alright. I don't want to keep you. Why don't you just go, and I'll wait...really I don't mind," I said.
Rod responded by saying, "No. Come on. I'll stay late. Let me cut your hair. What style are you thinking about?"
"Well. I really don't want to keep you. I'm sure you have other things you could be doing, and I would hate to have to stay late to cut someone's hair."
"Is that the style you were thinking about?" he said as he pointed to the Snips 'N Styles 2002 book I had sitting in my lap.
"Uh...well...yeah...either that one or this one here. But, really, I don't mind waiting. I would hate to keep you from your plans tonight." I thought I would give it one last shot.
"Well, I would go with this one here (Rod pointed to one of the two hairstyles I had shown him.)...because your hair is kind of like mine (at this point, Rod began pointing to his hair and demonstrating how it was kind of wild and sticking every which way."
"Thanks." I thought. "Great...Now I already have a mullet...and I'm going to get my hair styled by another mullet-wearer...and he's going to give me an even bigger mullet than I already have because he thinks mullets are cool!" I politely smiled and looked at the female stylist...begging her to rescue me from my impending doom under the shears of Rod Stewart!
"Come on over. I'll stay late. You've been so patient with letting those kids go before you and everything. It's the least I could do. You deserve it."
"Are you sure?" This was my last ditch effort to save myself from another season of mulletdom.
"Yeah, yeah....Come on. Have a seat and keep that book open."
Well, as it turns out, Rod (whose actual name I will not disclose for protection purposes) is actually a decent stylist. There are a few problem areas I may have touched up somewhere, but I think the overall haircut is very cute. It's versatile. I can go curly for an "I just rolled out of bed, but still look cute because curly-haired people always look cute." look...or I can straighten it by either curling it under, for a sleek, sophisticated look (by far the most elegant, yet most difficult to execute), or I can go a little rocker-chick and flip up the back and wear it kind of messy (which is the easiest and cutest of all three options).
So, the lessons I learned were these:
1. A $12.50 haircut is just as good as a $45.00 one.
2. The mystery stylist who looks like Rod Stewart may have questionable taste in his own hair, but he is a fine stylist for others.
3. I need to stop trying to get out of potentially pride-crushing situations, and start rolling with the punches....it produces humility.
So the next time you're in Wal-Mart, think about stopping on in to the Smart Styles Salon. Don't knock it til you've tried it...and tell them i sent you.
Current mood: grateful
I have a bad habit...it could get me into a lot of trouble, actually. It is one that, when this particular thought enters my mind, it sets up camp and vows not to leave until I give it full attention. It eats at the fiber of my very existence, begging me, screaming at me, pleading, groveling...doing whatever is necessary to make me take note....It's getting my hair cut. What did you think?
Life can be fine one minute, and then a sideways glance in the mirror sets this world of follicle obsession into motion. It starts out innocently enough, "Wow. It's been a long time since I got my hair cut." Just a fleeting thought for the first few hours, until I see myself in the mirror again and think, "Wow. My hair looks really bad today." And then I begin sort of combing through it with my fingers (I know that when I begin the finger-comb, I've been had). My eyes suddenly begin to focus on everyone else's hair. From co-workers, to celbrities, to people I pass in the hallway...I think, "I like her hair." "Wow. That guy has a cool style." "Maybe I should try that." And then my trips to the mirror become more frequent. I begin imagining what my hair might look like short and spiky, or punky, or black or red...And the climactic culmination of the story, the defining moment that calls me into action. I return to the mirror for one more glance, "Oh my gosh, I think I have a mullet!"
For me this process began last Friday. I assumed no salons would be open Friday, so I resolved to hold myself off until Saturday. And Saturday morning, when I began calling places in the area, I forgot that I am in a large, metropolitan city, and Saturday hair appointments must be made weeks in advance. My friends tell me to go to Supercuts...I decided to wait a little longer.
And then Monday came...after realizing that Mondays are Sundays for salons...because Sundays are like Saturdays...because Saturdays are like Fridays and so on, I was still determined to achieve my makeover.
I remembered going to Wal-Mart to pick up a few necessities the previous weekend. I happened to glance in to the salon there, and took note that all the women working seemed to have very trendy, up to date, cute hair cuts. --Now, I know what you're thinking--but, bear with me. It was in the desperation of the moment, and I had been waiting an entire weekend wearing a mullet on my head.
So I walked into Wal-Mart around 8:00 Monday evening. The stylists I had seen Saturday were nowhere to be found. There were two people working that fateful night: a young girl in her early twenties, with very cute hair; and a large, forty-something man with a black, spiky pseudo-mullet (think, Rod Stewart minus the highlights). I calculated my options. The female stylist was blow-drying a woman's hair...that could take awhile. The male was almost done, and there was one person waiting ahead of me. Good. If everything went according to plan, I would be able to have the female stylist.
As I walked in to the salon, I stood in the lobby...I didn't know what to do and no one acknowledged me, so I just figured it must be because of my mullet. Then the man finished with his customer. And while I was still standing there, two little Latino boys approached the counter. The male stylist looked right past me and told the first little boy to come over to his chair. I then asked the Rod Stewart look-alike whether I should just go sit in the waiting area or what.
Rod kindly apologized and explained he didn't know I was waiting. He instructed me to sign in and they would be with me shortly. Little did he know that I was secretly vying for the female stylist...so I wasn't upset in the least. I told him, "Oh, that's okay. I know it won't take long to give those little boys their haircuts. I don't mind."
After the boys were finished, the Rod kindly approached me again and explained that he was scheduled to leave at 8:30. There was still one more gentleman waiting. Rod asked me if it was okay for the guy waiting to go ahead of me, since he just needed his hair buzzed, and then the female stylist would be with me as soon as possible. I was thinking this evening was all working in my favor...until the gentleman waiting smirked (and I would almost swear he kind of scoffed, too) and said, "Oh. I'm waiting for her," and motioned to the female stylist. My mind immediately began to race. "Come on, Nicole...Think of a quick solution. You don't want this mullet-man Rod Stewart guy cutting your hair...think...think...THINK."
"Oh...It's alright. I don't want to keep you. Why don't you just go, and I'll wait...really I don't mind," I said.
Rod responded by saying, "No. Come on. I'll stay late. Let me cut your hair. What style are you thinking about?"
"Well. I really don't want to keep you. I'm sure you have other things you could be doing, and I would hate to have to stay late to cut someone's hair."
"Is that the style you were thinking about?" he said as he pointed to the Snips 'N Styles 2002 book I had sitting in my lap.
"Uh...well...yeah...either that one or this one here. But, really, I don't mind waiting. I would hate to keep you from your plans tonight." I thought I would give it one last shot.
"Well, I would go with this one here (Rod pointed to one of the two hairstyles I had shown him.)...because your hair is kind of like mine (at this point, Rod began pointing to his hair and demonstrating how it was kind of wild and sticking every which way."
"Thanks." I thought. "Great...Now I already have a mullet...and I'm going to get my hair styled by another mullet-wearer...and he's going to give me an even bigger mullet than I already have because he thinks mullets are cool!" I politely smiled and looked at the female stylist...begging her to rescue me from my impending doom under the shears of Rod Stewart!
"Come on over. I'll stay late. You've been so patient with letting those kids go before you and everything. It's the least I could do. You deserve it."
"Are you sure?" This was my last ditch effort to save myself from another season of mulletdom.
"Yeah, yeah....Come on. Have a seat and keep that book open."
Well, as it turns out, Rod (whose actual name I will not disclose for protection purposes) is actually a decent stylist. There are a few problem areas I may have touched up somewhere, but I think the overall haircut is very cute. It's versatile. I can go curly for an "I just rolled out of bed, but still look cute because curly-haired people always look cute." look...or I can straighten it by either curling it under, for a sleek, sophisticated look (by far the most elegant, yet most difficult to execute), or I can go a little rocker-chick and flip up the back and wear it kind of messy (which is the easiest and cutest of all three options).
So, the lessons I learned were these:
1. A $12.50 haircut is just as good as a $45.00 one.
2. The mystery stylist who looks like Rod Stewart may have questionable taste in his own hair, but he is a fine stylist for others.
3. I need to stop trying to get out of potentially pride-crushing situations, and start rolling with the punches....it produces humility.
So the next time you're in Wal-Mart, think about stopping on in to the Smart Styles Salon. Don't knock it til you've tried it...and tell them i sent you.
Wednesday, August 2, 2006
Archives: True Beauty Comes From Without
August 2, 2006 - Wednesday
Current mood: enthralled
I just finished re-reading The Martyr's Song by Ted Dekker. It always serves as an important reminder of where my eyes are and where they need to be.
I have always struggled with issues of self image. Sometimes I get cocky...I start to compare myself to other women, "my eyes are prettier than hers." "she has a really bad complexion." "that girl has a better body, but I have a better face."
Other times I drill myself into the ground. "wow, i'm the fattest girl in this room" "don't even bother looking for any clothes in this store, they won't fit you" "i really look ugly today"
More recently, I have found myself with very poor self-esteem. My weight gain since college has left me feeling like I have been swallowed by a large, fleshly blob, and that nobody could ever possibly consider me attractive. I have gone back and forth with my self image for years now. Sometimes I am too in love with myself, and other times I despise myself. I have dieted before, but have never become overtly obsessed with it. But obsession has set in over the past couple of months. Being in Florida in the height of bikini season hasn't helped much, either. Questions keep pounding in my head. -how could i have gained so much? -why do i keep eating? -why is it so hard for me to stay disciplined? -would it hurt that much to skip one or two meals? Those girls in bikinis over there must think I am a disgusting pig. I wonder what the waiter will think if I order that. And every time I look in the mirror, I see Ugly staring back at me screaming, "How could you let yourself get like this? No man will ever find you attractive when you look like this! What's the point of even putting on make up or fixing your hair? It won't help that much"
So I avoid mirrors as much as possible. And I try to tell myself it doesn't matter. Society keeps telling me that outward beauty isn't important...only what's inside matters. But if that's the case, why are there so many highway billboards plastered with perfect looking blondes with their hair blowing in the wind just so? And why are there no heavy people on television...and if there are, they are always the butt of everyone's jokes (no pun intended)? And why does the chubby girl never get the guy at the end of the story? They're sending me a mixed message. I chalk it up to them wanting to get more ratings, so they put the prettier ones in the lead roles. And I begin my serach for inner beauty.
As I start to reflect on my own "inner", I am surprised by all of the dirt I must uncover before I find the true beauty. I am a person who is filled with anger, jealousy, comparison, judgment, condemnation, hatred, competitiveness. And I realize I'm ugly on the inside, too. My whole life I have been told to look inside myself to find true beauty, but beauty doesn't live there, either.
So I have decided (thanks to the help of Mr. Dekker's book) that to find my true beauty, I will have to look beyond myself. Nothing about me, in and of myself, is beautiful. I am a dirty, broken, groveling being in need of redemption. So I must look to the Creator of beauty itself, who, incidentally is also the Creator of me. If I can somehow manage to see myself in light of heaven, my true home, the way my Maker sees me, then and only then will I be able to embrace my own beauty.
--by the way, when I refer to heaven, I don't mean a place I'll be after I die...I mean living in God's presence. In the constant and eternal presence of His love and His glory. If I was created to be beautiful in that place, surely I can be beautiful in a place filled with sin and condemnation.
But how do I do that? How can I possibly see myself as God sees me?
I believe the answer lies in the way I see others. If I stop looking at others as pretty, ugly, skinny, fat, mean, nice, stupid, smart...and start seeing them as fellow Creations by God...If I stop labeling and start loving, then I wil begin seeing people through God's eyes of love. If I stop focusing on bikini girls and longing to be as thin as them, and start setting my eyes on their hearts. And as I begin to pour out my own love for others, maybe I will start to look a little different, too.
The source of any beauty I possess is God. And I'm not going to find it through extreme dieting and obsessive calorie counting, nor will I find it by gorging myself on apathy and fast food. I will see it if I become a reflection of God's beauty and love shining through me.
I would like to urge everyone to read this book. It is such a quick read, but so impactful.
So now when I look in the mirror, I still struggle a little. But I am slowly retraining my mind to wrap itself around the idea that my true beauty is held in the eyes of my Creator, who made that powerful and majestic ocean I can hear right now, and the firey and captivating sunset I watched earlier. And I'm not just beautiful on the inside, I'm breath taking to Him...physically. He loves to gaze upon my beauty. And I love to gaze upon His.
The next time you start to wonder about this societal dichotomy of inner and outward beauty...how we are fed such inconsistencies and watered-down messages by everything from tv, to advertisements, to people walking down the street...remind yourself that beauty is something that is beyond this world. God isn't limited to perfect hair and perfect curves. God isn't limited to an hour long drama. God isn't limited to porcelain skin and designer clothing. God is the Creator of beauty. Look to Him to find yours. Don't settle for anything less.
Current mood: enthralled
I just finished re-reading The Martyr's Song by Ted Dekker. It always serves as an important reminder of where my eyes are and where they need to be.
I have always struggled with issues of self image. Sometimes I get cocky...I start to compare myself to other women, "my eyes are prettier than hers." "she has a really bad complexion." "that girl has a better body, but I have a better face."
Other times I drill myself into the ground. "wow, i'm the fattest girl in this room" "don't even bother looking for any clothes in this store, they won't fit you" "i really look ugly today"
More recently, I have found myself with very poor self-esteem. My weight gain since college has left me feeling like I have been swallowed by a large, fleshly blob, and that nobody could ever possibly consider me attractive. I have gone back and forth with my self image for years now. Sometimes I am too in love with myself, and other times I despise myself. I have dieted before, but have never become overtly obsessed with it. But obsession has set in over the past couple of months. Being in Florida in the height of bikini season hasn't helped much, either. Questions keep pounding in my head. -how could i have gained so much? -why do i keep eating? -why is it so hard for me to stay disciplined? -would it hurt that much to skip one or two meals? Those girls in bikinis over there must think I am a disgusting pig. I wonder what the waiter will think if I order that. And every time I look in the mirror, I see Ugly staring back at me screaming, "How could you let yourself get like this? No man will ever find you attractive when you look like this! What's the point of even putting on make up or fixing your hair? It won't help that much"
So I avoid mirrors as much as possible. And I try to tell myself it doesn't matter. Society keeps telling me that outward beauty isn't important...only what's inside matters. But if that's the case, why are there so many highway billboards plastered with perfect looking blondes with their hair blowing in the wind just so? And why are there no heavy people on television...and if there are, they are always the butt of everyone's jokes (no pun intended)? And why does the chubby girl never get the guy at the end of the story? They're sending me a mixed message. I chalk it up to them wanting to get more ratings, so they put the prettier ones in the lead roles. And I begin my serach for inner beauty.
As I start to reflect on my own "inner", I am surprised by all of the dirt I must uncover before I find the true beauty. I am a person who is filled with anger, jealousy, comparison, judgment, condemnation, hatred, competitiveness. And I realize I'm ugly on the inside, too. My whole life I have been told to look inside myself to find true beauty, but beauty doesn't live there, either.
So I have decided (thanks to the help of Mr. Dekker's book) that to find my true beauty, I will have to look beyond myself. Nothing about me, in and of myself, is beautiful. I am a dirty, broken, groveling being in need of redemption. So I must look to the Creator of beauty itself, who, incidentally is also the Creator of me. If I can somehow manage to see myself in light of heaven, my true home, the way my Maker sees me, then and only then will I be able to embrace my own beauty.
--by the way, when I refer to heaven, I don't mean a place I'll be after I die...I mean living in God's presence. In the constant and eternal presence of His love and His glory. If I was created to be beautiful in that place, surely I can be beautiful in a place filled with sin and condemnation.
But how do I do that? How can I possibly see myself as God sees me?
I believe the answer lies in the way I see others. If I stop looking at others as pretty, ugly, skinny, fat, mean, nice, stupid, smart...and start seeing them as fellow Creations by God...If I stop labeling and start loving, then I wil begin seeing people through God's eyes of love. If I stop focusing on bikini girls and longing to be as thin as them, and start setting my eyes on their hearts. And as I begin to pour out my own love for others, maybe I will start to look a little different, too.
The source of any beauty I possess is God. And I'm not going to find it through extreme dieting and obsessive calorie counting, nor will I find it by gorging myself on apathy and fast food. I will see it if I become a reflection of God's beauty and love shining through me.
I would like to urge everyone to read this book. It is such a quick read, but so impactful.
So now when I look in the mirror, I still struggle a little. But I am slowly retraining my mind to wrap itself around the idea that my true beauty is held in the eyes of my Creator, who made that powerful and majestic ocean I can hear right now, and the firey and captivating sunset I watched earlier. And I'm not just beautiful on the inside, I'm breath taking to Him...physically. He loves to gaze upon my beauty. And I love to gaze upon His.
The next time you start to wonder about this societal dichotomy of inner and outward beauty...how we are fed such inconsistencies and watered-down messages by everything from tv, to advertisements, to people walking down the street...remind yourself that beauty is something that is beyond this world. God isn't limited to perfect hair and perfect curves. God isn't limited to an hour long drama. God isn't limited to porcelain skin and designer clothing. God is the Creator of beauty. Look to Him to find yours. Don't settle for anything less.
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