"Keep holding on...

...yes you know we'll make it through, make it through." Keep Holding On, Avril Lavigne, Eragon Soundtrack.

Here's the rest of the lyrics:

You're not alone;
Together we stand;
I'll be your side
You know, I'll take your hand.
When it gets cold;
It feels like the end;
When there's no place to go
You know I won't give in.
No I won't give in.

Keep holding on,
Yes, you'll know we'll make it through;
Make it through.
Just stay strong;
Cuz you know I'm here for you;
I'm here for you.
Nothing you can say;
Nothing you can do ;
There's no other way when it comes to the truth;
So keep holding on;
Cuz you know we'll make it through,
We'll make it through.

So far away;
I wish you were here;
Before it's too late
This could all disappear.
Before the doors close;
When it comes to the end;
With you by my side I'll fight and defend.
I'll fight and defend.

Yeah,
Keep holding on,
Yes, you'll know we'll make it through;
Make it through.
Just stay strong;
Cuz you know I'm here for you;
I'm here for you.
Nothing you can say;
Nothing you can do ;
There's no other way when it comes to the truth;
So keep holding on;
Cuz you know we'll make it through,
We'll make it through.

Hear me when I say I believe.
Nothing's going to change destiny.
Whatever's meant to be will work out perfectly.
Yeah.

La, la, la, la...

Keep holding on,
Yes, you'll know we'll make it through;
Make it through.
Just stay strong;
Cuz you know I'm here for you;
I'm here for you.
Nothing you can say;
Nothing you can do ;
There's no other way when it comes to the truth;
So keep holding on;
Cuz you know we'll make it through,
We'll make it through.

So, I got news today. First of all--it was a long day. Various emotional stresses infringed upon my happiness, but that wasn't such a big deal. I mean really, what do I expect from life anyway? But One Particular thing happened today which really is worth writing about.

It's silly--I've already blogged about similar feelings before, with no especial result. I just know if I try to hold all this inside, I'll cry. (More than I already have, I mean. I've been a perfect weeping willow today.) If you don't like cats, stop reading now. Or rather, you're welcome to read, but no snide comments, please. I'll delete them, I swear I will.

So. My cat, Tex, died over a year ago, in August of 2006. I had to have him "put to sleep" because he had cancer. He had been such a good cat--I could talk for hours about him, but I won't. A month and a bit ago I had a dream that there had been some ridiculous mistake, and that he was fine, and that he somehow came home to us. I later realized that the day I had that dream was the anniversary of his death, but that's another story. Suffice to say that, for a variety of reasons (probably not the least of which being that I'm a girl) I still miss Tex every bit as much today as I did a year ago, and that I still look for him on my bed, and expect to see him tearing through the house when we vacuum, and the other myriad of things he used to do that, since he's buried under the hedge now, he doesn't. (And I blame myself, of course, because I was the one who made the decision to put him to sleep. But that too is another story. You can go back to last year's posts and read if you want. I try not to, though there are some cute pictures of him, sitting in a hammock.)

Anyhow. One of the greatest comforts since I lost Texy, has been Lilly, who is my sister, Fred's, cat. Lilly is a beautiful cat, as you can see. She's never had any attitude problems (unlike my cat, Tex, who took a dim view of anyone insulting his dignity which meant to him touching his paws, tail, belly, or ears, or calling him "puss puss" or blowing him kisses) and is generally one of the neatest, sweetest, and most agreeable cats I have ever had the pleasure to meet. Decorative too. But we finally took her to the vet today, and found out she has a malignant tumor in her paw, much like Tex did, only his was a bone cancer, which caused him a lot of pain, and hers seems painless (at least, now) though growing larger. There is, therefore, a good chance of her getting it removed with no further effects. However, there is also a good chance of it spreading--even after it's removed--or that it has already spread.

So the question arises. How much can you spend on a cat (she's just an animal, yet she's a member of the family too!) versus when is it humane to "put her to sleep" versus...oh, a million things. She is 15 (12 is average age for a cat) so it's not like she's extra young. But some cats live to be 30...and I guess I just hoped she was one of those. She still may be--it's my sister's call, about that. But oh, now when Lilly hops up on my bed (how full of life she is!) and begs to be petted, I shall not brush her away and mumble, "I need sleep, silly cat!" but I'll sit up and pet her. When she licks my hand I won't pull it away and say, "ewww, cat spit!" but I'll thank her for "kitty kisses" (Ok, I know this is getting mushy, but some people out there know just what I'm saying, and to those of you who don't--well, I would say, "get a cat" but now I will warn you, if you DO get a cat as wonderful as the two I grew up with, be warned! Losing that cat will break your heart quite as much as losing a human friend does. Strange, perhaps unreasonable, but true. And the question you have to ask yourself is, "Is it better to have loved and lost or to never have loved at all?") and after showing proper appreciation for her attention, then I may have to push her away and say, "Lilly, I need sleep!" But not till she KNOWS that I love her. Because I do.

Tonight a dear friend (who has never liked cats, nor do we expect her to) made some comment about cats, just like she usually does, and I have to say, this time, as I was grieving again about Tex, and still reeling from this blow about Lilly, I felt her jab much more deeply than usual and, indeed, more deeply than I'm sure she intended it.

It's sad, how sometimes a silly little joke of ours can hurt someone so genuinely and so deeply, without our even intending or maybe even knowing.

Let that be a lesson to me to be so very careful what I tease about.

Anyway, if you'd just pray for all of us--we love Lilly so much, and life would be very dim without her. But pray that we'll make the right decision (whatever that is). Because she's been such a good cat, and honestly, if I keep on any more like I was all day today, I'm never going to be able to wear mascara again, because no matter how much I cry, it seems like more makeup can come off.

Funny thing is, this is a little microcosm of life. Because, just as I have no control over this fuzzy little friend's future (that is in my sister's hands) but it intimately affects me, so I have very little control over my future, but that too intimately effects me. And in the same way that I need to be sure to take advantage of every, single, solitary moment that comes along for me to appreciate our sweet pussycat, so must I take advantage of every lesson in life God sends to teach me--whether it be here or at school or in Morocco. And quite honestly, with all these questions running through my head, it really didn't need something this big to tip me over the edge from "fine" to "freaked out, insecure, neurotic, and emotional."

Silly, I know. How can a furry, self-centered little creature become so entangled in our affections? Curiouser and curiouser...

And ironic.

"Holding darkness up to the light...

...the other side shows through." Sugar Blue, Jeff Finlan

So. Many cares and worries are clouding my life otherwise bright and sparkly life. Job things, school things, money things, friend things, family things, even pet things. Since I am a self-absorbed creature, I must admit that the most pressing worries that are clutching at my heart are the self-worries. I see this darkness swirling around me, and I get scared. Very scared.

I once heard two friends earnestly discussing the way to deal with life. "Laugh," said one, and the other responded, "Yeah, laughter. There's no other way to deal."

I have to say, I tried to make myself laugh, but it did nothing for me. I am going to watch Galaxy Quest with Tim Allen here in a bit to try again, but I think there is a deeper solution that must be primary to take care of these issues that are coming up.

First, I DO have to address the self-worries.

My doubts and concerns of my abilities or lack thereof simply must be faced. But like when you face a child with a question (usually, "why?") that cannot be answered simply, so am I filled with an overwhelming sense of my own insufficiency even to deal with these immediate fears. My questions are beyond me, beyond my cat, my sister, even my mother. "What to do about this?" is something that none of us can answer. That means I have to give it to God. He, at least I can be sure, has the answer. And here is my test--do I trust Him with it, or do I continue to grapple on my own, and, step by step, draw inevitably closer to that chasm of despair which I see looming so very, very large in front of me. Yet to give it up, to Him, to hand it over and say, "That's fine, You take care of it," to Someone I can't see, someone who can't pat my head or smile and nod as I hand it over...that takes a great deal of trust that I must choose very consciously with my will, because my emotions say, "Like HE cares!" But that is a lie, because He DOES. He promised:

"'For I know the plans that I have for you,' declares the Lord, 'plans for welfare and not for calamity to give you a future and a hope.'" (Jeremiah 29:11)

"I will instruct you and teach you in the way which you should go; I will counsel you with My eye upon you." (Proverbs 32:8)

And as I'm seriously and earnestly whining about how I can't see God smile, or feel a hug from Him, in pops my ENTIRE FAMILY--mother, father, sister, and cat. They all plop down on my bed, kick me off my laptop (we only each have our own laptops and have two desktops besides...but they want mine.) and go to http://www.strangegirl.com/austenquiz/ where we "committee-take" the quiz for ourselves. (Daddy and the cat declined to take the test, though they did input for Fred and Momma and I) Fred was the girl from Northanger Abbey--whose name I forget--but we think she's more like Marianne from Sense and Sensibility. Momma was Eleanor from Sense and Sensibility, but within a point of being Emma, and I was Elizabeth from Pride and Prejudice. And as they teased and hugged and smiled--I realized that God DOES speak and smile and hug and wink--just, through people.

Like, say, my family...

I really am blessed.

How ironic.

"I've seen how you sparkle...

...when fall nips the air." If Ever I Would Leave You, as performed by Richard Harris in Camelot.

I walked into my room after getting back from studying at the library to be greeted by the musical sound of screaming as my mother and sister rushed me out of my room while trying to block my view of...something.

I whined.

"Guys, c'mon, I want to change clothes. I'm still in my church clothes!"

I went and told my dad how unfair everything was, and he agreed with me, then I tried again.

This time, I backed into the room and grabbed some jeans without looking at anything. They were seated comfortably on my bed, petting the cat.

"Why are you walking backwards," said my sister, with wide, innocent eyes. Ha.

"Oh, no reason," I said. "What are you guys doing? Cleaning my room?"

"Quite the contrary," says my darling sister. I left to change in the bathroom since my room was full of mother and sister. When I came back I said, "Ok, what'd we break?" Then I saw it.

"I didn't break anything!" Mom said, a hurt and offended look on her face. "I brought you a present!" I walked over to it.

"What is it?" I asked.

"It's a Bougie Hantee, of course," mom said. "Obviously."

"Obviously," I repeated, transfixed. "What does it do?"

"What all bougie hantees do, silly," my dear sister said. "It glows."

"Oh, of course," I said. Awkward silence on my part, fond gaze on the part of my mother and sister. "Where did you get it?" I probed, trying to make sense of this item that was comfortably nestled on my dresser between a rack of earrings and a shopping list.

"The Bougie Hantee," my mom said with dignity, "is from Hallmark."

"Ok..." I said, still a little bit lost as to why it had been chosen, among all the possible things to be acquired at Hallmark, for me, especially, by my mother.

"It was free," she added. "A year ago. Or maybe two. I was going to send it to you at school, but I kept forgetting."

"Oh."

It was a fake candle with a face on the flame. Orange.
My mom and sister presently left, talking about Witherspoon or Robert E. Lee.

I was left with my new possession. We eyed each other. I subtly edged over to my computer and put on some gentle music to ease the social tension that had built up in my room. I noticed how messy it was.

"So..." I said, and began to clean. Then I got the idea of blogging about this curious little object. So here you are, complete with picture of the Bougie Hantee. It's hard to see the little face, but it's there, take my word for it.

Besides becoming the proud owner of the Bougie Hantee, which, by the way, really does grow on you--be careful lest you too are sucked into the growing cult following of Bougie Hantees (Hantee? Hanties? Hanteeses?)--I was the charming hostess of a pumpkin-carving party last Friday. We spent two hours carving pumpkins, and another two hours watching the BEST MOVIE EVER, Meet the Robinsons. Seriously, if you haven't seen it--DO. It's like a dream sequence for a ten-year-old. Complete with T-Rex and singing frogs.

We actually did a really good job with the pumpkins. Mine was carved like a tree, and Fred's was leafy vine things--which also turned out really well--and TiFi carved a sunset over mountains, and Big Bear carved a joker or harlequin. Also well done. Here's the pumpkins:



I love autumn.

"I'm going nowhere...

...and I'm going to take my time!" Leigh Nash, in Waiting on the Sunshine.

It just struck me, and it amuses me greatly, to think how very much time I spend writing up these posts for you, my readers. If you exist.

Not only me, but millions of bloggers around the world, in England, and Canada, and France, and Syria, and China, and the Philippines, and Sri Lanca (sp?) and--well, everywhere! And do people actually read them?

I once read the most amazing blog called "waiting for comments." It was a play off Waiting for Godot, by Beckett, and it really was genius. I'll try and find the link for it...

How ironic.

The wounds of a friend…

…are more faithful than the kisses of an enemy.

Dated: 6-23-2006—

I have a friend. She and I have known each other “forever.” I cannot remember a time when we weren’t “best friends.” I have always called her that, and she has always called me that, but we haven’t treated each other like best friends since well before middle school. And how am I supposed to tell her I can’t stand being around her?

Back then I agreed with her on everything—what she said wasn’t cool definitely was not cool, and her sense of fashion was the only way to be. Her slang was the hippest, coolest possible slang, and it certainly didn’t hurt that she always hung out with the teenagers since she had an older brother and sister, and that they too were of the trend-setting personalities.

But she always ignored me if there was anyone new or interesting around, and she would break promises or ditch me at the hint of something more interesting. I spent more tears over her desertion than anything else growing up. By the time high school rolled around, I didn’t trust her at all, and I started noticing that everyone else, once the glamour of their acquaintance began to fade, was treated like me—as her “best friend” one moment, then someone imminently forgettable the next. But no one ever seemed to notice but me. When I tried to broach the subject with her, it was always my sensitivity, my emotions, my problem.

Finally one of her other “best friends” was hurt enough to notice. She had purposely excluded me and then she was on the receiving end. She came to me, we cried, and then we bonded under the common banner of used and discarded “best friends.” The awkward thing was, the girl who had hurt us so much didn’t even seem to realize it. She continued to call us when no one else was around, to give us the updates on her life, to attend every function as if it were for her, and she didn’t seem to realize that we suddenly weren’t worshipping her any longer.

It was our fault, mostly, to be sure. I had tried so often to tell her, and the other girl was completely cowed whenever they were together, so we always pushed it aside till the next time we were hurt, then we licked our wounds, did a few things without her to make ourselves feel “free” then we would go back to doing whatever she wanted and hanging with her wherever we happened to be. It became a double life, a lie. We disliked her when she wasn’t around, but then we both adored her when she was there. She didn’t seem to notice.

In our defense, it wasn’t quite that bad. I know that I honestly enjoyed being around her when she was there, and was perfectly capable of enjoying her company one moment while fully seeing the extent of her hurtfulness on the other, which I think the other girl could also identify with. Being “best friends” for so long, we always had so much to talk about, we shared so many common interests, and so many shared experiences, that we naturally were very comfortable together—but there was always the self-focus in her, the complete ignorance of the pain she hurled that surfaced and resurfaced altogether too often. But not so often that I couldn’t go on pretending everything was fine between us.

Once again, in my defense, I tried to tell her, to explain all this to her. But where to start?

“You promised to call me all those times and you never did.”

“You told me you’d come, but then you went out with her instead and only called me three hours after the fact.”

“We agreed to go together, but you went bowling at the last minute instead so I was left to go alone.”

“He liked me, but you flirted with him so much he dropped me to go after you.”

All this seemed petty mud-slinging, so high-schoolish when I tried to put it in words with instances. So I tried to put it in character terms instead.

“You are so focused on yourself that you don’t even see when you hurt people.”

“You are so arrogant that you won’t listen when anyone tries to tell you something.”

“Don’t you see how you’re driving people away?”

But that was the secret—she didn’t see it, she doesn’t see it, and that is where we are left today. She makes a wonderful first impression. She’s never short of friends or admirers. She’s quirky, beautiful, with a good sense of humor, street sense, and she’s intelligent. She can talk to guys about cars and sports and she can talk to girls about clothes and boys. She is everything that is fun and loveable until you need her—then she is about as reliable as a two-year-old confronted by a bag of candy. And about that malicious too—she doesn’t mean to stab-stab-stab you to the heart, she just does it, laughing and chortling at the clever remarks and good light in which it puts her. How can you explain all that to someone like that?

Recently, we’ve had some conversations that seemed like they were getting through. One of the big issues is trash talking. Just all the hurtful things that she has a gift for saying that just cut right to the very core while she goes rattling on with some other amusing story calculated—or perhaps just coincidentally able—to make me feel as much of a loser as possible. We talked about it and she immediately told me that because she had brothers she had thicker skin than most people, so she couldn’t be expected to know whether what she said would hurt them or not.

We had another talk about kindness. Once again, how is she to know? She grew up with a certain level of teasing, how is she to interact with people on that level, when she doesn’t know how much they can take? Is it her fault that they can’t take a joke? She can’t be expected to never say anything that might possibly offend someone somehow. She actually listened to me, which was good, but in the end she still can’t see how that should have any effect on what she says or does. It is still someone else’s problem.

Which brings me back to my original question. How can I tell her that she is increasingly unpleasant to be around? Not because of any one thing—not solely because of her trash talk or her mean streak or her pride or her self-centeredness, but because of all these things, and her unteachability and her blindness toward anything that might possibly show up these unpleasant characteristics?

How can I tell her that I don’t want to hear her stories about boys, her excitement about a new phone, her future plans for school and apartments and bedding and curtains? I wanted her to be there for me for all these things, and she made it clear that she couldn’t care any less. But now how can I treat her the way she treated me, the way that broke my heart? I cannot. But I am lying to her by not letting her know that I do not like being around her anymore.

I thought it would be all right, I thought I could either avoid her or just keep her at a distance, be kind but never trust her again. But every time I think that something happens to entrench her deeper into my affections. She needs me because the girls at school told her all these mean things. So what if they’re true? She is hurting! She broke up with her boyfriend. So what if it was her choice and if I think it was the right thing since they weren’t ready for each other anyway? She needs me! Should I leave her as desolate as I was when I needed her and she was too busy planning her next conquest to help me? I am incapably of willfully causing such pain.

But I am lying to her.

The wounds of a friend are more faithful than the kisses of an enemy.

***

That portion above was written summer before last. I found it on my computer—a blog I never published.

Perhaps it’s just as well—because a lot of water has gone under the bridge, or over the dam, wherever you prefer it.

And that friend—the same dear, frustrating, hurtful, darling friend—has grown up.

I don’t mean she is perfect now. Heavens no—she still manages to be mostly focused on herself and she still often says things that are quite hurtful without meaning to. But she has realized something crucial, something that it took a lot of pain and struggle for her to learn. It had to go deep—she had to be dumped by a boy she greatly admired. She had to be rejected by people she thought “cool.” She had to disappoint people she loved. She had to fail, at least in an earthly sense, at something she wanted to succeed in. And she had to give up on something she wanted.

She had to learn that she could be wrong.

When she figured that out—sometime last spring—she came home and was a different person. I kid you not.

She was kind, she asked about my life, she cried with me, and called me up to ask struggles or joys, and told off someone for being unkind to someone else, and she admitted to being wrong.

I didn’t know what to do with her at first. She was such a different personality I simply watched in shock. I had made other friends, in this meantime, and they were (are!) dears, but they did not share the history, like this precious girl and I. Those silly inside jokes mean an awful lot.

We spent a whole day together, near the end of this summer. We drove two hours to the airport to send a friend off back to school (as it happened, that was the same friend who featured largely in the earlier bit of this post) and then spent most of the morning at a Starbucks, then picked up her mom from the airport and drove back home again.

We had a jolly time talking about everything, but for the first time, there was something missing. I had thought that I genuinely enjoyed being around her, that I didn’t let the hurts effect me when we were hanging out, but I was wrong. Because now I found, that as I had finally stopped feeling like I had to guard myself with her, we were actually genuinely enjoying each other!

There was no guilt afterwards. There was no fear of what she would say, or think, or be. There was nothing but a true and honest enjoyment of the conversation of a good friend with a cup of mocha on a sunny morning.

And now, as her life is changing and new people and experiences are coming her way, she seems to be doing just fine. I talked with her just last week, and I was still struck by the absence of that bitterness, that fear, that—that nasty thing, whatever it was—keeping us from enjoying the trust of a good friend.

I am pleased that I never broke fellowship with her—never deserted her, never abandoned her, never gave up on her. I did not simply walk away and restart my list of friends somewhere else. I did have some tough talks with her. Some brutal times when I cried for a week before I said them, because I was sure that she would tell me to get lost and never bother her with such foolishness again. Or worse yet, that she would burst into tears and just deflate into herself that I would know how deeply I had hurt her.

But I underestimated two things.

One was her desire to do the right thing. She honestly wanted to do the right thing, and if you faced her with an undeniable truth, she could recognize it for what it was, and face it, and deal with it. It makes me wish that I had been mature enough to recognize and use that earlier.

The other thing I underestimated was God. He had a purpose for our friendship, for her life and mine, and how we grew up together. For some reason—I still don’t know why, completely—we had to suffer through hurt and mistrust to truly come to the place God wanted us to be. For my part, I know my dealing with her has helped prepare me in that I am not as sensitive as I might be. I love people yet know how to weigh their trustworthiness, and to be kind and a friend without putting my faith in a person who will only misuse and abuse it. I have learned, above all, that people are not static, marble-carved, unchanging caricatures, but real, living, breathing, changing individuals who can usually be spoken to reasonably and who will often respond reasonably. Also, though, there is a time to wait, and allow for maturing to happen, and there is a time to speak and be bold.

The trick is to recognize which time is which.

I will finish by drawing a parallel. This reminds me so much of some of those Old Testament stories--Joseph, who spoke to his traitorous brothers saying, "What you intended for evil, God intended for good;" or Esau who welcomed back Jacob with open arms in spite of their bad history; Hosea who repeatedly forgave his wife and brought her back home. (Although none of these is a perfect parallel, of course.) In the New Testament too, where we see Jesus tell the story of the prodigal son, or the sheep that went astray, or the lost coin. All of these point to one thing--the grace that God shows us every day.

No matter how horrid we are to Him, He never leaves us or forsakes us. Though we are faithless, He is faithful. In my little life, in my little way, He gave me a microcosm to remember that. Forgive someone not 7 times, not 70 times, but 70 x 7 times, because God continues to forgive us. And like the master who forgave his servant a great debt, we must pass that along lest we, like the servant, hold a smaller debt against another servant and when the Master hears about it, ooh, busted!

As my mom always says (it's in the Bible too), 'Be kind to one another, tenderhearted, forgiving each other, just as God in Christ has forgiven you."

The wounds of a friend are more faithful than the kisses of an enemy.

How ironic.

"Though the sorrow may last through the night...

...The joy comes in the morning!" Trading My Sorrows.

It was a very dark, and gusty night. One of those nights when things happen. The mice were running frantically on their little wheel--the squeakity-squeak only pausing as they switched runners back and forth every few seconds. The cat was pacing, whipping her tail angrily glancing from window to door, then inexcplicably up at the ceiling, then over towards the window again, then down the hall, then back to the door...

I watched a movie and then realized I needed to take the trash out, so I gathered my garbage and made for the front door. I heard the scatter of leaves as the wind gusted again, and my hand rested on the front door lock. I turned on the porch light, strode out to the garbage can and then back in again, slamming the door behind me.

I went around the house, shutting and locking everything, and drawing curtains and closing blinds because it was one of those nights--a night when darkness was offended at being pushed away for lights, and a night when the wind whispered dire things, and brought in the eternity of hopelessness that could be mine. A night when even the creatures who usually ignore atmosphere, felt the unrest.

And I was alone.

My normal response to that kind of night is to play music, but for some reason, last night was not a night for music. I felt that to turn on a playlist would only anger the wind more, only embitter darkness further. And besides, if something tried to sneak up on me, I was more likely to hear it without music.

As I strategically turned lights on and off throughout the house, I grimly thought to myself, "This is what you get for watching too many movies!" Yet I do not patronize those movies whose sole purpose is to scare the bejeebers out of you, and as a rule, I even avoid thrillers because the suspense simply kills me. I stick with action and chick flicks.

But as I finally crawled into bed, having locked the squeaking little wheel and it's runners in another room to squeak to their hearts delight, and having allowed the cat to finally find a peace entwined around my feet at the foot of the bed, I grabbed my Bible and read a quick Pslam before turning out the light and letting darkness finally make her way into my whole house, finally welcomed and so less malicious than before, yet still with that miffed air of someone who felt they had been ignored too long.

The first verse my eyes fell on said, "The sorrow is through the night, but joy comes when it is morning." Hmm.

The cat and myself contemplated each other for a moment as my hand rested on the light switch. Her cocked head and winky eyes told me that she was through worrying until tomorrow, and that she was sure a full night of rest would put everything in perspective.

She was right.

I woke up this morning and got ready and drove to work. While on my 20 minute commute, I thought of that verse, and I saw the blue sky, and the fall leaves skipping across the roads and down gutters, and suddenly comfort and joy and peace like the kind they talk about in books flooded in on me, and I thought,

"This! This is what I live for! For days like today, with sun and color and life!"

I thought of every "glad to be alive" poem, song, and story I knew. One stuck in my head.

"I'm trading my sorrow;

I'm trading my shame;

I'm laying them down

For the joy of the Lord.

I'm trading my sickness;

I'm trading my shame;

I'm laying them down

For the joy of the Lord.

Singing yes Lord, yes Lord,

Yes, yes Lord, yes Lord

yes Lord, yes yes Lord.

Yes Lord, yes Lord

Yes, yes Lord, Amen

Though the sorrow

May last through the night

Yet joy comes in the morning.

I'm trading my weakness;

I'm trading my pain;

I'm laying them down

For the joy of the Lord."

How ironic.

"Moon River, wider than a mile...

...I'm crossing you in style someday." Moon River, by Henry Mancini, sung in Breakfast at Tiffany's starring Audrey Heburn.

Here is the whole song, just for kicks...

Moon River, wider than a mile

I'm crossing you in style, someday.

Dream-maker, you heart-breaker,

Where ever you're going, I'm going your way.

Two drifters, off to see the world

There's such a lot of world to see.

We're after the same rainbow's end,

Waiting round the bend,

My Huckleberry friend--

Moon River and me.

I first got hooked on that song, not from Breakfast at Tiffany's, which made it famous, but from Elizabethtown, with Orlando Bloom and Kirsten Dunst. It plays in the movie. (Though it is not in the store album of the soundtrack--perhaps it is on the itunes version.)

After watching both movies this weeked (Elizabethtown and Breakfast at Tiffany's)--I know, I don't have enough to do!--I am again struck by how very deeply a movie can move a person. I think this is because it too is a work of art, like a book or painting or dance or sculpture. In the same way that a simple picture can change the way we think of the world forevermore, or a written story or poem can give us a certain understanding that makes the difference in our perception of life, or a sculpture can evict emotions and memories in a way which is truly miraculous, so too can a movie can influence.

Point being, the things we see in movies, or in any art, change our view of the world. After Elizabethtown, road trips--even little ones--are a time for me to listen to music and search my soul. A person going through a hard time is a person I pour encouragement into, by way of happy-chatter, personal (and usually homemade) presents, and especially time. And when people make public fools of themselves at something like a funeral, I think of the tap dance and eulogy about organic cooking and comedy lessons. But after Breakfast at Tiffany's I wanted to print out the chords for Moon River and strum on my guitar. Speaking of Breakfast at Tiffany's...

As I came home from meeting some girl friends at Pizza Hut, after studying all afternoon at the Library, I needed some serious chill time. As I straightened my room (to the playlist entitled, "Gentle Melancholy") I thought about Elizabethtown--and then Moon River came on in the playist--and tried to decide what movie to watch. Big decision, huh? I reheated some chinese takeout, made a big cup of black tea, lit a candle, turned out the lights, and watched Breakfast at Tiffany's with my own little kitty-cat on my lap.

Talk about Bachelorette moment!

I thought to myself, "Where's the camera and crew?--Because I'm living in a chick flick."

How ironic.

"If I was a painter...

...and could paint a memory." Painter Song, Norah Jones.

I call it "sharpie art." The comics for my office, the multitude of shirts that I've turned into "statements," and doodles of everything I see and imagine (most of which ends up in the garbage because it doesn't meet my standards of approval), all these things done with scrap paper or an old t-shirt and a sharpie, always black. There's something about the fat sharpies that let me draw so much better than with any other instrument, save pencil for some subjects. I have better handwriting in sharpie too. In fact, one might even say, the sharpie is my muse. I get a fair to meddlin' (as grampa would say) result from pencil also.

My favorite is trees. I could draw trees all the time, to the exclusion of almost everything else. (Except perhaps cats.) My best picture ever, and the only one I ever kept with the intention of NEVER throwing it away, was a picture of that winter scene around the lamppost in Narnia. The first instant Lucy saw it, before Tumnus, before the snow melted, before she was scared or really understood what was going on--that moment of peace before the adventure really got going, with the drifting snow and the trees--some friendly, some on her side. A blanket of snow softened the otherwise harsh and jutting bare branches of trees and bushes, except for the evergreens which kept the forest dark and enclosed. And a soft glow of light emitted from the lamppost. That was in pencil.

The other set of pictures I won't ever throw away is of Tex, my late cat. I drew a few pages of him in various poses, sleeping and looking quizzical and playing and sitting and looking at me. He as sitting on my bed and kept being so darned adorable that I pulled out my drawing pad for the first time in years and I spent an hour or two just sketching him in pencil. He was very picturesque. As it turned out, it was about a week before we found out about his cancer, and another week or two after that he was gone. Silly, it's been over a year now, and I still can't pull out that notepad and look at them yet. I expect they aren't very good, but it was a last "golden moment" with him, and I treasure it along with a few other golden moments. And it was some inspired drawing, like my lamppost picture, which somehow escapes my cold harsh judgement which raineth on the righteous and wicked alike.

There's also one more or less decent picture of the Old Mill in Pigeon Forge, TN, which I sketched and was rather pleased with. Also pencil--or maybe charcoal, I forget. Rough, but it got across the idea.


Other than that, sketches (like this one) are more or less worthless. I think perhaps this in a watercolor would be pleasant, but I haven't tried watercolor for, oh, years.

Other things which are more or less amusing though not particularly good or important are the comics I draw at work--little stick figure and bare bones deals which document some of our office adventures. They turn out quite well, considering that they are spur of the moment doodles. But then, those are sharpie.

All this does have a point, believe it or not. It is not merely a list of the "artwork" (if I can call it that) that I haven't burned or thrown out in fits of anguish that I'm "not good enough" (for what?) or that it "doesn't look right." Even as a little kid I would wad it up and throw it away if I didn't think it was good enough. Which meant, of course, that I never produced anything in particular, because it was never good enough. My mom was so frustrated sometimes, she just wanted some simple, childish pictures. But I wouldn't give her anything less than my own idea of perfection. Which meant, of course, that I never gave her anything at all. In fact, although I've spent many, many hours of my life drawing, painting, and sculpting, I only have three pictures I'm willing to keep.

It isn't only with pictures and artwork. I have the same attitude towards other things too. Exercise, for example. I have the impression that I ought to at least be capable of running a mile without dying of whatever you die of when you go running and you're an awful runner and out of shape. Or swimming--not only ougth you to not look revolting in a swimsuit--any swimsuit--but you should also have some basic capability of swiming besides the dog paddle. Or dancing--it should not be painful to watch, preferably it should be decent, if not amazing. But it takes working up to that point, and I don't want anyone to see me trying till I succeed. Piano or voice or guitar or any of the other multitudenous things I've tried--don't listen, watch, speak of, or acknowledge the existence of my hobby until it is somewhat in hand. Unfortunatly, most of life includes an audience when you have a family, such as one of which I am blessed. And they will be encouraging and brag about me, whether I deserve it or not, and then I get so mortified that I refuse to touch it again.

I've gotten a little better. I play three songs on the piano now, for any occasion which calls for it--Fur Elise, a grandiouse and fascetious version of "Old McDonald," and the ditty Marianne plays in Sense and Sensibility called "My Father's Favorite" which I figured out myself. I learned how to belly dance on my trip to Africa (by force), and I have slowly worked my way up to running barely a mile without absolutely dying. And I can play guitar for people to sing along with now.

So progress is happening, but I still just simply don't like to perform without lots of rehearsals and at least a very good script. Unfortunately, my life did not come with a script.

I know I have gifts. I don't know why I can't seem to use them. And why I keep ending up doing things I'm no good at, don't enjoy, and only cause other people to have to fix my mistakes, since I'm completely helpless in these areas.

But I did keep those three pictures.

How ironic.

"Life slips away just like hourglass sand...

...Seize the day." Seize the Day, Carolyn Arends.

As I was ("walking by the shore/I happened there to see/A woman's form a-lying there/As still as still could be/The dress she wore was gingham blue/Her hair all tumbled down/Oh, it might have been my own true love/My sweetheart, Jenny Brown...") copying about a million pages of stuff at work today, and listening to the Beatles and Beach Boys and Avril Lavigne (The mix on my work computer is a little--odd.) something my mom says came to mind.

Whenever I go off on a tangent, or start singing showtunes, like in a musical, or am standing in a silent room, dancing to the music in my head ("You and I march to the beat of a different drum/or can't you tell by the way I run/Everytime you make eyes at me...") my mom says,

"You have a rich inner life, don't you sweetie?"

Hmm.

A rich inner life--why, yes I suppose I do. And as I thought about that, I suddenly felt so very sorry for all the people who don't have rich inner lives. What if they were standing there, copying bajillions of pages of something, and with Beach Boys and Avril Lavigne and Beatles playing, all that happened was that their minds when blank, and they robotically went through the motions of copying stuff? How frightfully dull.

Instead, I was sitting there humming (to the tune of, "Good Vibrations") the words from "I am the very model of a modern major-general" and trying to recall all the presidents of the United States (I always forget who came after FDR--dear me). Among other things.

Why, yes, I do have a rich inner life.

How Ironic.

"She fills up every corner...

...like she's born in black and white." KT Tunstall, Suddenly I See.

Hmm, that looks suspiciously like I'm saying someone is fat--but I'm not.

My point in this blog is because outside it is thundering and lighninging something fierce. And it made me think of something I always think of in when I'm watching movies.

Do you ever see the heroine (or hero, of course) running up to a door, in the rain, and (let's keep with heroine for this one) her skirt whipping behind her in the wind, her hand clutching something over her head (possibly just holding down a hat or scarf) and knocking furiously on it, and you, the audience, see her in this miserable situation, yet it just is so very dramatic and perfect for the film--whether she ends up going to meet her boyfriend (or the guy who will end up being her boyfriend), go into a spooky house, get a job, lose a job, or whatever else may happen in the movie--that you wish it would happen to you?

I know I do.

Silly, isn't it?

And outside, the wind is whipping something furious, and there is thunder, and lightning, and any moment now, there'll be sheets and sheets of rain...

How ironic.

"Penny Lane is in my ears and in my eyes...

...There beneath the blue suburban skies." --Penny Lane, The Beatles.

Huh, and all this time I thought Penny Lane was a girl's name. But no--it's a place in England, and apparently a well-known place. I guess I never really listened to the words.

But now that I paid attention (for once!) I can say that that feels like home. I mean, with the barber, and every stops to say hello, and little coffee shops and nurses selling poppies and such. Although, here it is usually daffodils.

Nothing too interesting (or sharable) is going on. Life full of drama, and exploding with situations, which become rather tiresome. I like drama--where no one gets hurt--but situations make me peeved. Although, as I told someone recently, my life is very "James 1" at the moment--you know, the part where he says, "Consider it pure joy, my brethren, when you encounter various trials." Ooh, baby, am I bursting with "pure joy" now.

But really. I feel like, not a lot of hot butter (we do have to be so very careful), but more like gac. You know, that stuff that was big in the early nineties, that came in bright colors, and was something like silly putty, only slimier. I think I'm glow in the dark, with sparkles. Infinitely floppy and quite stretchable, but I do tear eventually, and I don't change colors. I can be peiced back together again, but it takes some effort, and gentleness--because if you're too rough, I just ball up and turn into mushy-goo, so unattractive. Not particularly strong or useful or even decorative, but mostly relaxing and fun, with just a hint of mystery in my depths.

Oh, and the sparkles are for extra beauty.

Randomness keeps life ironic, and, after all, we like irony, yes?

"If I don't see a yellow ribbon...

...round the old oak tree." --Yellow Ribbon by Tony Orlando.

So, I just watched Saving Private Ryan for the first time, and I watched it alone. Oh, me.


My first thoughts during the opening scene were something as follows,

"Oh, God, how can those boys put themselves through that? Is anything worth that?" and then, as it progressed to more and more bloodshed and pain, I would catch myself falling back on the little mantra my daddy taught me whenever I was scared watching Aladdin as a kid, and Jafar turned into that scary snake, or when the witch in Sleeping Beauty became a dragon and nearly killed the prince, "It's not real, it didn't happen, it's not real..." but that escape could not be, because that horror, those atrocities--are not the result of someone's imagination, or something so far back in history that the very names of the people are forgotten. This was real, recent, and very, very personal.

The problem with a movie like that is that it did happen. It is real. But it's so bloody, so filthy, and so...awful. And to film, gore like that--! But this is not a review to whine about violence on film, but to defend it, horrid thought it is. Indeed, I would say that it is crucial for those of us who grew up in a comfy, safe, protected home in middle-class America to see such gore and horror, to realize what price people have paid for us to live our little lives, and to see the effects of our decisions.

What headlines do we see in the papers about any of our military involvement overseas? Deaths, when we can pull out, who's fault the newest scandal is, and which of our allies has most lately deserted us. And then those lovely people who are running for president for next year's election all pitch in and start slinging accusations around like the newest slang.

I understand the importance of this war, and military action on our politics in America, but it struck home to me while I was watching Saving Private Ryan that we tend to leave it at that, and forget exactly what our boys--yes, OUR BOYS--are doing over there for us. Of course there are mistakes, and of course there are pros and cons to this conflict. For better or worse, we're in this deal, and while we continue to try to straighten out any political messes we can, please, please, remember the people involved.


That is--similar to the plight in V for Vendetta, people remember someone for his ideas, perhaps his actions--but Natalie Portman's character remembers the man himself. I suppose I am thinking along those lines, as Saving Private Ryan emphasizes the effect of the individual even in the midst of a grand conflict. (Grand is not the proper word here--it should be "greater" perhaps, or "larger")

Another movie which brings up this line of thought. I don't remember which exact movie it was, but in the Original Star Trek movies with Captain Kirk, they create "Genesis Project" during which many people die to save Spock. In The Voyage Home, Spock's mother asks him, "Is the good of the one outweighed by the good of the many, or the few?" Spock replies that logic makes it clear that, yes, the good of the many outweighs the good of the one. His mother replies, "Then you stand here as the result of a mistake in reasoning, made by your human, feeling friends."

Similar in Ryan, they question all along, why they are laying their lives on the line for this unknown and unimportant Private? Perhaps the movie doesn't answer this satisfactorily. We are left with Tom Hank's character telling Ryan to deserve their sacrifice, and we see Ryan as an old man, begging for affirmation that he did, indeed, live up to that. But the audience sees him with a wife, a son, even grandkids. Is that worth the sacrifice?

As I sit in a coffee shop writing this blog, I see a little boy, probably under five years old, wandering around playing with furniture and decorations. His momma calls him back to keep him from breaking anything. That little guy has no idea what has happened to allow him to live a (so far) untroubled life of plenty. But is that not the reason for the wars we fight? We want our children to not be bothered by the problems we had to face, we want to take care of the problems so they can live "tranquil and quiet lives."

Yet it seems that when that happens--when there is a generation virtually untroubled by war, untouched by need or pain, and with nothing but themselves to trouble them, the result is a country of selfish, self-absorbed, silly people, who lack common sense or decency. Or so it would seem--why else do we have so much trouble making up our mind to defend our own people, even in the face of such evil as the people who would hijack four airplanes full of innocent civilians and direct them at buildings that are also full of innocent civilians? Even in such a case as that, we can't think beyond our own little soap operas, and the latest celebrity scandal, and how we can spend more money on more ridiculous things.

Perhaps I'm being a bit unfair here--and hypocritical. Obviously I spend my time writing on a blog, sitting in a coffee shop, drinking iced chai and typing at a laptop in reasonably stylish clothes, wearing makeup and having used all kinds of unnecessary gadgets and products today to get where I am right now. But here is my point, after all this rambling. Saving Private Ryan fills a very necessary need, a need to remember the cost of our freedom and comfort. After that, we may, perhaps, take them less for granted, enjoy them more, and work to deserve and keep them.

If we fail to maintain our privileges, not only will we not be passing on a better place to live to our children, but we will pass on a worse world--a world where they have to fight to survive, much less have time to enjoy life. Perhaps I a feeling pressure for this from the powers that be now--the people who flip-flop around in policy and decision-making, solving problems short term, but causing damage long-term that I know someone--perhaps me, perhaps a friend--will have to deal with later, and perhaps die for. Perhaps lead to a huge European conflict again, where our boys (or by then, thanks to our feminist movement, the girls too) will have to suffer horrendous deaths and suffering to establish some form of peace and stability again.


It's a vicious cycle, and I hope I can help to stop or slow it--to turn it around and keep the people I love from suffering from my mistakes.

Ironic--it's a good movie--I highly recommend it, but don't forget our boys who ARE fighting and giving up their comfort and safety for ours--even me, in this coffee shop, typing a blog.

"He's a real nowhere man...

...sitting in his nowhere land, making all his nowhere plans for nobody." --Nowhere Man, Beatles.

And it continues...

"Doesn't have a point of view
knows not where he's going to
isn't he a bit like you and me?"

So, it's been a while--almost three full months. I would pull up this page, with the little blank window and a flashing curser waiting for me to say something interesting. But I would just have nothing to say. Silly, since these last few months have been the fullest and funnest and busiest ever. But there you are, when the muse is on strike, there's simply nothing to do...

But today I decided to write, just to say I'm still alive, though feeling like my ambitions and dreams are thwarted at every turn. Hence, "nowhere man."

Ah well, that's how it goes.

"It's a lovely day today, and whatever you have to do...

...You've a lovely day for doin' it, it's true." --Lovely Day, performed by Donald O'Conner, written by Irving Berlin, Call Me Madam

I cannot believe that I am in AFRICA!!! I was standing on a balcony last night with a few of the new friends I met these last few days, and one of them mentioned how these moments--the moments where you are standing on a balcony under a full moon and a starry, starry sky, with a cool breeze, and palm trees lining the street below you, and all across the valley in front of you you can see the lights of old Fez, and the medina, and men in ghalabeyahs and women with headscarves walk below to do whatever business calls them, and you watch the scene and just live--are the moments that make you love to be alive.

It reminds me of that song that's on the Meet The Robinsons soundtrack, Little Wonders. Those moments of peace, or accomplishment, or whatever it is that lets you take a moment to sdraw breath and consider now, a special place that you will never see again, and you can look at the future and say, "I'm ready."

It is nice to not fear the future, to have that "blessed assurance" that "Jesus is mine." And yes, "Oh, what a foretaste of glory divine!" All this stuff that I am getting to see and hear and do, and the people I get to meet--oh how lovely, lovely that they were put into MY life, and that I get to enjoy them! No one else has my unique combination of experiences, and no one ever will--and when I think of how complex and multi layered the story of life--even my life, simple as it has been so far!--I am glad to be alive. It makes everything easier to deal with, even the things that aren't as pleasant, perhaps, in the now.

Oh, I am glad, glad, glad!

This morning we went to the medina in Fez, and oh my goodness! The sights, the crowd, the things to buy, the sounds, the smells! When the tour books say "colorful smells" I laugh, because there are hardly colors varied enough to describe the ecstasy of going from a tannery section of the medina--cool, but an unbelievable stench--to the fruits and veggies--with its own indescribable variety--to a stall that is exquisitely fresh and delicious with huge bushels of mint that just lets you breathe! And the jewelry, and robes, and rugs, and innumerable other things.

Oh, me!

Two of the guys bought galabeeyahs, and when we had them all ready to go, the shopkeeper r said, "Come look over herie! Many beautiful rugs! The seven of us walked into the doorway across the narrow street. It was a narrow little door, dark, with a flight of very steep, very high steps going up. The girls were in back, and we looked up at the stairs and said it looked pretty sketch and we were very close to not going. But we figured that there were seven of us, so we walked up into the rug shop. The rugs were amazing, but the shopkeeper lead us up a rickety wooden staircase (also extremely steep) and onto the roof. He grinned and gestured behind him. The veiw was framed by two buildings on either side, one with a cute little bumpy chimney, and the other strung with clotheslines and rugs hanging out the windows. Between the two, we saw the huge sweep of old Fez, with the medina in front, and then up across a valley and up a hill, where it met the incredible blue sky. We took pictures, of course. I'll post them soon.

One other note on the medina--cats, cats everywhere! They were sleeping quite comfortably in and on and around all the wares in every kind of shop you can imagine. They're smaller and thinner than your average domestic cat in America, but very friendly for the most part, and very fast.

Africa--how unbelievable! How ironic!

"I hit the radio dial, and turn it up all the way...

...I gotta dance, dance, dance." The Beach Boys, Dance, Dance, Dance.




So I'm finally putting up my favorite pictures from the Liberty Ball...






...Danae and me...

...and John and me...












...and Katherine and Kawika...











...and we had a marvelous time.

"We need to talk...

...Step into my office, baby." Belle and Sebastian, Step into my Office, Baby.

So here are some doodles of everyone in the office that I drew over the last few days...

"Staring at the blank page before you...

...Open up the dirty window let the sun illuminate the wrods that you could not find."--Natasha Beddingfield, Unwritten.

Is there anything better than a story about a grand adventure? Perhaps having a grand adventure, but I don’t know for sure yet.

Sometimes, it seems, stories are begun properly at the beginning, with a nice neat storyline, and an introduction that properly acquaints us with the characters, and then a dilemma, which we see neatly and properly, and then a development or two that helps us to identify with the hero, and love him, and despise the villain—who, by the way, is very clearly a villain, and we don’t have to waste any sympathy on him—and we are quite comfortable in the way the story will turn out, because it follows all the right formulas and all the people are neatly where they ought to be within their fictional little world.

“But,” as they say in most of the best mystery books, “things never turn out like they do in books.” And yet, in a way, they do.

Take my life, for example. I have been given a perfectly good introduction to this world, allowing me to acquaint myself with the important characters and giving me a framework to prepare myself for whatever characters I’ll meet along the way. I’ve got my dilemma (it’s called “life”) and I’ve got a nice neat storyline (“live”), and the developments are beginning to unfold, I have begun to see how my self (I hope I’m the hero of my life!) reacts to different situations and I see how it makes me relate to everyone else, and I even have my own personal villains—hopelessness, selfishness, greed, sloth, and other little “snares from the devil,” who is very clearly a villain, so in theory, at this point, I should be quite comfortable about the way this story will turn out.

The Author has already made clear the type of story He’s writing. We know, for example, that the good guys win, and that it will be a lovely adventure, and that He isn’t going to have a bunch of silly little things happen which have nothing to do with the story, but rather, a complex and daring plot which uses every single detail to lead up to the climax and resolution. He not only uses all of them, but all for the good—though that may not be understood until the very last page—and although He may allow the characters in their various situations to get down, and be kicked once they were down, and then get home to find that they never paid the utilities so that the heat is off and the phone is dead and the stove won’t turn on, yet none of that is outside how much the character can handle, because He genuinely cares for each character, and each situation is tailored for the benefit of that character.

Not that it is always going to be a rosy day for the characters.

So even though the next chapter is looking doubtful, and I have no idea what the next plot turn is going to be, it seems that I should sit back and enjoy the story, because I know the formula, if not the particulars. And whatever happens, I know it shall be one grand adventure.

"Thinkin' over...

...the things that you said." Dana Glover, Thinking Over.

Lots of food for thought this weekend while I visited all the people at school. Such a variety of opinions and viewpoints on such a tiny campus. Amazing.

Later I'll put up some pictures from the Liberty Ball. We all looked well, I thought.

I seriously need to go hide away somewhere some weekend and do some serious thinking. I don't really know what my next step should be, but I need to decide and get moving. Right now I'm letting "I dare not" wait upon "I would" like the old cat in the adage (Macbeth) and it is not a recipe for peace and happiness.

Why can we not learn to just forgive? Better yet, why can we not just learn to keep our mouths shut? By airing our preferences and opinions as truth, we are so very offensive--it's quite rude, actually. So here I am, doing precisely the same thing.

Perhaps it is important to recognize the ridiculousness of yourself before you address it in others.

How ironic...

"Some people mean so well...

...Their way was the best way that they'd found, but any other way you choose is a brick that ways you down..." Bricks, Superchic[k].

Some things just don't have to be done.

"I'm busy, busy, shockingly busy...

...More than a bumblebee, more than an ant." Busy, from Veggie Tales, Are you my neighbor?

My to-do list before I leave in two days:

• Buy paint for road rash on bumper--try to match!
• Buy fuse for windshield-washer mechanism.
• Pack for trip.
• Trial run outfit for dance, be sure to pack whatever goes into that.
• Don't freak out at mom, dad, or sister for trying to be helpful.
• Make cards for baby shower.
• Mail overdue birthday gift I've been forgetting to mail.
• Find and prepare host/hostess gifts.
• Facial-Manicure-Pedicure-wish I could afford a spa...
• Read Bible and Pray muchly.
• Drink as much water as body will absorb.
• Clean out car. Vacuum!
• Do a billion situps.
• Find out about sheets and towels--can I borrow or should I pack them?
• Find shoes that match dress. Accessories.
• Don't forget to go to work tomorrow.
• Call Megan, Danae, Leah, John, Debs, Danielle, all who I promised to call weeks ago.
• More situps, more water.
• Write Amanda.
• Finish Amanda's waaaay overdue Christmas present.
• Mail Amanda's present--not from our Post Office, because the cookies I sent from there never went anywhere--I suspect they ate them.
• I love those cookies.
• Do more situps. Drink more water.
• Sleep(?)
• Put room in some semblence of order.
• Paint & treat bumper with road rash.
• Do whatever you do with fuses, pop it in or whatever.
• Air up tires, gas up car, check oil and other goop under the hood.
• Check up on three pending job applications and four education-related applications.
• Remind sister to feed cat while away.
• Water bamboo so I don't come home to dead bamboo.
• Empty trash so I don't come home die from stench.
• Placate cat with catnip so I don't come home to dead family.
• Put up auto response on email so people don't think I am ignoring them.
• Charge phone.
• Pack charger.
• Answer messages and explain that I'll be out of town for three events, two baby-sitting opportunities, a house sitting job, and a little-theatre performance.
• Be sure my boss remembers she did give me time off.
• Try to find that to-do list I made on Monday...

Isn't life ironic?