Regardless of what anyone tells you, being "hit on" by a (very attractive) stranger, who runs after you, despite the bevy of protective girl friends around you, is amazing.






Even if he was smoking and I'll probably see him in ten years when his larynx is removed due to cancer and he needs speech therapy...

In Lieu of Originality... Here's Some Crazy

Hello, readers! (Don't you hate it when I address you as that? I always hated it when writers did that... it bespoke unwarranted familiarity. Now I do it to you. Proof that our greatest pet peeves are often exhibited most prominently in our own persons.)

Relationships have been the discussion of several of my blogging peers. As you know, I'm no stranger to an occasional relationship rant, and I feel that I must fall into line behind several of my more intellectual colleagues and try flex my relationship writing skills once again.

The primary topic of recent posts has been desirable traits for a future mate. Insights and comprehensive lists have been proposed, and I have been impressed by their breadth and intelligence. I cannot hope to achieve the wit and knowledge that my peers display, but I have a few notes of my own to add:

Nine Things Necessary In a Spouse (of mine): (numbering does not denote importance, merely organization.)

1. He has to eat the crusts on his bread. Flagrant waste of such nutrients is not to be tolerated. Besides, it's yummy.

2. I would prefer a man who knows the difference between the oil and the windshield washer fluid openings under the hood of my car. Mixing up the two is not pretty.

3. If his eyebrows are large enough to have their own personalities, he must not be adverse to waxing, plucking, and/or restraining them in any way necessary.

4. No squashing of my competitive nature is to be tolerated. I become animated (some say, "violent") when playing Monopoly. If you don't like having board games tossed at your head, please look elsewhere.

5. Good penmanship is appreciated.

6. He should not be easily shocked at the multiple fluctuation in moods and opinions that occur, often over the space of a mere 24 hours. (i.e. Some days I will want 12 children, the next day I will be convinced that children are of the devil and any number of them is completely out of the question.)

7. Must be willing to give an intelligent opinion on scented candles. I find it virtually impossible to pick out a new candle on my own. And I can tell when you're patronizing me and not really paying attention. Unacceptable.

8. He will probably have no bathroom cabinet space. I experiment with too many hair products. I hope he is okay with this.

9. Must be okay with the fact that many things, like the length of this list, will be determined, not on the basis of thought, or even random chance, but rather on the basis of whether or not they are divisible by three. (i.e. the volume on my car radio, the length of time I microwave my tea, the number of miles I run on a treadmill, how many pancakes can go onto the griddle at the same time... etc., etc.)

There.

I feel as though I've tossed my teaspoon of thought into the great, big cauldron of simmering spouse advice. (Ah... gotta love a metaphor...)

Here's my point: I'm completely and insanely crazy. The nine above? They're only a snippet of my craziness. Only love that's aspiring to be like Christ's sacrificial love, will ever be able to hug me and say, "Honey, you're a nut case. And I love you."

I think when that much of your grocery bill is devoted to Greek yogurt...

You might have a problem.

Singles "Non-Wedding" Registry

I think people labor under the delusion that if you smile at them, make a wise decision, and actively pursue other areas of your life, then you must (of course) be doing "all right."

That's a crappy assumption.

Here's my deal, I'll shoot it to you straight.

I am a twenty-four year old, finishing a higher degree that 6 years ago I had no intention of ever earning. I'm looking for jobs I never wanted to hold, and I have a mortgage, a will, and a college-sized debt in my name. I have cultivated an aggressive, go-getter work ethic, because it's safe, and a sure-fire winner. I've learned about inter-office politics, and insurance billing codes. I own a power suit and have stilettos that could shatter any glass ceiling.

But that's not what I wanted.

I wanted a family, a husband, little squealing children. Mock the white picket fence all you want, it's my heaven. Ridicule SUVs, I've had mine picked out since age 21 (Cadillac Escalade, black. Thank you very much!). I was sitting in my first freshman class when I realized that I would rather be a soccer mom than a scientist, and I'd rather have finger paintings than research articles on my desk.

But I was also sitting in my first freshman class, when I realized that that might not happen. Part of my stomach curdled when I heard girls talking about men as though they were the ultimate ticket to happiness. I watched wonderful ladies marry sub-par men, simply so they could wave a diamond under the nose of their lab partner. And I decided that I would never be that. I would never be the girl who believed that her ultimate satisfaction lay in a man and a rock.

So I got my degree. And I really do love what I do, I love it passionately. I love it enough not to want to marry Joe Shmoe of the homeless shelter or Larry the Loser of Welfare. That being said, all I've still wanted to do was to get married, be a mom, and a wife, and pack excellent, balanced lunches for my husband and children (carrot stick, anyone?).

And I thought I was almost there.

I really, truly did.

I was dating an amazing guy. Truly amazing. He made me laugh, bought sweater vests on command, and could make grilled cheese and chocolate cake. I was finishing up classes, I was tying up lose ends, and I was debating registering for the red or black KitchenAid mixer. I had spent months studying the appropriate role of women, and countless hours realigning my views (cynical, stomach curdling me had taken over for a while and drowned out the picket fence), when it all fell through.

My plan. The future. It all went up in the air, and landed in one big fat mess.

Oh, it needed to happen. It wasn't a bad thing. In fact, it was a very good thing. I know it was a good thing because it happened, and nothing happens that isn't for my good and for God's glory. But all my dreams of my SUV, picket fence, and KitchenAid mixer disappeared.

Sitting on a couch, munching chocolate, and not watching a movie, several "career" friends and I were talking about our "freak-out year." The "freak-out year" would be the year in which, if not married, we just might have a royal break-down, and sprinkle salty tears over a yummy cake.

Their "freak-out year" is one year away from my current age. Snap.

My freak-out year is still hovering out, closer to thirty (it's moved steadily, with each year), but today, I found myself saying, "Well, you know, I could take that job, at least until I get married, you know, around 29... or 30...." And then I made myself stop.

I don't want to every cry over a yummy chocolate birthday cake, and I don't know that I will ever get married. So I'm going to stop. As of right now, I have no "freak-out" year. I've banned it. I refuse to think that "I'm not really living until I've gotten my mixer and SUV." Gosh, dang it, if it comes down to that, I'll buy them myself.

So yes, I smile. I made a wise decision. I changed my plans. And some nights that just sucks. So, no, tonight I'm not "doing all right." Everything isn't peachy. Every thing's a little crappy.

But tomorrow I'll break out my stilettos and eBay-hunt for a kitchen mixer, so I'm sure I'll be just fine...

This is my day: at 2:32 p.m.

I just spent an hour and a half on the phone.

I made approximately 40 calls.

I talked to maybe 6 people. I left at least 10 messages.

It's official:

Job hunting is of the devil.

Some days are just harder... And I didn't expect that. Especially not now...

Déjà Me

Juggling... Exhausted

Lately, I have felt an overwhelming sense of panic. It's not overwhelming because of its intensity, but rather because of its low-grade consistency.

I feel as though I'm juggling 107 different balls, different areas of my life, different to-do lists. Despite my efforts to tick things off, one by one, I never seem to get ahead. On top of it all, my nasty health problems have chosen (probably in part because of the stress) the flare up right now, causing my energy to tank and migraines to increase.

I'm in my final stages of grad classes, and although the work has settled into a type of normalcy, it hasn't settled into a normalcy that's easy or relaxing.

I'm working (or trying to, between crazy clinic hours) part time, and my boss and co-workers are amazing. However, I spend all my time at work cold calling people all over the United States shmoozing for information they don't want to give out. (And some people are grumpy. The further north you go, the worse it is. Customer service in Minnesota is atrocious compared to Florida's. I blame the lack of sun...) So it's not a restful job (but whose job is?).

I'm trying to sell my condo, and prepping for selling while working part time and going to school full time, is a major pain. I'll clean and purge as much as I can on the weekends, but two weeks have gone by and I still haven't scrubbed my carpets and re-arranged the linen closet, and I'm creeping dangerously close to my deadline (i.e. "Have condo listed on market by end of February.")

I'm looking for jobs in Manhattan, and let's just say, if people in Minnesota are grumpy, at least they have room to exhale and relieve their stress. Those New Yorkers are horrible at stress management. Consequently, cold calling them to set up interviews and observations is enough to make anyone go crazy.

Then there are sundry other little things: exercise more, eat right, direct children's play, teach choir, babysit, etc., etc. Things I LOVE, yet seem to increase my stress load.

All of this would be manageable were it not for one thing: my health.

I'm twenty-four years old, and I am tired, light-headed, anemic, and in pain on a consistent basis. I feel like I'm eighty (actually, I hope eighty feels better than this...). Last night, as I crawled into bed, exhausted at eight p.m. (after a 45 minute nap earlier in the day), I wanted to pound my pillow in frustration. I can go weeks, months without any fatigue, and then wham! It hits me like a freight train. Suddenly I'm barely able to move, I have a constant low-grade head ache, my brain ceases to function, I black out whenever I stand up. I love to go, go, go. I'm very goal driven, to-do list oriented, and when I can barely make a to-do list, I become so frustrated.

I measure my life by things accomplished. A successful week is when every list is finished. And I can't do that right now. I'm trying to look at the bright side: that God doesn't measure success in to-do lists. That because of where I am now, I can sympathize with persons with chronic health problems, something I was never able to do before. That because of what I'm feeling I appreciate healthy days so much more than I ever have. That I have a gracious, loving support system which constantly tries to help me.

But sometimes all I can think is:

"I am twenty-four years old. This should not be happening to me. Why is this happening? Why?"

My days have passed, my plans are shattered,
and so are the desires of my heart. (Job 17:11)

My lists are not everything.

There is no wisdom, no insight, no plan
that can succeed against the LORD.
The horse is made ready for the day of battle,
but victory rests with the LORD. (Proverbs 21:30,31)

I do not control my future.

Many are the plans in a man's heart,
but it is the LORD's purpose that prevails. (Proverbs 19:21)

A lack of strength is not a lack of purpose.

And God is able to make all grace abound to you, so that in all things at all times, having all that you need, you will abound in every good work. (II Corinthians 9:8)

Through God, because of God, today is possible.

Praise be to the Lord, to God our Savior,
who daily bears our burdens.
Selah
(Ps. 68:19)

Pick up the phone. No excuses. Listen! You can do this! NO ONE ever got their dream job by sitting on their bum. Work hard. Achieve the goal. DO IT.

*Today's (and the next 172 days') personal mantra.

To Valentine or Not To Valentine

Happy weekend, dear reader.

As you may, or may not have noticed from the proliferation of pink, red, and white cardboard hearts which seem to pop-up in the oddest places (i.e. Taco Bell drive thrus and bank teller windows), this is the weekend of that fateful day of St. Valentine.

I remember when one of my dear friends snorted and stated an aversion to "single awareness day." I chuckled along with her, glad to have some sort of phrase to put with my distinct out-of-place feeling I get every time I try to do anything (alone) on Valentines Day.

That being said, I've had a Valentine before. In my 24 years, I've had one February 14th that wasn't spent in contemplation of my singleness. (Technically two, but Prince Charming the First didn't "believe" in Valentines Day. Huh.) But that one year was really lovely (and chocolatey), and as I fell asleep on my boyfriend's shoulder watching "Mary Poppins" (yes, "Mary Poppins"), I realized why people celebrate this holiday.

It's delightful to feel wanted, and cherished, and special, and (in serious cases) loved. Why would you not want to exploit a day which promises all that and more? Women don't want Valentines Day because of the chocolate (which is heavenly) and the expensive dinners (after months of fast food), and the diamonds (who doesn't love sparkles?). Women, on Valentines Day, want to feel special and cherished and loved, and showing that is harder than spending money and making plans. How does one make arrangements to show love? How do you find something that makes a person feel like a prize?

You can't, really. So you buy chocolates (because of the chemicals which induce feelings of satisfaction and love), you buy sparkles (because spending money, lots of money, surely means that you care), and Valentines Day becomes a time of panic as you try to express something at the level you feel. ("I cherish you like a cherish my new wax job on my car." or "I want you like I want to watch the Superbowl for the rest of my life." "I love you, so will you promise to love me forever, too?")

The angst from Valentines Day isn't created by the cheesy, shiny hearts in Walmart (although the things are cringe-inducing), but rather by the necessity of vulnerability. "How much do I show I care? How much do I care? What if it's too much, too fast? Does she think I'm making up for something? Is he okay with me liking him this much?"

For me, a single with commitment problems, I prefer to not look at people who, like myself, haven't said "I do" just yet. Such individuals tend to be splashing and paddling inefficiently in the shallow end of affection. I like, instead, to look at people who have plunged into the depths of love, and find years later-- the vulnerability, the love, and the commitment are still there. They still want each other, they have seen the dirty, nasties in each others' lives, and yet still cherish one another. There may be no chocolates, it might be a year to pinch pennies rather than flaunt diamonds, but there's a constancy and commitment that has been worn every day of the year, not just on Valentines Day. Those ordinary days are the true Valentines days. So don't smirk in disdain, you singles (happily or unhappily single, it matters not to me). Buy yourself a box of chocolates and smile at the little old couple holding hands.

Constant commitment and sacrifice is true love, as God meant it to be portrayed.



Happy Valentine's Day.

Word-Freeze, Brain-Block, Cover letter-Conundrum

Usually, dear reader, as you have doubtless surmised, I do not have difficulty in stringing a series of words together. Granted, I often string too many words together, but it could never be argued that I can't produce a sentence.

Well, that is until I start writing cover letters.

I'm an epic failure at writing cover letters.

I have all my jobs listed, organized from least to most desirable. I updated my resume, I've contacted various hospitals, and I've done a detailed search of 27 different websites in order to gather all desirable jobs into my collection. What an organized, professional life I lead!

Until it comes to cover letters.

My goal is four today and four tomorrow, and at least four every week until a job is obtained.

How hard could it be to boil down years and years of work into a one-page word document with an appropriately polite heading "Dear sirs,"?

Very hard.

I've currently consumed two cups of coffee, opened three different word documents, caught up on a variety of e-mails, all of which have done nothing to actually get me a job.

My cover letter currently reads:

To whom it may concern:

I've worked hard.

I will work hard.

Hire me.

Please.

Sincerely, Me

Clearly it needs some work...

So, next time you see me, dear reader, ask me in a stern voice (it will only work if you're stern), "C., did you finish your cover letters?" And if I hem and haw about color-coded decision-making charts, you slam your fist down on that table and say,

"C! WRITE THOSE COVER LETTERS. NOW!"

I would appreciate it.

Thanks.

And there was great rejoicing... hurrah!

Well, after more fuss and hullabaloo than is caused by a state visit from the Queen of England, I've finally been granted permission to take four days off and travel to NYC.

It's not a pleasure trip.

It's a job-hunting trip.

And I'm scared out of my mind... and excited beyond belief!




Is there a job for lil' ol' me in all that glorious, glittering (grimy, gritty) city?

Dear Me,

Please stop being sick all the time. It is exhausting and not fun.

If you could please be healthy-ish for just one week, I would appreciate it.

Sincerely,

Yourself.

Selfish, Single, or Satisfied?

My life, despite sundry Monday morning Facebook updates, is wonderful. I love where I am, I love how I'm growing, I love what I'm working on, I love my job, my family, my school, and my future.

But today, curled up on my couch (which I also love), sipping coffee with a friend, (who is in love with her current life), we began to question our contentment.

Part of what I love about my life is my singleness. I love, love, LOVE it! My mother, noting my recent increase in peace and joy, asked my father if I had the "gift of singleness." (Whatever that means...) I have always been the girl who loves looking at wedding magazines, planning out color combos, and imagining a Prince Charming with impossibly conflicting cockiness and compassion. But recently, within the past several years, I've noticed a decrease in my wedding planning and in increase in peaceful contentment.

Not a bad thing, right?

Eh, I'm not so sure.

This afternoon, cradling a steaming cup o' joe, I asked why I was so content. Polaroid, quick snap of holiness would seem to show that I'm resting with perfect contentment in God's plan for my life, trusting without reservation that all the plans He ordained for me are good and glorious.

But I'm sorry. I've been around the "sin block" enough times in my short 24 years to know that if the choice is between my behaving perfectly, or some deeper, sinful motive... then it's probably the sin, not my "perfection," which is the answer.

I think I might be selfish.

Don't chuckle. I know I'm selfish, but I'm talking about being selfishly single.

Being single is easier than being a couple.

Don't roll your eyes at me, lonely damsel on a couch or sex-deprived single man fighting temptation. It is. For me. I don't have to consult with anyone, I don't have to check in with anyone. I don't have to plan my future with someone else, I don't have to rearrange that future for someone else. I get to do what I want to do, when I want to do it. I can sell my house, take a new job, move out of state, plan my next vacation-- all on my own.

I am on my own.

Sure, sometimes it's lonely. Sure, sometimes the thought of no children, no spouse for the rest of my life turns me a pale shade of blue. Sure, I want to register for hand towels and glass bowls like the rest of them. (I mean, come on! Have you been in Pottery Barn?) I remember playing "bride" when I was four. (The groom is now married with two children.) Sure, it sounds wonderful. But something in the back of my mind is nagging...

What if Prince Charming, complete with motorcycle and Porsche shows up, with his rugged chiseled jaw, impossibly hilarious (yet tasteful) sense of humor, and his life on scorching fire for God?

Would I say "yes"?

Because being single is easy. There are no problems to solve, no fights to be had, no conflicts to resolve. There are no tandem plans to be made, money to be haggled over, and pet peeves to battle.

It's just me. And God. And I'm liking that right now...

So, do I trust God with this? Yes, part of me does. Part of me loves what He's doing and teaching. But the other part of me likes it because I don't have to share the space heater and no one tells me I can't go to Vegas in April.

So, while I'm here, I'm not "waiting" for some as yet unknown Mr. Perfect to come and rescue me from my singleness. No, I'm growing, I'm moving, I'm trying with every once of my being to destroy the selfish tendencies which love to run my life. I don't really know if I'm succeeding. All I can pray is that I'm "bearing fruit in every good work, growing in the knowledge of God," so "that [I] may live a life worthy of the Lord and may please him in every way."*

Hmm... I guess we won't know until Mr. Chiseled-jaw shows up.

But until then... I'm a selfishly, satisfied single. Bring on Vegas.




*Colossians 1:10

sparkles
twisting cotton
sugar glaze

wet kisses
biting scratches
soft brushes

snow...

Old MacDonald... had a pig!

So, on the way home from church on Wednesday, Julie-Bop and my mom got to talking. They had been learning the different names for baby animals and their mothers. Julie wiggles in her car-seat and says,

"I'm a baby pig! I'm a piglet!"

My mother smiles. "Yes! Yes you are, good job, Baby Piglet."

Julie's not done,

"And if I'm a piglet, that means you're a SOW! Oink, oink!"


My mother learned that there are some animal/parent combos that maybe you shouldn't teach your children...