So I'm driving down Ridge Road in Wichita yesterday when I notice it. One of the 8 lights beside the speedometer was glaring at me. Then it started to blink.
Thank goodness I was close to Sonic. I pulled in and got my usual. (Route 44 Diet Coke with vanilla. One time a married friend of mine - an accountability partner of sorts - did the math and figured out I spend something like $94 A MONTH on Diet Cokes from Sonic. That's $1,128 a year. She said I'm crazy and that her husband would kill her. I told her it's an addiction (obviously) and it's a good thing I didn't marry her husband.)
Anyway, I took a second to call the dealership where I JUST bought the car. They transfer me to the mechanic, and I explain that something is apparently wrong with the car I JUST bought.
"What's wrong?" he asks.
I explain that a light is on. "What does it say?" he asks.
I explain that it's a picture, not a word.
"What is the picture of?" he asks.
I explain that it's some sort of mechanical part. "It looks like something from a Dr. Seuss book," I add hopefully. Pause. Then comes the longest "I-really-hate-dealing-with-women/why-do-they-even-issue-y'all-driver-licenses-anyway" sigh I've ever heard.
"Well, I think it's covered under the lifetime warranty," I say. Then the minute I said it, I realize that was the water heater I just bought, not the car. And I think he heard me.
Yep. He laughs. "Oh, you got the lifetime warranty," he exclaims sarcastically. "Well aren't you special!"
Whatever. But it did make me think. I came home and and pulled out all the warranties, lifetime protection plans, insurance policies, retirement savings papers... everything... and began reading. And, as I sat among the piles and piles of paper with my calculator, I start to cry.
I spent $739 this month on insurance. You know, to protect myself. My health. My life. My assets. And yet, no amount of insurance can protect us. No number of policies -however great- can ward off accidents, catastrophies, and death.
As I cried, one of my favorite hymns started playing in the back of my mind. And I started to sing, "Blessed assurance, Jesus is mine! O what a foretaste of glory divine. Heir of salvation, purchase of God. Born of His Spirit, washed in His blood.... Perfect submission, all is at rest; I in my Savior am happy and blessed. Watching and waiting, looking above - filled with His goodness, lost in His love...."
Jesus is mine. Blessed assurance, indeed! That's better than any insurance any under-writer could ever come up with. I think when I take my car in to see that mechanic on Monday, I'm going to explain. Explain that I DO have a lifetime warranty plan. Not for this lifetime, but for the next.
Saturday, April 29, 2006
Sunday, April 23, 2006
Soap Box Brin
I was deciding between paint colors called "Cat's Whiskers" and "Aspic" yesterday morning when I heard it....
"We can't take back custom-mixed paint," the clerk at Sherwin Williams barked into her phone.Silence. Then, "Well, I don't know. I heard Habitat for Humanity takes paint and uses it in the homes they're building around here."
I was instantly excited. Having already learned that Sherwin Williams definitely does NOT offer any kind of 'sorry-you-hate-your-paint-and-it-reminds-you-of-kid-puke' exchange, I too have buckets of paint I can't (won't) ever use. (Unless I decide to get underneath my house and do some painting. And even I don't get that bored.) Anyway, it got my mind racing. Wonder what else is hiding in Freeman House that Habitat could use?
I drove home quickly and paced the house. There was the washing machine my Mom gave me. I have a new one being delivered today, and there's no reason I should let Lowe's haul it off. Someone could use it. Oh! And then there's the sink I bought that I can't stand now. (Really, somedays I have poor taste.) Oh! And over there....
A huge pile is accumulating. But I've noticed that it's not just sinks and paint. It's clothes. And shoes I never wear. And lamps and dishes and....
Wow. I really wish I could take all this stuff to the Christian Service Center here in town. But I refuse. In order for anyone to get any help - or clothes, food, etc. - the person must first trot down to a local church and ask for a voucher. Sure, the churches say it gets people in the doors... gets them in contact with a pastor or deacon. Whatever. The Service Center is nearly busting with Baptist hand-me-downs that people need but no one claims.
The longer I considered my pile, the angrier I got. It made me remember. Remember that when Jesus sent out His disciples, He coached them somewhat like this:
1. Go to the 'lost sheep'.
2. Preach this message: the kingdom of heaven is near.
3. Heal the sick. Raise the dead, etc.
4. FREELY YOU HAVE RECEIVED, FREELY GIVE.
I wonder if my church's altar Bible is accidentally missing that page. I'm not seeing much giving going on. And I certainly wouldn't characterize it as the "freely" sort of giving, either.
I wish I could say that I'm sorry if this is offending local church friends, but the truth is - I'm not. I'm not a bit sorry. The average American eats nearly 14 POUNDS of bread a year. (Yeah.) I read this past week that if you slept under a roof last night, you're better off than over 90% of people in this world. My heart is breaking. Certainly we as Christians could do more. Certainly Jesus told us to do more.
I don't know where this soap box appeared from today. (I guess that phone call at Sherwin Williams.) Before I hop off this box, however, I leave you with this quote a friend emailed me yesterday. It's from Irish playwright and Nobel Prize winner George Bernard Shaw. It reads:
This is the one true joy in life, the being used for a purpose recognized by yourself as a mighty one; the being a force of nature instead of a feverish, selfish little clod of ailments and grievances, complaining that the world will not devote itself to making you happy....
I am of the opinion that my life belongs to the whole community and as long as I live it is my privilege to do for it whatever I can.... I want to be thoroughly used up when I die, for the harder I work, the more I live. I rejoice in life for its own sake. Life is no `brief candle' to me. It is a sort of splendid torch which I have got hold of for the moment, and I want to make it burn as brightly as possible before handing it on to future generations.
"We can't take back custom-mixed paint," the clerk at Sherwin Williams barked into her phone.Silence. Then, "Well, I don't know. I heard Habitat for Humanity takes paint and uses it in the homes they're building around here."
I was instantly excited. Having already learned that Sherwin Williams definitely does NOT offer any kind of 'sorry-you-hate-your-paint-and-it-reminds-you-of-kid-puke' exchange, I too have buckets of paint I can't (won't) ever use. (Unless I decide to get underneath my house and do some painting. And even I don't get that bored.) Anyway, it got my mind racing. Wonder what else is hiding in Freeman House that Habitat could use?
I drove home quickly and paced the house. There was the washing machine my Mom gave me. I have a new one being delivered today, and there's no reason I should let Lowe's haul it off. Someone could use it. Oh! And then there's the sink I bought that I can't stand now. (Really, somedays I have poor taste.) Oh! And over there....
A huge pile is accumulating. But I've noticed that it's not just sinks and paint. It's clothes. And shoes I never wear. And lamps and dishes and....
Wow. I really wish I could take all this stuff to the Christian Service Center here in town. But I refuse. In order for anyone to get any help - or clothes, food, etc. - the person must first trot down to a local church and ask for a voucher. Sure, the churches say it gets people in the doors... gets them in contact with a pastor or deacon. Whatever. The Service Center is nearly busting with Baptist hand-me-downs that people need but no one claims.
The longer I considered my pile, the angrier I got. It made me remember. Remember that when Jesus sent out His disciples, He coached them somewhat like this:
1. Go to the 'lost sheep'.
2. Preach this message: the kingdom of heaven is near.
3. Heal the sick. Raise the dead, etc.
4. FREELY YOU HAVE RECEIVED, FREELY GIVE.
I wonder if my church's altar Bible is accidentally missing that page. I'm not seeing much giving going on. And I certainly wouldn't characterize it as the "freely" sort of giving, either.
I wish I could say that I'm sorry if this is offending local church friends, but the truth is - I'm not. I'm not a bit sorry. The average American eats nearly 14 POUNDS of bread a year. (Yeah.) I read this past week that if you slept under a roof last night, you're better off than over 90% of people in this world. My heart is breaking. Certainly we as Christians could do more. Certainly Jesus told us to do more.
I don't know where this soap box appeared from today. (I guess that phone call at Sherwin Williams.) Before I hop off this box, however, I leave you with this quote a friend emailed me yesterday. It's from Irish playwright and Nobel Prize winner George Bernard Shaw. It reads:
This is the one true joy in life, the being used for a purpose recognized by yourself as a mighty one; the being a force of nature instead of a feverish, selfish little clod of ailments and grievances, complaining that the world will not devote itself to making you happy....
I am of the opinion that my life belongs to the whole community and as long as I live it is my privilege to do for it whatever I can.... I want to be thoroughly used up when I die, for the harder I work, the more I live. I rejoice in life for its own sake. Life is no `brief candle' to me. It is a sort of splendid torch which I have got hold of for the moment, and I want to make it burn as brightly as possible before handing it on to future generations.
Wednesday, April 19, 2006
God Bless America!
(I read this today, and wished I had written it first! The following was recently published in a Tampa newspaper, and it reminded me that my country - my United States of America - was founded by Christians men and women. Christians who probably weren't afraid of offending someone by wishing them a "Merry Christmas". Christians who weren't worried about stamping "In God We Trust" on our national currency. Christians who fought for the right to voice audible prayers - to a Sovereign God - in our nation's schools. Christians who wouldn't have hesitated to belt out a few stanzas of "God Bless America" in public. If only today's Christians were so frank... so unintimidated! - Brin)
"I am tired of this nation worrying about whether we are offending some individual or their culture. Since the terrorist attacks on Sept. 11, we have experienced a surge in patriotism by the majority of Americans. However, the dust from the attacks had barely settled when the politically correct crowd began complaining about the possibility that our patriotism was offending others. I am not against immigration, nor do I hold a grudge against anyone who is seeking a better life by coming to America. Our population is almost entirely made up of descendants of immigrants. However, there are a few things that those who have recently come to our country, and apparently some born here, need to understand.
"This idea of America being a multicultural community has served only to dilute our sovereignty and our national identity. As Americans...... we have our own culture, our own society, our own language and our own lifestyle. This culture has been developed over centuries of struggles, trials, and victories by millions of men and women who have sought freedom.
"We speak ENGLISH, not Spanish, Portuguese, Arabic, Chinese, Japanese, Russian, or any other language. Therefore, if you wish to become part of our society, learn the language!
"In God We Trust" is our national motto. This is not some Christian, right wing, political slogan. We adopted this motto because Christian men and women... on Christian principles... founded this nation... and this is clearly documented. It is certainly appropriate to display it on the walls of our schools. If God offends you, then I suggest you consider another part of the world as your new home........because God is part of our culture. If Stars and Stripes offend you, or you don't like Uncle Sam, then you should seriously consider a move to another part of this planet. We are happy with our culture and have no desire to change, and we really don't care how you did things where you came from. This is OUR COUNTRY, our land, and our lifestyle.
"Our First Amendment gives every citizen the right to express his opinion and we will allow you every opportunity to do so! But once you are done complaining....... whining...... and griping...... about our flag....... our pledge...... our national motto........or our way of life.... I highly encourage you to take advantage of one other Great American Freedom......
IMMIGRANTS, NOT AMERICANS, MUST ADAPT.
"I am tired of this nation worrying about whether we are offending some individual or their culture. Since the terrorist attacks on Sept. 11, we have experienced a surge in patriotism by the majority of Americans. However, the dust from the attacks had barely settled when the politically correct crowd began complaining about the possibility that our patriotism was offending others. I am not against immigration, nor do I hold a grudge against anyone who is seeking a better life by coming to America. Our population is almost entirely made up of descendants of immigrants. However, there are a few things that those who have recently come to our country, and apparently some born here, need to understand.
"This idea of America being a multicultural community has served only to dilute our sovereignty and our national identity. As Americans...... we have our own culture, our own society, our own language and our own lifestyle. This culture has been developed over centuries of struggles, trials, and victories by millions of men and women who have sought freedom.
"We speak ENGLISH, not Spanish, Portuguese, Arabic, Chinese, Japanese, Russian, or any other language. Therefore, if you wish to become part of our society, learn the language!
"In God We Trust" is our national motto. This is not some Christian, right wing, political slogan. We adopted this motto because Christian men and women... on Christian principles... founded this nation... and this is clearly documented. It is certainly appropriate to display it on the walls of our schools. If God offends you, then I suggest you consider another part of the world as your new home........because God is part of our culture. If Stars and Stripes offend you, or you don't like Uncle Sam, then you should seriously consider a move to another part of this planet. We are happy with our culture and have no desire to change, and we really don't care how you did things where you came from. This is OUR COUNTRY, our land, and our lifestyle.
"Our First Amendment gives every citizen the right to express his opinion and we will allow you every opportunity to do so! But once you are done complaining....... whining...... and griping...... about our flag....... our pledge...... our national motto........or our way of life.... I highly encourage you to take advantage of one other Great American Freedom......
THE RIGHT TO LEAVE.
Thursday, April 13, 2006
Introducing... Knit Together!
It's a little weird, I know, but I LOVE to knit. Love it. My aunt taught me last year, and since then my social life has seriously suffered. I can't seem to put the stinkin' needles down!
But no worries. I think I've come up with an excuse to knit even more - without regret! I'd like to introduce you to something I'm calling Knit Together. As in Psalm 139 ... "You knit me together in my mother's womb". Check it out soon at www.knittogether.org. Knit Together is a little Christian grassroots project that will provide children and families with hand-made knitted, crocheted, and quilted clothing and personal items - blankets, sweaters, toys, etc. - along with the message that they were created by a God who loves them so much he "knitted" together their inmost beings! Plus, it will give us needle holders an excuse to buy fun new yarn or material!
We need everything - people who knit, crochet, or quilt. We need yarn, thread, and needles. We could use patterns and advice. It's my hope that eventually we can organize a few groups -friends and church members, etc. - to teach knitting or invite folks over to work on projects together.
Again, this is still in the planning stages, so any help you could provide would be appreciated. I'll keep you posted!
But no worries. I think I've come up with an excuse to knit even more - without regret! I'd like to introduce you to something I'm calling Knit Together. As in Psalm 139 ... "You knit me together in my mother's womb". Check it out soon at www.knittogether.org. Knit Together is a little Christian grassroots project that will provide children and families with hand-made knitted, crocheted, and quilted clothing and personal items - blankets, sweaters, toys, etc. - along with the message that they were created by a God who loves them so much he "knitted" together their inmost beings! Plus, it will give us needle holders an excuse to buy fun new yarn or material!
We need everything - people who knit, crochet, or quilt. We need yarn, thread, and needles. We could use patterns and advice. It's my hope that eventually we can organize a few groups -friends and church members, etc. - to teach knitting or invite folks over to work on projects together.
Again, this is still in the planning stages, so any help you could provide would be appreciated. I'll keep you posted!
Monday, April 10, 2006
An Open (Birthday) Letter
Happiness,... not in another place but this place, not for another hour but this hour.
- Walt Whitman
This weekend marked my 27th birthday - another year of being me. It was such a great day!
I couldn't have asked for a better celebration. Really! (Well... hang on. Tyler Florence could have made it a little better. So could Luke Wilson. ;)
Anyway, my friends and I loaded up and headed to Jefferson, Texas. Omgosh... the fun! There was, in brief: a horse named Prince, the weirdest game of checkers ever (long story, right Lisa?), vanilla peanut butter fudge (yum!), a mishap with a lily pad, a brick, and a creaky old 1850s hotel that all played a part in the day. (See Lacy, I told you the Excelsior wasn't haunted!) I'll remember it forever! And for those who were there, I have only one word: cuckoo! cuckoo!
I couldn't ask for better friends. Nor would I. My house is old and ... needs help, but I love it. My family isn't perfect, but we are family. There's a lot of love there. Standing back and taking it all in on Saturday, I realized: I'm happy. Today. Here. Now. I am happy.
Seems like we always sit around waiting... waiting for payday or Friday or someday. We wait for those days to be happy, while this day - with all its hope and promise and blessings- ticks by....
We've all heard it - the old: "Count your life in smiles, not tears. Count your life in moments, not years." Well, I'm doing that. Starting this birthday.
Special thanks to all of you who were there to help with the smiling bit! You bless me more than you know! -B
Saturday, April 1, 2006
April's Fool is Circus Bound
Follow Maebelline and me around for the day and you'll see her act up or do something completely asinine. And soon thereafter, I promise you'll hear me threaten to send her off to the circus.
Guess what? This morning - this blessed April Fool's morning - I think I heard her tell me (from underneath a sea of blankets, so I can't be sure) - that I belong in a circus.
Of course, it could just be today. I have always been a little ... different ... on this day. I mean, my birthday is April 8. A week after April Fool's. When I was (a little) younger I wondered if April Fool's was invented a week before my birthday to warn the world I was coming. Teh heh. Now I KNOW April Fool's was invented to warn the world its prize fool was coming.
It didn't work out with the lawyer. At all. Not that I'm surprised. (Admit it. You aren't either. ) I've always said that I have the worst luck with guys, but last night, amid packing my circus bags, it hit me. Maybe I don't have the worst luck with guys. Maybe I'm like a circus mime in a glass dating box - I'm stuck here despite my efforts to break out. Or maybe I'm like the tight-rope walker. Question my single's position in life, and I'm dead. Or maybe I'm like the guy who takes care of the fancy elephants - doomed to get crapped on BIG TIME... forever.
April Fool's Sigh.
He had a lot going for him. Good job, good hair, cool house, similar values, etc., etc. But the first week we dated I fixated on something about him that bugged the living circus out of me. I tried to ignore it, but the longer I did the more wishy-washy and irritable I got. And before you know it, I was calling him last night to say that it just didn't... I just couldn't... maybe he could...
Sob. Sigh.
He was cool about it. I mean, he did say that I was "annoying". And he did allude to the fact that he's not over his ex-girlfriend (whom he dated nearly 2 YEARS ago). But hey. This "annoying" girl only cried for about an hour after the call. Then I spent several minutes practicing my best circus smile and trying to find a copy of Juggling for Dummies online.
I really hate dating. I hate the emotional circus that tags along with it. I hate the margarita and french fry binge that will inevitably come sometime today. And I hate pulling out my post-breakup waterproof mascara that only sees the light of day when my heart's been broken.
But enough self-pity and self-loathing. I have my holiday to celebrate today. And circus training to finish. Before all that, though, please excuse me while April's Fool makes a french fry run....
Guess what? This morning - this blessed April Fool's morning - I think I heard her tell me (from underneath a sea of blankets, so I can't be sure) - that I belong in a circus.
Of course, it could just be today. I have always been a little ... different ... on this day. I mean, my birthday is April 8. A week after April Fool's. When I was (a little) younger I wondered if April Fool's was invented a week before my birthday to warn the world I was coming. Teh heh. Now I KNOW April Fool's was invented to warn the world its prize fool was coming.
It didn't work out with the lawyer. At all. Not that I'm surprised. (Admit it. You aren't either. ) I've always said that I have the worst luck with guys, but last night, amid packing my circus bags, it hit me. Maybe I don't have the worst luck with guys. Maybe I'm like a circus mime in a glass dating box - I'm stuck here despite my efforts to break out. Or maybe I'm like the tight-rope walker. Question my single's position in life, and I'm dead. Or maybe I'm like the guy who takes care of the fancy elephants - doomed to get crapped on BIG TIME... forever.
April Fool's Sigh.
He had a lot going for him. Good job, good hair, cool house, similar values, etc., etc. But the first week we dated I fixated on something about him that bugged the living circus out of me. I tried to ignore it, but the longer I did the more wishy-washy and irritable I got. And before you know it, I was calling him last night to say that it just didn't... I just couldn't... maybe he could...
Sob. Sigh.
He was cool about it. I mean, he did say that I was "annoying". And he did allude to the fact that he's not over his ex-girlfriend (whom he dated nearly 2 YEARS ago). But hey. This "annoying" girl only cried for about an hour after the call. Then I spent several minutes practicing my best circus smile and trying to find a copy of Juggling for Dummies online.
I really hate dating. I hate the emotional circus that tags along with it. I hate the margarita and french fry binge that will inevitably come sometime today. And I hate pulling out my post-breakup waterproof mascara that only sees the light of day when my heart's been broken.
But enough self-pity and self-loathing. I have my holiday to celebrate today. And circus training to finish. Before all that, though, please excuse me while April's Fool makes a french fry run....
Thursday, March 30, 2006
Me, You and the Pretty Pink Shoe
I saw one again today. You see them too, I'll bet. (Only I'm sure your mind is bigger and your day is fuller, so you probably don't get haunted by it all day.) You see them, right? The shoes on the highway?
Usually it's a dirty sneaker. Or a chewed-up work boot. You typically see the gently-used footwear as you're driving along, rocking out to an old American Idol. How do they get there, anyway? (The shoes - not the American Idols. I know how they get there.) Surely all these shoes don't just fall out of cars. And surely there aren't so many hit-and-runs that our American streets are littered with the former shoes of our hit-and-run fallen. And surely Dr. Phil isn't advising that couples work through aggression by taking off their shoes and beating each other while operating motor vehicles. Although...
No seriously - I saw one today. Only it wasn't an old basketball sneaker or a muddy work boot. It was a pink stiletto heel. Like maybe a Jimmy Choo or something. Had it had a twin, I would have stopped to check and make sure they weren't 7 1/2. (I mean, we stop and rescue kittens, so it's only fair that a Good Samaritan would occasionally happen upon pink 7 1/2 Jimmy Choos that needed a good home, too.)
Of course, the shoe made me think. First, I thought about the pretty, lonely, single shoe and the journey that likely brought it to its resting place on Maple Avenue. I wondered if it was distressed over being tossed - about someone not appreciating it or its usefulness. I wondered if it played the Lauren Graham line over and over in its little shoe head ... you know... "It's all any of us want - to find a nice person to hang out with until we drop dead". I wondered if it stressed over finding its mate.
It's not just the pretty shoe. I think it's us, too. We have days we feel discarded. Passed-over. Left for dead. Stressed over not having a mate. Under-valued. Ugly.
It helps - helps me, anyway - to remember. Remember that God's very essence is beauty. That we, as women, bear the very image of God. That we - the discarded, lonely pretty pink heels - are beautiful. Not because we're part of a pair. Not because we're flawless. Not because we haven't been thrown out... or tossed aside... or traded in. But simply because. We just are. You are. You are beautiful because every one of us was made that way. Like the shoe.
And yes, if you're wondering, I checked. The pretty pink shoe didn't have a mate nearby. But it was, mysteriously, gone the next time I drove by.
Usually it's a dirty sneaker. Or a chewed-up work boot. You typically see the gently-used footwear as you're driving along, rocking out to an old American Idol. How do they get there, anyway? (The shoes - not the American Idols. I know how they get there.) Surely all these shoes don't just fall out of cars. And surely there aren't so many hit-and-runs that our American streets are littered with the former shoes of our hit-and-run fallen. And surely Dr. Phil isn't advising that couples work through aggression by taking off their shoes and beating each other while operating motor vehicles. Although...
No seriously - I saw one today. Only it wasn't an old basketball sneaker or a muddy work boot. It was a pink stiletto heel. Like maybe a Jimmy Choo or something. Had it had a twin, I would have stopped to check and make sure they weren't 7 1/2. (I mean, we stop and rescue kittens, so it's only fair that a Good Samaritan would occasionally happen upon pink 7 1/2 Jimmy Choos that needed a good home, too.)
Of course, the shoe made me think. First, I thought about the pretty, lonely, single shoe and the journey that likely brought it to its resting place on Maple Avenue. I wondered if it was distressed over being tossed - about someone not appreciating it or its usefulness. I wondered if it played the Lauren Graham line over and over in its little shoe head ... you know... "It's all any of us want - to find a nice person to hang out with until we drop dead". I wondered if it stressed over finding its mate.
Then I wondered if it felt like it wasn't beautiful - now that it was discarded and all. Surely we all could sympathize. I've been reading a book lately called Captivating by Stasi Eldredge. She writes, "Sometimes between the dreams of your youth and yesterday, something precious has been lost. And that treasure is your heart, your priceless feminine heart. God has set within you a femininity that is powerful and tender, fierce and alluring. No doubt it has been misunderstood. Surely it has been assaulted. But it is there.... Every woman has a beauty to unveil. Every woman. Because she bears the image of God. Beauty is an essence that is given to every woman at her creation."
It's not just the pretty shoe. I think it's us, too. We have days we feel discarded. Passed-over. Left for dead. Stressed over not having a mate. Under-valued. Ugly.
It helps - helps me, anyway - to remember. Remember that God's very essence is beauty. That we, as women, bear the very image of God. That we - the discarded, lonely pretty pink heels - are beautiful. Not because we're part of a pair. Not because we're flawless. Not because we haven't been thrown out... or tossed aside... or traded in. But simply because. We just are. You are. You are beautiful because every one of us was made that way. Like the shoe.
And yes, if you're wondering, I checked. The pretty pink shoe didn't have a mate nearby. But it was, mysteriously, gone the next time I drove by.
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
Snow's Spring Symphony
Begin doing what you want to do now. We are not living in eternity. We have only this moment, sparkling like a star in our hand and melting like a snowflake. Let us use it before it is too late.
-Marie Beyon Ray
I love winter. Always have. I like blankets and hot chocolate with whipped cream and comfort food and good, long books that I've been saving for a cold winter day.
I really do like winter. But come mid-March, I'm eager for spring. The anticipation of daffodils and new potatoes and fresh herbs and hanging my cup-towels on the clothes line (stretched between two budding trees in my backyard) nearly overtakes me.
Guess that's why I've been surprised - all week - at the weather. It's snowed every day in Wichita since spring began. EVERY day. The children are on Spring Break this week, but even as I write, it looks like Snow Falling on Cedars outside my window. The soft powder is blowing, bouncing... beautiful, even, as it falls. It makes me think of the Christopher Pearce Cranch poem I studied as a kid:
If there comes a little thaw,
Still the air is chill and raw,
Here and there a patch of snow,
Dirtier than the ground below,
Dribbles down a marshy flood;
Ankle-deep you stick in the mud
In the meadows while you sing,
"This is spring".
So tonight I pulled my chair up to the window, lit a few candles, and watched it snow. I found my thoughts swirling, much like the flakes on the other side of the window pane. And I wonder. I wonder if someday - when I'm as old as my ailing Grandfather - if I'll ever look back on days like this. I wonder if I'll remember these moments... remember these feelings... when I'm 70. Or 80. I wonder if what bothered me or delighted me today will even be a distant memory in 50 years.
I close my eyes and try to freeze the moment for all of time. And as I do, I realize how... how... QUIET... it is. Absolutely still. And then, I hear it. The snow. It's like snow's own quiet little symphony. Just in time for spring. And somehow, I know. I know that when I'm old I'll remember this moment....
Saturday, March 11, 2006
Ode to an Eyelash Curler
A friend of mine is convinced - beyond all reason - that she was a princess in another life. I, however, have no idea how people who believe in such things can keep up with what they did a lifetime or two ago. I cannot remember where I park my car. And yesterday, I found the pair of socks I'd intended to slide on my chilly feet in the refrigerator. I'm sure at the time I put them there it seemed a good idea to chill them....
It's exactly this sort of absent-mindedness that makes me laugh about getting even older. I can only imagine how crazy I'll be in another 26 years. As it is, I'm already seeing things go south, dry out, and get wrinkly-crinkly. No wonder girls used to get married at 12. By about 15, we've peaked! (Unless you're Sheryl Crow or Heather Locklear. They were terribly unfortunate-looking in junior high. You've seen them, right?)
I wonder about all this as I get dressed for a date. With the lawyer. Tonight. I usually enjoy getting ready for dates (especially with cute lawyers), but today is different somehow. Here it is... an hour before I expect his knock on the door, and I have 2,759 outfits littering my hotel suite. Nearly as many shoes have surfaced as well. My hair is in multi-colored velcro rollers, which some gay hairdresser in In Style magazine assured me would create bouncy, sexy waves. I have "lip plump" on my lips, whitener on my teeth, tanner on my legs, fingernail polish on 20 semi-dry nails, and an eyelash curler in hand.
(I figure he warrants the eyelash curler. I'd hate for this to fizzle only to later hear that he left me for a girl with curlier eyelashes. I don't think I could go on.)
So I bravely go where normal girls only go whenever they have dates. I shave, wax, drink 11 bottles of water, and practice sucking in. I try on outfits and hurl myself in front of the full-length mirror. Hmmm... that one works, as long as I don't sit down - or sneeze. Another one looks dashing - as long as he's looking at me from the boobs up... from across the table... while seated.
Crap. Maybe I'll fake fatigue and put on baggy jeans and suggest take-out. But I guess that isn't entirely appropriate for the second or third date, though, huh?
Sigh.
If these poor, unsuspecting guys even had a clue. If this sweet darling had any idea that I've starved myself for two days straight and tried to sleep with ice-cold eye baggies over my puffy, circled peepers, I'd die.
It's just like last time. Our first date, I labored through the most lengthy, freaky beauty routine EVER. And I guessed it paid off, because once we got in his car and he started it up, he looked over at me shyly and said, "You're very pretty. Naturally pretty. Ashley Judd pretty."
Awh. I tried not to laugh.
So... as I get ready to dash back to the mirror - eyelash curler in hand - it hits me. Maybe I wasn't a princess in my last life. Maybe, just maybe, I could be one in this life.
Or at last my eyelash curler and I can pretend.
It's exactly this sort of absent-mindedness that makes me laugh about getting even older. I can only imagine how crazy I'll be in another 26 years. As it is, I'm already seeing things go south, dry out, and get wrinkly-crinkly. No wonder girls used to get married at 12. By about 15, we've peaked! (Unless you're Sheryl Crow or Heather Locklear. They were terribly unfortunate-looking in junior high. You've seen them, right?)
I wonder about all this as I get dressed for a date. With the lawyer. Tonight. I usually enjoy getting ready for dates (especially with cute lawyers), but today is different somehow. Here it is... an hour before I expect his knock on the door, and I have 2,759 outfits littering my hotel suite. Nearly as many shoes have surfaced as well. My hair is in multi-colored velcro rollers, which some gay hairdresser in In Style magazine assured me would create bouncy, sexy waves. I have "lip plump" on my lips, whitener on my teeth, tanner on my legs, fingernail polish on 20 semi-dry nails, and an eyelash curler in hand.
(I figure he warrants the eyelash curler. I'd hate for this to fizzle only to later hear that he left me for a girl with curlier eyelashes. I don't think I could go on.)
So I bravely go where normal girls only go whenever they have dates. I shave, wax, drink 11 bottles of water, and practice sucking in. I try on outfits and hurl myself in front of the full-length mirror. Hmmm... that one works, as long as I don't sit down - or sneeze. Another one looks dashing - as long as he's looking at me from the boobs up... from across the table... while seated.
Crap. Maybe I'll fake fatigue and put on baggy jeans and suggest take-out. But I guess that isn't entirely appropriate for the second or third date, though, huh?
Sigh.
If these poor, unsuspecting guys even had a clue. If this sweet darling had any idea that I've starved myself for two days straight and tried to sleep with ice-cold eye baggies over my puffy, circled peepers, I'd die.
It's just like last time. Our first date, I labored through the most lengthy, freaky beauty routine EVER. And I guessed it paid off, because once we got in his car and he started it up, he looked over at me shyly and said, "You're very pretty. Naturally pretty. Ashley Judd pretty."
Awh. I tried not to laugh.
So... as I get ready to dash back to the mirror - eyelash curler in hand - it hits me. Maybe I wasn't a princess in my last life. Maybe, just maybe, I could be one in this life.
Or at last my eyelash curler and I can pretend.
Friday, March 3, 2006
Would The Real PRIM Shady Please Step Forward?
C'mon!
I mean, enough already!
Perhaps you recall me mentioning a week or two ago that my life is lots of things - but rarely normal. Guess what? It happened again today.
Email is usually a happy place for me. I go there, catch up with friends, read about sales at the Container Store, and keep up with what's going on within the Dallas County Republican Party. You know, the usual. So the last thing I expected to see early this morning was 1.) a disturbing epistle from a person of questionable moral character who formerly resided in the town I grew up, and 2.) an email from the Dr. Phil show.
Seriously.
First, the epistle. It was written by this slimy guy I worked with for a total of 8 hours one summer in junior high before he got fired from the blueberry farm where we picked berries. Freak. I immediately responded to his ridiculous email with a response that would have struck fear in the heart of any morally inept, perv/psycho:
NOTE: This show is taping in Los Angeles on Thurs. March 9th. Would your schedule permit you to be considered to participate in this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to get your situation answered by Dr. Phil? (we pay expenses for all our guests including airfare, transportation in L.A., hotel & food but you would need to arrange your schedule accordingly!)
Thanks!
Jaime G******
Seriously.
So... I guess it's official. Hunting season has begun. And I think I'm in season. I am apparently despised. Despised by someone SO BADLY that they would undoubtedly like to hit me over the head with a chair. Dr. Phil's chair. While Dr. Phil looked on. On national television.
I called one of my best friends, Lacy. "Lacy... who?? Do you know??? Would you have any idea?" I blurted into the phone. It wasn't her, she assured me. And to my dismay, my sweet friend, (whom no one would ever invite on the Dr. Phil show to "settle a dispute") started helping me guess. We threw out names. Yeah. I said namesssss. Even better, after we got off the phone she called me a few minutes later with another name.
On behalf of my despised self, let me offer a formal apology. To everyone - slimy former blueberry farm co-workers included - I'm terribly sorry for hurting your feelings so badly you would resort to calling Dr. Phil before looking up my unlisted cell phone number on the internet and calling me yourself.
And by the way, who are you? (Friends theorize it HAS to be someone who watches Dr. Phil. A guy I'm dating says that means it's either a bored girl or gay guy. Likely a girl. ) So I'm thinking... who do I know that's boring and depends on Dr. Phil to resolve relationship disputes??
Will the real Prim Shady please step forward?
I mean, enough already!
Perhaps you recall me mentioning a week or two ago that my life is lots of things - but rarely normal. Guess what? It happened again today.
Email is usually a happy place for me. I go there, catch up with friends, read about sales at the Container Store, and keep up with what's going on within the Dallas County Republican Party. You know, the usual. So the last thing I expected to see early this morning was 1.) a disturbing epistle from a person of questionable moral character who formerly resided in the town I grew up, and 2.) an email from the Dr. Phil show.
Seriously.
First, the epistle. It was written by this slimy guy I worked with for a total of 8 hours one summer in junior high before he got fired from the blueberry farm where we picked berries. Freak. I immediately responded to his ridiculous email with a response that would have struck fear in the heart of any morally inept, perv/psycho:
"What? Where in the world did you get my personal email address?".
He obligingly responded that it, along with some of my other personal information (unlisted cell phone number!) had been posted online.
Wonderful.
I contacted the site administrator and threw a dignified fit. (A Laura Bush-ish fit. Not a Billary Rodham-Clinton-ish fit.) They had the information down by 6 p.m. Whew! I was pulling through... recovering nicely... from the email encounter with the psycho, when ... ah! A new email!
It read:
Hi Brin,
We are working on an upcoming episode called "Settle This Dispute" where Dr. Phil will be helping people settle one specific issue once & for all! We're interested in seeing if you would be willing to join us on the show as someone would like to resolve an issue with you.
We are working on an upcoming episode called "Settle This Dispute" where Dr. Phil will be helping people settle one specific issue once & for all! We're interested in seeing if you would be willing to join us on the show as someone would like to resolve an issue with you.
Is this something you would be interested in? If you would like to be considered as potential guests on our show, please send a recent photo of yourself to my email address right away. Send your recent photo(s) as jpg files (or copy/paste them into the body of an email). After receiving picture(s) we will call for pre-interviews over the phone.
NOTE: This show is taping in Los Angeles on Thurs. March 9th. Would your schedule permit you to be considered to participate in this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to get your situation answered by Dr. Phil? (we pay expenses for all our guests including airfare, transportation in L.A., hotel & food but you would need to arrange your schedule accordingly!)
Thanks!
Jaime G******
Associate Producer
Dr. Phil Show
Seriously.
So... I guess it's official. Hunting season has begun. And I think I'm in season. I am apparently despised. Despised by someone SO BADLY that they would undoubtedly like to hit me over the head with a chair. Dr. Phil's chair. While Dr. Phil looked on. On national television.
I called one of my best friends, Lacy. "Lacy... who?? Do you know??? Would you have any idea?" I blurted into the phone. It wasn't her, she assured me. And to my dismay, my sweet friend, (whom no one would ever invite on the Dr. Phil show to "settle a dispute") started helping me guess. We threw out names. Yeah. I said namesssss. Even better, after we got off the phone she called me a few minutes later with another name.
On behalf of my despised self, let me offer a formal apology. To everyone - slimy former blueberry farm co-workers included - I'm terribly sorry for hurting your feelings so badly you would resort to calling Dr. Phil before looking up my unlisted cell phone number on the internet and calling me yourself.
And by the way, who are you? (Friends theorize it HAS to be someone who watches Dr. Phil. A guy I'm dating says that means it's either a bored girl or gay guy. Likely a girl. ) So I'm thinking... who do I know that's boring and depends on Dr. Phil to resolve relationship disputes??
Will the real Prim Shady please step forward?
Tuesday, February 21, 2006
99 Onions and 2 Burly Bailiffs
(Let me begin by thanking my charming and beautiful friend Traci for bugging the heck out of me to resume blogging! She's a pistol, that one! :)
I might have typed earlier, but I've been in hibernation, you know. Working... reading... sleeping... dating... typing... talking.... the last few weeks have been a blur. (Of course, there was also that intentionally-induced coma the week of Valentine's Day. Or, as Traci likes to call it, "Singles' Awareness Day".) Hehe.
Needless to say, it's easy to fall into a chronic case of winter doldrums this time of year. That's probably why Max Lucado's book Cure for the Common Life catapulted itself from the store shelf into my hands last night. (I snatched that puppy up like a chocoholic does Chunky Monkey.) I was riveted by the title. There's a CURE for a common life? Really??
Let me preface this next ditty by saying I never before had a "common" life. I'm probably not what my friends would call a "common" girl. When I was 9, I took great pleasure in planting 99 onions. For fun. When I was 18, I got hauled into court by two very burly court bailiffs because I had illegally taped courtroom proceedings and aired them in 6 counties without the court's permission. (That was a fun day, too.) When I was 27.... oh, wait. I'm not 27 yet. But I'm sure I'll do something horrifically idiotic when I'm 27 that will trump the 99 onions and two burly bailiffs.
But that was before, and this is now. In the last year or two, my life has slowed dramatically. It's become - common. I do ordinary things now that result in ordinary stories. I suddenly find myself caught in the ebb and flow of a common life....
"What to do, Max Lucado?" I cried. "What to do??!!"
I cracked open the book last night after an exhilarating round of internet dating. (That's a whole 'nother blog!) The first thing my common eyes fell upon was this verse:
Each person is given something to do that shows who God is. - 1 Cor. 12:7 MSG
Oh no. Oh crap. "Who God is?" I read further, hoping I'd catch a disclaimer or misprint. But no, Lucado ventures boldly on. "God endows us with gifts so we can make Him known. Period.... Exhibit God with your uniqueness.... And to really dulcify your world, use your uniqueness to make a big deal about God.... every day of your life."
I sat there. I just sat. For some reason, that half-page of text floored me unlike any common reading has done in some time. So I guess that I was made... and my life was fashioned... to exhibit a character trait of none other than God Himself?
Wow.
WOW.
I am living proof that God has the most humorous, hilarious, and patient 'My-ways-are-higher-than-your-ways' personality. I mean, come on! A 9 year-old girl that gets a kick out of planting 99 onions? Who would make a kid like that?
I guess "common" is relative. And probably all in your head, too. And speaking from this particular head, I'll probably never really have a common life! But maybe, just maybe, that's the whole point after all....
I might have typed earlier, but I've been in hibernation, you know. Working... reading... sleeping... dating... typing... talking.... the last few weeks have been a blur. (Of course, there was also that intentionally-induced coma the week of Valentine's Day. Or, as Traci likes to call it, "Singles' Awareness Day".) Hehe.
Needless to say, it's easy to fall into a chronic case of winter doldrums this time of year. That's probably why Max Lucado's book Cure for the Common Life catapulted itself from the store shelf into my hands last night. (I snatched that puppy up like a chocoholic does Chunky Monkey.) I was riveted by the title. There's a CURE for a common life? Really??
Let me preface this next ditty by saying I never before had a "common" life. I'm probably not what my friends would call a "common" girl. When I was 9, I took great pleasure in planting 99 onions. For fun. When I was 18, I got hauled into court by two very burly court bailiffs because I had illegally taped courtroom proceedings and aired them in 6 counties without the court's permission. (That was a fun day, too.) When I was 27.... oh, wait. I'm not 27 yet. But I'm sure I'll do something horrifically idiotic when I'm 27 that will trump the 99 onions and two burly bailiffs.
But that was before, and this is now. In the last year or two, my life has slowed dramatically. It's become - common. I do ordinary things now that result in ordinary stories. I suddenly find myself caught in the ebb and flow of a common life....
"What to do, Max Lucado?" I cried. "What to do??!!"
I cracked open the book last night after an exhilarating round of internet dating. (That's a whole 'nother blog!) The first thing my common eyes fell upon was this verse:
Each person is given something to do that shows who God is. - 1 Cor. 12:7 MSG
Oh no. Oh crap. "Who God is?" I read further, hoping I'd catch a disclaimer or misprint. But no, Lucado ventures boldly on. "God endows us with gifts so we can make Him known. Period.... Exhibit God with your uniqueness.... And to really dulcify your world, use your uniqueness to make a big deal about God.... every day of your life."
I sat there. I just sat. For some reason, that half-page of text floored me unlike any common reading has done in some time. So I guess that I was made... and my life was fashioned... to exhibit a character trait of none other than God Himself?
Wow.
WOW.
I am living proof that God has the most humorous, hilarious, and patient 'My-ways-are-higher-than-your-ways' personality. I mean, come on! A 9 year-old girl that gets a kick out of planting 99 onions? Who would make a kid like that?
I guess "common" is relative. And probably all in your head, too. And speaking from this particular head, I'll probably never really have a common life! But maybe, just maybe, that's the whole point after all....
Wednesday, February 1, 2006
Epicurus on Square One
I'm back there again. You know, back to the proverbial 'square one' that leaves you cognizant that you spend half your life going in circles.
Oh... wait. Maybe that's just me. :)
Regardless, it's frustrating to devote time and effort to something that bares no fruit. Or leaves. Or slimy sap that ruins your car's paint job. Especially when it's a circumstance or person beyond your control.
Oh... wait. EVERY circumstance and person is beyond my control....
You have me. Guy troubles again. Love them. Hate them. (Mostly love-hate them.) Some days I have no idea why I even brush my hair or buy cute shoes.
I read this today, however, and it left me with a B.C. buzz:
Oh... wait. Maybe that's just me. :)
Regardless, it's frustrating to devote time and effort to something that bares no fruit. Or leaves. Or slimy sap that ruins your car's paint job. Especially when it's a circumstance or person beyond your control.
Oh... wait. EVERY circumstance and person is beyond my control....
You have me. Guy troubles again. Love them. Hate them. (Mostly love-hate them.) Some days I have no idea why I even brush my hair or buy cute shoes.
I read this today, however, and it left me with a B.C. buzz:
"Do not spoil what you have
By desiring what you have not;
But remember that what you now have
Was once among things only hoped for."
- Epicurus
(Not that I'm in the habit of reading Epicurus over my Bible, but the little ditty did resonate with me today.)
Anyway, if you're back to your own proverbial square one, maybe this will help. And heck, while you're here, bring your coffee over and sit with me.
Tuesday, January 31, 2006
The Connor Library
Your library is your paradise.
-Desiderius Erasmus
Welcome to the Connor Library at Freeman House. Kick your shoes off and come on in!What is it about a personal library that appeals to us so? For me, the fascination with library rooms can be credited to two childhood masterpieces: the book The Velvet Room and the Disney movie Beauty and the Beast. Ever since reading/seeing those stories I wanted to be either Robin or Belle. It is, I suppose, the dream of many small, bookish girls - to be taken in and loved by someone with a cozy library alive with far-off lives and places.
So this will be my library. This dark, substantially anchored, European salon, cigar-and-newspaper, book-lined room is on its way toward complete restoration as I keep a close eye on its past. The room has an interesting history. Originally a bedroom, this room is now called the "Connor Library" in honor of the family who owned the home at the turn of the century. And while I've been unable to confirm tales and hunches, I believe the Connor family may have built the original portion of this home in 1892. (Regardless, I personally know of two people who were born in this room around the time the Titanic sank. Their stories, as told to me by children and grandchildren, are hauntingly incredible.)To give you a bit of placement, the library is to your right once you're standing in the entry hall of Freeman House. The space is square, has three doors and four enormous windows, and faces east. Beautiful morning light. It all sits about 5 feet off the ground, so peering out of the thick, wavy-glassed windows you glimpse hydrangeas and various tangles of green things below.
The room is painted rather darkly, isn't it? I wanted it that way. I wanted us to think of a Jane Austen film or an English castle's library when we entered: big, dark wood... dusty volumes... old maps... heavy furniture... lined drapes. No fairies or girly flowers in here. No sir. This is a cozy, safe, cuddle-in-and-stay-the-afternoon world strewn with puffy chairs and ottomans and blankets and rugs.
(And books. Don't forget the books. The shelves and the rolling ladder have yet to be (re)installed, so they're piled and standing around everywhere.)The room has nooks and wide baseboards and creaky doors. The enormous fireplace is anchored directly across from you as you enter the room. Although it takes a bit of imagination, I can already see it sparking and crackling with dancing flames and a heavily-laid table before it. Perhaps it's a winter night and we're having roast tenderloin and mashed potatoes and chocolate tart. After dinner, you can climb the ladder and pull down a book or pick up a paper as I sit at the piano and play Beethoven. When the fire dies and the old room grows quiet and dark, we'll trudge off to quilted beds, heavy as we are with home-cooked food and a treasury of words and sounds.
One day soon. Right now, it's a jumble of a hundred details to complete. But it's come so far. Here's an idea of what it looked like the day I began to clean it out:
And here it is cleaned out and almost ready to paint. Gosh, it took forever to paint this room and an eternity to restore that original mantle. To give you an idea of scale, that fireplace surround is nearly as tall as I am. (The scaffolding is 6 feet tall.) And allow me to come clean right now: many, many bad words were said during the stripping, scraping, sanding, and staining of that darn mantle. If I could dig up and re-die the people who painted it 247 times - with lead-based paint - I would.
Moving on. Here's a before glance at the left wall of the library. (Don't tell, but there's a tiny hidden room behind the little door's closet.) And the open doorway leads to the study/television room. I'm eager to get going on that space.
But for now it's all about the library. The dark, cozy room in which childhood dreams are realized and remembered.
This could be your adopted library space too, you know. I would be honored. So would the generations of folks who began and lived out their lives within these walls....
Welcome to the Connor Library at Freeman House.
The Irvin Room
Welcome to the first renovated bedroom in Freeman House. Welcome to the Irvin Room.
Located on the far north east corner of the home, the Irvin Room is comprised of two spaces - a sitting space and a larger, sleeping room. Shown here is the sleeping room - a cozy, rectangular room with tall ceilings and two tall windows. Inside the room lives an old iron bed, an antique chair and ottoman, two nightstands, and an armoire. It used to house a fireplace, but sometime after 1920 the decision was made to board it up. All that remains of the chimney is about four feet of crumbling brick outside the east wall. 
The Irvin Room is a bright, golden space that seems to glow in the morning sun. I suppose that's why I chose to put so many creams and khakis and antique golds/bronzes in this room; it seems to lend itself toward cozy, understated luxury. All of the muted colors are anchored by wood and iron - heavy, solid, able materials. Even the floors are wooden. Pine, to be exact. The trim is too, of course, and is original to the home. It's nailed up with square nails. In the baseboard just behind the door is a half-oval shaped hole. It looks just like the mouse holes on a Tom & Jerry cartoon. (Don't worry. Jerry isn't using it. I made sure of that.)
I adore the Irvin Room. It's named after the family who bought the home in 1911. Reverend Richard Irvin was the town's Methodist minister. His wife, Ella, was known by some as a demanding, hateful woman. Perhaps the Reverend knew her that way, too, because inside the wall between this bedroom and the next we found numerous letters and cards addressed to Reverend Richard. All of them were from women. One lady in particular, who always signed her correspondence "The Girl Who Feeds Chickens", wrote often. A birthday note she wrote him in 1914 is now on display in the house.The Irvins lived here until the 1920s, and were responsible for moving this house to its current location. Old legend has it that Ella Irvin decided she'd rather have a brick home on the hill instead of this wooden one, so she had men lower the home onto logs and roll it to where it stands today. And she got her house on the hill.
Soon after the Irvins' brick house was completed, Miss Freeman took up residence in this house and, in exchange for room and board, ran it as a three-apartment complex for the Irvins. This bedroom was converted into a kitchen - complete with a pantry - and remained a kitchen until I purchased the home in 2005. Here's a glimpse of what it looked like after we removed the old table, oven, and pantry, but before we ripped out the linoleum and cabinets:
And here she is just after a good scrub, some sheet rock, and hours and hours of sanding and painting:
She's not finished yet, the Irvin Room. She likely won't be for several months. But the transformation is almost as touching as the room's history. And it's hard not to wonder, as I close my eyes at night, who used to sit at the kitchen table - feet away from where I sleep - and eat their early breakfast or make their midnight snack.
It's a charming place. You'll have to come by and stay someday. You'll have to catch the golden sun bathing this room. You'll have to open the windows and smell the roses and hydrangeas. You'll have to read the birthday note found in the wall. And you'll have to wonder why in the world Ella Irvin would give up a place like this.
At least I do.
Welcome to the Irvin Room.
The Back Hall Bath
All a woman needs is a good bath.
- Hedy Lamarr
- Hedy Lamarr
Welcome to the best... and only... bath completed thus far in Freeman House. Welcome to the Back Hall Bath!
For those of you contemplating the renovation of an old house, know this: bathroom arrangements during renovation are... tricky. Heck. They're downright scary. During the two months this bathroom was gutted and restored, I brushed my teeth with a bottle of water at the screen door. I used the facilities at a nearby McDonald's. And I showered outdoors. In November. Gosh, I was stupid. But I learned an important This Old House lesson: always, always start with the bath. Always.
This small, rectangular room was terrifying when I bought Freeman House. There were layers of curled, cracked linoleum covering rotten hardwood floors. There was a stained, grimy sink. There was a window over the tub and an extra doorway, both of which were destined to be framed in and sheetrocked. There was an ancient, cracked toilet. And there was a clawfoot tub. It was the only thing worth saving in this disgusting room.
The substructure of the bath had to be torn out and replaced. The floors are now 4 1/2 inches thick, not counting the ceramic tile I laid myself. (Hardest project to date, by the way.) The room got a layer of new sheetrock and paint. A new pedestal sink and toilet were installed, as was a glass-fronted cabinet. (I have commitment issues with standard cabinetry, I discovered.) As for the old iron clawfoot tub, my Dad and I sanded, glazed and reinstalled it with new plumbing and a shower surround, which makes it easier to love while scrubbing armpits and things.
This small room cost almost $6,000 to renovate, even doing some of the work myself. Almost makes me want to put a few outhouses in the back for the rest of y'all. But I guess everyone deserves a hot, candlelit bubble bath in a clawfoot tub every now and then....
That is, after all, one of my favorite things about living in an old, crooked house.
Welcome to the Back Hall Bath at Freeman House. Hope you can stop by for a soak soon.
Friday, January 20, 2006
Seriously!
Seriously.
(That's my new word. But you have to emphasize it correctly -- like they do on Grey's Anatomy.)
Seriously!
This new Bin Laden tape is seriously disturbing. I know, I usually don't write about current affairs or anything of significance. But old habits die hard, and my years as a news reporter have a strange way of dictating the way I write and the way I think.
The minute I heard of this new terrorist recording, I turned to the one gal I trust on such matters: Laura Mansfield. A few years ago, I wrote and booked for the nationally-syndicated radio show America at Night. Laura was my favorite guest. She's smart, current, and has incredible insight into radical Islam. She translates Arabic. She's authored books on the subject. She maintains a website (www.lauramansfield.com) on all of it, which I read regularly.
Suffice to say that I nearly crawled out of my skin when I read Laura's logic on Bin Laden's latest recording of verbal diarrhea. He's warning that future attacks here at home are inevitable, and then offers up some stupid truce, as if we'll suddenly meet him halfway and bring the keg. As Laura says, Bin Laden's '"truce offer" is especially disconcerting; under Islamic law, Bin Laden is required to warn his victim and give them an opportunity to come to terms before the attack can be legitimately launched. It is likely that this is what Bin Laden is doing with the truce offer.'
Seriously.
Maybe it's just me. But I sat here today thinking maybe I should hit the ATM, charge my cell phone, and gas up my car - just in case. I mean, as our forefathers weathered the Cold War, they were taught to get under their desks and cover their heads. Do those rules still apply? Should I teach my cat to respond to a particular terror command and get under the bed? I considered this all the way to Target today. (I'm always one to recognize an excuse to spend money, and an impending terrorist attack definitely qualifies. No way am I going to get caught in an attack with a shortage of band-aids or chocolate or Advil.)
Seriously. How do you prepare for a terrorist attack?
I remember September 11th like last weekend. I remember walking into Starbucks, dazed, and ordering a latte. I remember the young employee of mid-eastern descent lobbing my cup onto the counter and smirking. I remember considering taking the lid off, throwing my grande latte into his smirking face, and yelling that Americans won't live this way.... won't stand for the constant threat of assault on our safety and way of life.
But I guess this is our way of life now.
Seriously. Seriously....
(That's my new word. But you have to emphasize it correctly -- like they do on Grey's Anatomy.)
Seriously!
This new Bin Laden tape is seriously disturbing. I know, I usually don't write about current affairs or anything of significance. But old habits die hard, and my years as a news reporter have a strange way of dictating the way I write and the way I think.
The minute I heard of this new terrorist recording, I turned to the one gal I trust on such matters: Laura Mansfield. A few years ago, I wrote and booked for the nationally-syndicated radio show America at Night. Laura was my favorite guest. She's smart, current, and has incredible insight into radical Islam. She translates Arabic. She's authored books on the subject. She maintains a website (www.lauramansfield.com) on all of it, which I read regularly.
Suffice to say that I nearly crawled out of my skin when I read Laura's logic on Bin Laden's latest recording of verbal diarrhea. He's warning that future attacks here at home are inevitable, and then offers up some stupid truce, as if we'll suddenly meet him halfway and bring the keg. As Laura says, Bin Laden's '"truce offer" is especially disconcerting; under Islamic law, Bin Laden is required to warn his victim and give them an opportunity to come to terms before the attack can be legitimately launched. It is likely that this is what Bin Laden is doing with the truce offer.'
Seriously.
Maybe it's just me. But I sat here today thinking maybe I should hit the ATM, charge my cell phone, and gas up my car - just in case. I mean, as our forefathers weathered the Cold War, they were taught to get under their desks and cover their heads. Do those rules still apply? Should I teach my cat to respond to a particular terror command and get under the bed? I considered this all the way to Target today. (I'm always one to recognize an excuse to spend money, and an impending terrorist attack definitely qualifies. No way am I going to get caught in an attack with a shortage of band-aids or chocolate or Advil.)
Seriously. How do you prepare for a terrorist attack?
I remember September 11th like last weekend. I remember walking into Starbucks, dazed, and ordering a latte. I remember the young employee of mid-eastern descent lobbing my cup onto the counter and smirking. I remember considering taking the lid off, throwing my grande latte into his smirking face, and yelling that Americans won't live this way.... won't stand for the constant threat of assault on our safety and way of life.
But I guess this is our way of life now.
Seriously. Seriously....
Tuesday, January 17, 2006
The Captain of Team Crazy
It's just like they say on Gilmore Girls: if there was a 'you're crazy' team, I'd be its captain.
My job is making me crazy.
I guess it's only Tuesday, but already I have visions of Friday night and strawberry margaritas dancing in my head. The margaritas have little skinny legs, and they're in a row, line dancing.
I told you my job is making me crazy.
Don't even laugh. You know exactly what I mean. First there are the scattered-brained co-workers. Or even better... the no-brained co-workers. Those are great.
Then, there's the actual work. It gives you headaches. In my job, I read floods of legal documents (and today, a 39 page probate) to determine who may legally lay claim to minerals underlying certain tracks of land... being the NorthEast Quarter of the SouthWest Quarter of the South Half of Township 972 South, Range 374 West of the Sixth Principal Meridian, which I, Crazy Person, do hereby give, grant, convey, transfer, assign, relinquish, and devise to Child Crazy Person....
Oh, sorry. It's been a long day. And that was a looong probate.
A great job
A great house or apartment
A great guy
If you think about it long enough, it's true. Seriously. Last year I kinda had the great guy. (If you forget how the 'great' guy wasn't so great.) So I guess this is the year for the 'great' job.
Sigh.
I guess what I'm rambling about is this: work is a beating. Until payday, which comes twice, or - horror of horrors - only once a month, work is beating and the pay off is too infrequent. I don't care what you do, how great or terrible your co-workers are, or what you're reading (or not reading) all day long. It all pretty much beats you down, right?
But don't listen to my uplifting, Tony Robbins message of the day. I'm grateful for my job. But like I said, today my job is driving me crazy.
Right??
My job is making me crazy.
I guess it's only Tuesday, but already I have visions of Friday night and strawberry margaritas dancing in my head. The margaritas have little skinny legs, and they're in a row, line dancing.
I told you my job is making me crazy.
Don't even laugh. You know exactly what I mean. First there are the scattered-brained co-workers. Or even better... the no-brained co-workers. Those are great.
Then, there's the actual work. It gives you headaches. In my job, I read floods of legal documents (and today, a 39 page probate) to determine who may legally lay claim to minerals underlying certain tracks of land... being the NorthEast Quarter of the SouthWest Quarter of the South Half of Township 972 South, Range 374 West of the Sixth Principal Meridian, which I, Crazy Person, do hereby give, grant, convey, transfer, assign, relinquish, and devise to Child Crazy Person....
Oh, sorry. It's been a long day. And that was a looong probate.
A (wise) friend of mine once philosophized the following:
A single girl can have one of three things, but never any of these at the same time:
A great job
A great house or apartment
A great guy
If you think about it long enough, it's true. Seriously. Last year I kinda had the great guy. (If you forget how the 'great' guy wasn't so great.) So I guess this is the year for the 'great' job.
Sigh.
I guess what I'm rambling about is this: work is a beating. Until payday, which comes twice, or - horror of horrors - only once a month, work is beating and the pay off is too infrequent. I don't care what you do, how great or terrible your co-workers are, or what you're reading (or not reading) all day long. It all pretty much beats you down, right?
But don't listen to my uplifting, Tony Robbins message of the day. I'm grateful for my job. But like I said, today my job is driving me crazy.
Right??
Thursday, January 12, 2006
Visionary Vixens
Truly. The capacity of human creativity is boundless.
I'm homesick today. And when I get homesick, I begin endless moments of envisioning my ancient, rambling house all fixed up and ready to host guests and cooking classes.
If only it were today.
On days like this, I like to think of women who, despite their fears and hesitations, stepped out and blazed new trails. Made brand new lives for themselves. Thought I'd introduce (or reintroduce) you to:
Jennifer Velarde. The girl loved making purses. Loved it. And she was good at it. Her friends encouraged her to get out there and do something with it, and after awhile, she did. Her new company, 1154 Lill, allows you to design your own handbag, and within 3 weeks, her company delivers a custom-made purse to your door. Wow. Jennifer now has three stores, and says she wishes she had acted on her good idea sooner. Check her out: www.1154lill.com.
Mary Jane Butters. (That's her name. Really.) I plan to visit the woman's homestead sometime this year. Mary Jane came into a huge farm in the midwest, and now runs it as an organic farm and B&B. Only the B&B consists of antique-filled tents with feather beds. No joke. Check her out: http://www.maryjanesfarm.org/bb/.
Debra Cohen. Like me, Debra moved into a house that needed some work. Unlike me, she did something very intelligent when she didn't know who to call for help. She started what she's trademarked the 'Homeowner Referral Network'. Need a plumber? She can hook you up with a good one. She's not going broke doing it, either. Her company is reported to have pulled in around $250,000 last year. Check her out: http://www.homereferralbiz.com/letter.html.
I know this is probably boring, but I think it's encouraging to see people who finally had enough with their boring-as-crap, beating-of-a-life jobs and did something about it. It gives me hope. (And kinda makes me feel like a loser, too. But mostly it gives me hope.)
Here's to hoping that both you and I find success in a job we're passionate about!
I'm homesick today. And when I get homesick, I begin endless moments of envisioning my ancient, rambling house all fixed up and ready to host guests and cooking classes.
If only it were today.
On days like this, I like to think of women who, despite their fears and hesitations, stepped out and blazed new trails. Made brand new lives for themselves. Thought I'd introduce (or reintroduce) you to:
Jennifer Velarde. The girl loved making purses. Loved it. And she was good at it. Her friends encouraged her to get out there and do something with it, and after awhile, she did. Her new company, 1154 Lill, allows you to design your own handbag, and within 3 weeks, her company delivers a custom-made purse to your door. Wow. Jennifer now has three stores, and says she wishes she had acted on her good idea sooner. Check her out: www.1154lill.com.
Mary Jane Butters. (That's her name. Really.) I plan to visit the woman's homestead sometime this year. Mary Jane came into a huge farm in the midwest, and now runs it as an organic farm and B&B. Only the B&B consists of antique-filled tents with feather beds. No joke. Check her out: http://www.maryjanesfarm.org/bb/.
Debra Cohen. Like me, Debra moved into a house that needed some work. Unlike me, she did something very intelligent when she didn't know who to call for help. She started what she's trademarked the 'Homeowner Referral Network'. Need a plumber? She can hook you up with a good one. She's not going broke doing it, either. Her company is reported to have pulled in around $250,000 last year. Check her out: http://www.homereferralbiz.com/letter.html.
I know this is probably boring, but I think it's encouraging to see people who finally had enough with their boring-as-crap, beating-of-a-life jobs and did something about it. It gives me hope. (And kinda makes me feel like a loser, too. But mostly it gives me hope.)
Here's to hoping that both you and I find success in a job we're passionate about!
Monday, January 9, 2006
Eating in a Raincoat
He who can no longer pause to wonder and stand rapt in awe, is as good as dead. -Albert Einstein
Did anyone catch ABC's Extreme Makeover: Home Edition last night? Ty Pennington and the Sears crew built a home about 15 minutes from where I'm staying in Wichita, Kansas. It was the talk today... everybody speculating about the family with five girls who got the new home.
"How in the world will they pay the taxes on that thing?" one guy asked.
"Yeah, I'm sure they didn't think about that when they walked in their faaaancy new house," the guy next to him agreed.
Please.
As if the first thing you think when someone custom-builds you a brand new house - for free- is, "Crap. Now my property value is as high as Courtney Love. Tear it down."
Yeah.
So I'm standing in the courthouse... trying to work... when another lady joins in. "I just don't know why nothing great ever happens to me," she whines. And I mean - whines. I think I even see tiny little men in suits playing tiny little violins on her shoulder.
But admittedly, she made me think: do some people really have all the luck? Do blondes really have more fun? Does life pick on some of us more than others? How are some people so content and others so.... well .... miserable??
It's all I thought about while driving to lunch at the Smokehouse Restaurant. Where the special of the day wasn't the promised Pot Roast, but was instead the terrible Tuna Casserole. (Last minute substitution.)
Terrible tuna, I think. I'll go have a salad at McDonald's.
Whatever. I sat down in Smokehouse anyway. It's freaking cold up here in Kansas, and the thought of getting out again - when I'd worn my green raincoat instead of my big, dumpy, Eskimo-figure-friendly black overcoat - changed my mind.
So I sat. And I ordered. And I sat. (Food at the Smokehouse takes awhile. They must have a problem with their smokehouse.)
And then I hear it... singing. But not just any singing. Singing that sounds like a harmonious blend of Josh Groban and Michael Buble. And it's coming from behind me. It's singing that song that George and Mary Bailey sing after their pool dance in It's a Wonderful Life...
Buffalo Gals, won't you come out tonight,
Come out tonight, come out tonight.
Buffalo Gals, won't you come out tonight
And dance in the light of the moon.
I turned and looked. It was this gentleman wearing a derby hat and an apron over his clothes. He sat in a wooden chair in the carpeted restaurant entry and sang from It's a Wonderful Life for nearly 20 minutes.
He sounded like an angel.
My substituted promised Pot Roast food came, and of course I managed to gracefully snort my Diet Coke and spit half of it out while choking/coughing to death. Classy, you dork, I think as I dread looking down at my shirt. And then I remember. I wore my green raincoat today.
Then it hit me. Of course, some people don't really have all the luck. Blondes don't really have more fun. Life doesn't pick on some of us more than others. And people really are content and others are so.... well .... miserable... because they chose to be. Because it's all in how we look at things.
I mean, gosh, I was saved by a green raincoat today. While eating a terrific meal I never otherwise would have tried if the promised Pot Roast had been there. While being serenaded by a derby-wearing angel who knew every lyric in, believe it or not, the movie appropriately entitled It's a Wonderful Life.
It's the little things, you know? The days you sit to eat in your raincoat and end up standing rapt in awe....
Did anyone catch ABC's Extreme Makeover: Home Edition last night? Ty Pennington and the Sears crew built a home about 15 minutes from where I'm staying in Wichita, Kansas. It was the talk today... everybody speculating about the family with five girls who got the new home.
"How in the world will they pay the taxes on that thing?" one guy asked.
"Yeah, I'm sure they didn't think about that when they walked in their faaaancy new house," the guy next to him agreed.
Please.
As if the first thing you think when someone custom-builds you a brand new house - for free- is, "Crap. Now my property value is as high as Courtney Love. Tear it down."
Yeah.
So I'm standing in the courthouse... trying to work... when another lady joins in. "I just don't know why nothing great ever happens to me," she whines. And I mean - whines. I think I even see tiny little men in suits playing tiny little violins on her shoulder.
But admittedly, she made me think: do some people really have all the luck? Do blondes really have more fun? Does life pick on some of us more than others? How are some people so content and others so.... well .... miserable??
It's all I thought about while driving to lunch at the Smokehouse Restaurant. Where the special of the day wasn't the promised Pot Roast, but was instead the terrible Tuna Casserole. (Last minute substitution.)
Terrible tuna, I think. I'll go have a salad at McDonald's.
Whatever. I sat down in Smokehouse anyway. It's freaking cold up here in Kansas, and the thought of getting out again - when I'd worn my green raincoat instead of my big, dumpy, Eskimo-figure-friendly black overcoat - changed my mind.
So I sat. And I ordered. And I sat. (Food at the Smokehouse takes awhile. They must have a problem with their smokehouse.)
And then I hear it... singing. But not just any singing. Singing that sounds like a harmonious blend of Josh Groban and Michael Buble. And it's coming from behind me. It's singing that song that George and Mary Bailey sing after their pool dance in It's a Wonderful Life...
Buffalo Gals, won't you come out tonight,
Come out tonight, come out tonight.
Buffalo Gals, won't you come out tonight
And dance in the light of the moon.
I turned and looked. It was this gentleman wearing a derby hat and an apron over his clothes. He sat in a wooden chair in the carpeted restaurant entry and sang from It's a Wonderful Life for nearly 20 minutes.
He sounded like an angel.
My substituted promised Pot Roast food came, and of course I managed to gracefully snort my Diet Coke and spit half of it out while choking/coughing to death. Classy, you dork, I think as I dread looking down at my shirt. And then I remember. I wore my green raincoat today.
Then it hit me. Of course, some people don't really have all the luck. Blondes don't really have more fun. Life doesn't pick on some of us more than others. And people really are content and others are so.... well .... miserable... because they chose to be. Because it's all in how we look at things.
I mean, gosh, I was saved by a green raincoat today. While eating a terrific meal I never otherwise would have tried if the promised Pot Roast had been there. While being serenaded by a derby-wearing angel who knew every lyric in, believe it or not, the movie appropriately entitled It's a Wonderful Life.
It's the little things, you know? The days you sit to eat in your raincoat and end up standing rapt in awe....
Saturday, January 7, 2006
Scrap Crap
Scrapbooking is among the many, many endeavors I have resolved to take up this year. And not purely as a hobby, mind you. As a necessity. I can't tell you how many pictures and scrap crap I have filling boxes, envelopes, and old, chipped sinks in my house!
Something must be done to organize the scrap crap and the chipped sinks cluttering my house.
With that in mind, I went to a fine scrapbooking store in Wichita today. "With the new LM line, you can scrapbook anything that's ever happened in your whole life," beamed the Lynette-ish desperate housewife who helped me. So, I browsed, bought and bolted with evidence to support my newly-resolved quest. It was exhilarating, and I could just see it now:
Friend: Do you remember the location of the hostel you stayed in while visiting New York that one time?
Me: Why yes! Looking back at my 1999 New York Scrapbook, it's at 103rd and Amsterdam.
Mom: Why are you still single?
Me: Hmmmm.... According to my new scrapbook entitled Manthrax: The Biological Dangers I've Loved and Lost, it's because all my ex's were apparently long term losers. Like him. And ooohhh... especially him.
Awh yes, this could be great!
Except for one problem. As I was thinking of my life laid out on scrapbook pages, something began to bother me. How could I scrapbook everything that's ever happened in my life? I mean, how do I visually document my initials carved into the observation deck railing on the Empire State Building? That stage on the Colorado State Fair grounds? That adobe-looking building in Mexico? That wooden bridge in west Texas?
For that matter, how do I scrapbook the first time my heart was broken? The memories of the day I was saved? The sheer panic I felt the first time I turned on a microphone? The feelings I had on the stand in court after a judge had me subpoenaed for (illegally) taping courtroom proceedings?
Seems to me like we come standard equipped with the best scrapbook of all - a mind that captures and holds sights, sounds, feelings, memories, and facts. My feeble attempts at organizing life's scrap crap will be just that.
Scottish poet Alexander Smith said: "Memory is a man's real possession. In nothing else is he rich, in nothing else is he poor."
I like that.
I also wonder if Mr. Smith ever had a scrapbook.....
Something must be done to organize the scrap crap and the chipped sinks cluttering my house.
With that in mind, I went to a fine scrapbooking store in Wichita today. "With the new LM line, you can scrapbook anything that's ever happened in your whole life," beamed the Lynette-ish desperate housewife who helped me. So, I browsed, bought and bolted with evidence to support my newly-resolved quest. It was exhilarating, and I could just see it now:
Friend: Do you remember the location of the hostel you stayed in while visiting New York that one time?
Me: Why yes! Looking back at my 1999 New York Scrapbook, it's at 103rd and Amsterdam.
Mom: Why are you still single?
Me: Hmmmm.... According to my new scrapbook entitled Manthrax: The Biological Dangers I've Loved and Lost, it's because all my ex's were apparently long term losers. Like him. And ooohhh... especially him.
Awh yes, this could be great!
Except for one problem. As I was thinking of my life laid out on scrapbook pages, something began to bother me. How could I scrapbook everything that's ever happened in my life? I mean, how do I visually document my initials carved into the observation deck railing on the Empire State Building? That stage on the Colorado State Fair grounds? That adobe-looking building in Mexico? That wooden bridge in west Texas?
For that matter, how do I scrapbook the first time my heart was broken? The memories of the day I was saved? The sheer panic I felt the first time I turned on a microphone? The feelings I had on the stand in court after a judge had me subpoenaed for (illegally) taping courtroom proceedings?
Seems to me like we come standard equipped with the best scrapbook of all - a mind that captures and holds sights, sounds, feelings, memories, and facts. My feeble attempts at organizing life's scrap crap will be just that.
Scottish poet Alexander Smith said: "Memory is a man's real possession. In nothing else is he rich, in nothing else is he poor."
I like that.
I also wonder if Mr. Smith ever had a scrapbook.....
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