preacherbeege

Movin' on Up

2006-07-17T06:02:00.000-05:00

I've got myself some new digs.

Mostly because my friend Kara moved, and when I checked out her new blog decided to checkout her new host.

Me likey. :)

Come visit me at my swinging new pad: www.imalemming.org

Just kidding. :) Although I DO sort of feel like a lemming. Vist me here, instead: www.beege.wordpress.com

A Sign of Age

2006-06-24T06:28:00.000-05:00

I came here this morning to blog something really profound. Well. Let's be honest. Probably not really profound. But at least fairly profound. The thought occurred to me last night as I was laying on the couch eating cheese popcorn and finishing the 4th season of "Six Feet Under". I thought to myself, "Ooo! I'll have to remember to blog about this!" and now, for the life of me, I can't remember what it was.

Must be getting old.

What I can remember is feeling just a little bit sad that Aaron Spelling is dead. I grew up with his television (hell, who among my generation didn't?). When I was like four or five years old and put a nail through the bottom of my foot, it was because I was playing Charlie's Angels and was running after a bad guy. When I was in high school, my friends and I would all gather around and watch 90210 and we were so affirmed in our status as "the Year to Be" (at least, that's what the Josten's sales rep kept telling us we were) when the gang graduated the same year as we did--take that class of 92 and 94. You'll never be able to make the same claim to coolness as we did. I feel like we should all gather down at the Peach Pit and have some pie and diet Coke, and then go to a hotel and loose our virginity on prom night.

Also? My daughter seems to have made the decision to join the Ministry of Silly Walks. I don't think any step she took yesterday was just a normal one. She minced like a geisha, she pranced like a pony, she took huge lumbering steps and spoke in a deep voice, she walked on her tiptoes like a ballerina--what she didn't do was just walk. It was sort of fascinating, watching her discover all the different ways she could move her body to get to her various different destinations.

Perhaps I should start expecting the Spanish Inquisition...

Revivification

2006-06-22T22:45:00.000-05:00

It's been nearly a decade since I decided to up and move to Minnesota from the inexpressibly lovely Pacific Northwest. It was a decision I never ever second-guessed, for even a moment. I loaded up my 1987 Civic hatchback and hit the road. Tooled around South Dakota a bit on my way across, and was having the time of my life, looking forward to a new and exciting venture that would take me God-only-knew where.

As I got on I-35 at Albert Lea, I started getting even more excited. As the traffic picked up, and I was trying to drive while my mother attempted to navigate (I was terribly confused as to why I wanted to keep going toward Minneapolis when I was going to be living in St. Paul), I was still excited. And then, I came around a bend on 35W north, and the Minneapolis skyline filled the windshield of my little black car. Beautiful and big. So very urban. So very alien. And suddenly, I thought to myself, "What in the hell have I done?!"

Tonight, as I drove home from work, I headed up 35W north once again. I've driven that stretch of interstate more times than I can count in the intervening years. But there's always that point in the drive when that skyline fills the windshield and I remember that first moment--for some odd reason, it functions as a turning point. The moment those buildings hit my line of sight, something in me shifted...something changed. Now, I can't help but see those familiar buildings and get a thrill of excitement: they're no longer alien. They're home.

Heaven looks like this...

2006-06-22T08:30:00.000-05:00

...aisles and aisles of items that I am free to purchase in bulk. (I don't believe, even though this picture would seem to suggest it, that heaven looks like a cow with a huge nose.)

M and I finally found a Costco around here. I love that place. I love their delicious chocolate-chocolate muffins; the little old people that hand out the samples; the cheap books and DVDs and CDs; gigantic bottles of lotion and shampoo; and then all the super fun extra things you can find there--stuff you didn't even know you needed until you found out you could get one for such a great price (my "oooo, are you SURE we don't need this?" for yesterday? A sheepskin rug for less than $40. After a brief marital summit meeting, it was decided we were pretty sure we didn't need it--for now, anyway).

We found a great dish draining rack from Simple Human that just kicks the shit out of our old, plastic, Rubbermaid dish rack (you could get two cups and a bowl in that thing). And a 2lb brick of Tillamook extra special sharp white cheddar cheese. This cheese comes from Tillamook, Oregon. I grew up eating it, but it's hard to find here in the upper Midwest--and when you do find it, it's freaking expensive. So I sit here this morning, secure and satified with the knowledge that not only are my breakfast dishes drying in a fabulous draining rack, I'm also well-supplied with my favorite kind of cheese. It's a good day.

Space

2006-06-21T08:56:00.000-05:00

I've been thinking of something for a long time--months, maybe. Ever since my brother up and moved to a new place and a new job and is making it all on his own.

I want my own space.

I went right from living at home, to living in dorms in college. In college, I could never afford to have my own place, so when I moved out of the dorms after my first year and into an apartment: I had roommates. And I loved it! I loved having girlfriends around, at any and all hours to sit and talk with--I didn't for a moment wish otherwise.

Then after college, I moved to Minnesota to go to grad school. I planned on living in the dorms the first year, since I had no idea where to look for apartments. Everyone had their own rooms, and it ended up being more like a singles apartment complex (we didn't call it "Melrose Place" for nothing) than a dorm, so I stayed there until M and I got married and moved into our own teeny weeny apartment.

But I've never had a space that was MINE. Even the dorm room belonged to the school, so I was limited in my abilities to put my mark on it.

And I find that I'm suddenly missing that. Not to the point that I'd change anything in my life...but I miss having had the opportunity to live on my own, really and truly. To be able to paint a wall any color I want, just because *I* liked it and nobody else's opinion mattered. To hang what pictures I want, to choose which bedding I want. To have things stay where I put them. A place where I can play whatever sort of music I feel like listening to, without thinking, "Oh, M really doesn't like this CD. I hope he doesn't mind if I listen to it right now."

It probably says something about me psychologically that I'm suddenly missing this. Perhaps that I'm feeling overwhelmed and pulled in too many directions--that I'm longing for a place that's mine, where I can just close the door and be left alone, doing whatever sort of Beegish things that make me happy. Perhaps it means that I feel like my current lifestyle represses the person that I think I am and that I want to be.

Or maybe it's as simple as I never got to have pretty pink bathtowels. Sometimes it doesn't do to over analyze things, you know?

Slightly broken hearted

2006-06-10T21:38:00.000-05:00

Since this promotion came my way, I've been working even more insane hours than I was before. I'm gone before Linnea wakes up, and don't get home until after she's in bed.

I hate it.

Tonight, she's running a fever (hello, ear infection! We hardly even had a chance to miss you!). M was in the shower, so I was trying to snuggle and comfort her. She just kept crying for her daddy. As soon as he was done, he picked her up, she buried her face in his neck and they're now snuggled down for the night (hopefully) in our bed.

He's become her primary caregiver. The one she looks for when she's scared, or lonely, or hurts, or doesn't feel good. Me? I'm just that lady that floats in and out of her life from time to time. I'm lots of fun, she loves me "bunches and bunches", but I'm not to be relied upon when the chips are down.

I don't like this. M tells me, "You're working so hard for us! You're making sure we have food on the table and clothes on our backs and health insurance in our pockets--we couldn't make it without what you do for us every damn day."

But I'm the Mommy. It should be me soothing and singing, caring and teaching, comforting and loving. Last night was the first night I was home for dinner in God only knows how long and she looked at me and asked, "Mama? What are you doing here?" Last night she woke up M to tell him, "Daddy? Mama misses me when she is at work."

Part of me is thrilled that they've established this sort of relationship. And part of me feels cheated and jealous. And part of me feels rather embarassed, because when we were growing up, my father (who also built himself a career in retail) was hardly ever home. He was always working. And recently we have given him a really hard time about that--talking about how he was never around, how he missed so much, yada yada yada. And he DID. But what we assumed (and I'm beginning to think we assumed this in great error) is that he didn't REALIZE what he was missing. That he was just working that hard and those long hours because he wanted to...but now I'm seeing that perhaps he HAD to. And maybe he hated it as much as I hate it. Maybe he was as jealous of Mom as I am of M. Maybe for every hour over 40 hours a week that he worked, he died a little inside because it was another hour he wouldn't get to be with his family. We're just over a week away from Father's Day. I think I need to make a phone call.

************************************************************************
Edited to add: Apparently I'm not as close to chopped liver as this pity party would have led us to believe. Nea refused to go to sleep until I came and rubbed her back and sang "Old MacDonald" starting with ants and going all the way up to rocketships (That Old MacDonald seems to have a pretty advanced farming operation). I guess I can stop refering to myself as "Aunt Mama".

Innies and Outies

2006-06-06T08:59:00.000-05:00

So, three years ago today we got the official word from the doctor that we were going to have a baby. I'd sucked up all my courage, let them take copious amounts of blood out of my arm, and within minutes: we knew we were going to be parents.

One of us (me) was ecstatic. One of us (M) was scared to death.

Both of us were nauseous.

It's been a pretty special ride, these last three years. From seeing those first "extra" lines on the pee stick, to the blood test, to hearing her heartbeat on the Doppler for the first time, to the quickening, to the first time she made my belly jump with her movements, to giving birth and that seemingly endless moment when I waited to hear her cry; how tiny she was and how completely clueless we were. Through first dirty diaper; first smile; first time sleeping through the night; first words; first steps; first bee stings; first move; first day of school--all of it. Being a mom is like nothing I imagined. If I had imagined it, I probably would never have done it. But having done it: I wouldn't trade it for the world. Motherhood has taught me that in some cases, ignorance is indeed bliss.

I was giving her her bath last night. Sweet chubby toddler legs and arms, sweet toddler belly, delicious little baby bottom. She was playing with her bellybutton, "Dis is my beep-beep, Mama." I looked at her belly button. It (like everything else about her) is beautiful. I remember when it was hidden by the cord stump, and how angry M and I got when his mother made it bleed when she changed her. I remembered the wet snick of the scissors moments after she was born and her life was officially biologically severed from mine. And I marveled that this small girl, who loves Dora the Explorer (especially Boots the Monkey) and raisins, and swings, and coloring was the same baby that lived and moved inside my belly. Sometimes it's hard to remember that.

I marvel at that little beep-beep...through it, I nourished her and kept her alive. Oxygen, blood, food--everything that she needed for 38.6 weeks came to her through that cord. And I marvel that even though it was cut mere seconds after she came out of my body, there were already other cords being formed--cords that bind us together more completely than that umbilical cord ever did. Trust, love, friendship, protection, fun, tenderness...all of it serves to bind us closer to one another today than we were three years ago today.

As I write, I'm listening to M and Linnea playing in the living room. Linnea is singing a song about how much she loves Dora. M is trying to convince her that "Finding Nemo" is just as much fun to watch as "Dora" (especially since we haven't seen "Nemo" four times a day for the last four months). Nea is strong, sassy, opinionated, independent and stubborn. All this adds up to a challenging child to parent. But I wouldn't trade any moment of the last three years for anything.

Love you, Sweetie Pea.

Toot toot!

2006-06-01T20:12:00.000-05:00

I mentioned a couple of posts ago about how the head of the company really liked me? Turns out, he likes me likes me. He authorized a promotion which lifted me from the bottom rung of management to assistant manager responsible for HR. Yes, ladies and gents, I am the Hank Hill of the store I work in. Along with a rather large jump in responsibility, I was the grateful recipient of a rather tidy jump in salary.

Excuse me for a moment while I toot my own horn.

So, anyhow. I'm incredibly busy. We're working on opening a brand-new store. Tomorrow the truck comes and we get to unload scads of wunnerful stuff. We have people from the regional and corporate visual departments here to help us make sure we look good. Most of them are gay, and can I just say: after three years in Kansas, I'm in some serious need of hag time? I told M (who was helping us out today), "I just want to take them to bed, make a beege sandwich, and snuggle." It says something about who M is as a husband that he didn't freak out about his wife wanting to make a sandwich with two other men--homosexuals or not.

Now I'm going to head to bed. I'm tired, and tomorrow will be a long-ass day. Sleep well.

Thanks, Mum. I love you.

2006-05-21T19:53:00.000-05:00

So, within the last six months or so, I've been on a voyage of self-discovery. I didn't really realize it. I certainly didn't intend for it to happen. It wasn't planned or thought out. It was just one of those very organic times of personal growth that happen--those times when all of the sudden you look back and think, "Dude. I've so totally changed."

My change this time around seems to center around my mother. I adore my mother. I really do. There's no caveat in that statement whatsoever. Her arms are one of my favorite places to be, and I lovelovelove when she plays with my hair, or lightly rubs my back the way I like.

But like most mothers, she had some pretty fixed ideas about what and who her daughter should be. And, like most daughters, I listened and dutifully swallowed her teachings. Examples of those teachings would be:

Your bra and panties don't need to match. Ever. Because if they DO match they're only matching because you're planning on showing them to someone, and unless you're MARRIED what in the hell are you doing showing someone your matching bra and panties?
Blondes must, must, must wear pastels at all times. They look best on them.
Men like women who are a little bit needy. Strength frightens them, and so does intelligence (now, before you get all up in my face about my mother's beliefs, please remember that her father was a mysogenist par excellence and TOLD her all these things).
Women who play the cello are horrifyingly unladylike. She based this belief entirely on the way that one has to sit with a cello between one's knees.
You will have to have a C-section.
You are just like me.

So you know: Mom's sort of old fashioned. She's also cool and fun--she's got a fabulous career, makes amazing amounts of money, has established a mutual adoration society with my father that has lasted nearly 40 years (even if she IS fiercely independent, rarely needy, and smart as a whip).

At first, I used these "words of wisdom" from my mother as a joke. But as I got older, I realized how much of her words came directly from what her parents told her--and as I've shared some about my grandfather, you can probably guess that smart, opinionated women were a thing best crushed out of existence in his world. It didn't work. But he tried. Damn, but he tried. And I also realized that much of her words passed down to me were true in her world.

But that doesn't make them true in mine.

It's been a slow evolution, realization, understanding. When I moved half-way across the country to attend seminary, one of the very first things I did was buy me some matching bra and panty sets. Flirty ones. With lace. Red ones. Purple ones. Black ones. Lime green ones. It was my grand rebellion against my mother. And, eventually, I did in fact show them to M, so ultimately: she wasn't wrong. But she wasn't right either. Now, I only buy nude colored bras and panties. They always match. They're not terribly exciting. And I'd show M my bra and panties whether they matched or not.

I don't wear pastels anymore. Most of them just wash me out and make me look tired and pale. I look better in jewel tones, tones with some richness--Mom looks fantastic in pastels. She's inherited some of my old ones. But I don't. I felt horribly guilty about for some reason, but I don't anymore.

I spent a lot of time in my college years trying Mom's Method of Landing a Man. It landed me nothing but heartache and a decade-long on-again off-again long distance relationship with a guy that wasn't any better for me than I was for him, although I refused to see it. Somewhere along the line, I thought, "Fuck it. I am who I am. Loud, bossy, opinionated, bold, independent and daring. If I have to hide these things about me in order to get a guy I'd never be happy with him anyway." And then, three days into seminary, I met M and the rest is history. Loud, bossy, opinionated, bold, independent and daring history. He adores the very things my mother told me to cover up about myself. And for that, I'll love him forever.

When I was in fifth grade, the elementary strings teacher came to our classroom to try and recruit kids for strings. I fell head-over-heels in love with the cello. I loved the look of it, the sound of it, the weight of it, I loved how Ms. Chastain looked as she played it--when she started she was cradling the cello, but somehow through the course of the music, it cradled her. I hurried home after school and announced that I wanted to play the cello. The announcement was met with deafening silence, and then, "Absolutely not. It's not ladylike to sit with your legs spread apart like that. You can play the violin or the viola." And that's how I came to play violin for the next five years. And I was good at it. I could have been great (according to my teachers), but I just didn't care. I didn't enjoy the violin. It didn't get into my blood like the cello did. And I wonder what my life would have been like if my mother had looked into my 10-year-old eyes and said, "Absolutely. Let's go rent you a cello." I have a sneaking suspicion I'd still be playing it, unlike my violin that has been left untouched for about 15 years now, gathering dust in our storage unit.

And when I was pregnant, she went out of her way to explain to me what a C-section would be like. All three of her babies were C's, and I'm just like her, so mine would be, too. And she had horrible long labors. So I went through my entire pregnancy, pretty well convinced that I would have a C-section, preceded by a labor from hell. In fact, I have one moment of clarity in my 45 minutes of pushing wherein I asked the doctor, "Are you SURE I don't need to have a C-section?" and she said, "Beege, I can see your baby's head. No, you won't need to have a C-section." And as far as horrible long labors go--well, it was five hours from pitocin drip to baby in my arms. It wasn't fun, but it was far from horrible and 'long' is certainly not an adjective I'd use to describe it.

And mostly the thing I'm learning? I'm not just like her. I'm a lot like her. I look like her, I sound like her. I act a lot like her. But I'm also a lot like my dad. And I'm a lot like my aunt. And I'm a lot like myself--there are things I do and say and think that nobody has any claim on. It doesn't lessen the bond any. It's just the way we are. And I've lived so far away from her for so long now that I've had time to figure out who I am without her input or (and I mean this in the most loving way possible) interference.

All of this makes me wonder what I'll tell Linnea as truth and she'll learn is in fact truthful only to me. And what I'll tell Linnea that will stand her in goodstead as she makes her way in the world.

During her last visit, she and I were doing dishes one night when she said, "You know, you're a lot braver than I am. You don't back down from a fight. You don't let people tell you who you are or what you should be like. I really admire that." And the funny thing was? I learned it from her.

Odds 'n ends

2006-05-21T15:54:00.000-05:00

Hey, Linnea from Texas! The link you left to your blog doesn't work. Will you leave it for me again, pretty please? :)
Clearly, still into bullets. Except now I see a really cool little thing were Blogger will do the bullets for you. I'm going to switch to those.
I went to the doctor, and after waiting for about an hour got to see one. Yep. Bladder infection. They put me on a three-day run of antibiotics AND gave me a Diflucan tablet to take so the yeast infection wouldn't come back. I love doctors who are women. They so get it.
The medicine? Already she is working...no more burning, no more pain. Thanks be to God for modern medicine.
Linnea (the one from my loins, not the one from Texas) has been sleeping for about three hours now. Yee-haw, buckaroos! Hope this doesn't make bedtime a bitch, 'cuz it's sure made the afternoon nice.
Kara--thanks for the yogurt tip. I've gotten it before. But I loathe yogurt. I usually force myself to eat it when I'm on the antibiotics, but didn't that time and well, I paid for it. It's just so yucky...a cup of thick, creamy, sourness with chunks in it? No thanks. I'll take a yeast infection.
Christy--thanks for your kind words! I really appreciate them. I'm in a pretty good place about all this, because I know that God wouldn't have given me the gifts that he has if he wanted me working retail the rest of my life. Clearly, he wants me working retail now, but this is just a temporary gig. When something in the church opens up, it's going to just blow the doors off 'cuz it will be exactly right for me.

Now I'm off to cook some dinner. I haven't forgotten the non-whiney entry (this isn't it), but there's just not enough hours in the day, particularly when you spend about three of them unconscious on the couch (like I did).

Waaah!

2006-05-21T08:21:00.000-05:00

I'm sort of cranking out today.

Perhaps bullets would be the best way to express my tantrum.

*A few weeks' ago, Nea brought strep throat home from daycare. I got it.
*Went to the doctor that we couldn't afford, and they prescribed penicillin. Cleared that strep throat right up.
*Unfortunate side effect of penicillin? Also killed all the good bacteria in my noonie. Led to yeast infection.
*After days of cream, yeast infection clears. Hooray!
*Once yeast infection clears up? I get a bladder infection. Back to the doctor, whom we still can't afford, to get more antibiotics which might cause another yeast infection.

I adore being a girl.

PS: I'm working on a non-whiney entry. I'll be back to post it when my bladder stops hurting and I'm no longer racing to the bathroom every 15 minutes, sure I'm going to wet myself, only to have 3 or 4 drops come out.

PSS: I had a dream last night that I was so pregnant the pee stick came back PLAID. For some reason, this is the only thing that makes me giggle this morning. That, and when Nea tooted in bed this morning and I said, "Nice toot." and she politely said, "Thank you very much, Mama."

PSSS: The church didn't want me. On the flip side: I met the head of the company I currently work for. He's freaking THRILLED I'm working for them. I guess if God doesn't want me, J does. And I get better clothes working for J.

"Too damn young."

2006-05-14T03:49:00.000-05:00

I was up at the ungodly hour of 3:30 AM. I had to be at the Mall of America by 5AM in order help with this year's Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure. I say "had to" simply because for me: 3:30 is still technically night time. No one should have to be awake that early. But in reality, it was a get to. I volunteered for this particular event, and I was happy and proud to go.

I find women to be so amazing! Particularly breast cancer survivors. They are so strong! So resilient! So able to see past the bullshit the rest of us wrap ourselves in and call a spade a spade. Many survivors come into the store, and they're very open in sharing "I'm a six year survivor" or "I'm a ten year survivor" or "I'm a one year survivor". Husbands come in and purchase gifts for their wives and still get tears in their eyes when they tell me, "My wife is a 20-year survivor. I don't know what I would have done if I'd lost her."

At the race, there were women proudly showing of heads made bald by chemo; there were women who made no effort to disguise their chests made flat from mastectomies; there were women who pinned pictures of their mothers, sisters, aunts, and friends to their race number or carried signs like "Lisa's Bosom Buddies". Entire families came out and chose to celebrate Mother's Day by participating in Race for a Cure. A small boy told me that he wanted to walk because his grandma had cancer, and he wanted her to get better. A woman shared the story of her sister-in-law who went in for her annual mammogram in March and was given a clean bill of health, and has just now been diagnosed with stage 4 breast cancer. Two months. Only two months between perfect health and stage 4. Another told me that she walks every year because her sister died from breast cancer when she was 34. She's still angry about it, her voice shaking a bit when she said, "She was too damn young. Too damn young. I walk so that someday nobody else has to lose a sister too damn young."

I spent most of the morning veering wildly between having a fun time and fighting back tears. Just like everyone else. After today, the pink ribbon means just a little bit more than it did. I won't ever look at one again without hearing the pain in a sister's voice, "Too damn young."

Ahhh...feel the mental health returning...

2006-05-10T12:48:00.000-05:00

So, today I'm taking a mental health day.

Actually, that's not entirely true. I'm taking an "it's-important-right-now-for-me-to-fulfill-my-vocation-as-a-wife" day. M is absolutely slammed by his semester ending, and I've been working crazy hours which leaves him functioning as the sole parent and housekeeper all while trying to wrap up his semester. I've been more like a roommate than a wife (our celebration of Cinco de Mayo notwithstanding). I just felt like he needed a present wife more than a winner of bread and bringer of bacon today.

So I called work, told them I needed to be home with M today (and I may have sort of kind of made it sound like M was ill) and I've gone grocery shopping; cleaned out the fridge; did days worth of dishes he hadn't gotten to; and when I'm done here I'll start cleaning the rest of the house in earnest. He'll come home to a clean house, a dinner in the oven, and a wife who can cheerfully take over all aspects of childrearing for the evening so he can either rest or continue to work on his papers. Hopefully, given the way he slept last night, both.

I've been contemplating washing the sheets on our beds...but we don't have enough quarters to wash AND dry, and the weather is looking a little iffy for line dried sheets. Maybe tomorrow will be better. And really: if one CAN dry their bedsheets on the line, drying them in the dryer is so unsatisfactory. Mmmm...love to fall asleep in crisp, fresh, line-dried sheets.

She comes a-knocking

2006-05-09T14:18:00.000-05:00

There's a church that might be interested in me.

For the first time in almost a year, I think I might be interested back. I'm not entirely sure. I'm still processing a lot of emotional baggage from my previous 5 years in ministry...but when the Bish called and said, "Can I tell them about you?" my first response was not, "Oh, please don't. Really. Don't." but rather a slight thrill in my belly and I asked to hear more about the congregation.

It could be a long shot. There will be a lot of people talking with this congregation. I mention this more to mark progress for me--I've been carrying so much anger and pain around with me in connection to the church. It's still there, but it's been tempered a bit. Honed. Perhaps, now, I'd be able to use the anger to address things, rather than just lashing out. Turn it into a force of good, rather than a force of evil.

We were at a church convention, and my beloved professor was there. J is an amazing man. Grace just oozes out of him--he can't help it. I hadn't seen him in a couple of years, and he was greeting people and shook my hand rather absently, listening to someone else talking and then he looked at my face. And with a fantastic, Norwegian roar he scooped me into his arms and kissed my cheek and told me he loved me. Beamed at me. Told me he wanted nothing more than to be in a room with M and I so that the three of us could talk like we used to. And his actions reminded me of my favorite passage of scripture, from the book of Isaiah, "Because you are precious in my sight, and honored, and I love you." It's God speaking to the Israelites. But last Monday? It was God speaking to me.

Back in February, I wrote about God being wildcrazy in love with us, and coming after us. Well. That day in a crowded church hallway: He got me. Again. Or still, probably is more like it. And as I sat up in the balcony and listened to J address the crowded sanctuary, I wept as he spoke passionately about the love God has for his people. Even me. And all the little chips and cracks and dings and "owies" that I've been living with for so long were washed clean. Not away. They're still there. But they don't hurt as much. I've been crying a lot--good tears, the kind of tears that just fall and fall and fall so gently and soak your face. Like a good spring rain--those are the tears I've been crying. Each tear a prayer, each prayer giving breath to a hope that hasn't been alive much lately.

Me, M, Jose, and Cinco de Mayo.

2006-05-09T14:04:00.000-05:00

Friday, I was in the shower, getting ready for work. I hear:

"Maaaaaaama!" in a very coy tone.
I peek out the side of the shower curtain, "What is it, Baby?"
Suddenly, my tiny girl jumps into the doorway, falls into horse stance and with a laugh of triumph announces, "I NAKED!"

She certainly was. Almost as naked as the day she was born. I say "almost" because she was wearing the most cunning headgear. Her diaper. The velcro tab had been carefully fastened under her chin. She came closer to the shower and leaned against the side, conversationally adding, "I got on a bikehelmet. I got to be safe." and with that, she turned her little fanny around and marched out.

I was left alone in the bathroom, blinking, wondering what in the hell just happened, and what sort of day Nea had planned that her nekkid activity would require a diaper/bike helmet for safety. It was also one of those moments where I wish my eyes were actually a video camera, so I could just record everything to play back to her during her wedding rehearsal dinner.

Later that night, M and I decided to celebrate Cinco de Mayo. I've not been a life-long celebrator of Cinco de Mayo...it was more of a novelty sort of thing that we learned about in junior high Spanish class--not unlike "Dia de los Muertos". But M? As a full-blooded Texan, Cinco de Mayo was a day to be marked and celebrated. I'm still not entirely sure of why a 100% German Texan feels the need to celebrate a Mexican holiday, but: he asks for so little, I won't take this away from him.

So how did we celebrate? Tequila shots. Sweet fancy Moses, I love me up some tequila shots. I don't do them often, simply because when I do them, I don't want to stop doing them. And when I do them, I get inappropriately affectionate. So we usually do tequila shots at home, where they're cheap and where any affection that happens is completely appropriate because it takes place between two married consenting adults.

And damn if there wasn't some affection going on that night. The tequila made us think we were a lot more athletic, adventurous, and flexible than we actually are. We were both sore for days. Perhaps we should have crept into Linnea's room and tried to find her bike helmet.

For my beloved friend, Cyn. Ask and ye shall receive.

2006-04-29T12:36:00.000-05:00

I can't believe it's been so long since I've been here and blogged.

My only excuse is that I've been crazy busy. I've been working my azz off (literally. The other day I got myself into size 10 jeans. I didn't have to lay down to get them zipped. I could still breathe when they were fastened. I'm pretty sure I could have sat down, but I didn't try that.). I have taken the promotion that was offered to me, much to the sadness of both me and my current boss, but it has meant a dramatic increase in my work hours.

I've even broken a MAJOR rule of mine and I've been doing work at home. My dad used to do that. It drove the entire family crazy--he'd work until about 7PM (after going in at 5AM) and as soon as dinner was finished, he'd haul out his briefcase and work until about 10, then go to bed and get up at 4AM to start it all over again. I swore I would never have a job that would require me to work AFTER I left work. Heh. And then I was a pastor, which meant I never got to leave work--pastoring isn't really a profession you can just be from 9-5. You're pretty much a pastor 24/7. Then I got this job and, well: let's just say this apple didn't fall too far from her tree. But it takes a lot of work to get a store up and running--and this store is at the Mall of America, and the company is putting HUGE pressure on us to be spot. on. 100%. perfect. Because in a lot of ways: the company will be judged by what we do at our store. Great. No pressure. But it means work at home.

But I'm learning so much--and I'm always happiest when I'm busy and learning new stuff. This decision (while a difficult one to make) has been nothing but a good one for us. AND, as of June 1: HELLO, HEALTH INSURANCE! It's babymaking time in Beegeland. And there's nothing that doesn't make me smile about that.

The other night while Nea was in the bath, she shocked me by announcing, "Daddy has a penis. Mama has a bagina like NeiNei--'cept Mama's bagina is brown and NeiNei's bagina is pink." Not even two and a half-years old, folks. And sure, we've taught her the correct names for her body parts (I really didn't want her to refer to her vagina as a "hoo-ha" or "noonie" or "down there". Good Lord, it's no less shameful to have a penis or a vagina than it is to have an elbow or an ankle) but we haven't really tallyed up the differences for her. Clearly, it would have been time wasted if we had. She's got it all figured out. And she's got the verbal acuity to express what she's got figured out. Lucky us.

When we were in Portland for Grandpa's funeral, my family all piled into the car to go somewhere. Mom was driving and she hit a speed bump at a pretty good clip and bounced us around a bit. Nea's response? "Oh my GOSH. Nice driving." Mom had to park the car because she was laughing so hard. My girl? Not only can she talk like a four year old, but she's mastered the delicate art of sarcasm. Mom said she'd never have believed that Linnea could talk like that if she hadn't heard it herself. Like I've been lying to her all these months on the phone about what Linnea says.

Today for lunch I made chili dogs. I've been missing Sonic like crazy, lately. Must be the change of season--the warmer weather, the longer days. But something has been crying out for a chili-cheese dog and tots for about a week now. I finally thought, "Good Lord. It's not complicated! It's a hotdog with chili and cheese on it for crap's sake." So I did it today. And it was good. Not quite right--being as I was lacking the Route 44 Diet Limeade for my beverage. But it appeased whatever little beasty was growling for a chili cheese dog. Finally.

Crochet: going well. I'm pretty sure I'm nowhere near ready to tackle the sushi toilet roll cover. But I've made a lovely beginning of a double-crochet scarf for Nea. Not liking crochet as well I as like knitting, because it's much slower and takes a ton more yarn. But for something different and new and challenging: I'm liking it. Today a dear friend of mine is coming over. Being as it's a rainy, drizzly, chilly day we're going to have soup and wine and knit. Perfection.

Quiet Sunday

2006-04-09T09:22:00.000-05:00

So, it's finally Sunday. It's my "day off". I use quotation marks because I have to go to work for about three hours tonight for a store meeting...I don't really count it as a day off if I'm required to be at work and they're planning on paying me for it. But for now, I'm not at work. We're doing laundry, and M is puttering about the apartment, putting locks on doors that Linnea has figured out how to open. I'm not sure either one of us knows what Linnea is doing right now...my guess is that she's "helping" her daddy with his further childproofing projects.

Not much has been going on. I"ve been working my azz off, which will be nice once that paycheck starts rolling in. I have to tell my Boss that I'm quitting and going to work for another store...I'm SO not looking forward to that conversation, because I really do love my Boss and I wish almost more than anything that a similar opportunity would open up with her. But she's been promising me such an opportunity since October, and I've hung in there, but I can't do it anymore. Not when I've been offered the chance to be on the management team of a brand-new, high-profile store. Not when the job is guaranteed full-time AND hourly so anything over 40 they're SO paying for; not when the job has incredibly good, incredibly cheap health insurance, not when I'd have access to a 401k and all those grown-uppy things that I had before we moved and then really missed when they were gone. Plus, I know the gal who is the store manager and she and I get along really well. So I'm going. The only thing that would stop me is if BossLady could pull a rabbit out of her hat and offer me the same benies...and I know that she can't, because if she could: she would have done it already.

I'm really not looking forward to sitting down with her and saying, "I'm leaving." I know she'll understand, but it doesn't make it any easier.

On to happier topics.

I'm teaching myself to crochet! Inspired mainly by a desire to have a granny-squares purse (I found a pattern in a book of knitting patterns I bought), and a long-held desire to have this. I first expressed a desire for this about a year ago, and a friend volunteered her husband to make one for each of us. But life happens, and I'm pretty sure that if I wait for a sushi toilet paper roll cover to come from them: I'll be waiting a long time. They've got bigger stuff to deal with than my wanting something to make my spare roll look interesting. And so I'm learning to crochet so I can make myself a sushi toilet paper roll cover. After my first night of study? I learned how to chain (I can make some wicked-cool chains!) and how to slip stitch. I'm thinking that I won't be cranking out that sushi roll anytime soon. Or the purse. But I just MIGHT be able to chain us a gate to keep Linnea in her bed at night.

Spring is in the process of arriving to the Northland. I've busted out my crop pants and tshirts. I've bid a fond adieu to my sweaters. And I'm starting to think of what sorts of flowers I want outside my living room window. We have a flowerbed, and the complex plants flowers in it. But *I* can get one of those iron shepherd's hook thingies and put hanging baskets in the flower bed. I think I'd like to do that, because our living room window is right next to the sidewalk and people tend to park things in our window...bikes, sleds, trikes, strollers. It's sort of annoying. Like there aren't plenty of window-free areas to park their crap along our apartment, they choose to block what little view we have. I'm wondering if putting "schnutz" in the window area would discourage their indescriminate vehicle parkage. Just enough to 1) give us some privacy 'cuz DUDE: stare a little harder when you walk by, why don't you? and 2) make it clear that someone ELSE is using this space. Like the people who live here, and who pay a goodly-sized monthly fee to have this window and scrap of flowerbed.

Is that so much to ask?

2AM Musings

2006-03-30T02:00:00.000-06:00

How is it 2am? And how is it that I'm awake...not still, but again?

Linnea hasn't been sleeping well since our trip out west. I think it was the time change, and the stress of the situation, and she was sick while we were back there--all of it contributed to her getting way overtired in a very big way. She's been waking up with night terrors (which she tends to get when she's overtired) for about the last week. The last few nights seem to have been better--she doesn't wake up screaming, so that's always good. But it's as though her little body is just in the groove of waking her up at about midnight. Last night M stayed with her. Tonight, I was going to go all "Solving Your Child's Sleep Problems" on her azz and just let her cry it out. Didn't work out that way. She cried off and on for about 3o minutes, so I went in to her to make sure she had her Nuk and her blankie and BabySister Monkey. She was scared. She didn't want to close her eyes. She wanted me to hold her. So I crouched by the bed and we prayed; we sang "Old MacDonald"; I tried to fake her out. Finally I just thought, "If you are the only thing between her and her fear, and if your presence is the only thing that will allow those sweet blue eyes to close and rest: you need to be here for her. So what if Dr. Richard Ferber doesn't agree with your decision? You're the Mommy." So I crawled into bed with her, hauled her up against me, kissed her forehead, her eyes, her cheeks, her "mouf", and then just breathed into her hair until I felt her relax.
Now Linnea is asleep. M is asleep. And I? I am awake. Wide awake. At 2AM.
Interesting discovery? M apparently ONLY snores when I'm in bed with him.
I HATED jack-in-the-boxes when I was a little kid. Hated them. They scared the shit out of me, because I never ever knew when they were going to pop out of the box. It wasn't until my late 20's that I realized the freaking SONG tells you when the thing is going to pop. For me, it just always seemed so random and frightening. Linnea has a "Rugrats" video, and Chuckie (yay, Chuckie!) calls it a "jerk-in-the-box". That about sums it up right there, doesn't it Chuckie my boy?
I'm just dreading doing our taxes. I've hated this time of year ever since becoming an ordained minister and not having any withholding taken from our checkes. It's always such a freaking huge check to have to write. I'm hoping that several months of unemployment coupled with a job that DOES have taxes withheld makes the bite a little less severe. I'm hoping.
I'm contemplating a career move. Same company, different position, different store. It would mean health insurance for Nea and I. It would mean I could get pregnant again. It would also mean leaving the boss I love and adding a commute to my workday...but all things considered, I think it would be a good move for us.
I spent all day today cleaning our apartment. It had gotten pretty yucky. It's never ever a good sign when you play "What's the Smell?" everytime you walk in the front door. But now the house is clean and sparkling and tidy and smells good. The answers to today's episode of "What's the Smell?" are: WhiteBarn Candle Co. Clover candle and Clean Linen CarpetFresh. A distinct improvement over yesterday's dirty litterbox and styrofoam meat trays in the garbage.
Incidentally, up until just recently, I was a firmfirmFIRM "Yankee Candle" girl. Wouldn't buy anything else. I loved their scent selection, the way the candles burned, etc. But something is wrong with YankeeCandle. I'm not sure why, but their candles don't scent like they used to. Plus, they're getting rid of my favorite scents and keeping things like BUTTercream and rASSberry Sorbet (Like that juvenile humor? It took me a little while to come up with it. I must be getting tired.). So I discovered WhiteBarn Candle Co. I'd tried them before--their candles that smell like Bath and Body Works scents, but hadn't been impressed. I'm still not impressed by those, but their main candle line is dee-vine. Good smells, good scent penetration, burns evenly and melts quickly. I've been converted.
Also good in the candle department? Soy Candles By Sharon. I highly recommend "Twigs and Berries" and something like "Oatmeal and Milk". I'm not too excited by the music that plays on the website, but that's why God invented volume knobs.
We've spent a lot of time lately reading "Once Upon a Potty". For some reason, the opening line ("Hello! I am Prudence's mother.") gives Linnea the chortling giggles. For that reason, we're willing to read it as often as she asks.

And now, I think I'm going to toddle off to bed. I hope I'm tired enough. I hope Linnea doesn't wake up again. And I really hope that you're not also up at 2AM, coming here and reading this. And if you are: we should really both get some sleep.

Long Strange Trip

2006-03-29T15:24:00.000-06:00

So, I'm continuing just getting along--just like all the rest of you, right? That's one of the funny things about grief...you sort of start to think that it's only YOU going through life, but really: it's all of us.

We got the fifth season of "Six Feet Under" yesterday, and this afternoon I totally cheated and watched the last episode. We'd been able to watch most of the season before we moved this summer, but missed the much-hyped final episode and I just. couldn't. wait. And I bawled all the way through it. Well, that's not entirely true. It was more a gentle weeping. No noise, no gasps, no sobs. Just tears on my face. And it was oddly really nice. Of course, now I have to totally redo my makeup before M comes home and either gets all worried about me or figures out I skipped ahead in our show. :)

Yesterday was also a big day in the life of our girl--it was her first trip to the beauty parlor. The first of many, I'm sure, but it was finally time. Her hair was just too long...it would get tangled and she'd get food in it and she's recently developed a strong aversion to bathing so that wasn't much fun. And the girl who can fall out of a swing when it's at it apex, bounce as she hits the dirt and sit up and freaking smile starts screaming like you're ripping her arms off if you hit the teeniest tinyest tangle in her hair. M just leaves them--so that means I got to be the meanie that worked the snarls out of her hair every morning. No more. She is now the proud model of a sleek, sweet bob. She woke up from her nap yesterday and she looked like a drawing by Eloise Wilkin--all rosie cheeked and big eyed. I wonder if parents ever get over that feeling when they see their children--that swift, sharp breathtaking moment when they see their child. I got it this morning when I went in to wake her up. She was so beautiful, curled there in her bed, BabySister Monkey clutched in her little hands, hair all bed-crazy and dandelion fuzzy, her breath so regular and even. And for a moment it felt as though someone had punched me in the gut--her perfection literally drove my breath from my body, and I just hovered over her and adored her.

But it's difficult (if not impossible) to believe that my parents react this way to my 31-year-old self. I've seen me first thing in the morning, and believe me: if any breathtaking moments occur it's because I need a shower and a toothbrush, not necessarily in that order. But at the same time, I can't imagine ever not just glowing when I see Linnea. Not because she's my daughter, although certainly that, but just because she's in my life and she loves me and I love her. I guess I'll tell you how it is in about 29 years. ;)

Spring is starting to creep into the northlands. Nearly all our snow is gone, and the air smells differently. There's a definite spring tang to things. Still no green, but it won't be too long now. I think I'm going to go and open our windows. Air out the stale winter air, and the stale winter funkyblahs, and just feel new life and rebirth and hope blow in on the fresh breeze.

Time Grabs You By the Wrist

2006-03-23T20:54:00.000-06:00

So, we're back. Our unexpected week-long vacation in the PNW was nice--all things considered--and I loved the opportunity to catch up with family members whom I haven't seen in years.

The hardest part? Listening to all the people who came up to tell me what a wonderful man my grandfather was, and what a Good Christian. When they said the words "good Christian" I always saw them capitalized in my mind. Good Christian. And I wondered if they were at the wrong funeral, because my grandfather was a lot of things...but I wouldn't have put "good" in front of any of them.

He was emotionally and physically abusive. He was manipulative. He was horribly cruel, and loved the sense of power cruelty gave him over those who were subordinate to him. He was selfish. He was judgmental. His most favored way of ending a discussion he didn't agree with was with his fist. He never ever told me he loved me. He withheld favor because he liked to see people grovel and turn themselves inside out to get his approval.

My mother is convinced he hated her. I'm not entirely sure she's wrong, though I'd rather die myself than tell her that.

I'm not sure how to go about mouring a man who's death stands to improve my life and the lives of my family so much. I think I'm not mourning the man who died so much as I'm mourning what should have been and wasn't. Many of you made comments to that effect, and I think it was a wise perception--one I wasn't really capable of processing at the time, but in the intervening days has come to make a lot of sense. The statements I make expressing my grief all seem to begin with, "I wish..." I wish he'd been more affectionate, I wish he'd been less rigid, I wish he'd been less of an asshole...all of it. I just wish for so much, and none of it will come true, and now I have to accept that.

But I got to watch my girlchild laugh and play with her cousins, uncles, and grandparents. I got to stay up REALLY late and talk with my mom and giggle like schoolgirls. I got to cry on my dad's shirt. I got to eat crab and smoked salmon. I got to knit and listen to my brothers tell hilarious stories about scrapes they've gotten themselves into and out of. I got to be home in the PNW for a precious week, and gaze at the slopes of Mt. St. Helens and Mt. Hood (clear days! In Portland! In March! Pinch me!). And at the end of it all, I got to walk into M's arms and know beyond a shadow of a doubt that my home is where ever he is, and that as long as the day ends with my head nestled on his shoulder: I've got all I need in this world.

Damn it.

2006-03-14T12:49:00.000-06:00

My grandpa died.

This morning. I have no details. I'm choosing to believe that it was a nice, quiet, peaceful death. In his sleep, the sort of death where he's sleeping he's sleeping he's sleeping and then suddenly he's waking up beside my grandma who died almost six years ago.

But I don't know. All I know is that Northwest still offers bereavement fares (God bless 'em!) but that you have to have a ridiculous amount of information (hospital, coroner, funeral home) in order to GET that fare. Information that I didn't have. But they were so nice and waited until I could track it down.

I just wish I wasn't so freaking SAD. This man who died? He was not your typical grandfather. He was cold. Distant. Didn't really like to talk about loving you. And when he heard I was going to be a pastor, sent me a letter effectively disowning me. I never got the feeling that he liked me very much--even though in my babybook it says that the first time he saw me he said, "She can do no wrong." Plus, I was a girl, and EVERYONE knows that boys are way better than girls, right?

So I'm going around feeling odd because I'm so upset over the death of a man to whom I didn't seem to matter much when I was alive. M said, "It's OK, Babe. He was your grandpa. It's OK to be sad that he's gone." But he didn't much ACT like my grandpa, and then I keep coming back to the whole disowning me thing. I don't know.

I'm freaking Linnea out, because of my crying. She keeps following me around, "Mama? I worried. I love you." and I freak her out further by grabbing her into my arms, holding her close, and bursting into fresh tears. It makes me sad that my grandfather will never get to know this amazing girlchild of mine, who has a heart bigger than any I've ever known.

And it makes me sad that my grandfather never got to know me. 'Cuz I think I'm rather amazing, when I'm honest with myself. And he never once unbent enough to know that. He never once let go of his "you'd be worthwhile if you were a boy" attitude so that he could see that worthiness isn't dependent upon whether a body contains indoor or outdoor plumbing. I'm saucy and brave and independent and opinionated and impudent and passionate--all those things he felt it was inappropriate to be.

But he did call me "Princess". I'll love him forever for that.

Lent, lent, lent, lent, lent

2006-03-03T20:03:00.000-06:00

So, it's here.

Lent.

I have mixed feelings about Lent. Overall, I love it. I love the penetential nature of it, I love the reflection, I love the Passion of it.

But what the church has done with Lent sort of makes me bonkers. This whole "what are you going to give up for Lent?" thing. I've done it. I've done it for many, many years--given up something for Lent. The most memorable one was when I gave up secular music for Lent in college and ruined our Girls Only Spring Break Trip because no one could listen to anything but Christian music when I was around. Gee, that was fun.

I've given up everything--chocolate, fastfood, the snooze button, coffee. I've taken extras on--reading the Bible every day, praying for an hour everyday, telling my brothers I loved them everyday, working out everyday.

And I never ever really got why I was doing any of it. "To teach us about sacrifice and how much Christ gave up for us!" was always the answer. But whether I gave something up or took something on, Lent immediately became about me. And what I was doing, or not doing. And how hard it was for me. And how holy I was because I was sticking to it, or how much I sucked because I wasn't. And on about day two, I'd be counting down the days to when I could go get a latte or listen to something other than Jars of Clay or sleep for another ten, twenty, thirty minutes.

A few years ago, I decided that this really wasn't what I wanted my Lenten observation to be about. I spend enough time thinking about myself. To do the sacrifice or the taking on totally distracted me from the true meaning of Lent: penance. Recognition of Christ's sacrifice on my behalf. And really--is my going without chocolate for 40 days really supposed to compare in any way, shape or form to Christ's suffering on the cross? Am I going to be brought to some deeper understanding of the love of God in Christ Jesus if I make it through 40 days without coffee? It just makes no sense to me at all.

Today, we were having breakfast at our favorite bagel shop. A woman came in and announced that she'd contemplated giving up bagels for Lent, but thought that would be too hard so she gave up something else instead. And I thought, "There it is." If you ARE going to give something up, shouldn't it be something that's difficult for you to give up? Like the hardest thing of all? Because if you aren't willing to give up the hardest thing of all, then why bother giving up anything? If the whole purpose of giving up something for Lent is to teach us in some small way how much Christ suffered for us on the Cross, and we say, "Well, OK, but I can't bear to give up THAT" what's the point of doing it at all? We're just a bunch of hypocrites at that point. Well, at all points, actually. We're just usually better at hiding it.

And if you're going to give up the hardest thing of all, isn't it something that is a blessing to you? And don't blessings (even bagels) come from God? What purpose are you serving in rejecting or sacrificing something God has given you? Is it even practical to give up the hardest thing of all? I'm not sure Linnea or M would be real impressed if I came and said, "I'm sorry, but I'm giving you up for Lent." Because, oddly enough, they are the ONLY things I can think of that would come close to the level of suffering Christ experienced--they are, indeed, my life. To live without them for even a day or two leaves me feeling a bit torn asunder, and as though I'm limping through my days missing the most important parts of me.

So, I don't know. I know that the giving stuff up is a hallowed part of Lenten recognition for millions of Christians the world over. I know that it's so important to some denominations that it's required, while others just offer it as something "fun and different to try". Perhaps it works for some people. I haven't really SEEN it work for anyone, and I was pastor to three congregations that were really big on this sort of sacrificial theology. If people wanted to do it: I didn't stop them. I never recommended it, and I spoke out against it. But it's ultimately up to the person to make the decision.

Me? I'll be observing Lent in my new way. Enjoying the blessings God has given me, whether that's chocolate or coffee or the snooze bar or secular music or shaking my booty with Linnea or curling up under a blanket with M. Thanking God that He loves me enough to shower these blessings down on my head, and offering heartfelt thanks that it's through the blood of Christ that I can come before the Creator of the Universe. Come before him not in fear or dread, but as a beloved daughter. I can crawl in his lap and rest my head on his shoulder and know that forever and always: my Lent is purely ornamental. I have been found and I have been claimed and I am loved from the top of my head to the tips of my painted toenails. And to that, I say thanks be to God.

"Mama? My booty's stuck."

2006-03-03T19:36:00.000-06:00

Thus spake my wee small girl from the backseat of our car.

In a stroke of parental brilliance, I taught her to sing, "Shake shake shake, shake shake shake, shake your booty. Shake yer boo-tay!"* when she dances. Today, as we were driving through Minneapolis she was singing "Shake shake shake...shake shake shake...shake shake shake..." grunt. Then, "I can't. It's stuck. Mama? My booty's stuck."

This comment led to much parental hilarity from the frontseat. Gads, I love being a mom.

So, a quick update. Our my birthday roadtrip was very nearly cancelled when Nea started vomiting on Thursday night. She kept saying she was hungry, so we kept feeding her. Later, we realized this was a huge mistake, as over the course of three hours she proceeded to vomit up everything she'd eaten for at least the last month and a half. She's never thrown up before--even as a baby, she hardly ever spit up. Needless to say: it scared her to death. It didn't help that everytime she felt the need to hurl she tried to crawl into my arms and I kept shoving a bucket in her face.

You feel so helpless when your child is sick. Because on the one hand, you want to be there with them and hold their hair and wipe their face with a cool cloth and hum little wordless, comforting songs and turn their pillowcase (the third one of the night, perhaps) to the cool side. And you do do that. But on the other hand, you're thinking, "Great. Now I'M going to get sick and her DAD is going to get sick and I think she got vomit in my hair and now I smell like puke and I'm really trying hard not to pull a sympathy hurl but it's hard because it smells like puke everywhere in this house, and we're running out of sheets and clean pajamas and all the washers are being used and we should be able to take cuts because of the puke..."

We didn't get sick though. Why? Because I gave my daughter food poisoning. Bad pineapple. It didn't look like bad pineapple. It also didn't look like good pineapple. It was in that nebulous area...not exactly fresh, but it didn't smell or taste bad...just looked a little tired. And she was begging for it. So in an effort to placate her so I could finish dinner, I gave her pineapple. "What harm could it do? It's pineapple! Chock full of vitamins!" What harm could it do, indeed?

Friday she woke up demanding mac 'n cheese and chicken nuddets ("nuggets" for those not fluent in Linneaese) so we figured she was on the mend. So off we went on our road trip. And it was good. It was very very good.

We spent the weekend with one of my best friends in the world--J. Well, actually, she's one of OUR best friends in the world, which is nice because she likes us both and we both like her. It's nice to have a friend of that caliber being dear to both of us so that we don't have to do that married person bartering when one of the couple likes someone more than the other one does. We spent the weekend talking and shopping (ah, retail therapy!) and drinking these lovely little cocktails called "Walk in the Tropics" and eating hint of lime Tostidos with Mrs. Renfro's peach salsa.

Sweet fancy Moses, how I love a quasi-girl weekend!

AND: I managed to find the last copy of RENT available in the greater Green Bay area. It was not terribly surprising that we couldn't find it here, this hotbed of liberality. But I figured Green Bay was coservative enough that I'd be able to find it relatively easily. Not so. We went to Target. ShopKo. BestBuy. KMart. WalMart. It was out EVERYWHERE. We did find the full screen version at KMart, but I thought with all the singing and dancing and whatnot I'd really rather have the widescreen version. I can't imagine watching "La Vie Boheme" in anything less than widescreen glory.

And then, finally, I found it. The last copy of widescreen, tucked away on a back row in Target's entertainment section. It was as if heaven had opened and blessings rained down upon the Beege. It was a glorious sort of brightly lit "Circle of Life" sort of a moment. I'm pretty sure everything went into slo-mo as J and I jumped up and down and high-fived and did a little victory dance (one of the many reasons J so rocks as a friend--she took my RENT quest and made it her own, so her joy in the success was as great as mine was) there in the aisle.

Although, with all due respect to Chris Columbus, I'm not sure I can buy his, "I so loved the stage play and it so spoke to me that I had to make it into a movie" AFTER he chose to cut "Good-Bye Love" AND made it look like Roger knew April had AIDS. Roger didn't know. According to the stage production, "His girlfriend April left a note saying 'We've got AIDS' before slitting her wrists in the bathroom." and then it goes into "One Song Glory". To me that's a key part of why Roger is so resistant to Mimi. Not only did he find his girlfriend dead and floating in blood water, he found out that she had killed him--all in one fell swoop. Who in the hell will trust anybody after that?! And to cut "Good-Bye Love"? That's just insanity. I'm sorry, Chris. But those were bonehead moves in an otherwise fairly well managed stage to screen adaptation. Next time? Come ask me what I think. ;)

*Now, some people might find the whole "2-year-old singing about booty shaking" thing a bit troubling. To them, I offer this: at least I didn't teach her the Milkshake song.

Let's Go!

2006-02-23T12:09:00.000-06:00

So, my birthday is on Monday. The big 3-1.

God. How did it happen that I'm in my 30's? I can remember when my parents were in their 30's. I was barely into my 9s. Now I'M in my 30's. I'm not freaking or anything--I don't feel old, and I don't feel any less desirable than I felt in my 20's. But it's just weird being an age I can remember my parents being. Because THEY seemed old at 30. Not like GRANDPARENT old...just PARENT old. And now: I'm where they were.

To celebrate, we're going on a little roadtrip. Whoo-hoo! I love roadtrips. I always have. I love getting in the car, putting on some good driving tunes and just hitting the road. Of course, now the tunes we listen to are a little less Coldplay and a little more Laurie Berkner, but hey: whatever keeps the 2 ft. tall dictator in the backseat happy. As soon as she falls asleep, it's Mommy and Daddy Music Time.

I had one birthday wish. And that was to get "Rent" on DVD. Do you know how hard it is to find "Rent" on DVD in the Twin City metro area? Damn near freaking impossible. Who knew it would be so difficult?! Certainly not M, who was relieved to hear that my birthday wish list comprised two items: Road Trip and "Rent". So now I'm bummed. Everywhere we went today with the intent of getting the DVD were sold out. Unless we wanted to spend $40 and ALSO get a DVD of "Godspell" (um. No thanks.)

So anyhow. I have that weird "I just wanna get outta here" vibe going on. I haven't left town since October, when I went to the Stonecutter gathering. But because I want so badly to get out of here, I'm bored. Nothing holds my attention. Sure, there are a TON of things I could be doing--cleaning house, cleaning the litterbox, ironing, making beds--but I don't do them. I've been running around on the internet like I have ADD seeking something, ANYTHING that will keep me entertained until it's time for us to leave. Which is why you get this rather flighty, erratic post to entertain YOU in your ADD internet seeking.

Happy trails, partner.

Gimme some sugar!

2006-02-19T21:40:00.000-06:00

So, this week marks my one year blogiversary!

Yep, on February 23, 2005, I lost my blogging virginity and entered this weird and wonderful world that my blog buddy Dennis calls "The Blogosphere" (or something like that). I got into it because of Poppy, who told me I should stop being a chicken shit and just blog fer crap's sake (that might be a paraphrase, but knowing Poppy: probably not).

Along the way I've become a regular reader and commentor on SweetDixiePeach's blog--I'd "known" her for years because we frequent the same bulletin boards, but it was really only through blogging that we really got to know one another, and the admiration I felt for her when we were only bulletin board acquaintances has blossomed into affection for someone who has a world perspective that I truly appreciate. She, more than almost anyone I can think of, gets what love is and what it means to tell someone, "I love you."

The aforementioned Dennis found me. I'm not sure how...he was probably clicking "next blog" and got entranced by me. ;) At any rate, through the months since he first commented, he's also become someone who I think of with affection--I'm always glad to see his name in my comments, and I love, love, LOVE his "Professor" movie quizzes. They are truly addicting, and even MORE fun than answering the questions is when he takes the time to compile everyone's answers and comments on them. He strikes me as a unique individual with a passion that he's able to articulate...I look at movies and the movie industry very differently for having "known" Dennis. I have told him this, and now I'm telling you: he is my favorite movie critic.

I have other blogging friends--Sal, Zoe, Annie, Kara, JessMonster (mmm...Lipstick Granola Cruncher Cookie Goddess!), Cyn, SaraJoy (Young Lady! Get your tuckus over to your blog and give us an update already! Jeez. You'd think you were out traveling the world and having adventures and a life and stuff. You should think of your poor, married, child-having friend Beege who is living vicariously through you and let her know what sort of fun we're having!).
We are all Stonecutters, and so we were friends before, but blogging has let me get to know them a lot better, and in ways that we wouldn't have got to know one another without blogging.

I've also had people take the time to comment on my blog. 98% of the time, I LOVE getting comments from people I don't know, because I love just hearing from people. 2% of the comments: I could live without...but you know, what are you going to do? :) I've been truly humbled at the way that people who have never even met me seek to take care of me, and offer me prayers--that's so totally amazing to me, and I'm really not sure what to make of it. It's such an incredible gift, from someone I don't even know...so, because I'm never sure how to respond: thanks. I've needed it, and I've appreciated it.

Oh! And how can I forget??? I was TOTALLY plagerized! Friggin' Steve Alter!

So, anyhow. What I'm trying to say here is this: I've really loved sharing this year with you. When I started I truly had no expectations that anyone would ever read me, and it wasn't started so that people could. If I HAD started it with that intention, I probably wouldn't have been so candid...but I tend to be a candid person, and once I realized that people WERE in fact reading, I liked having this spot that sort of functioned as a stream of consciousness blog that everybody could have access to. It was nice to have a place to come and emotionally vomit and have people say, "Wow! I know exactly what you mean!" or "Those people are such total wankers!" or "Beege, sweetie, you need to get a grip."

So do me another favor. Because I left y'all alone during National Delurking Week: delurk now, and gimme some sugar! Or if you don't lurk, gimme some sugar anyway! ;)

No, I haven't been assigned

2006-02-19T21:28:00.000-06:00

to the Witness Relocation program, but you'd never know it from this blog.

I've been helplessly sucked into the good-will crack that is the Winter Olympics. Even the ice dancing. Good Lord. SOFTBALL isn't an Olympic Sport but ICE DANCING is?! What kind of world do we live in? And why, please God why, do all the women wear flourescent pink costumes WITH matching flourescent pink lipstick? It's not pretty on ANYBODY, ladies. Really. Trust me. I watched a video at a store meeting a few weeks ago, and some high mucky-muck in the company assured me that I am a "Fashion Specialist", and if you hear it in a company training video it MUST be true, so listen to your sweet Beege: BACK AWAY FROM THE FLOURESCENT PINK LIPSTICK. I'll let you have the costumes if you simply cannot live without them, but I'm going to have to stage an intervention on the lipstick. Particularly if you are a brown-skinned redhead, flourescent pink is DEFINITELY not doing you any favors.

I'm also knitting, and since that takes two hands, it cuts down on my blogging. Nothing exciting. I found some cranberry-colored wool in my yarn drawer, and given the fact that we're struggling to reach freaking ZERO for our daily high temps, decided that what I need to go with my cute new ivory coat (God bless clearance prices and employee discounts on TOP of clearance prices!) is a lovely cranberry wool scarf. Seed stitch, for those of you who are curious. It's cute. Naturally.

Plus, my life just isn't that exciting right now. I had a couple of "churchy" job opportunites that came up and then fell through, and I am SO totally OK with that I'm actually sort of freaking everybody (including myself) out about it. I thought for sure I'd just be crushed...but I'm not. I'm not even slightly bruised.

Which, I suppose, says an awful lot.

Family

2006-02-15T19:05:00.000-06:00

When I was just over three years old, in May of 1978, my grandparents came to our house to visit. It was exciting. My grandma spoiled me terribly, and my grandfather would give me horsey rides on his shoe. Plus, one time? They brought me a CAT. I thought that perhaps this time they'd bring me another cat.

They didn't. They were there to stay with me when my mother went into the hospital to have my younger brother.

At the time (and several times in the intervening years) I think I would have rather had a cat.

My brother and I have always had a volatile relationship. I toed the line, played by the rules, and whenever I even THOUGHT about stepping outside the boundaries--I got busted. Nate LIVED outside the boundaries, and got praised for it. It drove me nuts, and I spent a great deal of time and effort and energy in my growing up years trying to make Nate PLAY BY THE FREAKING RULES ALREADY! Geez. Is it so hard?

But for him, it was. He wanted to do thing his way. And usually doing things his way meant running over me. Which in and of itself was annoying, but to have him do it to the sound of applause? That was hard to take. Add to the fact that my mother has this bizarre blind spot when it comes to him...she can see no wrong in him; has a complete and total inability to do anything other than fawn over him; refuses to hear any criticism of him. It was hard. It IS hard.

So there were big fights. He's pulled a knife on me a time or two, I've used words to make him cry. Different sort of knife, same effect. I didn't like him, I didn't like the choices he made. I didn't like how if he didn't get his way, he went out of his way to make everyone else miserable, and because of that: he almost always got his way. I remember one time we were on vacation and something happened to set him off. He was fifteen, and he STOLE MY PARENTS' CAR and was gone for hours. Nobody knew where he went. When he finally came back: virtually nothing was said. No punishment was enacted. And I thought, "That's it. When Mom and Dad are dead: I won't have this guy in my life anymore. He's too selfish. He's too hurtful. And too much has happened for us to ever get beyond it."

Ever the DramaQueen.

Sunday morning at about 8AM we got a phone call. Phone calls at 8AM are a little iffy anyway, but that early on a Sunday was odd. It was Nate. I answered the phone and he started by saying, "Um, this is Nate. Your brother. I don't know if you've heard, but..." and my first thought was, "Oh shit. Oh shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Somebody died. And if Nate is calling and not one of my parents then it's a pretty good bet that one of my parents died." (Ahem. Drama Queen much?) Which, I'll grant you, is a pretty extreme conclusion to jump to. But it's just that we NEVER talk. We NEVER call. Sometimes, if he's at Mom and Dad's when I call, we'll chat for a moment before handing the phone off...but that's it. Neither one of us has ever picked up the phone and called the other one, just for the hell of it.

Turns out, he was in D.C for a conference last week and got caught in the blizzard. He missed his connecting flight out of Minneapolis, and wanted to know if he could spend the night with us before continuing home on Monday morning. Of course I said yes. Just think of the lecture I'd catch from Mom if I'd said "No." But more than just basic fear of maternal wrath, I realized I WANTED to see Nate. I wanted him to come spend the night at our house and play with Linnea and tell us what's going on in his life.

So at noon on Sunday I picked him up at the airport and brought him home. We had such a great visit! Talked nonstop, he read to Linnea, carried her around on his shoulders when we went out for ice cream--all the stuff a great uncle should do. He bought us dinner, and then we went home and watched the Olympics. It was just a simple, fun, wonderful evening. An unexpected gift. I woke up rather cranky, crampy, and bloated on Sunday morning and his arrival totally saved the day.

We're still not close. We may never be. There's too much stuff between us. But I think maybe we could start from here. Not to say the previous 28 years never happened. But to say, "OK. They happened. They sucked. But we're both grown-ups now. Let's move past this." When I kissed him goodbye at the airport and told him I loved him, I meant it. I wanted to tell him I meant it--that I wasn't just saying it because if I didn't Mom would get mad. I wanted him to know that even though he towers over me by a good foot, he's still my little brother and I will always protect him, even if I think an azz kicking would do him a world of good.

Sometimes family is a source of such unexpected blessing.

As Long As You Show Up

2006-02-09T08:25:00.000-06:00

I've been thinking about faith and religion and God and church a lot lately. Some of it was kicked off by some comments from fellow pastors that happened in the recent past. Some of it was inspired by conversations I've been having the Stonecutters bulletin board. Yesterday, I read this and it got me thinking about it some more.

I wasn't raised in the church per se. I was baptized, and my mother taught me about God and Jesus and I sang "Jesus Loves Me" and my favorite game to play was "Prayer" where I'd put a diaper on my head (????), kneel beside my bed and see how long I could pray, but as far as church-going: we didn't. We didn't because my father was raised Catholic, and my mother was raised conservative Lutheran and neither family could believe their child was marrying the "enemy" and so the way my parents dealt with the issue was to simply not deal with it.

When I was seven or eight, my mother developed some sort of problem in her brain. I'm not sure what it was, even now. We don't really talk about it much. But she was in the hospital for a long time, and Daddy was always with her. The 15-year-old girl from across the street stayed with us all the time, and her parents helped out, too. What I remember of this time was the uncertainty. When you're eight years old, your parents are the world. They are the tallest people you know. They are the smartest. They are the strongest. They are invincible. And one night I woke up and heard my father sobbing...I crept down the hall to their bedroom and touched his shoulder. He looked up and I asked, "Daddy? Is Mommy going to die?" His answer? "She might." And suddenly my entire little world titled wildly off-kilter, and I thought of my infant brother and how I'd probably have to be his mommy now and how sad I was that he wouldn't get to know our mom.

Given the fact that Mum colors my hair and takes care of my daughter when I'm ill: clearly, she didn't die when I was eight years old. Nor eighteen, nor twenty-eight. Keep up the good work, Mum. 'Cuz I'm not any more ready to lose you, and I don't think my world would be any less off-kilter without you in it now than it was 23 years ago.

But what that event did do was get my family in church. We began attending Atonement Lutheran Church in Missoula, Montana. My brothers were baptized. We met Pastor Tom, who had a daughter my age and who I loved and adored beyond belief. We met Pastor King, who was from Tanzania and who talked with this lilting accent that I couldn't hear often enough--I loved listening to him preach and tell stories about Africa. I learned to navigate the Lutheran Book of Worship, and I learned to love the soft "whump" of people closing the hymnal at the end of the service and I learned to love the way the church smelled like birthdays after the acolytes extinguished the candles. I learned to love the aroma of coffee and the buzz of conversation during fellowship time. I memorized all the books of the bible in exchange for a Jolly Rancher bar (the BIG ones...not the tiny little dinky candies). I really liked church. I liked that they gave me a bible--for FREE--and I liked being in the Christmas programs, and I liked that my parents would let me sit with our neighbors, Dick and Dorothy, and their girls because Dick and Dorothy were very indulgent and would let me draw on the back of the worship attendance cards while my mother would make me follow along in the hymnal.

The point being: I have nothing but good memories of the church, up to the point that I decerned a call to ministry and the church affirmed that call and sent me to seminary. From that point on, I saw the dark underbelly of the beast. The backstabbing, the politics, the naked ambition and greed, the lying...and I was shocked. I was shocked that the place I had always associated with the word "sanctuary" was run by these sorts of people. And I was hurt that they justified what they did by claiming it to be "the will of God" when it was clear to everyone around them that it was the will of nobody but them, and they had the power to enforce it over all protests.

This sort of power and abuse was directed against me, as well. I'm not sure why. Perhaps it's chromosomal, perhaps I wasn't properly submissive to someone, perhaps my theology is too threatening, perhaps I wasn't willing to 'go with the flow' and because of that I was 'making trouble'. Without going into details that would bore anyone but me (probably) I will tell you that the Church almost cost me my marriage. A bishop tried to use me to bend M to his will, and the instant that happened, the instant that Bishop chose to further his personal agenda by disregarding not only our love but the vows we took in the house of God: I lost any shred of respect I may have had left for the churchly powers that be. And we were duly punished for that, being sent to rural Kansas to take care of five churches and when we protested were told (rather threateningly) that the only other places they could send us were even MORE rural, so we better shut up and take this if we knew what was good for us. Once in the ordained pastorate, I was able to ignore (to some extent) the politics of the church and just get on with the work God gave me to do. And it went fairly well...until I got pregnant and one congregation (a problematic one, I'll grant you) went into major-meltdown mode and members began sending me emails telling me how selfish I was to want to have a child, and how now I would have even LESS time to take care of them, and how they thought I was totally irresponsible to have done this and how they thought I was a lousy pastor, etc. When it came time for my maternity leave, they tried to make me take vacation instead, because some of the more vocal women in the congregation didn't get maternity leave when THEY had THEIR babies, etc. It was a mess. And I very nearly left. Except I was too pregnant to run away and so I stayed. After Linnea was born, things didn't get any better. The hateful emails continued; my pastoral authority was ignored (nothing like showing up to lead worship and find the entire service different from what you planned); etc. It was not. good. at. all.

And so we got out. Fled, actually, before living there and dealing with those people did any more damage. M retreated to the comparative quiet of theological academics, and I settled into stay-at-home-momhood and then Shopgirldom. And it's been good. I've appreciated the break from living life in the church. And once I stopped HAVING to be in church, I stopped being in church. And the longer we stayed away, I realized just how deep my hurt and disappointment and anger a The Church goes. I'm so freaking bitter...I have friends who have glorious pastorates--no drama, their congregations love them, they have fantastic bishops who bend over backwards to make sure that they have the tools they need to take care of the people. They've never ever been hauled before a council and forced to defend their theological beliefs; they've never seen the things I've seen nor heard the things I've heard and I'm so freaking jealous of that! I had no desire to embroil myself in churchly politics...I just found myself there. And once there, I found myself unable to get out and beaten to a bloody pulp.

I've been angry and resentful for years now. And now a beloved professor, the man who taught me what it means to be a pastor to those suffering in this world and who's lessons I turned to every damn day as a pastor is being "asked" to leave his job. Those doing the asking cite "intellectual intimidation"....they want him to leave because he's SMARTER than they are. And it's all politically motivated...those making the complaint stand to gain much from his dismissal, and the hardest thing to swallow is that one of the main people bringing the complaint was someone who was his trusted friend and collegue. I hope the thirty pieces of silver are worth it for this particular individual.

So anyhow. The point of this incredibly long winded post is this: I've got a LOT of bad feelings when it comes to the organized church. Particularly the denomination in which I am a called and ordained minister of Christ. And I had let these bad feelings color so much of my relationship with God.

We go to church, sometimes. When one of us is in need of the Sacrament, or when we feel guilty for being gone so long. When we miss the rhythm. And when I go and when I sit and I listen to a crappy sermon and I wait and long for the word of the Gospel...I realize that I'm hoping against hope that God will do something to prove me wrong, to negate all my understanding of what the church is, or to do something that will redeem it in my eyes, something that will absolve the azzholes in charge of their wrongdoings. He hasn't. He's got bigger concerns. He's worried about me.

A few Sundays ago, after sitting through a sermon where I literally had to bite my lips so I wouldn't stand up and scream, "Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!"; it was time for the Sacrament and the pastor presiding over Communion quoted Luther's Small Catechism, that the people who can rightly receive are those who believe that "this is the body and blood of Christ, given and shed for you for the forgiveness of sins." and I started to cry. Again.

In all my years in the church (as someone preparing for the ministry and as a professional 'church person') I hadn't seen much to convince me that God was in control of it. The actions that my denomination are taking are against Scripture, and it breaks my heart that the people are being deceived in such a way. It breaks my heart that people who are hungry for the Word of God's love and forgiveness are being given pep talks from the pulpit, "God gives us all talents! Isn't it great? You are a talented person!"

I had fallen into a trap that I've councelled countless people to avoid: don't interpret the actions of the church to be the actions of God. (And good Lord, I could get in some serious trouble for writing that down and publishing it. But it's true, no matter what the boys in charge want to believe or want to supress.) Don't write God off because the church is full of assholes. Don't think that God is any happier about this than you are. Give God a chance to reach you in spite of it all. Because he will. He's wildcrazy in love with you, and he won't let anything (not even the church) keep him from getting to you.

All my anger is rooted in a deep disappointment and hurt that the church has not been for me what I needed it to be. What I want it to be. What I expect it to be. What I know it can be--but probably never will be, at least on this side of the Resurrection. Perhaps you can sympathize. Perhaps you understand the words that I've written, because in some way they mirror your experience with the Church. Or maybe they don't at all, and you're reading, mystified at my story and thinking, "Well, clearly she's not called to be a pastor. A pastor would never ever write--or admit to, at any rate--any of this. If she was truly called, it wouldn't have been so hard." Or maybe you've just skipped this deeply self-indulgent post entirely.

Whatever your response to what I've written, please know this: God is coming after you. He's not going to stop. Your defenses won't even slow him down. Your accusations, your excuses, your need to cradle your hurt close? Don't concern him. He's coming after you with the single intent of making you whole. Of finding those wounded places we all have and we all try and hide and heal them. I know this, because he's doing it to me on a daily basis. It can be scary, to have the attention of the Creator of the Universe focused intently on you, but think of how big the love that motivates it is. Nothing is going to stop him from coming for you, because you belong to him. He won't rest until you're in his arms, and safe.

God. Think of being safe. Sounds like heaven, doesn't it?

Girly Bits

2006-02-06T09:58:00.000-06:00

One of the things I love best about being a mom is finding the various bits and pieces around our house that indicate a little girl lives here.

I love the hair clippies on the end table, the dollbaby in our bed, the pink cowboy boots in the hallway, the hot pink rubber duckie in the bathtub. I love the strawberry-print footie pajamas. I love that we have a canopy bed in our apartment, and I'm slightly jealous that I'm not the one sleeping in it. I love the little lace-edged undershirts we've recently started her in (easier than a onesie when you're potty training).

I look around and I think, yes: my house was more tidy before Linnea. Or rather, the flotsom and jetsam were of a different nature. Even when she was a bitty baby, other than the baby swing and the Boppy there weren't any concrete indications we had a child. Now she's making a mark on her environment. Has been for quite some time. And I love it. I love that I get to share my life and my home with this tiny girl, who adores cleaning and picking up, who steals wipies so she can clean anything in reach, who lets me do her hair and begs me to touch the tip of her nose with my powder puff every morning.

*sigh* I have myself a girly-girl. And life is good.

A Little Story for SuperBowl Sunday

2006-02-05T13:50:00.000-06:00

First of all, before anything else is said, I feel the need to get this off my chest.

*ahem*

GO HAWKS!

I'm not sure how they pulled this off, but for as long as I've been aware of the Seahawks (most of my life, being a native Washingtonian) they've sucked the big one. And now they're good. And I want them to win. Which means they will probably lose.

And now, for the aforementioned story.

The other day, I was at work. We were slamming busy and short-staffed because our district manager was freaking out about payroll. So there's three of us trying to help a store full of people, grabbing stuff from the back room, running to the fitting room, dashing up to the cashwrap.

As I was doing so, I thought, "Wow. It's really drafty all of the sudden. I wonder if they turned on the ventilation system in the mall?" And then I looked down. You see, I had worn a beautiful zip-front white blouse to work that day. I like the zip-front blouse. When you've got boobage like mine, you need to have the zipper to avoid the gapping that is so common with button-front blouses. Normally, it works well.

Until the zipper splits from the bottom up and you realize that you're flashing your DDs to anyone who cares to take a looksee.

Yep. I was the victim of a wardrobe malfunction. I now know that things like that can and do "just happen by accident" because it happened to me. Janet Jackson has my most humble apologies.

FINALLY!

2006-02-03T22:47:00.000-06:00

For some unknown (and no doubt ungodly) reason, I have been unable to access Blogger for several days. It's been driving me batty. So batty in fact, that I took ill.

Seriously. Puking. Crapping. Ill.

I'm not sure what all it was...if it was the flu or if it was food poisoning. I don't much care--as long as Linnea doesn't catch it. The small bit of comfort in all of it was I got sick when my parents were here. It's been YEARS since I've been sick when my mum was around...and she could fuss over me and comfort me like only a mum can. Except mostly what she did was take care of Linnea which was even better than fussing over me. I could lay in bed on sweaty, smelly sheets and pray for death knowing my baby was being well-cared for.

My baby? Excuse me. My big girl.

My big girl who celebrated her SECOND birthday on Monday. Ye gads. I can't believe she's two. We marked the day by having a couple of BMs on the big girl potty and eating chocolate cake. Not, I should point out, at the same time. But both events were momentous in their own rights.

I couldn't help but look at her and think of where I was two years ago...hugely pregnant, uncomfortable, enduring contractions. I can still remember how her little bottom fit into my hand while she was still in my belly...her rump was at the top of my belly, and made such a great hand rest for me, as I was constantly touching and caressing my bump. I can remember the way I could feel her back through my stomach...and how when she was restless at night, I would rub her back through my skin and hum lullabies to her and she'd calm down. I remember the first night she existed free of me, and the nurses brought her in to nurse and one time I couldn't get her to stop crying, so I paged the nurses and said, "She won't stop crying!" and they said, "OK. We'll be right there." but they didn't come, and I figured out how to make her stop crying and at first I was pissed at the nurses because I DIDN'T KNOW WHAT I WAS DOING, and then I realized that I was only going to figure out motherhood by doing it, and then I was grateful that they didn't rush right in to make it all better.

I remembered how I tore, and M was convinced that I was going to die because of it. It was such a minor thing, no one (including me) thought to tell him it was a minor thing. He spent the first 24 hours of his daughter's life convinced that I was going to bleed out and he'd be left alone to raise her.

I remembered waking up my first morning as a mother to the sound of my beloved ones "talking" to one another. M had Linnea swadled and propped on his thighs and she'd squeak and he'd squeak back...it went on for several minutes, and I loved every single one of them.

I remembered curling up on M's chest with Linnea also on M's chest and the two of us falling asleep while M held us. It was one of the most impossibly sweet moments of our life as a family.

I remembered how when we took Linnea in for her 1 week check-up, the doctor told us she was jaundiced and we had to go back to the hospital to get a billirubin test. They had to prick her heal and get what seemed to be a LOT of blood from her. My mother was there and she offered to hold Linnea while the nurse poked her, and I almost took her up on it. But then I realized that I AM THE MOMMY, and as such, I needed to be there for my baby no matter what. No matter how much I didn't want to hold her while she got poked, I just couldn't abandon her to her grandmother while I waited in the hall. I sucked it up and we both did fine. But it was at that point that I understood what a difficult vocation I had taken up...willingly. Begged for it, even. Pleaded with God to make me a mother. Charted my BBTs and monitored my cervical mucus (if you have to ask, you don't want to know). I put so much effort and planning into becoming a mother without ever having a single clue of what it would require of me.

I look at my sweet baby, now. Sleeping in her big girl bed with the rainbow canopy. Monkey still clutched in her hands. Today we went antiquing with her grandparents and she was pushed beyond what she could bear...wouldn't tolerate being near anyone but me. And I got really tired of that, because I wanted to be able to wander and look at antiques and not worry about what sorts of expensive pretties were within her reach. But I realized something. Something important. Something that I will forget in times of exhaustion or frustration or boredom. But something that I know I will be reminded of over and over and over again in my lifetime as a mother.

My heartbeat and my rushing blood were the first things she ever heard. My voice was the first sound to penetrate her world and let her know that she wasn't alone. I was there when she was born. When she was pushed from a warm, dark, safe place into a cold, bright, frightening place: I was there, and my voice comforted her. When some strange woman stabbed her in the foot and pushed and pushed and pushed to get a blood sample: I was there, and I held her and told her she'd be OK. When doctors gave her shots, when she's fallen and scraped her knee, when she got stung by a wasp, when she cut her lip on a moving box, when she wakes up scared in the night, when she doesn't feel good and her ears ache: I'm there and I hold her close and just by being there, I comfort her. When monsters lurk in the closet and under the bed and in her dreams, my unconcious body laying beside hers is enough to let her "lie down in peace and sleep".

Linnea feels about me the way I feel about my mom.

It seems simplistic. It seems like a "Well, duh!". But for me, it's a revelation. Whenever something is going wrong in her life, Linnea wants and needs me to be there for her. Whether I can do anything about it or not, I somehow make it better just because I'm there. It's no small responsibility. But this wee girl with the blonde curly hair and the huge blue eyes and the single dimple that flashes when she smiles has made me a better person than I ever could have been without her. She's made me a mommy. She's made me HER mommy. I can never go back to who I was before she came into my life, and I wouldn't want to.

Happy Birthday, Sweet Girl. Mama loves you like crazycakes.

Million Dollar Baby

2006-01-23T08:42:00.000-06:00

Lately, Linnea has been getting in trouble at school.

She pushes, or pulls hair, or scratches. I find this troubling, because it's behavior she learned from watching the other children at school. She doesn't see this behavior modeled at home. It's something she learned there--and part of me gets a little annoyed at the teachers for coming down on her for a behavior that she learned while THEY were in charge. Now, realistically and rationally, I know that yes, she learned it there and no, the teachers don't like that the children do that and yes, they discipline all the children who hit or push or bite or scratch because that sort of behavior can't be tolerated.

But there's part of me that wants to point out, "You know, I didn't GIVE you a pusher/scratcher/hair puller. She became that under YOUR watch. Not mine." It's like loaning a new car to someone and finding out they put a ding in your door. It's not the end of the world, it's not even worth fussing about, but all the same: your car isn't as nice anymore.

So, being an inquisitive mother, I asked Teacher Susannah what sort of events were precipitating these outbursts from my generally remarkably laid-back daughter. Turns out, other kids were annoying her--trying to cut in line for the slide, trying to take a toy away before she was done playing with it, or THEY were hitting/pushing/hair pulling/scratching/biting her to begin with. None of the instances of Linnea's aggression were unprovoked.

And rather than being annoyed, I started to feel stirrings of pride. I LIKE that Linnea doesn't let herself be pushed around. I LIKE that she fights for what she sees as hers (and right now, that's freaking everything). I LIKE that she stands up for herself and for her rights, and that when she's playing by the rules ("Children! Wait your turn in line for the slide!") and someone decides they are above them she gives them a wallop--they can break the rules on somebody else's turn. And I like that when somebody attacks her, she doesn't just sit there and take it, or tell on them. She gets right back in their face and gives it back to 'em, telling them with her actions (and probably verbally as well), "If you can't take it, then don't dish it out, azzhole."

I've given birth to this gloriously scrappy young girl, and I couldn't be prouder. Of course, if she exhibits her aggressive behavior at home we'll have to say something. She can't walk around pounding people who do her wrong all her life. It's just not socially acceptable, and there will come a point where regardless of what started the fight, the fact that Linnea finished it physically will not be well looked-upon. I have to show her ways to channel that scrappiness into more appropriate ways to defend herself and others (granted, she hasn't showed any interest in defending other yet, but she's two. Give it time.). I love that it's there. I'm not too terribly concerned about a toddler who fights back the only way she knows how. I just have to make sure that nobody takes that from her.

They say that in Kansas...

2006-01-18T08:06:00.000-06:00

...if you listen hard on a summer night, you can hear the corn grow.

Even after living in Kansas for three years, even after early summer nights out on the front porch watching the fireflies flicker in the darkness, a cold beer in my hand and M's arm slung around my shoulders, I have never heard the corn grow.

But I swear to God: I should have been able to hear Linnea grow.

She's always been tiny. Like in the bottom 10% for her age group. Until just recently, she was wearing clothing that was six months "younger" than she was. The other day, she was complaining that her toes hurt, so I took off her shoe and: she had blisters on her toes from where they rubbed against the end of her shoes. That should have been my first clue. We went out, bought her some new shoes. This morning, while trying to get her dressed for school, pants that fit the last time she wore them (like two weeks ago, tops) are now Urkel pants on her. Tops that were lose and tunic-y are now tight. It's crazy. It's her first official growth spurt--up to this point, her growth has been steady, but slow. After almost two years of "slow and steady" we've been totally caught off guard by the fact that God suddenly dosed her with some Miracle Grow.

Her arms and legs are long and smooth...no more sweet baby chunkiness. Her face is lengthening. She's a little girl now. I beg your pardon: a big girl. ;) She's growing and learning so much!

The other day, we were sitting in the car waiting for M and she crawled into my lap in the front seat (we were waiting about a half hour). She said she wanted to "dwive", so I scooched the seat back and let her go. Except that she grabbed the keys, chose the correct key, put it in the ignition, and promptly grabbed the windshield washer arm and threw it into what would have been drive if it had been the gear shift. Good Lord. She's not even two. I bet by the time she's three she's stolen the car and gone joyriding. All she needs to do is figure out where the actual gear shift is, and that the key has to be turned in the ignition.

She's not my baby anymore. She's well on her way to being a grown-up, whether I'm ready for it or not. When I check on her at night before I go to bed, I marvel at how much she fills her crib now...before, she just filled maybe a quarter of it. Now it's over half. The other half is filled with her dollbabies, monkeys, stuffed animals, various blankets and pillows that she canNOT be expected to sleep without. I rub her back and touch her head and think, "Slow down a little bit, OK? Not much. Just a little bit, for your poor mother who had no idea all this would go so fast."

Burnt Ends

2006-01-10T14:31:00.000-06:00

I have been told by barbeque affecienados (mainly the one I'm sleeping with) that the term "burnt ends" refers to the little pieces parts that are left over after the barbequed meat has been sliced and consumed. It's usually absorbed a fair amount of the smoke, so if you like that sort of thing: burnt ends are the very best part of barbeque.

This entry sort of feels like burnt ends to me. Not necessarily that it will be the best, but that it will be chock-full of all the little things that have been floating through my head long after bigger things have been taken care of.

Today is M's birthday. He's 33. I'm making him a birthday beandip, since he doesn't really like cake. I'm going to put a little Batman figurine on top, and candles. Right now, he's away getting a massage--M, not Batman. This morning, after handing him his gift I said, "How much do I love you that I'm letting some other woman rub you down for an hour?" He said, "How much do you love yourself that you're PAYING some other woman to rub me down for an hour so you won't have to?" Which is a good point. He likes deep tissue massage--I'm not strong enough to do that for very long. So: Happy Birthday to M, and Happy Day to me--my man is getting a massage.

Part of the celebration included spending a chunk of time at Barnes&Noble this morning. Linnea and I headed for the children's section and picked out a stack of books, then adjourned to the Cafe for iced tea and an apple juice and looked at books, practiced counting, talked about flowers, etc. so that M could wander the stacks without being impeded by two whiney women. We ended up having a great time! I wasn't so sure--she'd been cranky for so much of the morning, I was about ready to just send M out on his birthday adventures without us. I'm glad I didn't.

I feel like I'm coming to some sort of crossroads in my life. The winds of change are starting to blow, but I don't know yet what direction they're coming from or where they'll direct me. I'm not particularly anxious about this...but a bit nervy. Just the not knowing of it all. Something needs to change on the jobfront. I love it, and I love my boss, but I'm just not bringing enough home for us to live on. We could live on it. But we'd be eating Ramen noodles and mac 'n cheese by candlelight with the thermostat set on 55. I don't want to live like that. I don't want Linnea to live like that. I want us to be able to DO things...afford things...I don't need a lot in life, but I need more than what we have now. There are churches I've spoken with, there's another SUPER exciting possibility that I'm waiting for word on, and the manager of our store in the Mall of America is wanting me to come work full-time for her. All of which are excellent, exciting possibilities...but no one has actually come forward and made a firm offer...it's all just murmurings at this point. So while I feel pretty confident that at least one of the possibilities will work out, it's the not knowing which one that makes me nervy.

I stumbled upon a new blog today, while mindlessly clicking 'next blog'--it's called AliThinks, and I really like how Ali thinks. She had an idea that she got from someone else about toasting the new year by putting the title and first line of the first blog entry of every month of the past year. I think I got that right. Anyhow, without further ado, here is Beege's BlogYear in Review:

February 23, 2005: Be Gentle
So...here I am.

March 1, 2205: Did I say I was having a bad day? 'Cuz really: I had no FREAKING idea.
After the 'rents left, and after medicating myself with the first disc of KOTH season 3, I went outside to get the mail.

April 1, 2005: Strangely Sad
As I sit and watch the coverage of the Vatican on MSNBC, I'm struck by how sad I am that John Paul is dying.

May 7, 2005: In the paraphrased words of Ben Franklin
I don't know how it happens.

June 1, 2005: Baby's feeling better, Maba feels like shit
Praise be to God, who allowed some brilliant medial researcher to invent the elixer that is Omnicef!

July 1, 2005: It's PreacherBeege, coming to you LIVE from...
...her brand fucking new computer!!!!!!!

August 3, 2005: Moving Boxes: 6 Beege: 0
Blaaaaaaagh.

September 2, 2005: Keep your fingers crossed...
...'cuz I just applied for a job

October 1, 2005: DEFINITELY much too early in the game*
I love Christmas.

November 3, 2005: Never a Dull Moment...
...so, just as I was feeling pretty good about my new job, and how happy I am to not be pastoring right now, etc. I get a phone call from churchly higher ups, wondering if I'd like my paperwork to be sent to a congregation.

December 3, 2005: If there is anything more breathtaking...
...than my daughter with snowflakes trapped on her eyelashes, I don't know what it is.

My year in a nutshell--and I'm only 10 days late. Happy New Year, y'all!

Taking Care of me and the Girls

2006-01-04T09:22:00.000-06:00

Yesterday I did a MAJOR splurge.

I went and bought three new bras. I was inspired in my bra shopping by an article I read in an ancient O Magazine that I found in the breakroom at work. It suggested that the vast majority of women were wearing the wrong bra-size. I was confident that I was not, because I have had professional fittings done many, many times. But the girls were looking tired. And droopy. So I found the website of the store featured in the article and they suggested that I try dropping a band size (around the ribcage) and going up a cup-size. Doing so brings me to truly porn-star proportions, but damn if the girls don't look better than they have since before I was pregnant. The girls win, I win, and most importantly: M wins. ;)

Then I went and had my hair cut and colored. I hadn't had it colored since freaking MAY, so it was beyond time. But it's so expensive that I just kept putting it off and putting it off, convincing myself that my hair didn't look THAT bad (oh, but it did.). But my parents are coming to visit at the end of this month, and while I'm so excited for their visit that I don't know how I'll wait 'til the end of January for it to happen, at the same time: whenever my hair needs color when Mom comes to visit, she offers to do it for me. I've mentioned before that Mom is of the belief that if one is going to go blonde, on may as well go as blonde as possible. Makes sense, right? If your hair is naturally a dark blonde, then platinum will look GREAT, right? Heh. So rather than having to go through all THAT again, I told M I just want to have my hair colored before they get here and then it won't even have to come up.

And I love it! I finally had a stylist listen to what I wanted (rather than looking at the color that was already there and think, "Well, let's take her really blonde!") and now I have a darker blonde base (much closer to my natural color, which will hopefully cut down on the 'white trash root factor') with golden and honey and caramel streaks. It's lovely. It's good with my skin tone. It's shiney and soft and wonderful. And I'm thinking of naming our next child "Tracy" as a token of my gratitude.

I need to be better about taking care of myself. I work an insane job (that I love); if I'm not at work I'm being mom to an insanely active toddler (whom I adore beyond all reason); if I'm not being mom I'm being a super-supportive wife to an insanely busy husband (who rocks my world in ways both small and big). But where does that leave me? I hardly have time to blog anymore, which I miss terribly. I'm not really reading anything because by the time I fall into bed at night I'm so tired I just want to sleep. I'm not really doing anything to take care of me. I need to be better about that. My friend Cyn was talking about that--how it doesn't have to be a big splurge, but maybe just taking the time to take a bubble bath or treating oneself to a mocha, or turning off "Blue's Clues" so that one can listen to good music (I'm extrapolating here, but you get the picture). There's a huge amount of wisdom in that. I'm going to try and do better.

In other splurgey news: we bought some furniture for our anniversary. We've been needing new DVD/CD storage...our CDs are currently stored in a very nice tower. A very nice, very toddler accessible tower. And our DVDs are stored in these horrendously ugly faux bamboo cabinets that M has bolted together to form this tall, precarious tower of DVD storage fugliness. So we bought ourselves a lovely media cabinet--hard to find, as we already have a media armoir that we love, and that houses every damn piece of electronic equipment we can squeeze inside. Almost everything was part of another armoir. But we finally found a great storage cabinet, with DOORS.

And then, on our way out the door, we saw a gorgeous, standing jewlery chest. I think that most standing jewlery chests are ugly--or rather, just not a style I'd ever want to have in my house. But this chest was done in the mission style, with the same finish and hardware as our bedroom set. We wavered and debated, and finally M said, "I'm really afraid that this is one of those pieces we'll let go, and plan to pick up later, but we won't be able to find it again. I've been looking at getting you one of these for years, and this is the only one like this that I've seen." Since that was pretty much my feeling about it, too, we went for it. Since he's started making joo-ry, my collection of baubles, bangles, and beads has increased exponentially. Plus, I'm picking up some sweet deals with my employee discount. My little wooden box is no longer sufficient, and I'm starting to lose pieces because there's just not enough room for everything to have a home. This will fix that, and I'm SO excited about it. Now I just have to find a space for the chest.

At the calling of your hearts

2005-12-30T13:28:00.000-06:00

Six years ago today, I donned an ivory satin wedding dress--the most amazing dress I've ever owned--slapped on a garter, and making sure I had my something old, something new, something borrowed, and something blue: walked down the aisle to marry my best friend.

It was a modest ceremony--small, candlelit, and held in the sanctuary of my home church. We were surrounded by our closest friends and family. I remember turning to him to say my vows, expecting that I'd be a weepy mess. Indeed, I had a freshly monogrammed handkerchief clutched in my hand, just in case. But instead, when my eyes met his, I knew I wasn't going to cry. I wasn't going to weep delicate bridal tears. Everything in me rushed forward to this man, every particle of my self wanted to be with him, this was not a sad moment, or a bittersweet moment, or a moment that was so happyfying that I had to cry. It was simply the proudest, best, most certain moment of my life and I spoke my vows loudly and clearly, beaming up at him, trying to tell him with my eyes that there was not one particle of doubt or hesitation or wondering on my part.

When I look at our wedding album, and see how young we looked...how much more hair M had...the innocence on our faces...it seems odd. We were looking out at our future like bridal couples do: certain that their happily ever after is just waiting around the corner. Those two people in the glorious clothing had no inkling of the things they'd have to face in their lives together, or the forces that would conspire to tear them apart. They had no foreshadowing of the silly arguments, the misunderstandings, or the amount of WORK that being married would entail.

But on this side of the picture album, I sit. In my jeans and sweater, I turn the pages and look at the young woman in her satin dress and her guazy veil, her blond hair ringleted within an inch of it's life, and I can barely remember her. I marvel that we thought, on that day, that we knew one another as completely as we ever could. We couldn't imagine that we could ever be closer than we were that day. On this side of the picture album, I know intimately just how much this marriage has cost us, and how much it has given us. I know exactly how much work it has been, and based on past experience have a fairly good estimation of how much work it will be in the future. I know that fights happen, and they're almost always over something stupid and SO not worth fighting over. I know that sometimes: they're not over something stupid, and they are 100% worth fighting over.

On this side of the picture album, I look at my husband, sprawled on the couch eating leftover pizza and watching "Judge Mathis" on the television. He has less hair and more belly than he did on our wedding day. I have the same amount of hair and stretch marks on my belly. We've been through so much together...I wasn't sure we'd survive all of it. But we have. On this side of the picture album, we're a far cry from the people we were six years ago today. But I wouldn't trade a moment of it.

When we first met, a friend of ours told me that she thought it was absolute bullshit that people love each other more everyday. She was of the opinion that love is finite, that you can love someone alot, but that there is a limit. She is wrong. This is a man who knows me better than myself, who loves me without question or reserve. He has seen me poop on a table and heard me scream while giving birth and is still able to tell me I'm the most beautiful thing he's ever seen and mean it. We have laughed together and cried together. We've shouted at each other, and we've shouted at others on behalf of our beloved. He is "simply my best time, my sweetest laughter". The love we have is too big to be measured or quantified. Because of him, bad times aren't so bleak and good times are all the sweeter. With him, I have come to the wonderful understanding of the biblical concept of One Fleshedness. When I am apart from him, part of me is gone, also. Where ever he is, is where I want to be.

What we have struggled for, built, dreamed of, and fought for is so much more than I ever imagined marriage would be. It is our sanctuary when the world gets to be too much; our tent of celebration into which we welcome our beloved ones. It is the best thing in my life.

Come what may, Babe.

Baby Steps

2005-12-24T11:09:00.000-06:00

A year ago today, Linnea took her first steps.

We missed them, as we were off ranging most of north eastern Kansas doing Christmas Eve services, and yes: I'm bitter about that.

But as I was snuggling with her this morning, as I gave her her bath and blew dry her hair, as I played "kiko" ('tickle' in Linneaese) and listened to her tell me all about her day I sort of got to thinking about how much she's grown and changed since taking those first shaky steps last Christmas Eve.

She's lost the baby compactness...she's all arms and legs, and when I carry her it is mildly disconcerting to feel where her little feet hit. They used to be up by my waist...then just below, then my hips. Now they smack me in my thighs almost at my knees. Her steps are no longer hesitant. Instead of needing to hold onto my hand for balance, she's ready to run...I think sometimes I insist she hold my hand for my own comfort as much as for keeping her from dashing somewhere she shouldn't. This time last year were were absolutely enraptured by her little sounds and coos and her two teeth. Now we have a very verbal little girl with a mouthful of teeth who spends her days chattering away.

As I look back at the pictures of last Christmas, I am amazed because last Christmas we had a baby. This Christmas we have a little girl. And I rejoice and mourn that at the same time. A mixed bag, I suppose, as all of motherhood seems to be. Or rather than "mixed bag" maybe I should say "bittersweet". I wouldn't trade where we're at for anything...but I miss what we've left behind.

And now, gentle reader, I leave you so that I can spend more of my Christmas Eve snuggling with my little chatterbox. 'Cuz we as fast as she's growing up, I wouldn't be a bit surprised if this time next year she's married. *sigh*

2005-12-21T11:29:00.000-06:00

So, I've been re-reading The Chronicles of Narnia ever since the movie came out and all the hype has been around. I haven't seen the movie (having apparently traded having any sort of social life in exchange for motherhood--a trade that I was unaware of, but would make again in a heartbeat), but on many of the 'boards I frequent, people are talking about it.

On one, there is fierce debate about whether or not Wardrobe (and, indeed, all the Narnia books) are to be read strictly as Christian allegory, or whether they can simply be a fantasy series for children. Personally? I could care less how one chooses to read the books. But, at the same time, I cannot read them without the Gospel stories at the back of my mind. I wonder how one would enjoy the stories (muchless love them) if one only read them as a fantasy story, rather than allegorically. I can't do it. I can't separate them.

It's Christmas time. One of the scriptures we sometimes read (I don't know if we read it this year or not, since I'm not preaching) speaks of the names of Jesus--Prince of Peace, Wonderful Counselor--and between having that running through my head, and the extra Narnia emphasis, it's brought to mind one of my own personal favorite names for the Messiah.

Lion of the Tribe of Judah.

Reading Wardrobe as I do, I can't help but think that this particular name was the inspiration for Aslan. But long before I knew of the wonderful world of Narnia, this name spoke to me...as though when I whispered this name, the bearer of this name whispered my own name back. For as long as I can remember, this has been the name I call upon when I am at my most desperate; most lonely; most frightened; most needing of protection or assurance.

As odd as it may be, I seem to have a fleeting memory of this lion...the scent of his mane, the way it feels against my face, the smooth warmth of his sides, the crushing gentle strength of his paws. I know that at times when I've been too spiritually beaten down to even pick my face out of the dirt, I've felt this lion standing over me. When I'm kept awake at night by various and sundry fears that I can do nothing about, I can sometimes lull myself to sleep by pretending that I'm resting against the lion...and sometimes: it seems too real to be imaginary.

Now, perhaps those who read Narnia as simply a great fantasy yarn would scoff at me. Or perhaps they wouldn't. Perhaps I'm crazy--a deluded Jesus Freak who can't deal with reality so she fabricates an imaginary lion to deal with it for her. Or perhaps I'm not.

At any rate, my prayer for you is that this Christmas is a blessed time for you--whether you too come and celebrate the birth of the Christ, or whether you celebrate the Solstice, or whether it's Hannukuh or Ramadan, or whether you choose to worship at the altar of American consumerism--I pray that even for just a moment, you can have peace. That you can feel safe and cared for. And that, perhaps, through the dark times in life, you hear the silent paws of the Lion padding along beside you.

Odd Ponderings

2005-12-19T22:35:00.000-06:00

So there are a few things that have been running around in my head lately. I'll share some.

*I'm not sure why the Christmas CD we play at work has the Mexican Hat Dance on it. It's very odd. The music is playing, it's nice, it's Christmas, it's Christmas, it's Christmas, suddenly it's happy hour at Paco's Cantina, then it's Christmas, it's Christmas, it's Christmas again. It's guitar instrumental music, but it SOUNDS like mid-recording session some rogue mariachi band broke in and wrecked the tape, and the suave and sensitive guitar players were like, "Screw it. Leave it in there." It makes absolutely no sense whatsoever.

*There's a phenomenon happening on women's heads around here. It's not a new phenomenon by any means, but since I've been spending more time with more women lately, I've been made aware of it in a whole new way. I've christened the phenomenon "Minnesota Hair". Women who take their fine (usually thin, but not always) hair and tease the ever-living hell out of it, swirl it around on top and then schelack it into place with copious quantities of hairspray. It is never a flattering look, but many, many women are wearing it. (Note: Minnesota Hair is different from Kansas Hair in that Kansas Hair is usually permed, then teased, then schelacked. I know this because I witnessed the creation of Kansas Hair many a time while getting my hair cut at Kay's Kut and Kurl. I'm SO not making that up.) Today there was a woman in the store who looked like she had an electrocuted airdale living on her head, and it was such a refreshing change from Minnesota hair I didn't even stop to think how silly it looked. Well, until now.

*Linnea made us our first Christmas present. It's a clay pot. Yes, dear readers, the Beege has received her first clay ashtray art project from her child. It's a major milestone for the both of us. Granted, the teachers called them "pots", but let's call a spade a spade: it's an ashtray. And I adore it. Right down to the crumpled and torn and tape-wadded way she wrapped it. It's an ashtray, but it's MY ashtray, so don't knock it.

*I think if I have to watch "Finding Nemo" one more time, I'll lose it. I suppose the saving grace is that Linnea has not decided to "speak whale"--yet---since she's still mastering English. But the day is coming, my friends. The day is coming.

*Does it make me a bad pet owner that when my beloved husband tells me he suspects the cats have worms, my response is NOT, "Let's call the vet and get them dewormed." but, "Good, now maybe the 20 pounder will finally lose some weight."?

IN OTHER NEWS

I had an interview with a church the other night. It went well. In being there and visiting with the committee, I realized that there is a LOT that I love about being a pastor, and that it fulfills me in a way that nothing else has. As I visit with other pastors, I realize that the load I was asked to carry in Kansas was a ridiculous amount to expect of anyone, muchless someone fresh out of seminary and a young wife and mother to boot. I feel the massive chip on my shoulder (that's lived there for years at this point) starting to erode away...it helps to have other "people of the cloth" say, "Wow. What you had to do? That was a load of crap. I would have told the bishop to shove it." Because when you're in it, and as isolated as we were? You don't know. You lose some perspective. You start to think that being a full-time pastor for three individual congregations with no other staffing support is really NOT that much to ask, and you're a freaking pussy for not being able to hack it. Until you talk to someone who has been a pastor for decades and they tell you they would have never been able to last as long as you did in that situation. It helps me, anyway. Enough so that I can at least contemplate entering the door of a church as a pastor, without running away screaming and crying and rending my clothes. It's a cautious contemplation, I'll grant you. But at least it's contemplation. At this point: I'll take it.

Quiet Day

2005-12-18T16:15:00.000-06:00

Today is a (blessed) day off. Work has been so crazy...yesterday we had all four registers going non-stop and STILL the line of people waiting to buy stuff was nearly out the door. Even though people are mostly nice and in pretty great moods (and those that aren't tend to get jollied out of it while in our store, onnacounta we're so friendly and all): it is still completely exhausting, so that the one or two people who ARE Christm-asses sort of hit you and you're not really sure how to deal with them.

You live for your time away.

Today has been quiet. We cleaned the house this morning, and Nea is in the midst of a killer 3-hour nap. In fact, I should go wake her up so we're not up until midnight with our wee girl. We've got Christmas music on the radio, and we're just hanging out. Puttering around. Doing little chores that have been on the "To Do" list forever (and, apparently included on the 'To Do List' was watch 'Empire Strikes Back' and doze off since that's how I spent about two hours of my Sunday afternoon).

*sigh* It's good to be home.

"I tasted the snowing!"

2005-12-14T16:19:00.000-06:00

Today was Linnea's day school Christmas program. It was wild, chaotic, disorganized, poorly acted, and about the best damn thing I've seen in a long time.

I was so entranced by my daughter. I'm so used to just thinking of her as an extension of my self...first as a distended belly preceeding me into the world, then at my breast, and then in my arms, and now pulling at my arms as we hold hands.

But she's her own little person...who knows things that I don't. Who knows songs and dances that I didn't teach her. Who kept escaping from the teacher in order to stand center stage in her cow hat and beam at the audience. Who, when the assembled parents burst into rapturous applause, glowed and then clapped back. Who is fast blossoming into this creature that I'm insanely proud of, and who I can't see what sort of woman she becomes, and at the same time: I want her to stay little forever.

We were standing beside the car after the program, waiting for M to adjust the car seat, and Nea began to shout, "MAMA, I love you! Mama, I LOVE you! Mama, I love YOU!" And then she tipped her head back and caught snowflakes in her mouth. With a look of absolute joy, she announced, "I tasted the snowing!"

And me? I tasted the blessing.

A Magical Dinner Encounter

2005-12-13T07:25:00.000-06:00

Yesterday I picked Linnea up from dayschool and then went to pick up dinner from our current restaurant fave "Big Bowl". Linnea loves their chicken satay, rice and potstickers, and we're all a little too hooked on their homemade ginger ales.

As I carried Linnea toward the bar to pick up our bags of take out, who should be sitting just outside the bar area? Santa. I swear to God. Not your typical department store Santa in the angel-hairy wig and beard and red and white outfit with a pillow rounding out his mid-section. This particular gentleman had long white hair and a long white beard, that were clearly his own. He had on black pants and boots, a white flowy shirt, and black suspenders decorated with holly and ivy. He was not a fat man, but no "extra" padding was necessary to fill out his tummy. He was wearing silver half-glasses, and enjoying a heaping helping of stir fry.

When he saw Linnea, his entire face lit up and he said softly and gently, "Well, hello there, sweet tiny girl! How are you today?"

We haven't told Linnea much about Santa...not for any reason, but just because we figure there's time yet to get into all of that. She's just now figuring out Christmas trees. But lemmetellya: She was enraptured.

"Who dat, Mama?"
"Why, that's Santa Claus, Baby."
(in a dazed way) "Danta Cwas."
"Mmm-hmm."

I walked away with a smile at the gentleman, leaving him to his Chinese food, and collected my family's supper. As we walked away, I paused just long enough to say, "Can you say 'Merry Christmas' to Santa?"

"Mewy C'mas, Danta." she whispered.
"Merry Christmas to you, too, little one."
I thanked him, wished him a Merry Christmas, and left. Linnea with dinner-plate eyes watched him for as long as she could (thank God they are no longer weeping puss so that this action was a whole lot more appetizing for Santa than it would have been this time last week).

When we got home, I told Linnea to tell Daddy who we saw at the restaurant. Without missing a beat, she turned to M and said, "Bobby Hill."

Snort. She's so crushing.

But then she shook her head, dimpled, and said, "No, Daddy. Danta Cwas!"

God Bless this man for taking a few moments out of his dinner to spread the Christmas magic to my little girl. He didn't have to do it, I wouldn't have intruded on him, but he said hello to her first, and in doing so gave her her first experience with Santa that wasn't scary, wasn't somehow fake, and had nicely-scented Chinese food breath. He was magic. Thank you, Santa Claus.

Oof. Blga.

2005-12-07T17:04:00.000-06:00

We've been sick.

Monday at work, M called me and said Linnea had been sent home from dayschool because she was sick. They didn't even let him collect her lunchbox or anything--just sent them scurrying out the back door before the presence of my daughter infected anyone else.

What was the problem? She was oozing puss from her eyes. Pretty, no?

We immediately took her to the doctor, and he said, "The reason she's oozing puss from her eyes is because she's got a raging sinus infection and a double ear infection. Are you SURE she hasn't been acting any differently?"

Um, NO. She's been acting like herself (oozing puss notwithstanding)...sleeping through the night, not at all feverish, a bit clingier than normal, but we attributed that to my going back to work. So I'm sitting in the pediatrician's office, listening to him go on and on about how it's one of the worst infections he's seen and he can't believe that we let it go this long, etc. and I'm feeling like the worst. mother. ever. What kind of mother doesn't notice that her child is incubating the Puss Wielding Infection from Hell until the puss has to leak out of her precious blue eyes?! What kind of mother just doesn't see that?! I should have known, should have seen, should have--I don't know--known how to whip up some puss-defeating homerem that would have rendered the entire trip to the unfamiliar pediatrican's office unnecessary.

I miss Doc Handsome.

Yesterday? I woke up with a raging case of conjuctivitis. My eye was red and swollen and weeping puss with the best of them. Nice. Vera vera nice. My mommy guilt assuaged by the fact that my daughter and I now have matching eyes.

If there is anything more breathtaking...

2005-12-03T12:08:00.000-06:00

...than my daughter with snowflakes trapped on her eyelashes, I don't know what it is. Unless it's said daughter with snowflakes trapped on her eyelashes spinning and shouting, "It's SNOWINGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG!" in complete delight.

As I type, M is putting together our Christmas tree. Lasagna is being cooked. Wine will be imbibed. And I will get to watch my daughter's eyes light up, her face illuminated by Christmas tree lights as for the first time ever she begins to sense the magic of Christmas.

Last year she was too small. She didn't know what a tree was, so the fact that suddenly one had taken up residence in our living room was no big deal. She liked the lights...on the floor. She liked the ornaments...on the floor. She was the champeen Christmas Tree UNdecorator.

If you ask her what she wants for Christmas, though? She says, "Baby sistah." If you ask her what a 'baby sistah' is, she says, "A baby. A girl baby." So she knows for what she is asking. What she doesn't know is that every time she asks I just want to cry because I, too, would like her to have a baby sistah for Christmas. It's just not in the cards right now. But mostly I just smile at her, snuggle her close, and say, "Hm. Maybe next Christmas, sweet girl."

Maybe next Christmas.

A Major Splurge

2005-11-29T21:41:00.000-06:00

Today I was in Target for a little retail therapy and to buy something for dinner. I found the three Charlie Brown holiday shows on DVD in a boxed set...The Great Pumpkin, A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving, and Merry Christmas Charlie Brown. Twenty-five bucks. I bought it. I couldn't help myself.

I LOVE the Charlie Brown holiday specials. As soon as I got home, I sat down with Linnea and we watched Merry Christmas. But as I watched it with her, I found myself wondering if I'd done the right thing.

I can remember when I was a little kid, and Mom or Dad would announce that something special was on television that night--whether it was Charlie Brown, or Rudolph, or Frosty the Snowman--we'd always get so excited! I can still remember the poor sound quality of the Charlie Brown special, but how it just seemed like Christmas really WAS coming. The first time I ever heard the Nativity story was when I heard it from Linus...his voice saying, "Lights, please." before going into the story gives me chills every time. Even now. And when I read the words myself from the pulpit on Christmas Eve, it's with his voice in my ear.

The point being: it was an event. Not something that happened whenever we wanted it to. It came, like Christmas, once a year and you looked forward to it, and were excited about it when it came. Now that we own it on DVD we can watch it whenever we want. Today. Tomorrow. Hell, we could watching on a random day in June if we wanted to.

I just wonder if our culture of instant gratification is such a good thing. Getting what we want whenever we want it--especially if it's new and improved (both the picture and sound quality on the Snoopy specials has been remastered). We're taking away anticipation. We're taking away surprise. In some way, I think we're taking away gratitude, because we just take so much for granted. We're certainly taking away specialness...nothing stands out anymore, because anything can be had at any time. Nothing is appreciated, because so much is disposable.

All that being said: I'm keeping my DVDs. But I do wonder if, in the long run, they're going to cost me more than $25. And if that particular splurge will be worth it.

Christmas Time is here...

2005-11-28T09:20:00.000-06:00

Well, after a spectacular Thanksgiving and a hella busy weekend at work, I think it's safe to say that Christmas 2005 has arrived--whether that idea excites or depresses you doesn't matter. It's here. It will be here until December 26. Better get used to it.

I myself love and adore Christmas. I love seeing big, green Christmas trees tethered to the tops of tiny little cars, merrily speeding down the street--destined for home, love, and family. I love the way that Christmas Tree lots spring up like mushrooms on the day after Thanksgiving, and sometimes in the strangest places. (Conversely: one of the things that always makes me cry is a Christmas tree lot on December 26, and all the trees that didn't get picked. I've always been this way--it's just truly this deep, deep sadness on the part of all the Christmas trees that were deemed unworthy. I want to take them all home and love them--which is why the episode of Friends when they surprise Pheobe with all the dead trees from Joey's Christmas Tree lot job is rather bittersweet to me 'cuz I so get what Pheobe was getting all emotional about, even though the show made her seem a bit of a ditz for feeling it. Any shrink worth their inflated hourly rates could probably have field day with this particular idiosycracy of mine...but I won't let them. ;))

Work was INsane. Shoppers were remarkably polite and well-mannered, though. Whether that's a general comment on the shoppers this weekend or just a particular comment for the shoppers in our store: I don't know. I was hardly allowed out from behind the cash register except from my state-mandated half-hour meal break. I only got hollered at once by a customer, and that was yesterday, and when I quietly explained what was happening she was immediately contrite and apologized. One of my co-workers got threatened with a lawsuit because she'd had the gall to ask a customer if they had the coupon to get the discount they wanted. Jerks. But really: two episodes out of a three-day shop-a-palooza isn't too bad. I'm sure people working the big department stores have more and worse stories to share.

One of the few times I was allowed to work some where other than at the register, I encountered a woman who, when I asked if she was having a good day replied, "No. Absolutely not." I said, "Is there anything I can do to help?" "No. I hate this store. People always say you're so great, but everytime I come in here and buy something: it's awful." (In my head: And yet: you're back. We can't be that awful.) Out of my head, "What seems to be the problem? Is there anything I can do to fix it?" She then proceeded to complain about how we don't have any petite sizes (we do); scoffed when I explained that if a particular item comes in the petite range it's located at the front of the rack of said item (she said, "You SAY that: but it's never that way."); then she lambasted me about how long the sleeves were on our blouses/sweaters/tops this season. I can't fault her on that one. They ARE long. Too long for many of our customers. But I really have no control over sleeve length. If I did, I promise they would be shorter. Really. So I made some polite noises of sympathy, reminded her of my name if she needed any more help, and made my escape. I don't count her as a difficult customer because it was just so ludicrous that I had to laugh. Clearly: someone needed a nap. I'm the mother of a toddler. I know the signs.

Now, I have two blissful days off. Today, I'm on my own. M is in class. Linnea is at daycare. I can just veg. I thought about giving myself a huge "To Do List" but really: I need the down time. Time to knit, time to watch a movie, time to nap. I'm getting over a bad cold...I need to be an invalid for a day.

The Virgin Suicides

A friend of mine cashed in her v-card this weekend. She's about my age, and waited because she hadn't met a man she really wanted to have that close to her. Now she's met a great guy, and decided: it's time. I'm really happy for her. As I said to her, "I like sex. It makes me happy that you're going to have some. And I'm happy that you waited until you found the right one." So kudos and lube to you, my friend. You know who you are. ;)

I myself didn't cash in my v-card until my wedding night. People who know me (and know this about me) assume that it was done for religious reasons. And it wasn't. Like my friend, I just hadn't met anyone I wanted that physically close to me. It's a pretty egregious invasion of personal space, you know? It's odd to me, now that I'm no longer a virgin, how much value has been placed over time on that bit of skin that "protects" that part of a woman's anatomy. Who made the rule that women are to only let one man in, or else she's of questionable virtue? Is that really the defining mark of bad virtue? A woman who shares herself with others? Now, I'm not (lest anonymous fellow pastors reading this get all up in arms over this post) advocating a "free love" society or anything like that. Myself? I'm glad I waited. I don't wonder what I missed out on. I don't think, "Gosh, maybe if I'd just had sex with one other guy: then I'd know if he was good or not." He's the best I've ever had. Waiting was the right thing to do for me, just as it was the right thing to do for my friend. But maybe it's not right for everyone.

I guess I just wish that women could be judged on their merits, not what is (or isn't) between her legs; who has (or hasn't) been there. I wish that women could just be free to say, "Yeah. I REALLY like sex. I like sex a LOT." and not have people (even in this enlightened age) sort of stop and adjust their opinion of her. I wish women were as free to celebrate a one-night stand (should she be so inclined) as men are.

Heh. Listen to me rail against the centuries old double standard. I don't know. I guess after all that "saving yourself for marriage" stuff that I got, the reality sex was sort of anticlimactic. It's good. I like it. I like to have it with M. But it's not what drives our relationship. We can be quite happily married (if a little cranky) when we aren't having much sex. It's not the be all end all that I was led to think it was when people were telling me, "Save yourself! Save yourself! It's a gift you can only give once!"

People ask me what I will tell Linnea, when she gets to the horn-dog age and starts thinking about sex. I'll be honest with her. Tell her I waited. And tell her why. And tell her why I'm glad I did. But ultimately, I want to have raised her so that 1) We can trust her to make good decisions for herself; 2) She doesn't have a deep need for love, acceptance and approval that sex would seem to fill; 3) She values herself enough to have sex when SHE wants it--not when some pimply-faced football player (or her friends) tells her she should have it with him.

Sex is such a weird thing. Both unifying and devisive--often at the same time. It can be an expression of love and an expression of hatred; an expression of submission and an expression of domination. But should it really be the one thing that makes a woman "good" or "bad"? 'Cuz really: who the hell's business is it, anyway?

The countdown has begun...

2005-11-22T20:43:00.000-06:00

...I've started cooking for the Thanksgiving feast.

We're having an Orphan Thanksgiving Dinner, meaning anyone at the school who is too far from family for the holiday is welcome at our table. We were orphans once, and were always lucky enough that someone wanted to haul our miserable, lonely carcasses home with them for the holiday.

The best year, by far, was our senior year of Sem. Thanksgiving 2001. Our beloved friend J invited us to come to her home in Green Bay, WI for the holiday. When we got there, her mother (also J) ran out of the house and hugged us, pointed us to the beer fridge, and generally made us feel right at home. J comes from a great family...and the entire family made us feel so welcome right from the get-go. On Thanksgiving Day, we went and had dinner at the nursing home with J's grandmother, and then watched the Packer game on her teeny tiny television set. The following day, the "wimmins" all piled into a car and drove up to Door County to kick off our Christmas shopping. We ate lunch at Al Johnson's Restaurant (good food, and it's got a sod roof and goats graze on it...not the day we ate there, however. I think they bring the goats indoors since a northern Wisconsin winter is probably not the best time of year to be a roof-grazing goat); browsed the little shops; sat and drank coffee in a steamy and crowded coffee shop and most of all: laughed our asses off.

When we got home, we found that J's dad and M had put together an amazing Thanksgiving dinner, complete with all the trimmings. We also found that they had imbibed healthy quantities of beer...so much so that M thought the best way to dry out a wet dishtowel was to pop it into the microwave for a minute or two. Naturally, it caught on fire. Luckily, everyone thought it was freaking hilarious. J's mother kept it, and every year the burned dishtowel makes an appearance in the L Family Thanksgiving Photo, which is then emailed to us so we can laugh some more. And, needless to say: whenever we make a trip up to Green Bay, we bring J's parents a new dishtowel. It's become our inside joke.

Thanksgiving is one of my favorite holidays. When I was growing up, it was always THE family holiday. My mother's family would all come over and we'd have a 30-lb turkey and have to make tons of cranberries because my cousin Jeff loves them so much that he'd eat half of them by himself. When everyone was done eating, the boys would prod the men into going out and playing football. It eventually evolved into "The Turkey Bowl" and as the boys reached puberty and then youngmanhood it stopped being so much a game as a massacre, as their fathers--old and full of turkey--would crumple on the ground and beg for mercy. Once the older generation had been appropriately humbled by the younger, we'd all troop back into the house for pie.

As evening fell and people began to feel peckish, they'd drift into the kitchen and come back with little snacks. I'd sit and watch my grandmother knit or crochet, and listen to the voices of the women in my family drift over my head, talking about mysterious things like "broken water" and "yeast infections" and threading through all their conversations was the sound of their laughter. Sometimes my grandmother would mutter something in Swedish under her breath, and she'd smooth my hair from my forehead and ask if I thought I needed a haircut. Then she'd offer me one of those Pepto-Bismol pink chalky peppermints from her purse, "Here, Sweetie. It will make your tummy feel better." I'd take it, and it tasted like love.

Games were played--Pictionary, Trivial Pursuit, HuggerMugger. One year, our house nearly caught on fire three times. My mother (not yet a grandmother, but endlessly hopeful) had lit candles all over the house...not realizing, I suppose, that my cousin (the previously mentioned cranberry junkie) was bringing his 3-year-old daughter with him. This girl managed to start a fire with a candle and a decorative ear of mini corn; she managed to pull the table cloth off the table and tip over a lit taper; and she swung my mother's swivel chair around and the quilt draped over the back of it fell into a candle and burst into flame. After that, Jeff decided it was time to go home.

Heh. It would appear that for me, Thanksgiving just isn't Thanksgiving unless something gets set on fire.

So where ever you may find yourself this Thanksgiving--whether that's in the bosom of your family, savoring the sweet peppermint of their love; whether it's far from family cast on the mercy of friends; whether it's in a hospital room or a nursing home--my prayer for you all is that the magic of this holiday finds you and reminds you that we all have much to be thankful for.

You can call me "Tres LaTrash"

2005-11-22T12:35:00.000-06:00

We finally seem to have my work schedule somewhat firmed up, and my boss has given me every Tuesday off so that I can stay home with Linnea while M goes to work. This was the first Tuesday it's worked out the way it's supposed to, and I was so looking forward to having Linnea to myself for a whole day!

We decided to go shopping. Linnea is a born shopper, and she loves it deeply. "Yet's go shoppeen, Mama!" So this morning after breakfast I loaded her up in the car and off we went to Ikea. I wanted to see their Christmas decorations, and Linnea likes to look at all the cool stuff they have there. Plus, if we give into temptation and buy something it's not going to send us to the Ultrapoor House. We can just stay in the Poor House where we already live. :) Ikea was good. Their Christmas stuff was only so-so, so I bought a jar of Black Currant jam and called it good.

Linnea was a total rockstar the entire time I was browsing, and so I thought for a special treat we'd get McDonald's drive-thru and have lunch at home before nap time.

One thing my daughter inherited from me (other than her Nordic good looks) was a deep and abiding love of being barefooted. She just does not like shoes. They're OK if we're going somewhere, but if we're just sitting in the car, not doing anything? Off come the shoes and socks. The only way I've ever foiled this tendency is to put her in laced shoes and tights. And damn: when I do that she gets so PISSED. So, anyhow. Because I was feeling particularly indulgent, I let Linnea wear her favoritest shoes in the whole wide world: her black patent-leather MaryJanes. Needless to say: she can get those puppies off in a nanosecond. I'd patiently put them back on her everytime we stopped, but when she took them off while we were waiting at the drive-thru she put them somewhere. I don't know where. I mean, it's a car. A CR-V, but still not huge, so I'll find them eventually...but I couldn't find them when we got home.

So I hauled Linnea out of the car, shoeless in the 30 degree day, grabbed the bag of McDonald's, and our drink holder of drinks and struggled down from the parking lot to our apartment. There's a picture for the cover of "Minnesota Parent": me, with my barefoot child in late November, carefully juggling my McDonald's bags and my Coke (Linnea had milk, but they'd probably put the bar code over that part of the picture). The only thing that would have been better is if I'd had curlers in my hair or sweat pants and flipflops on.

You can call me LaTrash. Tres LaTrash.

Crazy things that make me feel good inside

2005-11-20T21:42:00.000-06:00

*Ironing. I used to hate it. Loathe it. Despise it. It was one of the chores my mother also hated, loathed, and despised, so when I was a teenager living at home: it was my job. But now I love it. I love watching all those wrinkly bits smooth out, I love the warmth, and I love the scent of the sizing I use on my collars so they stay crisp throughout the day.

*Days when I don't get out of my jammies. I bought the BEST jammies at work the other day. Flannel pants, with a matching v-neck t. So comfy. Linnea and I both just stayed in our jammies all day today.

*Eating chicken noodle soup when I don't feel good. I've had a cold for a couple of weeks now, it seems to be wrapping up, but the wrapping up part has been worse than anything that's gone before. So M made me "chicken noo-noo" soup for dinner. I ate it out of a mug, as befits a couch-bound, "King of the Hill" watching invalid.

*Football. I loves the football. I don't understand much of it, but I love it all the same. Today I found out that Drew Bledsoe is QB for Dallas. I totally didn't know that. Drew went to high school in Walla Walla, Washington. Walla Walla High played my high school in football, and I can STILL remember watching him play and thinking, "Dude. He is WAY too good for these guys." His passes would routinely run the length of the field. Anyhow. Because I knew of him when, I've always been interested in what he's doing. Now he's in Dallas. And since I hate Dallas, I'm really not sure how I feel about that.

*Last night, I felt like crap, so I slept on the couch. At some point, M brought Linnea out to me. So she and I snuggled and dozed early in the morning. The first words out of her mouth when she opened her eyes and saw me were, "Big hug, Mama." so I gave her a big hug and she "mmmmmmmm'd" with contentment, so I held her close for a little while and smooched her between her eyes and she pulled back just long enough to say, "Yuv you, Mama. Lotlot." And I realized anew that I have done this child no favors by bringing her into the world, but she done a multitude for me.

*Yesterday my boss told me, "Every day when I drive into work, I try and remember if you are scheduled to work. And I'm always happy when you are, and sad when you're not." As I've mentioned before: after years of working for people who were more interested in tearing me down for "things I had done and things I had left undone", working for someone so intent on building me up is a bit disconcerting. On the one hand, I can't get enough of it. But on the other, I'm thinking, "Sure. You say that now..."

*Christmas is coming!!!! Thursday is the day when I can officially break out the Christmas music. I try and hold off until then. First weekend in December we'll decorate our house for Christmas. SO excited!!! I love Christmas. Really really.

*Sharp pencils. They make me happy. They're fun to write with. The best kind? American Naturals.

*Pistachios. They are the best snack ever.

*M is watching the movie 'Luther' starring Joseph Fiennes. There is a scene where Luther is wrestling with the devil, and ends up laying on the floor, praying over and over again, "I am Yours. Save me. I am Yours. Save me. I am Yours. Save me." It is a scene that always makes tears come to my eyes, because I know what it is to be driven to a place where that is the only prayer you have. And it makes me happy because it's good to know that I am not the only one who has been to this place.

*Typing. Typing makes me happy. I like the sound of the keys.

A group hug all around!

2005-11-18T18:34:00.000-06:00

I am at a total loss to express my thanks for the words of support given to me in the last couple of days. Really. I wish I could just hug and kiss each one of you. Cap'sdeej--thanks for delurking and speaking those kind words. They mean a lot. Now just stay de-lurked so we can visit, OK? ;)

I don't know. When people like that rear their heads from time to time (and this blog seems to attract them) I totally start to second guess myself and think, "Gee, maybe I SHOULD be holier." but then I think, "But what fun is THAT?!" So thanks for affirming the fact that my God-given personality doesn't reflect poorly on the ministry. I really appreciate it.

Now, for a little funny: today when M and Linnea dropped me off at work, I was nearly run over by the mall Santa Claus--the guy arrived at work in his costume. I guess I always just figured that there was a dressing room in which they could "put their game face on" so to speak. But apparently not, because Santa damn near creamed me this morning.

You know, what I remember from sitting on Santa's lap as a kid? They all had HORRIBLE breath. You'd think with such a ready stash of candycanes, they'd have minty fresh breath...but mine never did.

A general sort of announcement

2005-11-16T22:16:00.000-06:00

Due to some rather disturbing comments that have been made on this blog by commentors unwilling to identify themselves, I've removed all pictures of Linnea from my entries.

Sorry that one bad apple has spoiled it for those of you who come here to hear Linnea stories and see Linnea pictures, but I really can't take any risks with her safety, you know? And this person (who has posted a couple of times) has got my alarms going.

Satisfaction

2005-11-16T14:58:00.000-06:00

My in-laws left yesterday. It was time. I was tired of their tendency to just leave pieces of garbage on the floor, endtables, kitchen table, countertops, etc. rather than finding a garbage can ('cuz it's not like we don't have one in every room or anything); I was tired of having extra bodies in the apartment, and they were tired of not being in their own space, able to do their own thing.

In short: it was the perfect visit. Mostly enjoyable while it lasted, but all parties involved were ready for it to be over when it was.

So I'm spending today cleaning the house and putting it back to rights. Does anybody else do that after guest? We cleaned before they came, but now it's like I have to clean and straighten to make it ours again or something. I don't know. But that's what I'm doing, and I'm feeling a large sense of satisfaction about it. I've got a "To Do" list of every little chore that I've been meaning to get to, but haven't, and I'm crossing them off with great gusto whenever one is accomplished. I think that my "To Do" list was a little more ambitious than it should have been, but I'll get a fair chunk done, nonetheless.

This morning the TODAY show had the caset of RENT on to sing one of the songs from the movie. I'm SO freaking excited about this movie...I can't remember the last movie I was excited about--"Return of the King" perhaps? RENT has been a part of my relationship with M from the very beginning. He introduced it to me, by way of explaining that with our mutual baggage we sort of reminded him of Roger and Mimi ("I'm looking for baggage that goes with mine"). Then, seven years ago this month, he did a huge splurge and bought tickets for the touring company of RENT that was in Minneapolis. God. If I didn't love him before that, I loved him after. I'd never ever experienced anything like that before in my life--never been to a Broadway show, much less a musical. Our seats were amazing. I can still remember the way goosebumps would wave over my flesh from head to toe with the sound of the voices and the pounding music...my delight when Angel's tree came on while Collins was singing to her...the way I coveted the Santa outfit and boots that Angel wore during "Today for You, Tomorrow for Me"...how I wept when Collins sang, "I'll Cover You" alone and acapella after Angel died...all of it. I just feel head-over-heels in love with the show in that single evening, and head-over-heels in love with M for giving it to me, and sharing it with me.

It's been a touchpoint for us...sometimes we're very Angel and Collins. Sometimes we're more Mimi and Roger. Sometimes (rarely) more like Joanne and Maureen.

When I listened to the cast sing this morning, I wept. I so want to see this movie. And I'm so freaking happy that it will be possible to have this on DVD, so that we can watch it together whenever we want to. Whenever we need to. And part of me is SO totally stoked to see most of the original Broadway cast reprise their roles...they were so legendary in these characters, and I never got to see them, even though I have their voices memorized.

That's the value of the arts. They reach out to us. They touch us and teach us, hold and heal us. Make us think. Make us stop thinking so much.

On a slightly unrelated topic: I'm immersed in Diana Gabaldon's A Breath of Snow and Ashes. It's the lastest book in her Outlander series. I'm hopeless addicted to these books. Not only are they vaguely smutty (heh, we all love just a smidge of smut) but they're a good story. I adore nice thick books that keep me engaged with the characters, and the Outlander books do just that.

In fact, I may call the "To Do List" the "I'm Done List" and sit with a mug of tea, my book, and watch the snow fall and read.

Sounds good to me.

Hell hath no fury like a Mommy scorned

2005-11-14T14:21:00.000-06:00

My in-laws are visiting. From Texas. I love them. BUT. Isn't there always a "but" when in-laws are the topic of discussion? It seems like there is always a "but" lurking about..."I love them, BUT..." or "They're great people, BUT..." or "They are very kind to us, BUT..." You get the picture. Hell, if you're married, chances are good you're LIVING the freaking picture.

Today, MIL, Linnea and I decided to go shopping, leaving my FIL in firm control of the television (M was in class). MIL has made several comments about how she can't afford stuff like they used to (they're helping us out financially until I get a call or a better job), which I totally take in stride and sort of as the price to pay--they're helping us out, I have to listen to MIL talking about how they don't have as much money as they used to. So, she wanted to buy some treats for Linnea. She bought her a hair rubber band thingie that cost $1.95, and a fleece winter hat that was on clearance for $5. Linnea loves both of them, and the cost only comes into relevance when I tell you the rest of the story.

She has bought a freaking TON of stuff for the two granddaughters that live near her. She was buying them entire outfits at Gymboree today, and when Linnea picked out her clearance hat said, "Oh, Meme will get that, too!" and ignored the two pairs of leggings I'd picked up for Linnea as well.

We went to Target and had to go down the Disney Princess aisle, as one of my nieces is Disney Princess CRAZY and we looked at all the dresses and the dolls and all of that, while Meme said, "Oh, I HAVE to get this for K, don't you think? Don't you think K must have this?" I'm thinking, "I've SEEN K's room. No, I don't think she 'must have' that." But I just smile wanely while MIL tells Linnea not to touch a $1.99 stuffed elephant that has caught her eye.

They ARE good to us, and they ARE helping us out in a way that my parents can't right now (Dad being unemployed and all), and they ARE going above and beyond anything we expected from them. But to do this to Linnea just gets me so furious! She doesn't understand why Meme is buying this stuff and that it isn't for her. I get angry that she's buying it in front of Linnea, rather than just holding her peace and buying it for the Texas girls when she's in Texas. And in some way, it feels like she's punishing Linnea for OUR (my and Matthew's) decision to head back to school.

And it's not like Linnea needs a princess dress or a stuffed elephant or a make up kit or any of the other things purchased for the Texas girls in the last few days. Because she doesn't. But at 21-months, she can't distinguish between want and need. Hell, most adults can't. And it pisses me off that Meme expects it of Linnea--who just lit up at the sight of a sparkly pink princess dress, making it's way to our cart, but who was told, "No no, Nea. Don't touch. That's for K."

'Cuz that's crap. I don't care how much they're helping us. And it's mean. It's mean crap.

Mmmmmmmmm...bubbles

2005-11-09T08:41:00.000-06:00

So, just when I thought things were as complicated as they were going to get in the job front: I got offered a promotion and a transfer to another store. Our district manager wanted to know if I wanted to take a management position at a store about a half hour away. My boss was very glum about this--but she told me. I thought about it for about 10 minutes (management gigs include health benies) and then decided: working retail is hard enough when you love your boss and the people you work with. The store they wanted to send me to is widely known to be a troubled store...customers come to us and complain about it...so I know the DM was sending me there hoping to beef up the management team and get the store turned around. But I just decided that since I'm not working for this company for a career, and I'm not particularly interested in climbing the corporate ladder, and I'm REALLY not all that anxious to trade what I know is a sweet set-up (shit--BossLady gave me Christmas Eve AND Christmas Day off as a thank you for all my hardwork for her) for a totally unknown but probably not as great situation. Plus, I've only been working for the company for two weeks...not really confident enough to step into a position where I'd be in charge in any degree. So, I told my BossLady that I really liked working for her and with her, that I enjoyed my job, and that I'd rather wait until a lead position opened at her store. She said, "As soon as I have one: it's yours. I want you to stay. And I'm happy you're going to."

I basked in the glow of that for about 15 minutes, and then immediately began second-guessing my decision. I mean, I didn't call M to talk about it with him or anything. When I got home I said, "We need to talk. I did something today, and I'm not sure you'll like what I did, but I'm pretty sure I can't take it back." Snort. Drama much? Anyhow--M said he'd have been a little put out if I HAD taken the job. Right now, we can share the car because he can take me to work and pick me up (we live about 10 minutes away). The other store was on the other side of St. Paul, about a half hour away if there's no traffic...so there'd be no car sharing, no popping home for lunch breaks, etc. So then I felt better.

After that, I kicked M out of the house (heh, set him free is more like it) and Nea and I piled into a bubble bath together. She is one of the most fun people I know. She's got this new thing where she leans her forehead against mine, looks into my eyes and giggles. This always leads to much smooching and laughing and loving. Throw in the bubble bath, and you've pretty much got my idea of heaven, right there. She's also started throwing her arms around my neck while shouting, "I hug you!" See? Told you. Heaven.

"Now I've got guilt!"

2005-11-06T21:23:00.000-06:00

There's this brilliant moment in "Toy Story" when Andy's toys figure out that Woody isn't evil and has been trying to get Buzz back to Andy's room except that Andy's toys have been doing everything they can to stop him (because they think Woody is a toy psychopath). When it all becomes clear, Rex blurts out, "Now I've got GUILT!"

I love that line. And now I totally get what he means.

I hardly see Linnea at all anymore. No matter what shift I work, it seems like I only see her for a few hours a day. I've been a "working mother" since she was 6-weeks old, but I was able to work from home for the most part, so that for the first time in her entire life we're grappling with "Mother-Baby Separation" thing. I feel so guilty that I'm not with her all the time, that some days I leave just after she gets up in the morning and I come home just before she goes to bed. I have to keep reminding myself that she's going to be OK, that I'm going to be OK, that we're all going to be OK. I'm not endlessly fucking her up by going to work everyday and letting her go to dayschool with Teacher Susanna and Teacher Chong and all the kids that she has so much fun playing with.

But I still feel immense amounts of guilt over this. Liberated woman or not: somewhere deep inside, I think it's my place to be home with my baby. And not even that: I WANT to be home with my baby.

This morning was bliss. We skipped church, and instead M made pancakes while Linnea and I snuggled on the couch and watched "Dora the Explorer". Since I worked late tonight, I had all morning to spend with her. And it was so so so so good.

This whole thing of M going back for his PhD has been a LOT harder than I expected. When we were in Kans-ass, all I could think of was, "When M gets his PhD, we'll get out of Kans-ass." But it's caused a lot of upheaval in our family; a lot of financial stress; a lot of uncertainty. Kans-ass was Kans-ass, but we knew we had a roof over our heads, our bills were taken care of, we had steady paychecks---and we traded all that in one fell swoop in order to move to MN and chase M's academic dreams. I don't regret it for one moment. Even knowing how hard it's been, I'd do it again in an instant. I'd insist on starting our financial cushion building sooner, but I'd still do it. But it's been a hard adjustment. Only one of us being in school...one of us being unemployed...trying to be a student while being a parent...it's all been very different from anything we've done before, and part of me expected us to just step into the PhD thing like it was a pick-up of our MDiv thing. But it's not.

We're all sick. Coughs. Phlegm. Phun.

M's parents are coming to visit from Texas. They'll be here on Thursday. Part of me is very excited to see them. Part of me is dreading it. I'm excited that they'll get to see and play with Linnea. They're both older (late 60's and 70's) and my FIL especially has aged a LOT in the last few years, so I want Linnea to have as much time with them as possible. But that also means that I have to spend a lot of time with them. And as much as I love them, I'm just not always up for that.

But they'll probably take us out for dinner. Which will totally rock, because our bank account is running on fumes until M gets paid on Thursday, so we haven't gone out to dinner in AGES. So there's something to look forward to. Plus I get to go to work again tomorrow, and I'm still loving it, so: yay.

See? Not always so doomy gloomy in Beegeland. :)

Never a dull moment...

2005-11-03T16:03:00.000-06:00

...so, just as I was feeling pretty good about my new job, and how happy I am to not be pastoring right now, etc. I get a phone call from churchly higher ups, wondering if I'd like my paperwork to be sent to a congregation.

It's a part-time call, and it sounds like they want someone to head up their confirmation program.

I'm so torn! Part of me really misses the pulpit. I miss preaching so much! But I'm not too keen on being a youth pastor, I'm not sure I'd have access to the pulpit, and I'm really not keen to get back into the pastoring work and mindset...I'm not sure I've been away long enough yet.

So, the upshot is that I told them to send my paperwork, that I'd visit with the congregation and we'd take it from there.

Crap. Just a general sort of all around crap.

Sorry I haven't blogged, but I've been basking in the glow

2005-11-03T08:26:00.000-06:00

I've been working a ton the last few days. I love my new job, I really do. I love the clothing, I love the women I'm working with, I love my boss, and I love that she's is (true to her word) teaching me things that I will need to know to step into a FT benefits position should one open up. I was a little nervous that they were just blowing sunshine up my skirt about that, but if what S is doing is any indication: it wasn't. They want me to be in management. And that's really cool.

I'm loving the break from life in ministry. Of being able to actually clock out and then not worry or think about or feel guilty because I could be doing something work-related when I'm at home. I clock out, walk out that door, and I don't look back. I go home and play with Nea and watch TV and relax. I'm loving the whole "not being on-duty 24/7" aspect of my job. Yes, it's retail. Yes, it's hard. No, it's not what I wanted. But it's got a lot going for it.

One of the things I especially am digging right now is having a clearly defined skillset that guides my job performance---it's not really subjective. I am good on the cash register. I am good at selling clothing. I am good at grasping new concepts. There's really not much quibbling about whether or not I'm a good employee. The number of times my bosses have thanked me for taking the job, commenting on how glad they are they hired me leads me to believe that I am, indeed, good at what I do. Pastoring, on the other hand, is SO subjective. Some people think you're fabulous. Some people think that you're taking the church straight to hell in a handbasket. I think because of the nature of the vocation, they aren't able to separate and say, "No, I don't really like her personally, but she's a damn fine pastor." Which is fine. But I am enjoying knowing that people are pleased with my work. I'm a typical first-child--I want my superiors to be pleased with me. :)

Linnea went trick or treating (for the first time) on Monday night. Now, all week long, she's been shouting, "Happy How-wee-ween! Candy me!" to random people. She totally got the concept of Halloween, but sort of missed out on the fact that it only works one night a year. She doesn't really get candy all that often, so on Monday night when we allowed her to have a pack of M&Ms AND a snack-sized candy bar AND a Dum-Dum in her little Halloween purse, she thought she'd died and gone to heaven. Sitting on my lap, munching on the M&Ms I was doling out one at a time she announced, "Mama? I yike How-wee-ween." I said, "I thought you might."

I love that she's talking now. Like in complete, understandable sentences. I love that now when we put her to bed, she calls "Wuv you, wuv you, wuv you, wuv you" until we close the door. There a lot that she says that we still don't understand, but the amount that we DO understand is expanding by leaps and bounds. I love that.

Today is my last day off until next Thursday (when the in-laws descend). I'm going to spend it listening to a lecture given by my beloved PILF, Dr. S. I'm going to cook dinner for my family. I might even think about cleaning the house. The only thing I won't do is the laundry. I'm going to let M tackle that job.

A Mighty Fortress

2005-10-30T19:28:00.000-06:00

Happy Reformation Sunday, everyone!

Ye gads. Today is the day that always makes me glad that Lutheran blood flows through my veins. For you uninitiated (and there's a lot of you) today commemorates the day when Martin Luther nailed his 95 Theses to the door of the Wittenberg Church and kicked off the Protestant Reformation--so all of you Protestants ought to be excited about today, too.

There's just something about it. In church circles, we talk about "C&Es"--people who only come to church on Christmas and Easter. I think if I wasn't a regular church goer, I'd be a "R&GF"--Reformation and Good Friday. Those are two services that I absolutely live for.

And today so totally didn't let me down. We sang all the hymns that left a satisfying fullness deep in my belly---songs that made me feel like I'd actually sung something, rather than just blathered endless (and eventually meaningless) praise choruses. We sang hymns that reminded me (once again) of how much I am loved, and again I found myself snerking my way though 'Jesus Loves Me'--but only because I'd already ALSO snerked my way through "A Mighty Fortress" and "Lord Keep Us Steadfast in Your Word" and "Let All Mortal Flesh Keep Silent".

I realized as I sat in the crowded, scarlett-bedecked sanctuary and listened to the brass quintet blast out hymn after hymn with the fabulously huge pipe organ offering accompaniment just how fucking wounded I've been left by life in the ministry. In the years that I have been functioning in pastoral ministry, either as a seminarian, intern or pastor, I have seen some absolutely hellish things. I've had to do some incredibly difficult things. I've locked horns with churchly powers that be. On December 26, 2000 I was called to the hospital to sit with a family who was waiting to hear if their son and brother would survive blowing his own face off in front of his wife. Later that same day, I held that man's college-age daughter in the glow of the lights of the Christmas tree while she screamed, "Why Daddy? Why? Please come back to me Daddy!". I watched as a man crawled on top of his dead wife's body and screamed for an hour and a half before he exhausted himself enough that they could pull him off her. I watched as a man burned to death in his own home, and held his wife while she sat in their lawn and watched her husband and everything they owned go up in flames. I have sat with a mother who accidentally killed her own infant son.

In the midst of all that, dealing with everything else a pastor has to do--putting up with people complaining that I didn't come visit them when they had a hang-nail; telling me that I'd be a really great pastor if I just didn't preach so long; telling me that it was MY fault that THEIR high school-aged children wouldn't get out of bed to come to church on Sunday mornings.

I've been beaten to a spiritual pulp by my life in professional ministry. I've spoken the words of the gospel so many times to so many people...but almost nobody was speaking them back to me. I absolved people of their sins, but no one absolved me of mine. I held people while they cried, but no one ever thought about whether I cried or not, or if there was anyone to hold me when I did.

I say this not as a "pity me" sort of a thing. Sadly, I don't think my experience of ministry was all that different from what a lot of pastors go through. I truly believe that if you are a good pastor, you walk through hell and back again with people, however many times they need you to, no matter how many other people you're making the same trip with. I wouldn't want to pastor any other way. But it does take a lot out of you.

A few weeks ago, on PBS, they were showing a documentary about Mt. St. Helens. Because you can see Mt. St. Helens from my grandparents yard, I've always felt an afinity for this mountain. Like it's mine or something, I don't know. But they were talking about the incredible ways life managed to survive the erruption...how deep underneath all the piles of ash and mud and sterility, life began to thrum again. And how plant life came back decades before they expected it to. And how now it's a thriving natural area.

Sitting in church today, emotional (again) over the songs and the promises they evoked, sererpitously drying my tears on my sleeve and hoping my sniffing isn't too disruptive I realized that: yeah, I'm pretty wounded. But there's more to it than that. If I was just wounded, I wouldn't weep. I wouldn't find myself waking up to go to the extra early service just so I could have the sacrament every week. If I was just wounded, I wouldn't give a fuck. What makes me weep every week is the stirring of life under the cynical, wounded crust that I've had to develop just to keep myself intact. There are tender green shoots of hope, poking up through the black. I weep because for nearly the last decade, I've somehow believed that most of the time: God's promises were not for me. Everyone else: absolutely. But somehow, I kept exempting myself from them.

All of the things I've had to see and do and say. All the battles I've had to fight. All the confrontations I've had to make. All the pain and suffering I've went through. All of it left me feeling completely abandoned by God. Because He wouldn't take someone He professes to love and put them through that shit.

But He didn't put me through it. He walked me through it. And I'm starting to get that. I'm starting to feel that. The way Linnea will panic in the dark, convinced she's alone until she hears me say, "It's OK Baby, Mama's here, go back to sleep." is exactly what I've been doing for so many years--panicking, crying for my Papa. Only I was too scared/angry/stressed/whatever to hear anything back.

I grew up with the voice of God in my bones. It was my compass. My comfort. My protection. And then, when I went to work for the church, I couldn't hear it anymore.

Now, I'm starting to hear it again.

As a matter of fact, Jess...

2005-10-27T18:44:00.000-05:00

{EDITED 11/16/05: Pictures of my daughter have been removed from this site due to uncomfortable comments I've received from an anonymous poster. ~beege}

...there IS a picture! ;)

She does this weird head tip thing though...whenever you say, "Can you smile for Mama?" her head tips to one side or the other. Sometimes accompanied by a smile. Sometimes not. But always: head is tipped.

I also love her little shoes--I want a pair for me. And I love how the hearts on her shoes echo the hearts on her tights. Actually: there's nothing about this little outfit that I don't love.

Ah, yes...the comfort food. It's kicking my butt today, I gottatellya. Too much fat and too much richness. I've got what Cotton Hill refers to as "hot poops". And frankly, what's comforting about hot poops? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. And if that's more information than you were looking for coming here today: I'm sorry. But it's sort of distracting.

In other news, we bought Linnea a "How-we-ween puhkin" the other day. She adores it. Damned near had a meltdown when we told her she couldn't sleep with it. At any rate, she carries the poor thing around with her everywhere she goes. And here: it functions as an attractive and festive footrest. Linnea Stewart. Yes, indeed. (Notice, if you will. the obligatory head tip.)

This picture was taken just this afternoon, at lunch. Linnea likes to take all the peanut butter ("peenee budah") off her bread and just lick it off her finger instead. There's just something about this picture that gets me right where I live. It's so totally what being a mom is all about right now. And: kudos to M who did her hair this morning.

Comfort food, and large barnyard birds...

2005-10-26T17:30:00.000-05:00

I'm going the comfort food route for dinner tonight. I'm making what I've always called "Lazy Day Casserole"--it's the casserole with hamburger, cream of mushroom soup and tater tots on top. I always add frozen veggies to the mix. This casserole is a staple at Lutheran potlucks, and cooking it always reminds me of eating at my grandmother's table (the one who passed the recipe to my mom who passed it to me); at my mother's table where she would repeatedly tell me, "It's hamburger and tatertots! There's nothing in here that you don't like to eat!" (something that I now find myself telling Linnea as she balks at eating anything but the most familiar presentations of her favorite foods); it reminds me of post-service potlucks in church basements, surrounded by the buzz of conversation and the warm scent of coffee and the way the red jello would sort of melt into the hot foods that were on my plate and somehow (I think it was an act of God) it all still tasted good; it reminds me of being bundled up against the chill of fall and winter, of homelights shining into the gathering darkness. Lights that promise company and fellowship and safety because they shine from home.

You know: comfort food, with all that term implies. I normally try to eat pretty healthy, but every so often I find I need that dip into warm, potato-y, cheesy, fatty, carb-y comfort food goodness.

I worked my first shift at my new job last night and I had a freaking BALL. I'm so glad I took this job. I've got my eye on a pastor's position that will open up in the first of the year, and if that doesn't pan out, I can see myself being well contented working for this company. If I don't work in a church for a few years: that's OK. But enjoying this job will give me the luxury of being able to be selective about what churches I interview with, and perhaps take a call from, because I won't be desperate for a job--any job. The ladies I work with are hugely fun, the manager is great, and true to her promise: she's showing me the managerial ropes already. Clearly, the idea is not to leave me languishing in P/T salesgirlland for long. Especially since I got my schedule and it's just under 40 hours for the week. Sweet! Today, I didn't work, and as I went through my day found myself wondering what was going on at the store...if they were laughing and having fun, and realized that I wished I was working today, too. That's NEVER a bad thing when it comes to a job, I don't think.

This evening, M came home from class around 5PM. Linnea was sitting at the table, eating her supper (macaroni and shredded wheat, a current fave). He came into the kitchen and gave me a nice big hug hello. Linnea shouted from her seat, "Big cock!" Neither M nor I like or encourage the use of "c words" for male and female genetalia. I think they are revolting, and can count the time I've said either on two hands (heh, one for each word). So to hear such a statement issuing from the mouth of our daughter was a shock to say the least...and funny as hell. M turned to me and said, "What did she say?" I said, "You're laughing too. What do you think she said?" He said, "I know what it SOUNDED like..." and now Linnea (having gotten a reaction) starts shouting, "Daddy! Big cock Mama!" Right about the point I'm wondering if she learned this at daycare (because I know for SURE she didn't learn it here) we realize that what she is in fact saying is, "Big Hug!" But "big hug" spoken around a mouthful of macaroni and frosted shredded wheat comes out sounding distinctly more pornographic.

Today she is wearing a red courduroy jumper, with striped multi-colored tights, her hair is done up in pigtails on the side of her head. She looks so adorable, I just want to eat her with a spoon. I include this description for Jess, because I think for some reason that she will like it. :)

I don't freaking believe it...

2005-10-24T13:55:00.000-05:00

We're missing ANOTHER couch pillow.

Different from the first one that went missing. And it's not in the same place where I found the other one.

What the....?????

Many thanks

2005-10-24T10:31:00.000-05:00

To the love of my life, who showed me how to do links. ------->

I've been blogging for nine months, and could NOT figure it out. He looked over my shoulder, said, "Do this." I did it, and voila! Links.

So if you don't want me to link to you from this blog, let me know. I tried to only do links to people who I've linked to within the bodies of entries, or who I knew could care less if I linked to them or not.

On the sleep deprivation front: We're making progress. Linnea is taking more consistent naps, and she's going to bed at her early bedtime once more. We'd taken away her morning nap and moved her bedtime to 8PM (rather than 7PM) because we didn't like getting up at the azz crack of dawn every day. But we didn't really put anywhere for Linnea to get more sleep. Once again, Dr. Richard Ferber came to our rescue. I know that people rip on his methods, but the people who have complained about him to me are the ones who totally don't understand his method. I can tell by what they tell me about it that they've never even looked into it. Would he work for everyone? No. But he works for us, and given the fact that I have had THREE good nights of sleep in a row: I'd freaking kiss him if we walked into the apartment right now.

The seminary Board of Directors is taking a tour of our apartment this afternoon, in order to witness the 'reality of life in student housing'. They're coming to tour the apartments that flooded a couple of weeks ago, and the Dean of Students wanted them to see a furnished and comfortable one, too. The Housing office called me and asked if I'd be willing to let the Board stroll through. I thought it was sort of cool--we must have made this place fairly nice if they want the Board to see it (floods, fleas, and smoking pots of beans notwithstanding). Which means I'm trying to farm Linnea out for the day so that I can clean and get it to STAY clean until 4 this afternoon.

Any takers? ;)

Target Practice

2005-10-22T17:50:00.000-05:00

Linnea loves Target.

This morning, we had to go to Target in a pretty bad way. We were out of toilet paper, kitty litter, and diapers...none of these are things you can put off purchasing, and there's not really much you can do to fake your way through a shortage of any of them.

During a breakfast of pancakes and sausage, we asked Linnea if she wanted to go shopping. She replied in the negative. I asked if she wanted to go to Target. The following is a rough transcript of her response.

L: Tahget? Shopping a' Tahget? Tahget! Tahget! Yet's go Tahget!

For the next 20 minutes (roughly the time it took us to get her dressed) we had to listen to her chant, "Yet's go Tahget! Yet's go Tahget! Yet's go Tahget!" I was giggling in ill-concealed triumph, having managed to pass on the "Target Adoration Gene" to my small offspring.

It's a new Target. It just opened a couple of weeks ago. A SUPER Target. And it's very nice. Linnea likes it. It has big, red, concrete balls at the front of the store, which always causes Linnea to shout, "It's a ball! Kick it!"

We do our shopping, with Linnea singing, "Tahget, Tahget, Tahget, Tahget, Tahget..." in the cart. We buy all the items we need for all the bodily functions that take place in our apartment. We also buy things that we didn't need (like the cutest little black cat knit hat for Linnea). We pay. We leave. As we're pulling out of the parking lot, Linnea says, "Bye-bye Tahget! Miss you! Bye-byeeeeee! Bye-bye! 'Ove You!" She doesn't speak to her grandparents with such longing and affection. Hell, she doesn't speak to her freaking parents with such longing and affection.

I SWEAR to God that I didn't teach her that. I swear. Because honestly: it creeped me out a little. Such blind devotion and adoration to a corporation who (even though it is wonderful beyond compare) is probably seeking to control our souls.

But at least Linnea's not as bad as this. At least, not yet.

An Ode to Poppy

2005-10-21T16:09:00.000-05:00

Well, not an ode. I'm really not much of a poet.

To the left there is a picture of my friend, Poppy. Poppy rocks for any number of reasons. She's brash. She's freaking hilarious. She always wants to be in charge. ;) She's a great cook. She's like my motherhood touchstone. Her daughter, Clara Jane is two weeks younger than Linnea. The number of times Poppy has saved my psychological bacon by simply saying, "Yep. Clara Jane is doing the SAME THING." are too many to count, but always deeply appreciated.

Not only did Poppy selflessly give up the guestroom at Cyn's house last weekend because my child won't sleep in a pack 'n play, not only did she keep us entertained with stories, not only did she make the best lasagna I've had since M's...she made me a U2 spiritual mix CD. Months ago, we'd gotten into a conversation about how I like to look for the sacred within the secular--particularly in music, since so much of Christian music just sucks ass. She said U2 did that a lot, and then last weekend: she handed me a mix CD. Which rocks. I listen to it whenever I don't have to listen to Laurie Berkner or Dan Zanes (who I am familiar with also because of Poppy, and because of Laurie Berkner and Dan Zanes I can listen to kid's music without wanting to crash my car into a light pole. Is there no end to this woman's generosity?!).

It's her birthday this weekend. A big shindig is planned. I wish I could be there, but I'm not sure Linnea is up for another roadtrip. As it is, I'll just have to content myself with dedicating a blog entry to her.

Happy Birthday, my friend. I hope it doesn't suck. ;)

Welcome to the Jungle

2005-10-21T13:44:00.000-05:00

Linnea has stopped sleeping. For the last several weeks, she's woken up at 2AM and has been awake until 5AM. She spends the three hours screaming and crying, being totally inconsolable, and basically making me want to just put her outside the door and see if she's still there in the morning. Mainly because I know if she continues screaming: no one will take her. No one would want my wee little banshee child.

The worst part of it is worrying that we're disturbing our neighbors. If we were still in Kans-ass, I would have no problem putting her in her crib and letting her jump, jive and wail herself to sleep. But the kid screams like she's being torn apart by her stuffed animals...truly blood-curdling things that make my mother's heart simultaneously want to go and make everything better, and feel deep, deep shame that something I've done (or not done) has brought my child to this point of absolute distress.

I'm totally perplexed. We've tried shortening naptimes. Didn't work. We've tried cutting naps completely. Didn't work. We've tried bringing her to bed with us. Works better than NOT having her in bed with us, but it's still far far far from ideal. I've read up on things. Could be night terrors. Could be over tiredness. Could be this is how she's "choosing to assert her personhood".

Whatever it is: it's DEFINTELY driving us all up the wall. We've got to sleep. We simply have to. It's not a luxury anymore. I no longer dream of getting to snooze until 8AM. Now I just think longingly of the days when I knew when got into bed at night that I wouldn't be getting out of it again until it was time to get up, whether that was 5AM or 9AM.

Our current plan of attack? Implement more, shorter naps. Rather than one big afternoon nap, have a smaller morning and afternoon nap. We'll see how it goes. I suppose there's comfort in the fact that it can only get better from here.

The next chapter in the continuing saga

2005-10-21T13:39:00.000-05:00

Well, I went and interviewed with Macy's this morning.

They loved me, I didn't love them. Just got a bad vibe about working there. Nothing horrendous, like they had dismembered bodies in the backroom that they used instead of platic manequins or anything like that. Just that what they wanted from a person working their salesfloor wasn't anything that I was willing to give. I'm not pushy. I don't like to BE pushed. I don't like TO push. Plus, I was finding it difficult to summon even the smallest particle of excitement over working in handbags, luggage, and accessories. Ergo: it would have been a bad match from the start.

I walked into the "Three-tier interview/we'll give you FT and benies/oh wait, nevermind, part time it is" store and realized that I wanted to work there. I wanted to work surrounded by the beautiful clothes and the fun and friendly women. And they very much want to get me into management, but they want to get me trained first. Which makes perfect sense. You wouldn't want someone in charge who didn't know what was going on--we've all had jobs like that, and they've all sucked.

So, I'm employed. I have a job. It's not the job I thought I'd get. But it's a good job for me. Plus, I get a totally killer discount on fabulous clothing. What's not to love about that?

WEIRD.

2005-10-20T12:46:00.000-05:00

I just got off the phone with a company that wants to interview me tomorrow for a full-time position with benefits.

Just when I think God isn't paying attention....

Little Bitty Hairs and Fuzzies

2005-10-20T12:24:00.000-05:00

I've been sort of in a creative vacuum...haven't had much to say (to anyone). Must have gotten all my gabbing out last weekend. Pretty much all I've wanted to do is curl up with a soft blankie and bury my nose in Harry Potter books and drink tea.

I haven't been able to do that, however. :) I have this thigh high benevolent dictator who has this overwhelming need to be with. me. every. damn. minute. of. the. day. I can't even pee without her coming in and sitting on her stool and staring at me. I'm really needing some "me time" but I don't see that happening any time soon...M has too much going on and Linnea is WAY too clingy right now.

I've mentioned before that I adore my husband. And I do. Beyond all reason. However: I'm SO tired of him trimming his beard and mustache and leaving itty bitty beard hairs all over the bathroom. It's disgusting. They go everywhere...including my contact case (somehow) and you've never really experienced pain until you pop in a contact that has a freaking beard hair on it. Labor was NOTHING compared to that. Now, lest you think that I'm being unfair to him by bringing my complaint to the blog rather than him ('cuz what are any of you going to do about it) please know that I've mentioned this to him SEVERAL times. His response: "I try. But they're really hard to clean up." And yet, somehow, someway, I manage to get them all cleaned up. Must be my secret super power. I'm Left Behind Beard Trimming Girl.

What would my costume look like?! Gross.

So, I finally have a job. After three weeks of interviews (?!), gradually climbing the rungs of authority in the company with each interview, I am the proud possessor of: one part time sales job. They had talked about bringing me in as management (hence the multiple interviews) but apparently it is not to be. They assured me that I am at the top of their list if an opening comes up, but there's just not one now. I assured them that I would happily take the part-time job, but that they should know I'd be looking for something full time at the same time.

Gads. So frustrating. The woman who first interviewed me three weeks ago had the authority to hire me as P/T sales. She didn't have the authority to give me a management position. Which is why the following week I had to interview with the store manager and then yesterday I interviewed with the district manager. My frustration stems from the fact that if they had just freaking given me the P/T job (that I have now) to begin with, I'd have three weeks of earnings under my belt. Instead I've been effectively left hanging, fed promises of full-time and benies, for precisely: squat.

Oh well. Part-time is better than no-time. Just wish we hadn't wasted nearly a month to get me here.

An Estrogen-Rich Weekend

2005-10-17T12:18:00.000-05:00

So I'm back from Illinois. It was a fun weekend--a bit jam-packed, and a bit exhausting for Linnea (heh, and for me) but it was good to get to hang with my girls.

We left early Friday. Or at least, the PLAN was to leave early Friday. Until I got left at a rest area in Wisconsin, waiting for the rest of my travel group who were toodling their merry way down I-35 towards Iowa...thank God someone (a Canadian) thought to ask, "So when do we start going east to Wisconsin to pick up Beege?"

Excellent question. :)

Some Highlights:

Linnea standing in front of Miss Bean, a Great Dane, petting her and muttering, "Puppy? Horsie? Puppy? Horsie?" while she tried to figure out which category Miss Bean fit into.

Staying at Cyn's house, (along with Poppy, Kara, and Jess) and getting to stay up late talking after the babies (Connor, Clara Jane, and Linnea) were in bed and sleeping.

FINALLY getting to meet the incomparable Sal and her boy, Oscar. Sal is wonderful. I quite adore her, and nearly cried when I got to meet her and when we had to say goodbye. She's lovely, and has this amazing voice with a wonderful British accent. I told her that in my dream world, every night I'd fall asleep listening to her read "Harry Potter". Oz loved Linnea. Spent a lot of time harassing her and falling on her and making a general pest of himself. While Linnea tried to get away. Isn't this how all great romances begin? ;)

Sitting on Sara's backporch and sneaking a ciggie while someone else kept an eye on my child.

I have decided that if I ever own a brown chihuahua, I am going to name it 'Frijole'.

The sight of my small girl sitting on a haybale in front of a campfire. Her little face rapt and joyous as she watches the flames before turning to me and saying, "Mama? HOT." and pointing at the fire.

Shopping at Soy Candles by Sharon and finding my all-time favorite candle scent: Twigs and Berries. Dude. The group of us just descended on that store like a pack of candle-sniffing vultures. And my shout of Twigs and Berries victory was a bit louder than perhaps it should have been. ;)

Getting to snuggle Connor, who is so sweet that he makes me think a boy next time around wouldn't be so bad at all.

Getting to share a bed with Linnea. Not in and of itself a remarkable event. We do it quite alot, actually. But to slip into bed after she'd been asleep for hours and feel her body instinctively move into mine, and the way my body just instinctively curved around hers...it was sweet. I wonder if a child ever reaches an age where her mother doesn't delight at the idea of snuggling with her. Because I can't imagine my mother getting all gooey at snuggling with my 30 year old self...but at the same time, I can't ever imagine not adoring snuggling with Linnea, no matter how old she is.

One of the things that I love most about the Stonecutters is that it reminds me so well of how blessed I am in the women I have been surrounded by. I don't get along with some of them. I didn't get to visit with a LOT of the women that were there this weekend. But each one of them remind me of the value of womanhood, and of sharing that womanhood with one another--blessing one another with it. Now that so many of us have little ones, a new dimension has been added to what used to be weekends of drunken revelry. And it's still good. Different. Harder, in some ways, but still good.

I love that even though I'd never met these women in real life, but having been friends for years on the bulletin board I trusted them to look after Linnea. Trusted them to keep watch for her nearly as keenly as I would myself. I loved staying at ToddlerTown (a.k.a Cyn's house), because there was such give and take and flow between the mommies...handing of wipies without a word being said; the way even the non-mommies who got lucky enough to stay at ToddlerTown were drawn in (Linnea seemed to have appointed herself Jess's personal waker upper). The inevitable comparison of birth stories, laughter over how important the toilet becomes in that time in a woman's life...all of it. It was good.

That being said: I could barely let M out of my sight when I got home last night. After a weekend of estrogen, that testosterone looked pretty damn good! :)

Off in a cloud of dust and a shower of camel turds.

2005-10-13T20:29:00.000-05:00

My mom always used to say that when we left for a trip when I was a kid. "And we're off! In a cloud of dust and a shower of camel turds!" I have no idea what it means. But I use it now, too. And now: I share with you.

Linnea and I leave early tomorrow for the Stonecutter Gathering in Ill-a-noise, so I won't be around at all. I'm so hugely looking forward to hanging out with girlfriends and other moms and watching Linnea with other kids--it's gonna be great!

So here's hoping I don't get lost....

She was right!

2005-10-13T12:34:00.000-05:00

Many thanks to SaraJoy who knew the first name of the lead singer of the band I've been trying to track down for a couple of weeks now.

The band is Ryan Shupe and the Rubber Band. Their CD is "Dream Big" and I went to Target today and bought the last copy. I now have new roadtrip music to listen to tomorrow as I head off for the Stonecutter gathering.

It is my sincere hope that Ryan and the boys can offer me a break from the 5 CDs of kids music that currently live in my CD player. A break that the benevolent dictator that sprung from my loins will also enjoy. At the very least: I'll listen to them when she sleeps.

A new day, a new laundry nemesis...

2005-10-13T12:20:00.000-05:00

So I've pretty much avoided doing laundry on Saturdays in order to also avoid any interaction with my laundry nemesis. And for whatever reason, the last couple of weeks laundry night has fallen on a Wednesday. No biggie. Except that last night, the laundry room decided to bequeath me with a new laundry nemesis.

He was a young man. Tall. Had on white basket ball pants--those pants that are sort of shiny nylon, but aren't what I've always thought of as "swishy pants". Pleasantly minding his own business, using the laundry room broom to fish his dropped quarters from between washing machines. Didn't try to make laundry room small talk; didn't try to act as though we should be best friends because we live in the same apartment complex and are doing laundry at the same time; didn't hit me up for change or anything like that. Did even say 'hi' when I walked in the room. A rather refreshing change from people I usually run into in there, who look through your laundry to try and find conversation topics. "Oh, you wear Victoria's Secret panties? I wear Victoria's Secret panties too!" And I'm all, "Dude, I so don't need to know what kind of panties you wear."

So what, you might be wondering makes him my nemesis?

His pants.

Well. Not so much his pants. More like the four inches of azz crack showing above his pants. Hairy azz crack. As I was transfering my laundry from the dryer into my clothes basket, I tried very hard to avoid the azz crack...but it was impossible to avoid it entirely. And as I frantically scrambled to fish the last little tiny toddler sock out of the far reaches of the dryer, I realized that if I could see that much azz crack, chances were good that not only was my mild mannered nemesis not only wearing ill-fitting white pants BUT he was wearing ill-fitting white pants while going commando. Do men not get that you do NOT go commando while wearing white pants? Did someone not fill them in on this? Or do they know and just not care?

Mayhap I should have accidentally dropped a pair of my Victoria's Secret panties in his washing. Perhaps he's poor and can't afford underwear. The worst thing: I was so distracted by the azz crack that I totally don't know what my new nemesis looks like...so I can't avoid him. But, with such a proud display of crackage, perhaps he'll simply announce himself.

They asked me how I knew her brasierre was blue...

2005-10-12T17:48:00.000-05:00

Little kids get some strange ideas. For instance, when I was a little kid, I was convinced that my father was Hawkeye Pierce (Alan Alda) from M*A*S*H.

Why was I so completely convinced of this, you might wonder? Well, it's very simple. My dad had a red bathrobe. Hawkeye had a red bathrobe. My dad had dark hair. Hawkeye had dark hair. I couldn't believe that no one else was making the same connection that I was. The fact that I STILL think there's a similarity just goes to show how completely I believed they were one in the same.

When Dad would leave for work, I'd holler, "Say hi to BJ for me!" (Heh. Hawkeye called Honeycutt 'Beege'--a connection that I've never made before this...ooooooooweeeeeeeeeeooooooooooooo.) I suppose it is a credit to my father that he took this farewell in stride and didn't stop to look at me like I was nuts. Or perhaps he did, and I was just too oblivious to notice.

At any rate, the reason I'm sharing this rather embarassing childhood story with you is because I wonder what strange things Linnea will think about M and I. What conclusions she'll draw, and the evidence she'll use to draw them. Red bathrobes? Dark hair? My case was rock-solid. Don't even try and convince me that my father is anyone other than Benjamin Franklin Pierce.

Of course, after that, I moved on to believing that my father was a drug dealer because he worked at a drug store. I'm sure given the choice of the two, dear old dad would have preferred Hawkeye.

Smoke gets in your eyes...

2005-10-11T19:43:00.000-05:00

So, the other day Jess was asking me if there were any scents that I was particularly attracted to.

I replied that my scents seem to be pretty seasonal...right now I can't get enough of the fruity/spicy/warm scents that just remind me of fall and winter. In the spring and summer I like lighter, more 'natural' scents. And I'm ALWAYS a sucker for anything with 'crisp' 'clean' 'cotton' or 'linen' in the fragrance title.

I also mentioned that in the fall particularly I like to burn candles that have a smokey aspect to them--Yankee Candle's Fireside for example, or White Barn Candle Co.'s Firewood.

I've mentioned before how M adores me, and only wants to give me my every heart's desire. Well, yesterday he left a pot of beans on the stove while we went grocery shopping. He's been pulling all-nighters (and not the fun kind that include me) the last few nights and he was so exhausted that he just forgot he'd put them on the stove. Scorched the hell out of those things. Turns out our entire apartment had filled with smoke, the neighbor's apartments started filling with smoke, somebody got into our apartment with a pass key and took the beans out and maintenance set up fans to get the smoke out as quickly as possible. Somebody else took Marty and Murray to their apartment so that they wouldn't get smoke inhalation.

By the time we got home, a couple of hours later, the apartment was clear but reeked of smoke. We've got some ozone thing that's supposed to help get the smoke out, and it does seem to, but we can only run it when no one is in the apartment as it sucks all the air out of the room it's being run in.

I'm waffling over whether or not lighting some of my smokey candles would help or hinder our desmoking process. It certainly couldn't make it any worse. ;)

To a nameless parent...

2005-10-10T11:59:00.001-05:00

I so get this. And I'm sorry that your daughter died.

Nuts N Bolts

2005-10-09T22:30:00.000-05:00

So, I'm one of the infamous StoneCutters you read about on some blogs. Some of the people that come here are also StoneCutters (do we have a secret handshake? If we do, we really shouldn't. 'Cuz that's mildly lame.). There's a buncha Canadians who are on the board talking about making "nuts n bolts" to give as Christmas gifts. We Yanks were all, "Whaaaa?" Turns out: it's Chex Mix.

BUT: the topic has stuck in my head and seemed like a good title for this entry. Because this is the end of the week blogging idea clearance sale--everything must go, folks and no reasonable blog idea will be refused.

Random Topic #1: I have recently found two household cleaners that I have decided I can no longer live without. The first is Barkeeper's Friend, a powdered cleanser (like Comet or Ajax) that works wonderfully, without a lot of scratching. I use it on my tub, in my sinks, on my countertops...anywhere I have a stubborn stain, and it comes right out. The second is Goddard's Cabinet Maker's Wax, a furniture polish containing lemon and beeswax. Our kitchen table is an old wooden table that my FIL refinished years ago. It's a great size for the apartment, and a neat table. But it was really taking a beating from Linnea's food getting smeared into it, sippy cups dripping, water rings from our glasses. Goddard's gives the wood a great feel, and stuff just wipes right up--it's so great it practically beads. And it SAYS that there's no build-up or yellowing. I haven't tested that yet. But I have used this stuff on almost all my wood and I adore it.

Random Topic #2: I led a church service today for the first time since July 31st--pulpit supply for a friend of ours. I recently got my hair cut...into long layers. I like it, because when I wear it pulled back (which is almost always) I get cool whispy pieces around my face. But today I wore it down and curled it. And I looked like Farrah-freaking-Fawcett, circa 1978. Nice. Really. Nice.

Random Topic #3: We found the missing throw pillow! Our couch has back cushions that lift from the bottom, and somehow the little satiny pillow got shoved up underneath. I found it while looking for the missing remote control. I found the remote control, too, but in a different place.

Random Topic #4: Betty Crocker's Warm Delights are microwavable crack, I tell ya. Whatever you do, DON'T buy the brownie one. You don't want to get that monkey on your back. Plus: it will leave more for me. I like brownie monkeys.

Random Topic #5: I'm looking for a band. It was advertised everso briefly on television a couple of nights ago--it's Somebody and the Rubber Band. I can't remember the name of the lead singer as I was chasing a shrieking nekkid toddler at the time. But supposedly it's available at Target. Except that nobody at Target knows what I'm talking about. I liked their sound. I'm sad I can't find them. And maybe Target should let their entertainment department people know about stuff.

Random Topic #6: The ironies of unemployment--you finally have enough time to do all the stuff you want. But you don't have the money.

Random Topic #7: I'm finally reading the Harry Potter books. Or rather, I'm finally freaking devouring the Harry Potter books. So good!

Random Topic #8: We reorganized our bathroom. AND (which is so huge for me) we put in those energy-saving lightbulbs that put out like five times more wattage of light than they use? Our bathroom no longer resembles a dank cave. It's a bright, well-lit, well-organized room that it's a pleasure to need to spend time in.

Random Topic #9: I think that there is also crack in pot stickers. I can't get enough of those things.

Random Topic #10: I have a bottle of Absolut Kurrant. Anybody know what I should do with it? Drinking it, being the obvious answer, but how? Straight up? On the rocks? In a cocktail? Oh! And another thing? Absolute Peppar makes a freaking unbelievable Bloody Mary.

Random Topic #11: The fleas are gone. Halle-freaking-lujah!

Random Topic #12: I have to go grocery shopping. If you could buy anything to cook (or have someone else cook for you) for dinner tonight: what would it be?

If only those meddling kids hadn't gotten in the way...

2005-10-08T13:17:00.000-05:00

There's a mystery at Casa de Beege. It's a big mystery. A mysterious mystery.

And, quite frankly, an annoying mystery.

Last Sunday I bought some new pillows for our couch. They were clearanced, and even then they were more than I should have spent--but I fell in love. Lovely squishy pillows of satiny, stripy, autumnal colored goodness. Plus, Linnea lay on them in the cart and coughed all over them, and since there was a chance it was strep: I didn't feel quite right putting them back on the shelf.

About four days ago, one of them went missing. It's just gone. It's not under the couch or any of the chairs. It's not in Linnea's room. It's not in our room. It's not in the bathroom. It's a small apartment--so it's not like we haven't looked everywhere. It's just vanished. I have no idea where it could be. No one has sent us a ransome note, or a picture of our pillow holding today's paper. It's just as if it never ever came to live at our house. Gone.

Jinkies! Where's the Mystery Machine when you need it?

She's not Doc Handsome, but she'll do

2005-10-06T12:48:00.000-05:00

We had our first visit with Linnea's new pediatrican today. There's strep going around the daycare, and Linnea was having some symptoms, so we thought we'd take her in just to make sure everything was A-OK.

Her new doctor (Dr. Mari) was really good. Young! Which I like, because she's sort of in the same place I am agewise, generationwise, parentingwise--which I really appreciate. She was very thorough, and Linnea adored her. I have ZERO complaints with how the visit went, and have no qualms about bringing Linnea back to her for further needs.

All that being said: it made me miss Doc Handsome. It was Doc Handsome who was Linnea's first doctor...who saw her through teething and first ear infections and immunizations and who didn't laugh at me when I burst into tears after several sleepless nights when I realized that there was nothing inherently wrong with my baby that a round of antibiotics couldn't fix. He sat on the floor under the exam table and read to her, he kissed her and hugged her, when we thought she had some cardiac problems he was there for us 100%--with answers, with advice, with encouragement, and with the all important information of when it was acceptable for me to freak out.

Plus, you know: he was hot. Really hot. And I so had a crush on him.

Nobody ever TOLD me that part about motherhood. That you would come to love people who take care of your child--who take good care of your child, who watch out for your child with you. I didn't realize that the quickest and easiest way into my good graces would be to be kind to my child (and, conversely: the quickest way onto my shit list was to be rude to my child). I didn't realize how much being a mother would change me...I suppose I knew on some superficial level that I would be different just by virtue of my motherhood--but I didn't know that being a mother would lower my defenses not just with Linnea, but because of Linnea. So it was a bit unexpected...missing Doc Handsome like I did this morning, sitting in an unfamilar exam room, waiting for an unfamiliar doctor.

I'll never forget our final visit to Doc Handsome. It was for Linnea's 18-month well baby check. She was wandering around in her diapers, pushing trucks and playing with blocks. Doc Handsome walked in, did what he needed to do, and when I told him it would be the last time he got to see Linnea he sat down on the floor. I said, "Nea? Can you say bye-bye to Dr. _______________?" she walked over, buried her face in his neck and his arms folded around my small daughter. For the look on his face that day alone: I would do anything he asked me to. Any help he ever needs. Any favor he ever wants to ask. Because he was sad to be hugging my girl for the last time that day. She pulled back, smooched him on the cheek, said, "Bye-bye! 'ove 'ou!" and that was when Doc Handsome beat a hasty retreat with suspiciously bright eyes.

I know there are people out there who have had lousy experiences with the medical community. I have, too. But my good experiences have far outweighed the bad ones. And I will always and forever have a soft spot in my heart for Linnea's Doc Handsome.

The One Where Our Apartment Complex Floods

2005-10-05T11:56:00.000-05:00

It rained ALL DAY yesterday. If it wasn't a downpour, it was that mist stuff--in Washington we called it "the Seattle Spits". The point is that moisture never ceased falling from the sky.

Just to the east of our apartment is a lovely wetlands. At least, we thought it was a wetlands. Turns out, it's basically a drainage pond for when we get heavy rains. There's a spillway built into one end of it. Last night, at about 8:30 M and I were sitting in our living room, studying and knitting (respectively) when our neighbor comes over and says, "It's gone." That was the point we became aware of a dull roaring sound coming from outside.

Linnea is in bed, so we put on boots and raincoats and head out into the deluge--M because he works on maintenance and wants to see if there's anything he can do to help and me because I just wanted to see what was going on. Water was POURING over the incline and racing across the playground directly behind our apartment. The sandbox where Linnea's plays every day was completely submerged, and cars in the parking lot were beginning to be in trouble. Even standing at the top of a hill, M and I were in ankle-deep water as we looked out on the complex. Our apartment complex is a cluster of 6 buildings in two rows of three. We're in the front row of three, and then there is a row of three behind us. ALL of the first-floor apartments in the back row flooded. M has spent all day today trying to clean them out--over half of them are uninhabitable.

We were lucky. We just got a little damp around our living room window that was open during the heaviest rains. M was out until about 11 last night, trying to help people bale water out of their apartments and working to keep the storm drains clear of debris so they wouldn't get too clogged. People kept coming to our apartment door and telling me all about the flood, and how I should be worried because they'd lived in this apartment before and it had flooded on them, etc.

Perhaps it's my greater store of life-experience, or perhaps it's just my devil-may-care attitude, but my thought was, "And if my apartment IS flooding: what in the hell can any of us do about it? Your coming to my door at 10:30 at night, ringing the doorbell and waking up my baby is a MUCH bigger concern to me right now than anything that is happening outside." People were wandering around here 'til midnight with that breathless "Oh, we're living through a crisis and quite possibly a tragedy all rolled into one!" sort of emotional vibe. Puh-leeze.

'Cause you know: I can appreciate how hard it would be to live in one of the apartments that flooded. I can appreciate the fear and wonder and worry of where you're going to live until your apartment can be lived in again. I can even sympathize with losing a few possessions to a few inches of water. We're all living incredibly close to the bone here--no one has a lot of extra dough to be buying new furniture or anything like that. I can understand wondering how you will afford to have your family living somewhere else that isn't subsidized student housing and all of that.

BUT: Nobody died here last night. Nobody was in the slightest danger of doing so. The water in the apartments must be measured in inches--not in feet. So while what occurred last night was indeed a HUGE inconvenience and a quite possibly a financial burden no one is really well-equipped to bear: they're all still alive. Their families are all still alive. MOST of their belongings are fine. This wasn't a tragedy. It wasn't a cateclysm. It was just a bummer. That's all. So I sort of wish all the melodramatic people around here would just put a sock in it. It's not New Orleans, for the love of freaking God.

Of course. Next rain storm, it could be our apartment. My view of this situation might be very different if it is. But one thing I've learned in this life is that THINGS can be replaced. People can't. As long as M, L and I make it through: we'll be fine as frog hair.

So unoriginal

2005-10-04T16:42:00.000-05:00

Stole this from Kara. Y'all are lucky she blogs, otherwise you wouldn't have anything to read when you come to my blog.

What color is most reflective of you?
I have NO idea. I'd like to think serene shades of blue, but I think it's probably more likely to be a sort of random purple and orange potpourri.

How did you get the idea for your journal/blog name?
I stole it from a pastor friend of mine, who has 'preacher______@yahoo'. It was so much more original than my 'pastor__________" that I immediately seized it for my blog name.

What time were you born?
1:40 PM, on a Thursday, after over 40 hours of labor and an epidural that didn't work. Or so I've been told. Repeatedly.

What song are you playing now (or wish you were playing)?
M has NPR playing in the kitchen as he cooks dinner. Linnea is watching 'Blue's Clues' in her room with the door closed. Let's just say I'm enjoying the sweet, sweet sound of absence of Blue's Clues.

Has the death of a celebrity ever made you cry?
I don't think so. I don't really identify with celebrities in that way.

What color underwear (or underoos, as I prefer) are you wearing?
Honestly? I almost always wear pink or nude. That way I don't have to check and see if people can see my panties through my pants or skirt. The one exception to that: the other day I wore this really wild multi-color hawaiian print...under nearly white capris. Which is why almost all my underwear is nude or pink.

Do you want a baby?
Yes, yes, and yes. I'm ready for little Dos.

What does your dad do for a living?
Being as he's currently unemployed (it's a family thing): whatever my mom tells him to.

What does your mom do for a living?
She is the care resource manager for a large health insurance company. If you need something done, my mom is the one who goes to bat for you with the powers that be.

What is your pet's name?
Marty Marty Where's The Party (a.k.a Martin, Mawt the Fawt, Marty the Pinheaded Pirate Cat) and Little Murray Sparkles (mostly known as 'Murray' or 'The Little One').

What color are your bedsheets?
Um...like a taupy tan color.

What are the last 3 digits of your phone number?
997. For what it's worth.

What was the last concert you attended?
Some country group that my BIL and SIL used to love in college. The show started at 10PM and we were all really proud of ourselves that we were able to stay up that late.

Who was with you?
M, BIL, and SIL.

What was the last movie you saw?
I think it was 'Revenge of the Sith'. We don't get out much.

Who do you dislike most at this moment?
Anyone who identifies themselves as a Bishop. Unless they also identify themselves as Desmond Tutu. Then they escape the wrath of Beege.

Did you dream last night?
Yes. I had a dream about a former professor that I have a huge crush on. It's one of those crushes where you just admire the person so much that you sort of start crushing on them. You know nothing will ever happen--hell, M even knows about it. But you have it all the same. What makes my particular crush fun is that I think the object of my affections has similiar feelings toward me. So we're just two people that like each other a whole bunch, and that's about that.

What was the last TV show you watched?
Don't you read this blog at all?! Freaking "Blue's Clues."

What is your fave piece of jewelery?
Not sure. I like it all. I suppose the gimme answer is: my wedding band.

What is to the left of you?
M's books for class.

What is the last thing you ate?
A piece of Tillamook extra sharp cheddar.

Write a song lyric that's in your head:
"You know what to do! Sit down in our thinking chair and think! Think! Thiiiiiiiink."

Who last IMed you?
Not really much of an IMer.

Where is your significant other right now?
Cooking dinner in the kitchen where he belongs. ;)

Do you have a crush?
Yes. The previously mentioned former professor. It's the sort of crush where if M and his wife died in some sort of horrible way, something might happen. Or it might not. But it probably would. But because neither M nor prof's wife are deceased, we just enjoy one another immensely in mixed company.

What shampoo do you use?
Neutrogena Triple Moisture something or other.

When was the last time you cut your hair?
A week and a half ago.

What shirt are you wearing?
A green and pink floral blouse.

What is your favorite frozen treat?
Ice cream. Chocolate peanut butter. Yum.

Are you sexy?
Snort. Only when I'm not trying.

What's your favorite shopping store?
Target. Or Hobby Lobby.

Can you imagine yourself ever getting married?
I'm living the dream, baby!

The best song EVER

2005-10-03T12:55:00.000-05:00

Well, as far as I'm concerned. Heh. Feel free to disagree.

But I think it has to be "Crazy"...whether sung by Pasty Cline or Willie Nelson or whoever. I love it. It just makes me weep and want to slow dance with someone who I know is going to do me wrong. Maybe because until M ALL my slow dances were with someone who I knew was going to do me wrong.

Anyhow, I don't know why I thought of that, or thought that y'all needed to know that: but there it is. Your random PreacherBeege Fact O The Day.

Would you like another random fact? You know you would.

The Mall of America is not heated. Even in Minnesota wintertime. In fact, they run the A/C almost year round. How can this be, you might wonder (I know I sure did, MOA being the mall I shop at most often): they rely on skylights and bodyheat. So many freaking people pack into Mall of America that they don't even need to heat the place--the masses of bovine consumers (mooooooo!) keep the place heated for them. Amazing. At first I thought it was a joke, but Linnea and I went there today and it was fah-reezing. 'Cuz we were basically the only people there. At one point, I looked around and she and I were the only shoppers walking down one of the malls. That was creepy, so I walked faster.

And, with news on the jobfront: I have an interview! It is with a high-end clothing boutique. I've always adored their clothing, but couldn't afford much of it. I was visiting with one of the employees there once (long before I ever thought I'd be asking for a job there) and she mentioned that because the company requires that employees wear the clothing label, they give very generous employee discounts. Whoo-effin-hoo! So that could be sweet...I wouldn't be dealing with snotty teen-aged brats. I'd be working with nice clothing. And best of all, as I was there on Saturday filling out the application--their sales staff were such a rich range of womanhood: older women, younger women, skinny tall model-like women, short voluptuous women, middle aged women. It was great. All wearing fabulous looking clothes. Several of the employees came over to chat with me as I was filling out the application, giving me the skinny on stuff, thanked me for applying, etc. I left with a really good vibe about the place.

So: while it IS retail, and I said repeatedly I didn't want to work retail--pride can only take you so far, and then you have to feed your kid. So I'm hoping this pans out. I think it will. I've never gotten as far as the interview phase and then not gotten the job. It's the first ray of hope I've had in a very long time.

A rose by any other name

2005-10-02T14:02:00.000-05:00

So, I've been thinking about Linnea's name a lot lately. Sparked by compliments that we get about it; the fact that she's one of TWO Linnea's in her class; AND the fact that someone had the gall to tell me that we are not pronouncing our daughter's name correctly (ummm...excuse me?!).

Anyhow. The Linnaea borealis (twin flower) is the national flower of Sweden. You can see the picture of it up above. Isn't it pretty? When we picked her name, we liked it because it means "lime tree" or "linden tree" which is also very pretty. (In fact, one of the kids at one of my churches used to call Linnea "Linnea Limetree" which I thought was freaking adorable!).

So, there you have it. Linnea. Linnea's name. And I don't give a damn how some random stranger at a mall would pronounce it, we pronounce it: Lin-nay-UH. So put that in your pipe and smoke it, you nosey old bag.

DEFINITELY much too early in the game*

2005-10-01T18:38:00.000-05:00

I love Christmas. Let me correct that: I looooooooooooove Christmas. I love the lights, the scents, the cold, the trees inexplicably decorated with ornaments and suddenly living in our houses, the music, the baking...all of it. About the only thing I didn't like about Christmas was having to drive 100 miles and do 3 separate Christmas Eve services because none of my congregations were willing to give up Christmas Eve in "their" church--and that's not going to be an issue this year. This year, it's looking like I won't even have to worry about doing ONE service on Christmas Eve. This would be a dream situation if we had enough money to go see family over the holidays, having not been able to do that for about four years now. But: we don't and: I digress.

So I adore Christmas, and all things thereof. Without questions. The day after Thanksgiving (if I'm able to wait that long) I'm burning my Christmasy candles, stringing lights and playing Christmas carols on the stereo. I'm also pestering M to get our Christmas tree out so that I can decorate it. So, you know, I'm not one of those people who wait until mid-December to break out the Christmas stuff. I'm a bit of an earlybird, but I like it that way.

I was at the mall today, pounding the pavement looking for a job ("Hello, Retail? This is Beege. Yeah. Sorry about all that stuff I said about not wanting to work retail unless I had to. I think I have to. Yeah. So, can I have a job, pretty please?") and was walking through a large department store (who shall remain nameless because I applied for a job with them) when I saw something that stopped me cold.

Trees. Freaking Christmas trees all decorated...lights, funky ornaments, themes, baskets of identical ornaments placed under the trees...somewhere, somehow the scent of evergreen and spice filled the air and there was the chime of jingle bells as shoppers brushed past branches on a tree that (apparently) chose "Jingle Bell Rock" to be its particular theme for the season.

On October-freaking-FIRST.

Now, my dad has worked retail my whole life. I understand the push to get stuff out and on the floor to sell to anxious Christmas shoppers who want the next best and greatest fad in holiday bonanzas (bonanzai?). I understand that retail outlets that don't get their merchandise out don't get that merchandise sold--and woe to the poor, hapless store manager should such a fate befall him/her. I understand all of that. I freaking lived it, every year from Thanksgiving Eve through New Year's, Mom had to put extra pictures of Dad around the house because he was never home and she didn't want us to forget him. And then: came the trend of stores staying open on Thanksgiving and Christmas and my Dad is the type of manager who will go on in any holiday he has to have people working--just so that he's not getting better treatment than the 11th-grade check-out girl who agreed to work for double overtime. Dad is nothing if he's not fair-minded. But it meant that we never ever got to have holidays--and that's a huge part of the reason I'm so sensitive about the time the holidays take away from my own family (I know, I know. Some of you are thinking, "But, um, Beege--Christmas? Do you REALLY expect to get Christmas off as a pastor? Surely having to work that holiday didn't come as a surprise?" No. It didn't. But it bit a whole lot more than I thought it would.).

So I get all that. Really. I do.

But c'mon! October first? Isn't that a bit ridiculous? Pretty soon, we'll be decorating for Christmas in March. It seems like every year it gets just a little bit earlier and a little bit earlier. Remember when the malls didn't decorate for Christmas until AFTER Thanksgiving? Yeah, me too.

So, if there are any Mr. Retail Bigwigs reading this: please, please don't mess with Christmas. Don't bring it out so early--Christmas is precious and beautiful, and I hate seeing rampant consumerism getting it's grubby little fingerprints all over it. By the time December 25th rolls around, Christmas is like a tired, dirty, drunken slut who's been pawed by every guy at the party. Nobody wants it. Everybody's been there, done that. She's tired and done.

And boo to the big department store for giving in.

*I totally swiped this title from Kara.

Shut the door, Baby.

2005-09-29T19:30:00.000-05:00

Seven years ago today, M and I decided that "just being friends" wasn't really something we were interested in, and made the critical leap to actual coupledom, rather than just two people flirting with the idea of dating.

As soon as I met M, something in me recognized something in him. I can't explain it. I won't even do it the injustice of trying, because all the phrases sound so...overused. Was it love at first sight? No. I don't think so. I didn't love him the minute I laid eyes on him. I didn't even lust after him the first time I laid eyes on him. What I did do was decide almost instantly that this was a man I wanted to know better. Much better. And I had a hunch that once I did that, I'd never want to be with anyone else.

Love came fast, and love came hard. Within a month I knew I wanted to marry him. The tricky part was convincing him that he wanted to marry me. ;)

So here's to the man who makes my toes curl (in a good way) when he kisses me; who gets up with Linnea in the middle of the night and the wee smas so that I can sleep; who kills bugs and fixes clogged drains; who helped me with any and all manner of personal hygene when I was too pregnant to do it myself; who can tell by a look when my world is all off-kilter and who can make it right again just by putting his hand on the small of my back; who lets me see him at his weakest and most vulnerable; who tells me I'm a goddess; who cried when our daughter was born; who isn't afraid to tell me when I'm out of line; who loves me for and in spite of who I am; who spoke his wedding vows so loudly, clearly, and emphatically that I knew without any shadow of any doubt that we were doing the right thing:

I love you.

Who knew she could be so opinionated?

2005-09-29T08:48:00.000-05:00

Last weekend (while in Wisconsin) we stopped at Walmart to check out Halloween costumes. Being as Minneapolis is Target headquarters, it's difficult to find a Walmart in the Twin Cities. Normally: this doesn't bother me. But Target's Halloween costumes are sort of spendy, and my MIL told me that Walmart had cheap ones. So as we were headed north in Menomenie and saw the Walmart, we stopped.

I had envisioned Linnea being some sort of a fairy for Halloween. She's so tiny, and she's got these big blue eyes and hair that makes whispy curls in the back...it seemed like some sort of pixie-fairy would be perfect. Plus, she's so totally girly that I figured she would enjoy it.

So, we're in the "Halloween Village" at Walmart and they had an impressive selection of fairy costumes. Must be trendy this year. They had peacock fairies, lady bug fairies, rose fairies, water fairies, dahlia fairies, Barbie fairies--a lot. All of them were Linnea's size, which was cool because (once again) she's pretty small. At 21-months she's still wearing 12-month clothes.

I had supposed that picking out this year's Halloween costume would go like picking out last year's Halloween costume went: Mama saw it, thought it would be cute, put it in the cart and voila: Linnea is Tigger for Halloween. But no. I was looking at the Rose Fairy costume (Linnea looking so smashing in pink and all). I held it up, "Do you like this?" "No." "Are you sure? You really don't like it? Look how pretty it is." "No." "You don't want to be a rose fairy for Halloween?" "NOOOOO." "Well. What do you want to be then?" (Points) "Dat."

She wants the water fairy costume. It's not much. Certainly not as cute as the rose fairy or even the peacock fairy. Since the rose costume was rejected so enthusiastically, I held up the peacock fairy dress, "This one?" (Acting like I was confused about which one she wanted.) "No. Dat one." (Pointing once again.) We had more conversations along these lines, with M standing behind us rolling his eyes and saying, "How about a ghost? You want to be a ghost, Nea? Daddy thinks you should be a ghost." and both Nea and Mama turning to him and saying, "No."

To make an embarassingly long story short: Linnea is going to be a water fairy for Halloween. She has chosen to accent her costume with a lovely set of beads that look like bubbles. I should have thought back to all the times my mother tried to get me to wear something she wanted me to wear, that I thought looked stupid. She didn't win, either.

We're taking our water fairy to the zoo for trick or treating. It will combine aspects of all her favorite activities--animals, outside, dressing up. It will introduce her to an activity sure to become a favorite--hitting up strangers for candy. Sounds like a good time to me.

So, tell me if this is a dumbass gift

2005-09-28T21:57:00.000-05:00

My MIL used to use this shampoo that she ADORED. But now, she can't find it anywhere.

Just today, I was in Walgreen's and they had a ton of it--and it looked like regular stock. It wasn't some special promotion or clearance item.

We're a little cash-short right now, but MIL's birthday is on 10/6. Would it be hokey of me to buy her a couple of bottles of the shampoo she loves so much and has mentioned to me (several times) about how upset she is that she can't find it anymore? It would be in our price range, but I worry that it would be like, "Happy Birthday! We got you shampoo!" as if we went through our house and said, "Quick! What can we take of ours to send to her for her birthday?!"

So? What do you think? She's also getting a piece of Nea's original art in a frame, but I figure that isn't hokey for a grandma. It's schmoopy.

Because I am a lemming

2005-09-28T18:19:00.000-05:00

I'm stealing this from Cyn. Again.

I'm sort of in this creative dry-spell. I get blog topics dancing at the edges of my mind, and they are always almost immediately frightened away by the toddler that's wrapped herself around my knees while screaming, "A clue! A clue! Mamaaaaaaaaaaaaa!" as though if I don't stop whatever it is I'm doing right that instant and turn on 'Blues Clues' the earth will slip off its axis and take out the entire solar system before colliding with the sun in what Roscoe P. Coltrane would call "a horrendous crash". Never, ever in my wildest imaginings of motherhood did I envision myself pleading with my stubborn, tow-headed replica, "PLEASE, Baby. Can we watch 'Barney'? Look! Look how much fun Barney is! Do you like the song? Here, Baby--let's you and Mama sing the song!" Yes. I am a card-carrying member of Gen X, and yes: reality does bite.

So, anyway. Books I'm reading--just finished a reread of Gaiman's "American Gods". I highly recommend this book if you haven't read it yet. And as a special treat, M brought home Gaiman's new book "Anansi Boys" because I am (in his words) a "domestic goddess". He probably said that because I managed to brush my teeth today.

And now, a meme.

Act your age?
I don't know. Sometimes I think I act way older than my age. Other times I think I act less. But ultimately, it's not really anything that I worry too much about.

Born on what day of the week?
Thursday, which according to Mother Goose means I have far to go. Great. I'm already tired, though.

Chore you hate?
Let's see. I'm really not a fan of putting clean stuff away...dishes, clothes. I don't know why, but I'd 100 times over rather wash dirty dishes and do laundry than take care of the stuff once it's all nice and clean.

Dad’s name?
Tim

Essential makeup item?
Mascara and concealer for the bags under my eyes.

Favorite actor?
Like for acting ability? I gotta go with Tom Hanks.

Why?
I've liked him ever since I was a kid and I'd watch him on "Bosom Buddies". That was my favorite show.

Hometown?
I don't really have one. We moved around a lot when I was a kid. I suppose the city we lived the longest amount of time in was Kennewick, WA. The town where I did the most growing up though, would be Spokane, WA.

Instruments you play?
Violin. Although 'play' isn't quite right. I played the violin 15 years ago. Now, it just takes up space in our storage unit, but I refuse to get rid of it.

Job title?
I'm the artist formerly known as Pastor Beege. Now, I answer primarily to "mama".

Kids?
My sweetie petitee, Nea. Who is going through a phase that leads me to believe she's channeling some sullen 13-year-old from the beyond.

Living arrangements?
In a small, 2-bedroom apartment that we love. Who knew that a 2-bedroom apartment in student housing could be the Happiest Place on Earth? But: there you go.

Mom’s name?
Corinne

Need?
Health insurance. And a job. But mostly health insurance so I can have another baby. No. Wait. A job WITH health insurance. If you have a spare one, please: send it my way.

Overnight hospital stays?
One night, January 30th, 2004, after giving birth to my MiniMe.

Phobias?
Oo. Spiders. *shiver*

Quote you like?
"Today was a waste of a manicure and a master's degree."

Religious affiliation?
Let's hear it for the Lutherans!!!! L-U-T-H-E-R-A-N! What's that spell? LUTHERAN! What's that mean? Most of us have no clue!

Siblings?
Two brothers. Both younger.

Time you wake up?
Whatever time it is, it's always too early.

Unique talent?
Um, I can inhale so powerfully that my nostrils slam shut and it makes me look like a Cabbage Patch Kid.

Worst habit?
Ahhh...too many to list, and far too many for there to be a 'worst'.

X-rays you’ve had?
Dental x-rays, and once when I was like four years old my brother jumped on my leg when we were camping so my mom and her best friend took me into the emergency room in Billings, Montana because I kept telling them my leg was broken. It wasn't.

Yummy food you make?
I really don't know. I bake a good chicken, but that's not tough. Oo! I know! I make killer gravy. I didn't know how to make it when we got married, so M showed me, and now mine is better than his. There's something sort of 'StarWars' about that. Maybe.

Zodiac Sign?
Pisces.

And now, because the "G" question has been lost somewhere in cyberspace--is there a "G" question anyone is dying to have me answer? I tried to think up some smart, witty question but couldn't come up with anything. See if you can do better.

Ah...WisCAHnsin

2005-09-26T12:52:00.000-05:00

Yesterday we drove over to Wisconsin to visit a friend of ours--he was our bestman and is Linnea's godfather (heh. I accidentally mistyped 'godfarter' which would also be an accurate asseesment). He just got married in June, and so we went over to see the wedding video and pictures.

Sweet fancy Moses! The wedding video was so freaking boring!!!! Even though it was one of our best friends as the groom, another one of our best friends as the pastor presiding over the wedding, and scads of other dear friends popping up in various different places and functions...it was boring. Boring, boring, boring. I tried to smile politely through it all, but inwardly was thanking God that Linnea was running around trying to "coloring" on their hardwood floors. And THEN: I thought of all the people I inflicted OUR wedding video on. And our wedding video? It's no short thing. The service in and of itself was an hour. Then the videographer took video of pictures. And the reception. And then he set up in a little room so people could come in and give us personal messages of love and support and good wishes. Our wedding video rivals "Gone With the Wind" in length...I kid you not.

So, if you're one of the unfortunates that I inflicted this video upon: I'm sorry. I didn't know. I was a bride. I thought everyone was as fascinated by the event as I was. But you weren't. I understand that, now. Please accept my heartfelt apologies.

Silence is Golden

2005-09-24T15:12:00.000-05:00

Just haven't had much to say, lately. Not a lot going on in tiny principality of Beegeland.

We had terrible, scary severe weather Wednesday night. Homes were destroyed. Thousands of people without power. It had been HOT that day, and so we had all the windows open. All of the sudden there was a roar like a freight train and books, magazines, and DVD cases started blowing around our living room...sirens were going off...it was scary.

I'm terrible about severe weather though. When it's bad, I don't want to leave my television. We were under a tornado warning, and were told repeatedly to go to shelter, but I just didn't want to leave my television security blanket, with handsome Ken Barlow telling me what was going on, so I'd know precisely when I could stop freaking out.

Having Linnea doesn't make it any better, because when those sirens go off I have no idea how to keep her safe. I didn't grow up in a tornado area. We don't really HAVE severe weather in Eastern Washington. And even with three years in Kansas under my belt we were never sent to shelter...all the storms were well away from us (oddly enough). So: I just hate it.

I went jeans shopping today. I managed to find two pair that make the old trunk look not too bad...my ass up and disappeared after giving birth. I never had a butt you could serve drinks off of, but I did at least have a little bit of a curve back there. Not anymore. Now it looks like someone whacked me with a 1X12--flat, flat, flat. My body is like a total stranger since being pregnant and giving birth...completely different than what it was prepregnancy. I weigh the same, but I'm shaped TOTALLY differently. I'm not entirely happy about that. So when M goes on and on about his 'belly' (that disappears as soon as he lays down, so it hardly qualifies as a belly in my book) it's about all I can do to not unzip my pants and slap him with my stretched out belly skin. You wanna talk belly, Babe?

Tomorrow we're going to go hang out with some friends. I'm looking forward to it. It's been some time since we've just hung out with people our age. The fact that these are some of the dearest friends in our world is just icing on the cake. :)

In the spirit of Sergio Leone and the Infield Fly Rule

2005-09-20T12:20:00.000-05:00

I'm channeling my blog-buddy, Dennis today.

I was laying in bed late last night, thinking of movies that I really enjoy--taking a mental inventory of which ones we still need to get on DVD, and which ones I feel were sort of overlooked in their theatrical releases.

So here they are, in no particular order (and for no particular reason):

Beege's Top Three Movies of All Time

1. Happy Texas (1999) This movies stars Jeremy Northam and Steve Zahn, escaped convicts who steal a 'crappy camper' and try and pass themselves off as gay pagent promoters in the tiny Texas town of Happy. While there they find out that the bank will have a large amount of money deposited after the citrus harvest is in, and so they linger in town. Along the way, Northam falls for "Jo" the (female) town banker and "Chappy" the (male) town sheriff falls for him. For me, the highlight of the movie is any scene that contains Steve Zahn, who chews up the comedic material with joy and enthusiasm. We saw this movie by accident--we wanted to see another movie that was out at the same time, but it was sold out. M is from Texas, so we decided: what the hell. And in that serendipitous fashion, we stumbled upon one of our favorite movies of all time. The soundtrack is also very very good.

2. Beautiful Girls (1996) This story of high school friends who reunite for a class reunion in small-town Maine (at least I think it's Maine. It was filmed in Marine-on-St.-Croix, MN.) is, hands down, one of my all time faves. The $9.99 for the DVD is worth every penny for Rose O'Donnell's monologue on beautiful (fake) women alone--"To the fatties, God gave big beautiful breasts. To the skinnies, he gave little tiny niddlers. God's a fair guy, he doesn't fuck around." It stars Matt Dillon, Timothy Hutton, Rosie O'Donnell, Uma Thurman, Mira Sorvino, Lauren Holly, and a luminous young Natalie Portman. Directed by Ted Demme, the writing is good, the story is good, and the ending is somehow satisfying.

3. Mystery Alaska (1999) Starring Russell Crowe, Burt Reynolds, Hank Azaria and a well-rounded cast of lesser-knowns; directed by Jay Roach this is a great movie. It tells the story of an Alaska community league hockey team who end up playing the New York Rangers...and almost winning. What makes this moves one of my favorites is the inter-relatedness of the characters and how those relationships are written. It's funny. It's serious. It has swear words. And while it DOES resist the pat ending, there's still enough goo in there for it to qualify to be the Disney movie it is. Not overdone goo. Just enough.

So, there you have it. Apropos of nothing: my three faves.

Also good are: Dangerous Beauty, The Red Violin, and Garden State (but everybody knows that already).

And there was playtime, and there was story time: the first day

2005-09-20T12:11:00.000-05:00

Today was Linnea's first day of dayschool.

In a spectacular way of getting off on the right foot: we all overslept. We don't usually set an alarmclock, since Linnea has functioned as our alarm clock for nearly 21 months now, waking us up between 5:30 and 6:30 every morning. I woke up at 8AM (when she was supposed to be there) and said, "We have GOT to get going." Naturally, I hadn't packed her bag with extra clothes, the package of diapers and wipes, or filled out the immunization record on the application last night, as I had planned on having enough time this morning to do that. We managed to have her there by 8:30 (it helps that the center is across the parking lot).

For the first time in her entire life, I found my daughter to be a bit hesitant. Not a lot. But she kept coming back to me to lean on me for a few seconds before going off to play some more. But ultimately: she had a good time. She only cried when the teacher read a story about mommies and daddies, and Linnea realized that we weren't there. But she was easily distracted and back to having fun within minutes.

And, a funny story: 'Linnea' was the 1,197th most popular name in 2004. That means that only one in nearly 1200 female births resulted in a child named Linnea. Our Linnea is the second Linnea in her dayschool class. Here we had prided ourselves that she would never ever have to be "Linnea LastInitial"...but she does. We actually got around that quite neatly by suggesting that the teachers call her Nea, which is what we call her at home a lot of the time. At least I do. I just think it's amazing that with a name that unpopular, there's two of them in her class.

When I went to pick her up, she was at story time--totally absorbed. When she saw me, she burst into tears. I couldn't get to her fast enough and just held her and held her and held her. So while she had fun (and while I also enjoyed the time apart), we were very happy to be back together again.

Petty Annoyances

2005-09-19T08:07:00.000-05:00

I feel sorta bad writing about this. I really do. But I HAVE to get this off my chest, and who better to complain to than my scads of readers who will never ever meet the woman who has inspired these petty annoyances?

*sigh* My mother-in-law. She means well. She really does. That she loves us beyond redemption or recall, I have no doubt (ergo, the nebulous feelings about this post). But I just have to complain to someone, and I don't want to complain to M about it. She's his mom, afterall.

Back in May, we went to Texas to visit them and have family portraits taken. On our way home, we stopped at this quaint little town I'd always wanted to visit--Salado. The in-laws decided they would drive as far as Salado with us, and then return to their house while we continued northward to Kansas.

I had been looking forward to wandering around this town that's full of art galleries, jewlery designers, fun little shops, etc. I love towns like this--towns that are just bursting with stuff to be discovered and admired. But with MIL in tow, we went to all HER favorite stores. A truly crappy art gallery, a horrendously ugly jewlery store, and a store called 'Bundle of Joy' which was an upscale baby boutique that was actually pretty darn cool, if not lightyears out of our pricerange. I mean, I'd love to live in a world where I could spend $55 on a onesie that has a monkey appliqued on it--but I don't live in a world like that.

Anyhow. This store had really nice dolls. Vinyl head, arms and legs. Cloth body. The dolls do NOTHING. Just close their eyes when you lay them down and open them when you pick them up again. They don't shriek, "Mama!" when you accidentally step on them in the night while trying to quietly check on your sleeping child. They don't pee in a potty. They just ARE. And I loved that about them. MIL had said she wanted to get Linnea one of these dolls. I said, "Fantastic! Let's let her pick one out!" BUT: all the dolls that were in stock were too small. MIL wanted to get Linnea a bigger doll. So I thought, "OK. These dolls aren't too outrageously priced. I'll get Linnea one this trip." So I picked one out that had little pink camels on her little pink dress, and she smelled like vanilla. Bought her, gave her to an ecstatic Linnea, who adores 'Nilla Baby to this very day.

Fastforward to July. In-laws drive up to Kansas for one last visit. While having a conversation about the girls, MIL says, "I really need to stop in Salado and pick up a dollbaby for S. She's the only granddaughter I haven't bought one of those dollbabies for. " I immediately said, "No, she isn't. I bought Nilla Baby." Which flustered my MIL, because in her head she totally remembered that SHE had purchased the Nilla Baby doll. And really, it's not THAT big a deal, it's just that I don't want her getting credit for purchasing Linnea something that she didn't. It all comes down to the fact that K and S live 4 miles away from her, and get showered with "Meme Gifts" all the freaking time...and Linnea doesn't. So I don't want her cousins to be getting expensive dollbabies from Meme while Meme congratulates herself on getting Linnea the doll *I* bought.

See? Told you they were petty.

Also in July: I found some material I wanted my mom to makes sheets for Linnea out of. I figured: new room, new sheets. I was wonderfully excited to also find a matching polar fleece of Linnea's favorite material (one with frogs and dragonflies). So I bought some, and my plan was to just cut a fringe around the edge. I was sitting on the couch one night with my scissors, reading myself to fringe, when MIL said, "I could take that and put an edging around it." I said, "Like what?" She said, "Well, I could find a hot pink fleece to match and just do an edging." I said, "That sounds great! Thanks!"

We just got the blanket back. It's cute. It's got the hot pink edging. And sewed into the hot pink edging? A "Made Especially for you by ____________" label with her name. This, for whatever reason, annoys me. I guess because it communicates that SHE found the fleece, SHE bought it, SHE had the idea of a nap blanket, and SHE did the edging. And: she didn't. She's taking total credit for the blanket when all she did was edge the damn thing.

Am I just crazy that these things bother me? 'Cuz sometimes I feel like I am. I know that they're totally petty, but that's the way my MIL is: the petty stuff just wears you down and down and down until you do/say something stupid and then she's off wailing about how much she knows you don't love her.

*sigh*

Hmmmm.

2005-09-17T18:17:00.000-05:00

So.

I was coming to blog about something really interesting. Toward the end of dinner, I was struck with inspiration. And in the time it took me to get up from the kitchen table, walk to the office and sit down at the computer: it's gone.

I have no idea what in the hell I was going to blog about. But I'm sure you would have enjoyed it.

An Author of Note

2005-09-17T15:53:00.000-05:00

I'm a voracious reader. I always have been. And if there has been a silver cloud to the whole unemployment thing (other than spending guilt-free time with Linnea), it's been having time to read again like I used to.

I came across the author Christopher Moore a few years back, after finding and reading his book Lamb: The Gospel According to Biff, Christ's Childhood Pal. I rarely come across a book that is so freaking funny that I have to stop reading to guffaw, gasp, wheeze, choke, wipe my eyes and turn to M and say, "Listen to this."

He uses language in a way that makes me, an aspiring fellow-writer, want to smack my head against a wall because I didn't think of the phrase first. He treats hallowed subjects with a twinkle in his eye and a devlish grin and just enough irreverence that you begin to see things for the sacred cattle that they are. Jesus having erections as a young pre-teen boy? Preposterous! Is it really, chief? I mean, isn't the whole point of his being fully God and fully human that he would do all the horrifyingly embarassing things that we do? Pop a boner in the middle of class...voice breaking in front of a girl he likes...Mary acting like a Jewish mother and embarassing him in front of all his friends. It was fabulous. Out and out fabulous.

My current "Bedside Table Book" is The Stupidest Angel: A Heartwarming Tale of Christmas Terror. Once again, I find myself gasping, wheezing, chortling, and trying not to shake the bed too much so I won't disturb my sleeping husband. Check out the link to read a brief synopsis.

An exerpt: [Sam] said that Santa was just something the goys made up to make them feel better about not having a menorah. That was crap, of course. Goys (a Jewish word for girls and boys, Sam had explained) didn't want a menorah. They wanted toys. Same was just saying that because he was made because instead of Christmas they had snipped the tip of his penis off and said mazel tov. (The Stupidest Angel, page 46.)

And just the titles of his other books make me itch to read more--The Lust Lizard of Melancholy Cove; Island of the Sequined Love Nun (intruiging to a person currently absorbed in the first season of LOST on DVD); Bloodsucking Fiends; Practical Demonkeeping...one of the toughest parts of writing can be coming up with a title, but Moore has got that art down to a science. His writing is very reminiscent of Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchet in Good Omens.

Oh! And most importantly: the funk LOVES it. Loves it so much, it almost disappears.

So if you're looking for something to read. Something not too taxing, but that somehow still makes you think (without even realizing it because you're having so much fun): check out Christopher Moore. I think you'll be happy you did.

(Heh. How much do I feel like one of those kids from 'Reading Rainbow' who would tell you all about this great book they read. I should see if I can find a file of the "Duh-duh dah!" music they played at the end of every book report on that show...)

A mindless meme...but FIRST

2005-09-15T18:27:00.000-05:00

It's over. I didn't think it would ever end. After the way it started...meeting at a concert, a whirlwind romance, a romantic wedding on the beach only weeks later...but it has ended. Yes: Renee Z and Kenny C are no more. Shall we observe a moment of silence for a marriage that I'm sure we all thought would stand the test of time?

Nah. I didn't think so, either! Let's meme!

I took this from Dix, who took it from Kara, who took it from someone I don't remember. Sit back, relax, and prepare to be astounded.

7 things I plan to do before I die:
*Travel to Japan

*Learn to play cello

*Be published in something other than the weekly rural newspaper I wrote for in Kansas.

*Earn a PhD

*Bawl like a baby at Linnea's wedding

*MAYBE get a tat

*Learn to appreciate (and enjoy!) sushi

7 things I can do:
*Play violin (although I haven't touched the thing in 15 years, so this may be a fudge)

*Speak in front of large crowds without nerves

*Knit rectangular things

*Make Linnea stop crying faster than anyone

*Pick out a fine bottle of wine

*Read New Testatment Scripture in Greek (as long as I have a lexicon)

7 things I cannot do:
*Eat with chopsticks. I don't care how easy M says it is. I can't do it. My chopsticks? Little plastic purple monkey chopsticks. It ain't dignified. But it ain't a fork.

*Watch Star Trek. Gads. That show (in all of its incarnations) drives me crazy. Exept Jean Luc. He's sorta hot.

*Remember any of the Hebrew I studied.

*Like Bush. I've tried. Hell, I would have voted for him in 2000. But I just can't do it.

*Write with my right hand.

*Housetrain a dog.

*Eat sushi.

7 things that attract me to the opposite sex:
*Sense of Humor

*Nice, big, broad shoulders

*Devotion

*Loyalty

*Compassion

*Dark hair and eyes

*A way with kids

7 things that I say most often:
*Fuck

*Sweet!

*Damn!

*For future reference

*Mama loves you like crazycakes

*You wanna know what I wanna know?

*Love you.

7 celebrities i find attractive:
*Owen Wilson
*Johnny Depp
*Matthew McCaunahey

*Orlando Bloom

*Viggo Mortenson (although primarily in his role of Aragorn. I guess I've got a raging inner-geek)

*Ty Pennington

*Zack Braff (because ultimately, the raging inner-geek is attracted to fellow geeks)

Get down and get funky.

2005-09-14T16:49:00.000-05:00

So, everybody around seems to be in a funk. Lots of the bloggers I read are in a funk. A lot of my friends are in funks. It just seems to be a general malaise. I won't go into why I think people are feeling funky-in-a-bad-way--'cuz I think that does the funks a disservice to assume that all are caused by the same things. And if my hard-earned college bachelor's degree in psychology taught me anything (other than prepping me for a fast-paced job in the food service industry), it's that when one comes across a funk, one must treat that funk with respect.

So, I personally, have been trying to peacefully co-exist with my funk. I've unleashed my usual "funk busting" arsonal, and it mostly hasn't worked. So now I'm letting my funk live a corner. I know it's there. Everyone in the house knows it's there. We acknowledge it. We address it, "Hey, funk! Want some popcorn?" And usually, the funk does. Who knew funks could be such popcorn fiends? This particular plan seems to be working better than the "Funk Eradication Program" I impletmented earlier.

Today, I took my funk and Linnea to the zoo. All three of us had a really good time. It's hard not to have a good time watching an orangutan get some action (even if you're a funk). It's especially hard not to have a good time listening to Linnea crow, "Mooooooooooooon-keeeeeeeeeeeeees!" as soon as we entered the primate house. And even a funk can't complain about sharing hot, salty, buttery popcorn and an icy cold lemonade while watching a lion sun his nether regions.

So maybe that's the secret: just love your funk. It won't hurt. It might help. Perhaps funks are just deeply misunderstood, their very funkness a cry for help and attention.

Or, maybe I'm just funkin' nuts.

Dying for want of a breeze...

2005-09-12T18:18:00.000-05:00

So, the Twin Cities is experiencing near-record highs and heat indexes right now. It's hot, humid, and STICKY. At night, it doesn't get better: you just sweat into the sheets and everything gets hotter and stickier and then M decides that he want to cuddle (and he's a hot sweaty sleeper anyway) and it's about all I can do to not turn green and go freaking crazy. ----->

And our A/C is broken. It's nice. We just call up the management office and say, "Our A/C isn't working. Hasn't been working all weekend." and they say, "OK! Can we come over right now to look at it?" and we say, "Sure! We're the only apartment with it's windows open! Come on over!"

*sigh* So the property manager came over and looked at it. Groaned when he saw our system and said, "Beege, it's one of the old ones. This isn't going to be an easy fix. I'll go up on the roof and see what's going on up there." Then he comes back and says, "I'm calling the air conditioning guys. We'll see what's up."

The air conditioning guys came. And left. And as far as I know: we're still without A/C. But no one thought to call us and let us know where we stand on the issue.

So we're all sticky and cranky. M found two fleas in the apartment, and I'm hoping they just came in on some laundry we had outside and that it doesn't mean we have an infestation. I know we didn't bring them, as Marty Marty Where's the Party and Little Murray Sparkles have only ever been inside cats. And we didn't notice them until today. None of us have flea bites. So: here's hoping, 'cuz I have no clue how to get rid of fleas.

Linnea is enrolled in daycare. I'm excited for her, and for me. Although, I don't know what I'll do with the time. I haven't heard squat from anyone about a job, and just went another round with the synod office about things that I should have done that I didn't know about (and that they're not in any real hurry to explain to me, either). So it's not like I'll be working, or need the time to get stuff done because I'm so busy working. But it will be nice to have whole stretches of days when I don't have to have a bathroom buddy. "Mama poop!" Say it louder, kid. I'm sure the family living on the third floor didn't quite catch that through the vents.

If you were at church at St. Andrew's this morning...

2005-09-11T10:33:00.000-05:00

Today, we went to church. It was the first time since July 31st that we'd darkened the door of a church, and we both felt that it was time to get back into it. We'd had our Sundays off...our Sundays of "being Jewish" (lox and bagels at the bagel shop)...our Sundays of hanging out at Ikea. Labor Day had come and gone, and it was time to get back into the worship swing of things.

Odd, getting back into the worship swing of things when we weren't the ones leading the swinging. Odd, but somehow OK. Good, even. To sit in the pew towards the back of the sanctuary and just let someone else do all the work up front. I didn't even miss it, or feel out of place like I thought I would. Nor did I spend the entire service critiquing the work being done up front--I just sat, and worshipped.

It was Rally Sunday, a time-honored tradition in the Lutheran church of kicking off the new Sunday School year with a bang. So there were TONS of kids in the church, and we sang some kid oriented songs until they were dismissed for Sunday School (not something I agree with, as a general pastoral rule, but as I said: I wasn't the one leading the swinging). One of the songs we sang was "Jesus Loves Me."

I've been in kind of a dark place lately. Very dark. Very scary. With scary voices whispering scary thoughts into my head. It's a place I don't often go to, but when I do go: look out, 'cuz I go full-bore, all out, balls to the wall. I had pretty much convinced myself that I was unlovable...by my friends, by M, by God, by anyone. And once you hit that particular point, you start to wonder other scary things.

So we're sitting in the gi-normous sanctuary, with the ha-uge choir, a brass ensemble, and a pipe organ who's pipes take up the entire north wall of the sanctuary and we're singing "Jesus Loves Me". Sweet little innocuous song, treasured by children and people in the nursing homes. And as I sang, I started to cry. And cry. And cry. Except I was trying very hard NOT to cry, so I was making these odd, muffled, strangled trying-not-to-cry noises as it was brought home to me that I am not, in point of fact, unlovable. That Jesus loves me. And that's no small thing.

But I'd forgotten. I'm very very good at telling other people that Jesus loves them...but it's the sort of message that I can't give myself. I need to hear it from outside myself...a voice that comes from the Other...even if the Other takes the form of a song that I've sung to Linnea since before she had ears.

Jesus love me, this I know

for the Bible tells me so.

Little ones to Him belong,

they are weak but He is strong.

Yes, Jesus loves me.

The Bible tells me so.

So, if you were at church at St. Andrew's this morning, and you heard a young woman next to you snerking her way through "Jesus Loves Me": that was me, Beege. Nice to meetcha.

It's like toilet tag, only better...and less embarassing

2005-09-09T22:09:00.000-05:00

Childhood Meme
So I have been tagged with a meme from Mojavi. I was tagged an embarassingly long time ago, but with the move and everything: didn't get to it until now. My deep apologies to Mojavi. I am to tell you all about my Top Five Childhood Memories. I'm not sure I can do a Top Five...at this point, I'm sure I either won't be able to come up with five at all, or I'll come up with five hundred. And, frankly, who wants to sit through five hundred of their own memories, much less anybody elses? But because I'm always so ridiculously excited to be tagged (You like me! You really like me!), and because Mojavi seems to be one of the coolest people I've never laid eyes on, I'll give it a whirl!

My best friend's step grandparents owned a cabin on Holland Lake in Montana. It was right across the lake from the Holland Lake Lodge (which is why this pic got the nod). I realize now that it was less of a cabin, per se, as a logmansion in the mountains. They had two boats, some jet skis, about 6-bedrooms, a large wrap-around porch...it was amazing. But you know, when you're 10, if you're told it's a cabin: it's a cabin. I'd spend weeks up there with Robynn and we always had so much fun. We'd wander the woods and play spy (a game which seemed mostly to consist of our walking around saying, 'Sheet!' as loudly as we could, because we figured spies would have accents when cursing...plus, Robynn's mom couldn't get after us for saying 'sheet' like she could for our saying 'shit'); we made this delightful beverage that consisted of lake water, some mint, some apple juice all mixed together in empty beer bottles (ew, but we drank a ton of that stuff...and it was good lake water too--pulled right from the boat slips!); we lip synched to "We Are the World" in our bedroom, and declared our undying love for Micheal Jackson (it was the time of "Thriller" we couldn't help it. We were culturally required to have a crush on him. Plus, he was almost normal then.). It was always fun. I always remember those as good times.

When I was about 8 years old, my family moved to Missoula, MT. We lived in a great neighborhood that was FULL of girls my age. We immediately formed a girl gang and spent long summer days terrorizing the neighborhood on our bikes (excuse me, our horses, all of us going through that stage where girls are wild for horses); playing Barbies; planning weddings for two of the youngest kids in the neighborhood; and chasing down the candy truck. I always (when I could get money from my mother, who was always reluctant to let me have any money for the candytruck and so she told me she wouldn't give me money because he sold drugs) got Lick M Aid. Now it's called "Fun Dip". But Lick M Aid was great, because you could make it last for such a long time! Granted, it had those cardboard-flavored white dippers but then you had like FOUR fruity powders to dip the stick in...grape and orange and strawberry and something else...lime, maybe? Anyhow. I loved it.

I would be remiss in any Childhood Memory tag if I didn't mention Barbie. If I had a dollar for every hour I played Barbies--alone, with my girl gang, with my brother--I wouldn't be nearly as panicky about being unemployed because I'd be freaking rich. I loved to play Barbies...I'd always set up their house (I had to design my own Barbie Dream house--no plastic prefab mansions for me, thank you very much!), an activity that could take days. Then we'd play. And play and play and play. Once we heard about the birds and bees, our Barbies got a sinful amount of lovin' from Ken or Donnie (I had the Donnie fashion doll, but not the Marie fashion doll). When it came time to have their babies ('cuz you only have sex if you want to make a baby, right?), they would faint in a very ladylike fashion and wake up with their best friend handing their baby to them (this helped cover up our total lack of understandings of the workings of childbirth). They were never, ever Barbie. They were always "Princess Aurora of Greenland" or some such thing (Greenland sounded like such a beautiful country to be the princess of!). A good time was had by all.

I devoured these books when I was a kid. I had all of them but one (Jacquline, I think). They were historical romance novels written for young girls (now they call them "tweens" I think). Anyhow...I loved them. Read them over and over and over again. They satisfied my need for both romance and historical accuracy. I sure hope Mom did throw my collection out...they're out of print and nearly impossible to find. In fact, I know them so well I can tell you (and it's been a good 18 years since I've read these) that Diana took place during the Lewis and Clark Expidition; Kathleen chronicles a young girl who flees the potato famine in Ireland and settles in Boston; Susannah takes place during the Civil War.

My brother, when he was about 6 or 7 found this comic book in the library. It's a series called ElfQuest, and it immediately seized our imaginations with its stories of the Wolfriders and the SunPeople and all their adventures.

We would play ElfQuest for hours in our backyard, which was heavily forested, and perfect for imagining

ourselves to be wolf riding elves. My dad slung two hammocks between some trees and those became our wolves.

My brother and I have an...odd relationship. It's not bad. It's not good. It just is. And this is one of the few good memories I have of us, hanging out and howling.

So that's my five childhood. I'm not sure it's a top five...but they're the ones that came to me most easily, so there's something to be said for that!

I tag: Dix, Cyn, and Zoe.

Date Night

2005-09-09T21:03:00.000-05:00

There's a daycare located on the campus of the school M is attending. One night a month they host a "Date Night"--they take the kids for two and a half hours, and Mom and Dad can get away.

Tonight was the first one. I was having serious second thoughts...Linnea has never ever stayed with anyone who wasn't family and whom she didn't know. I had visions of her spending the evening screaming and crying, feeling abandoned.

As soon as we got to the door and she saw the kids AND the toys, she scrambled out of my arms and never looked back. When we went to pick her up, she was dancing to The Wiggles with an older boy...my presence (or lack thereof) didn't seem to matter to her one little bit. One of the teachers asked, "Does she ever sit down? We tried to get her to color a picture, but she just couldn't sit still long enough to do it." I said, "That's pretty much my girl. If it's not a wall, she doesn't have time to color it."

*sigh* I need to get her into daycare. I really do. She needs it--the kids, the structure, the activites, the other kids. She's ready.

I'm not so sure I am, though.