My Arch Nemesis- My Mailbox

From previous posts, it's probably pretty safe to say that all my readers know by now that I'm not the brightest bulb in the socket. I am, in all reality, often very slow. This would be a horrible thing to live with were it not for the fact that my stupidity usually reveals itself in abjectly hilarious ways...

So, I moved into my new place. I'm ecstatic. Someday I'll have to write a blog post about my battles with the utility companies. I became slightly less ecstatic. I locked myself out. More of a damper on my enthusiasm. I didn't have hot water. My enthusiasm grows still more feeble. By the time I trudged out to get the mail, my confidence in my own abilities and my excitement about my new condo were but paltry flickers.

It was dark. Incredibly steamy. I was barefoot because I had been wearing high heels all day. I was tired. Achy. All I wanted to do was harvest a new set of bills from the mailbox and return to my air conditioning. Now, I had no idea which mailbox was mine. I had a key. And the number 7 scratched on a paper by a realtor who was trying to be helpful. I assumed my mailbox was number 7, and I assumed that my key would open it. There are two boxes situated down the street which must house my mail. Or so I think.

I approach the two doors a little warily. I'm very bad with locks. (See reference to general stupidity in first paragraph.) In front of me I see a door, with one key hole down in the right corner. I try to insert my key. It won't go. I try the box next to it. Same deal. Both boxes have two large doors, locked by only one key hole and my key doesn't fit in either one.

I'm stubborn. I stand on my tip-toes and push. I angle the key from below, crouching in the street trying to find the right angle. Several times the key goes in, but it can't do anything once it's there. Finally, I stuff it in, wrap one arm around the side of the mailbox, dig my toes into the grass by the side of the road. My toes get squished in the mud, I get a cramp in my arm. And the key does not move. Frustrated, I give up and go inside.

Several days later I decide to try again. I've decided I'll give myself one more chance before I go and ask my elderly neighbors how I open the mailbox. But given my neighbors' general consensus on the ignorance and foolishness of youth (they're all about 70), I decided to have one more try before drinking from that cup of humility.

I go through the same ordeal as last time. Same result. The difference being that this time about 7 cars drove by while I was attempting. I blushed- mortified that my senior citizen neighbors could watch me wrestle with an inanimate object while they gaze at me from their Buicks.

I was talking on the phone to Bunny, when I suddenly snorted with exasperation, kicked the mailbox, and yelled, "Arrrgh! I can't figure this thing out!" (Yes, I was sinfully angry. No, at the time I didn't care.) When I told Bunny what was going on she, without a pause, said,

"Don't mailboxes have two sides?" Pulling my feet out of the dirt, unwrapping my arm, jerking my key out of the lock, I walked around to the other side of the mailbox...

And there were 30, neatly marked, individual tiny doors. One of them had a number 7 on it.

Like I said, not the brightest bulb in the socket...

WHOO-HOO!!!

Recently, Drew and I have been working on his letters. On his last visit to the optometrist, he was told (to the surprise of his parents, teachers, and me!) that his optic nerve was actually growing. (For those of you who don't know... he's always been able to see out of his left eye, but to such a small extent that it serves no purpose.) The optometrist recommended glasses.

Needless to say, we've been doing eye exercises ever since (we did some before, but they had more meaning now!). We looked at picture cards, we looked at colors, and recently I've been trying to teach him what the letters of the alphabet look like. He knows the ABC song, but he has no idea what the physical representation of each letter is.

Well, today we had learned all the way through letter J. (That's almost half!) I wrote the letters thick, large, and dark on pieces of white paper, and he can tell me (with about 85% accuracy- yes, I actually calculated that) what the letter is. Each of the letters stands for something to help him remember, visually, what it is. ("D" is for a big cream-filled "Donut," and "B" is for two "bunk-beds"- the letters are supposed to look like their cue words.) Today he was doing so well, and had mastered so many letters that I had an idea...

"Bear, here. Look at these three letters together. What are these?"

"C."

"Right... next one?"

"A."

"Okay. And the last one?"

"B."

"All right. Can you sound it out for me?"

"C-A-B. Cab!"

MY BEAR CAN READ WITH HIS EYES! WHOO-HOO!!!

Confession... one of so many faults...

I have a horrible, all-consuming, awful habit.

I want people to be happy.

I know. It sounds good, doesn't it? It sounds wonderful. It sounds self-less.

It's not. At least not entirely.

Back underneath this desire for everyone to be happy, is a little black, nasty, moldy sin. It's called people-pleasing. It's really people worship. It's idolatry. It just sits there. It's unobtrusive. It doesn't peek it's head out very often, and (as stated above) it's covered by a very, very good thing. But it's still there. And it's still nasty.

I, deep down, want to please people more than I want to please God.

If you walked right up to me and asked me, "Courtney, do you want to make someone other than God happy?" I would look horrified. "What!?! Want to please anyone other than my heavenly Father? What can you possibly be thinking? Of course not!" But it's true.

The problem with this particular sin is that it's morphing. In high school it was all-engrossing. In the early years of my college I battled it- fought it. Hated it. I struggled with wanting everyone to like me. Everyone to approve. Everyone to be happy with me. The problem with that is that there are too many everyones. And I shouldn't want some of them to be happy with me. So I beat it. I hated it. And (I thought) conquered it.

But all it did was creep further back into a corner of my personality, it changed its shape, and gradually crept into the crevices- entrenching itself in my life. Insidiously. Now, while I really want everyone to be happy- I realize the impossibility of that. It's not an all-engrossing goal. And I realize that it's never going to happen. But as I said, it's not gone. It just shifted from the majority to a select minority. And it grew stronger.

The shocking realization (which really shouldn't be that shocking) is how much I value others' opinions, (and how much my life shows that value) versus how much I value God's opinion, His judgment. This skews my perspective, my purpose, my passion, my life.

What can I plead to my Heavenly Father? What can I beg? That my focus, my all-consuming passion be Christ. That He be the only thing in my sights. That His glory be the only thing I'm striving for. That pleasing Him, making the man who hung in torture on slabs of wood, his life's blood rushing out of him in painful, slow agony- He who felt the wrath of God- who felt the worst sense of displeasure- pleasing him should be the one and only focus of my life.

Help me, God.

How great is our God.

"Because he loves me," says the LORD, "I will rescue him; I will protect him, for he acknowledges my name. He will call upon me, and I will answer him; I will be with him in trouble, I will deliver him and honor him. With long life will I satisfy him and show him my salvation."

(Psalm 91)

Musings...

Sometimes I wonder if I like myself. (Oh, I know I love myself. The Bible says so. I believe it. But sometimes I wonder if I like the person I love...)

I wonder at what age I'll pass as "senior" at the bread store. $.44 a loaf is good...

Whatever happened to some of my best friends? And why didn't I appreciate them more when they were here?

I need to find my lighter so I can burn my new candles.

Making a torte sounds like fun right now.

I should probably not get so distracted at work...

My Quest

It should be noted, that I'm not an artistic person. In fact, I lack common sense in regards to color, combination, texture, and depth- all of which (I am convinced) are necessary to achieve a pulled-together, elegantly furnished, tasteful room. I have friends who excel in these areas, but I, sadly, am lacking in such skills.

However, I lack a lot of skills, and I rarely let that keep me from doing anything. If I only attempted the areas I am skilled in, I would be confined to a large easy chair, sipping Diet Coke, and reading 19th century female authors. I am incredibly good at that.

So today I attempted to decorate. I say "attempted" because my first few feeble fumbles have just been taken. I say "feeble", because they were small steps in a certain direction, and I say "fumbles" because those few small steps were probably wrong according to every decorating, interior design law and mantra that has ever been known. Yes. But I tried...

I bought candles.

Don't pooh-pooh my purchase. I know you're sniffing. I just heard you mentally deride the agony I've gone through to select three pillar candles. Yes. Only three. But you must understand the process...

Firstly, they must go on my mantle, so, to look adequate in that space they must be substantial. On a long aisle, with nothing but mounds of scented, dyed wax, one begins to think that anything over three inches is substantial, but this is not so.

Second, color must come into consideration. I now have a red wall. Do you have any idea how many different colors of red there are? I'm sure Markus didn't until he was forced to hold twelve different variations of the same hue up at seven different angles to determine which would be best suited to my new abode. However, this leaves me with a very particular color red. How is one to know if the candle I hold in my hands matches the shade of my wall? God forbid that it be one shade off! Could my future guests stand to be in a house with glaringly mismatched candles? I think not! So I walked down the entire aisle and pulled off every single red candle. I then lined up in a row and compared. The orange-red tints were discarded, the purply reds were tossed aside, until the perfect crimson candle was discovered and placed safely in my cart. After that work, it was guarded jealously.

Third, one must consider texture and shape. There are square, round, pillar, balled, rough, and smooth candles. You may find the perfect height. You may determine the correct shade. But if you have made an erroneous judgment on texture and shape- you might as well have not even commenced the quest for candles. I was forced, during this period of my search, to lie flat on my stomach, in the middle of the aisle, in order to reach the best cream candle on the bottom shelf. (I kept my purse on my shoulder to prevent my credit card and driver's license from being stolen, but then I also kept a foot hooked around my shopping cart to keep an infamous villain from absconding with my previously discovered "perfect" crimson candle. I'm sure I looked amusing...)

Fourth, and lastly, one must look at the whole picture. If one has found the best crimson, the best cream, and the best sienna, then one must make sure that all these bests look best together. Such a thing is not always possible. I'm still mourning the loss of a beautiful chocolate brown candle. But what could I do? Its rough, dark exterior marred the appearance of the cream pillar (and after scrambling all over the floor, I wasn't about to put that one back.)

Some people might council paying attention to scent, in addition to color, texture, shape, and size. While this is optimal, and preferred, it is not always possible unless you have 45 minutes to spend on the candle aisle, and unless (unfazed by the glares of store personnel) you can glibly, without shame pull every candle off the shelves and replace them all in different locations. Apparently I have too much time, and not enough shame... My hands smell like 37 different cream candles.

I think I might be obsessively compulsive...

Note to Self: Blind Boys Don't Care About The Color or Style of Your Car

I went to pick up Drew the other morning. Because of my accident I've been driving my family's minivan. It's green-ish, taupe-ish, and very economical and middle-aged looking. It was either that or my brother's motorcycle, and since I was deemed "unable" to drive the bike, I got stuck with the mommy-mobile. (Actually, in our family it's the daddy-mobile, since Mom likes the Cadillac, and my dad is very self-sacrificing.)

Anyway, I'm driving through town, ruing the day that I neglected to learn how to drive a motorcycle, and feeling incredibly mature and matronly- emotions I can only attribute to my vehicle.

I pull into the Viars.

Drew clambers in. It's much easier for him to get into than my little compact and he exclaims, with incredible awe,

"Whew! Court! You've got a sweeEEt ride!"

I'll have to let my father know... He's got a "sweeEEt ride."

If you know anything about decorating with style and economy, I would greatly appreciate your tips and secrets. I'm kinda new to all this...

A Series of Unfortunate Events

As a general rule, I am not an incredibly graceful or lucky person. In fact, I may even be characterized by unnatural klutziness. Entirely without intention, I tend to wind up in the worst possible situations, which I myself create or encourage. It's like a disease they haven't invented a vaccination for. I'm completely helpless to help myself. I rely almost entirely on luck and the goodwill of others. Unfortunately, my luck ran out this week...

Friday morning. I was in an accident. See post below. It was horrible. But little did I know it was only the beginning...

Several hours later, I learned my car would cost me $3,400 to repair, and that three of my friends were struggling- one's husband was going to jail, one needed intense medication for a health problem, and one had a possible brain tumor.

I was also set to move into my new home in less than 12 hours, and I had packed nothing. Nothing. (Except my winter sweaters...)

I prayed. And got to packing. Halfway through my packing I started crying. No, I was not distressed, my eyes were just watering uncontrollably. I ran to the mirror and was distressed to see my right eye red and swollen. Tears were streaming out of it. (If you've ever cried with just one eye, you know how odd it feels.) I was distraught. I have very large eyes. (Bug eyes, I believe they've been called.) And when one is even slightly red it's very noticeable. This one resembled a cherry tomato more than anything else. Resolutely I wiped my tears and kept on packing.

Fully packed, 11 hours later (yes, I'm superwoman! And also incredibly poor and belongingless...) I was ready to conquer the world. Or at least my small corner of it- 203 T---- T--- in West Lafayette...

I moved in. I was proud. The only furniture other than my bed was my bookshelf. My movers were happy (Thanks Dad and Markus!) but my new abode still looks un-lived in. (Except for the kitchen. Kitchen goods I have!) After everyone had gone, I went outside to pull weeds. I am such a good home owner.

And I locked myself out. No phone. No keys. No garage code. No shoes.

At 10:00 at night I had to go meet my next door neighbors (Jim and Charlotte) and ask to use their phone. They were very nice. Grandparent-like. We sat on the porch (waiting for the locksmith who was going to charge me $100 to open my own door) and chatted. He used to be the Director of Human Resources at Purdue. I know! I was impressed too.

About 11:00 p.m., realizing the expensive locksmith was a total loser (apologies to all other locksmiths), I called my dad. He had spent all day moving me. But he drove back across town and broke into my house with a credit card. I had no idea my father had a criminal past...

Sunday was fairly uneventful except for the fact that I was told my insurance deductible was $1,000. I did not handle my new-found poverty with complete grace. Yes, I cried out of my still puffy eye. And, while crying, realized that my other eye (the left eye) had begun to itch and turn red.

By 8 p.m. both eyes were fiery red. And the left eyes was so swollen that I could barely see out of it.

Monday I had a doctor's appointment. My new medicine and antibiotics for my eyes cost me a whopping $566.34. (My parents are currently transferring health insurance...) My eyes watering (now from shock, and from illness), I stumbled out of Target. I could probably have been declared legally blind...

Tuesday the water company confused my request to turn-on my water, and instead they turned my water off. To make matters worse, when I discovered this I had just spent a good hour in my flower gardens ripping out rocks and digging- I was covered in mud. And shower-less.

I just sat down on my stairs (remember, I'm chair-less, couch-less, table-less, and all round furniture-less) and howled with laughter.

Someday I'm going to write a book about my life... and this will make a great chapter.

By The Grace of God

At 3:00 a.m. this morning, I woke up. Not by accident, mind you, as a general rule I have no problem sleeping. However, this Friday, my wonderful little brother Alex was bound for West Point (for a month of military leadership training) and I had volunteered to drive him to the airport to catch his 6 a.m. flight.

By the time I pulled into my parents' driveway at 4:01 a.m., I was ready to go. Alex was standing there with his ruck sacks (is that what they're called?), and Erika was there as well. She wanted to hang with the older sibs, and I was definitely looking forward to her company on the drive back from the airport. If I had been all alone, I was afraid I would have been rather weepy. (I always get a little bit emotional saying good bye at airports.)

But, on the way to the airport, I had a change of itinerary. It wasn't planned. And I would do anything to erase it from my Friday.

I was driving in the left lane, there were two cars ahead of me and a semis on my right. I was going about 70 mph. Suddenly, the two cars in front of me switched to the right lane, and there, ahead of me by about 100 yards, was the reason they had switched lanes.

Two cars were pulled to the left side of the road, but the second car hadn't pulled all the way off the road. His bumper stuck about 2 feet into my lane. There were semis and cars to my right. I couldn't get over, and I was afraid I would hit the car if I stayed in the left lane.

Slamming on my brakes, I turned into the median, hoping to avoid the vehicles parked there on the left side of the road. Unbeknownst to me, there were a group of about 7 teenage guys standing on the left side of their parked cars. As I swerved into the median, I saw them, right before I hit.

The boy I hit is probably about 18, and 135 pounds. His head bashed into my windshield, and he flipped from the top of my car, down my hood, and in front of my car.

I cannot, with words, express the terror that comes from hitting another human being. All I remember is screaming, crying, burning rubber, grass tearing, and the dull thud his body made against my car. I thought I had run over him, and all I could think was, "Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, help."

Before my car had fully stopped, I had flung open my door, and ran to the guy. He was already sitting up, looking dazed.

911, a police car, an ambulance, and fire truck later, it was determined that he had suffered no more than a scrape on his arm. My car has over $3,400 worth of damages. It is by the grace of God that he survived and I am incredibly, inexplicably grateful and awestruck.

Pray that there won't be any lasting consequences to this guy's health as a result of being hit. Pray that the insurance would be resolved. The two cars didn't have any car trouble or other explicable reason for being parked where they were. By the time the sheriff showed up, they had moved their cars and it was their word, against mine. I don't currently know how the damages will be payed for, but I do know that I am extremely grateful that the boy isn't hurt.

God is incredibly gracious.

Bear: Oh, Courtney, I feel old inside!

Me: Really? What exactly does that feel like?

Bear: Hmmm... It feels wrinkley.

"You mean, like on vacay? Road trip!!!" (Legally Blonde)

I left town this weekend for a good-ole' relaxing "vacay" with some of my favorite chicas. We drove up to Chicago and spent three days roaming the streets (in a very Baptist style, I promise), and came back thoroughly relaxed and rejuvenated. While "Shilly" and I agreed that we were (and I quote) "made for city life" there were several things that served to make us at least mildly content with our current suburban lifestyle. They are as follows:

As a general rule...

You don't see fluttering yellow mini-dresses, accompanied by 7 necklaces, insane heels, and too much make-up on men in Lafayette.

A lunch of a goat-cheese tart and chicken doesn't cost you $30.00

And your favorite skirt in the store isn't $500 and made from cashmere.

But...

It was wonderful to have nothing to do. Nowhere to go. And no one to see. We shopped, talked, ate (wonderful Korean food!), watched movies, and (as a general rule) did nothing productive for three days. Hallelujah.

Thank you, ladies, for a wonderful trip!

Different Roomie...

Okay, so in the past 12 months I have had two different roommates. I don't think I can, in the limited space of this blog, express how really, truly, completely different my two roommates are from each other.

Jen and Leah.

Jen is short and blonde. Leah is tall and brunette. Jen is quiet until you get to know her. Leah is never quiet. Jen- mild. Leah- spicy. And while Jen and I would spend hours extolling the benefits of early-intervention, and play-therapy in speech pathology, Leah and I spend hours telling our "rude bag-boy at Walmart" stories. See? Very different.

Well, about the time that my little tiny, cute roommate moved out, and my tall gorgeous roommate moved in, another person moved in next door. Another FIVE persons, I should say. Another five MALE persons, of college age and decidedly raucous personality. I actually didn't notice that much about my new neighbors (except for the fact that their couch was nicer than mine...), until they forced themselves into my attention.

They like rap. Which is great. I like rap. Every now and then I pretend I'm totally gangsta' while I'm driving (to the hilarity of those around me) and I roll down my windows and pretend to know how to beat-box and say, "what up, homey?" But I don't possess the speaker system to listen to rap the way these individuals do. When they first turned on their $2,300 stereo, I thought we were having another earthquake. The water in my glass was vibrating. The glasses on the counter-top were rattling, and my TV was shaking.

Every night, we experience a small, very loud, earthquake on S**** Drive. And I was frustrated, but helpless.

Leah was not so helpless. She yelled at the wall. (They failed to hear her because of the $2,300 speakers mentioned above.) She shook her fist in vehemence. (They failed to see that because of the wall.) And she called the police.

I was appalled. Horrified. And totally and completely sure that I was going to be murdered in my bed by my neighbors because of my roommate's audacity. I begged her not to. I said, "Wait ten more minutes, maybe they'll stop."

She remained unmoved.

The police came. The music stopped. Peace reigned. And I humbly thanked my roommate for stopping the earthquake while at the same time preserving my life.

But last night the earthquake started again. Unfazed, my roommate rose from her comfy chair, strode across the room and banged her fist on the wall. Hard. Repeatedly. Until the music stopped. She turned to me with a smile, "It stopped!" but I was sitting on the couch, trying to hide under my blanket, scared and glowering.

"Great! Now they know who called the police on them. I'm going to be murdered in my bed... at the very least my car will probably be saran-wrapped and egged."

So, if you don't see me on Sunday, it's probably because the worst has happened. I want red roses at my funeral.

Or maybe just some help pealing gooey saran-wrap off my car...

Amanda's comment while watching a Frank Sinatra movie in which one of the heroines couldn't think of anything worse than not being married:

"I think leprosy would be worse than not getting married..."


**Haha! Love you, Bunny! Always there with perspective...**

Sunday School: Ashley

I sense that there will be considerable posts about my current Sunday School class. Never have I seen such a colorful conglomeration of children. They are not a unified class. They are an incredibly unique hodgepodge of individuals. Once again, for the sake of the little ones (whom I love) I have changed all the names.

To begin with, the copier jammed. I have trouble changing the batteries in my flashlight, so untangling sheets of paper from the bowels of a copier is hardly my forte. The little flashing screen on top of the printer kept telling me to grab the paper in "Tray 4b." But there was no way my hand was going to be able to convolute into the shape needed to rescue the internal shreds of paper. I knelt. I crammed. I wiggled. I pulled. All because I wanted to print a coloring page of Joseph and his amazing coat.

When I finally returned to the class room I was slightly late. And there, twirling around (with occasional trips on her soon to be infamous flip-flops) was "Ashley." Ashley never sits still. Ashley is usually medicated. And Ashley skipped her medication this Sunday. Of that I am sure. Thinking to be a brilliant, intelligent teacher, I decided to channel Ashley's rampant energy by giving her a task- she was quite proud of her crayon box responsibility.

When several other children arrived, I gave them jobs as well. But, finished with her crayon box assignment, Ashley decided that she didn't like other people having jobs. Growling (yes, literally growling) at me, she furrowed her brow, kicked off her flip-flops, stalked to the closet (which she had gotten the crayons out of), and shut herself in the closet.

I stalked right after her. I open the door to find her glaring up at me with obvious antipathy.

"Ashely. It's other people's turns to have jobs. I need you to come out, pick a desk, and sit down."

She says nary a word, and just continues to glare.

"Ashley. Come out of the closet." She doesn't budge.

"Come out of the closet, or there will be consequences. You know what the bad consequences of a bad choice are in Ms. Courtney's class. Come out." No change.

"Ashley, come out of the closet." (Unfortunately, at this point I realize that I'm telling a 7 year old to "come out of the closet" and that phrase, with all it's connotations, suddenly makes me want to laugh. Hence, I was unable to sound appropriately severe.) She sullenly complied.

She put her flip-flops back on. ("Yay!" I thought.) And then promptly kicked them off. ("Boo!" I thought.) And this pattern was repeated throughout all of Sunday School. She kicked off (and then replaced merely to kick off again) her flip-flops numerous times in the short 1 1/2 hour I spent with her. She refused to stay in her desk- preferring, instead, to pirouette around the room, tripping or falling over those same flip-flops. However, by the time we were 20 minutes into Sunday School she was very controlled. I had a very visible rewards system that she liked, and as a result she reduced her cavorting to a tolerably low amount.

But at one point of her goodness, she suddenly arose. Panic flashed across her face. She rushed up to me (while I was teaching about Joseph and Pharaoh), kicked off her flip flop, stuck her toe up in the air and wailed,

"I think it's dead! MY TOE IS DEAD!"

I did not laugh. Promise. Because her attention never stays on any one thing for a very long time, it was relatively easy to convince her that her toe was in fact not dead, and she went calmly back to her seat. I continued to contain my laughter, since I still maintain that if it's a big deal to a child, then it should not be treated as meaningless by me.

But if anyone had seen me, driving home from church, they would have wondered what on earth was so funny...

My "DinkyDo"!

Yay! I could just jump up and down with joy at this very moment. Office protocol, however, frowns upon such demonstrations of jubilation, so I will try to confine my enthusiasm to a blog post.

I made an offer a few days ago on a little tiny home, here in West Lafayette. I asked much less than the listing price, and much less than the prior owner had paid initially. I did not expect my offer to be accepted. I expected it to be laughed at.

But they accepted!!!

I am now the proud owner (almost- still have final papers to sign) of the little, sweet, dinky place pictured above. It's dinky, but it will more than do! (I think I shall call it the "DinkyDo"...)

More comprehensive pics will follow (complete with paint chips and questions about lighting, taste, and shade), but I have to show you just one more thing...

THE APPLIANCES!

I love stainless steel appliances. I've had a weakness for them since the sixth grade. (I know, not many 6th graders notice appliances... I'm odd.) The former owner just installed them right before he had to move. I'd feel sorry for him, except for the fact that he moved to California...

This whole process has been a stretch for me. I was completely and utterly terrified by the enormity of my purchase, but it was a wonderful time to grow in my prayer life and my trust of God. My father has been incredible helping me through all the acronyms and percentiles that plague this industry. I never would have had the courage to see it through without him.

(Well, maybe the appliances would have given me courage...)

:)

Drew, sitting on a bench, looks up at me and says, "Courtney, you will never be cool."

"Why won't I?" (Needless to say, I'm hurt...)

"Because you speak English. And cool people speak rap."

I JUST MADE AN OFFER ON MY FIRST HOME!!!

Lord, help... I can't breathe...

****

Sweat bands, Chris Tomlin, and Treadmill Whiplash

I am not, by any stretch of the imagination, athletic. I can't even claim general interest in athletics, other than that of an animated spectator. I've never desired to play softball, or be able to slam dunk a basket. I am embarrassingly bad on a tennis court, and incapable of getting a soccer ball in a goal. These activities hold no appeal to me.

But I do want to be able to wear shorts this summer without gut-wrenching embarrassment, so about a week ago I started running.

I used to run quite regularly two years ago, but since then other things (life, mainly) have kept me from running. I never enjoyed it. I barely missed it. (Except when I was in the midst of that I-just-ate-my-weight-in-pizza flabby feeling...)

Now, exercise enthusiasts, don't mock me, but I did an amazing thing this week. I ran every day. Yes. I did. Granted, each day was only about 2 miles, but I still am quite impressed with me. In fact, I might have been getting a little cocky. Which is why God allowed Thursday to happen...

I woke up at 5, donned my athletic gear, and drove to the Community Center to make use of the fitness facilities. I calculated that given everything else I needed to do before work, I only had about 30 minutes on the treadmill and 30 on weight machines. I got crackin'.

Half-way through a great Chris Tomlin jam, I get an oozy, drippy feeling. I believe most people refer to it as "sweat" and I avoid it at all cost. So here I am sweating and running. Double bad combo.

I'm in a quandary. Three scant feet away from me is a fan. But it's not on. I know (from past experience) that if I stop my treadmill to go turn on the fan all my settings, speeds, and work will be deleted from the treadmill console (if I don't restart in less than .037 seconds from the time when I paused).

But I'm a college graduate. I came up with a solution.

I jump, agilely, off the treadmill, leaving it running. I dash over the to fan, turn it on "high" and dash back to my treadmill- still jammin' (all the while) to my dear friend, Mr. Tomlin.

Cocky, sure of my self, confident that I solved the problem, and sure that I was lookin' good despite the sweat (this delusion was helped by the fact I was younger than everyone else in the workout room by about 37 years), I walk to the back of the treadmill, and step on.

BANG!

I was down so fast, I didn't even know what had happened. Turns out, when you're focused on turning on the fan, to reduce sweat, while at the same time checking to make sure your sweat band is attractively positioned, all the while rockin' out to "How Great Is Our God" you forget that you left the treadmill running. And when you think it's off, and you try to get back on, it causes a serious problem.

My problem manifested itself in me, face planting half-on/half-off the treadmill, while every hair in my legs (no, I had not shaved yet), was ripped out by a relentless rubber belt.

When I finally righted myself and surveyed the damage, I found myself to be the proud possessor of two very swollen, purple knees, multiple rubber tread marks up and down my legs, (the kind Wiley Coyote got when assaulted by the Road Runner) and bruised palms. I was also in possession of a great deal of humility.

Meekly, I climbed back on my treadmill and completed my run.

Lessons learned? You hurt all over the day after a treadmill accident. Don't even bother checking your sweat band- no one looks good in them. Distracting music can be fatal to the condition of your knees. And I am probably the only person who can make treadmill running as dangerous as mountain biking...

New batch of 2nd graders: "Annabelle"

Her name is (for the sake of privacy) has been changed to "Annabelle". Her real name is more girly and ruffly than "Annabelle", if you can imagine that, but I've decided to give her a pseudonym in case her posterity should come across this entry...

I teach second grade Sunday school. This past Sunday I got a new class. Excitement was rampant. Everyone was a little nervous and excited about the new situation. (Me probably more so than the kids...)

Everyone is sitting quietly in their chairs (they're generally so scared of me the first few weeks that they behave- but this quickly changes...), everyone but my dear friend "Annabelle." She is standing in the back of the room. There are only two empty desks in the entire room and she's staring at them both. I've told everyone to sit down and become quiet several times already. Finally, I make a direct comment to her...

"Annabelle, please sit down."
She looks intensely perplexed and states,"I can't."
I look intensely quizzical and ask,"Why not?"
She answers,"I can't choose which desk to sit at..."

The desks are the same height. Same color. Located side-by-side. There is not a single thing to differentiate between the two except for the fact that desk number 1 is a foot further to the left than desk 2. They are identical- totally, completely, without a doubt. Identical.

"Well, why don't you just go ahead and pick one. Sit down." I say (with complete ignorance as to who I'm talking to).
"I can't! I just can't make a decision! It's such a hard choice!" And her forehead wrinkles up as she lifts her hands in a gesture of hopelessness.
"Go ahead. I don't think it matters. Just pick the one you like best." (I have now started talking in my fake-chipper-teacher voice that I whip out when verging on laughter and frustration.)
"No. I can't. I like them both. I have no idea where to sit. This is a very hard decision." And she stands there, confused, refusing to pick a desk.

I turn to the rest of the class.
"Okay everyone, this is desk number one, and that one is desk number two. How many of you think Annabelle should sit in desk number one- raise your hands" Three people raise their hands. "All right, how many of you think Annabelle should sit in desk number two?" Twelve people raise their hands. (The other 17 children sit there wondering what's going on, and forget to vote...) "Okay, Annabelle, the class thinks you should sit in desk number two. Sit down in desk number two."

The look of consternation lifts from her face. She smiles, and acquiesces to the class's decision on "the best desk" and sits in desk number 2 for the rest of Sunday School. (Except for the multiple times she got up and came to my desk to correct me, or tell me something entirely unrelated to what was currently going on.)

What with dear "Annabelle", Harrison who wears argyle and has a comb-over, and Trista who refuses to stay in her seat for longer than 3.2 seconds, (and these are only 3 of my 35 very unique 2nd grade students) I think this year will be rather interesting...

THIS IS INDIA .

It's where you call when you have a technical problem with your computer...

Epiphanies in the office, seated in a desk chair, gazing at the computer monitor

There is a whole lot of sunshine you don't see when your office is in a basement.

My tailbone does have nerve endings, and they are currently numb.

I now understand why my father had the desire/ability to run marathons... after this for 9 hours a day, you just want to move.

I see excel spreadsheets when I close my eyes.

Chatting it up with statistics guys from various universities is probably a sign that I don't get enough human interaction.

Unlimited text messaging is a life-line.

Packed lunches become very boring.

I'm thankful I have a great job.

I'm still not a fan of digging ditches or sitting in a toll booth...

I don't think you should draw your life's philosophy from Dove chocolate wrappers...

It has come to my attention that Dove needs to hire someone else to create the inscriptions on the foil used to wrap their dark chocolates. (Their milk chocolate philosophy may be just fine, I have no idea. I'm a dark chocolate connoisseur myself...)

For example:

"Naughty can be nice."

(Anyone who's ever spent significant time- as in 20 minutes- with a two year old would disagree.)

"A smile is worth more than a dozen roses."

(Says who?!? A man so totally wrote that.)

"Love without rules."

(That seems like a dangerous thing to write. What if my version of "loving without rules" was violently possessive (i.e. "stalker girlfriend")? A person prone to such affection should probably be given some guidelines to help them love in a more acceptable fashion.)

"Listen to your heart beat and dance."

(I considered doing this, but then remembered that I live in the 21st century, am German-American, and am thereby excluded from spiritualistic rituals monopolized by 17th century native Americans.)

"Make your eyes twinkle."

(I tried this. They looked squinty. How exactly does one make one's eyes twinkle? How frustrating to be given a command I am clueless as to how to fulfill.)

I think I am putting way to much thought into my chocolate eating...

Weekend with the Fam

Andrea (Austin's fiancee), Austin, Markus, Me

I got to spend this past weekend with the Schafer family! Austin (Markus' younger brother) graduated from Grove City College on Saturday with his B.A. and I tagged along with Markus on the trip out to Grove City, PA.

A full entry of the weekend's various activities would be too long for my average readers. Suffice to say that Mrs. Schafer ate chicken wings, Austin did smile for the camera in graduation, Mr. Schafer ordered a "unique" beverage, Markus did (at one point in the past) eat 77 wings, and Andrea is lovely.

Oh, and we only listened to 45 minutes of NPR during our 14 hours in the car. Yay!

Because God is love...

I was notified at the end of last week that I had been selected for a graduate assistantship for my first year of graduate school. Prior to this information I had no funding and no resources to continue my education. However, God never ceases to amaze me with his love and provision, and I now have full funding for the fall semester! As an additional bonus (kinda like a toy in a Happy Meal!), the professor I will be working with has the exact same area of research interest that I do (neurophysiology of speech production) and has asked me to T.A. the easiest class in the undergraduate department. (Translation: major benefits, minor work load.)

Can God get any more detailed in his explicit love towards me?

I submit that He cannot.

:)

Epiphany of the Week: Never Talk to your Budget

I, as a general rule, am very fond of fruit. However, it came to my attention (sometime in February) that my budget didn't like how much I was spending on very expensive, small, often bad-tasting replicas of my summertime favorites. So the budget and I had a chit-chat...

Budget: Courtney, you know as well as I do that a teacher's aid doesn't make that much money.
Me: Yes... I know. *sigh*
Budget: You also know that said teacher's aid has to pay electric, gas, and general expenses.
Me: Yes...
Budget: Said teacher's aid had also probably be saving money for next year and graduate school.
Me: Why are you calling me "said teacher's aid"?
Budget: I thought it would make me sound more official.
Me: You're not really that official... you're more just a general guideline.
Budget: I know that! Sheesh. You don't think I'm frustrated at how lightly you treat me?
Me: I'm sorry... I try, I really do.
Budget: Try harder. I'm starting to feel undervalued.
Me: Well, truth be told... I am a little angry with you.
Budget: What!?! Me? Why?
Me: We need to talk about the amount you've allotted to clothing and new shoes.
Budget: Nope. It's set. It's fixed- nonnegotiable. It's practical.
Me: Erg! I hate practical...
Budget: But it's good for you.
Me: I know...
Budget: And I'm good for you.
Me: I know...
Budget: So let's talk about how much you're spending on bad fruit...

The long and short of it is, my budget and I decided that frozen fruit would have to satisfy me until I could obtain the "real thing" in its season.

All that to say:

Strawberries are on sale at Meijer!

Psalm 84:11

Purdue University Graduate School admittance, Markus, Market Research Internship, Sunday afternoons with the ex-roomie, Julie-Bop, Grandma's 80th birthday, Klondike Elementary students, Sunday school class, weekends with extended boyfriend time, skirt weather, family dinners...

For the LORD God is a sun and shield; The LORD gives grace and glory; No good thing does He withhold from those who walk uprightly.
Psalm 84:11
**Lord, may I walk uprightly...**

QUOTES (Because the "Bear" hasn't monopolized a blog post in a while...)

Me: So, who was Jesus' dad?
Bear: Ummm.... this is a tough one... Abraham?


Bear: You know, baby bears can't eat normal food.
Me: Really?
Bear: Yup, they have to drink milk from their mom's body... It's probably skim.
Me: **choking with laughter**


(at lunch) Bear: What a lovely apple! (He then kisses it.)


(Whenever I make a mistake) Bear: Excuse me, my dear...


Bear: Some people are old, and I don't like old people.


Bear: I think I will have 25 kids. (pause) No, wait. That's absurd. (another pause. He's counting...) I'll have 15. That's about what will fit in my house.


Me: (opening the door for him)
Bear: Whoa! Let me open the door. After all, my name is "Bear" and bears are gentlemen.

My plan to pick-up soccer, join the military, and switch to engineering at a college in Manhattan prior to going to seminary.

Okay, so I've always thought of myself as a fairly content person. I'm not one to rock the boat. I like to think I don't whine. (Don't ask any of my friends or family about that one...) I'm easy to please, yada, yada, yada.

It's not true.

**sigh**

I wish it were, but over the past few weeks I've noticed a horrible trend. I'm envious.

If I'm all dressed up, and I see someone in sweat pants- I want to wear sweatpants. BUT if I'm in sweat pants and I see someone all dressed up- I want to be dressed up. I'll choose Mango-Pineapple V8 juice, get up to the counter, see that someone else has the Mixed Berry V8, and suddenly I'm mad at them for picking a better juice. (The whole aisle was stocked with Mixed Berry, I could have chosen it if I really wanted to.) I'm excited I graduated early (I never liked spring semester finals) then I see everyone going through spring semester finals and I turn a little green.

Unfortunately this is not confined to juice selections and finals. The persons I am most jealous of are my siblings. How crazy is that?

Alex is in engineering on a full-ride scholarship from the army. (Yes, I was jealous of the engineering and army. Why in the WORLD would I want to join the military and take Quantum Physics?)

Trevor is heading off to a college in Manhattan to prep for becoming a pastor. (Okay, who doesn't want to go to college in Manhattan... and I wanted to be a pastor before I found out only guys could do it...)

Erika is a freshman in highschool, playing soccer, and hangin' with friends. (I can't play soccer. I probably couldn't play any sport if my life depended on it.)

Julie's not so easy to envy... I'm still very grateful I'm out of diapers... ;)

But then I have to stop and remember. God saved me. He loves me. So he didn't just leave me where he found me, he's patiently working out all my problems and my kinks. And even though I may grouse about my life (which, let's face it, is actually really nice), he's very patient with me, and graciously gives me far more than I deserve.

So until the time I pick-up soccer, join the military, and switch to engineering at a college in Manhattan prior to seminary. I'll just remember Paul's words in Philippians: "I have learned to be content whatever the circumstances."

I'm currently single due to academic rigors required of my boyfriend by Purdue.




Boo, Purdue.

Epiphany of the week: clean out purse...

My car is nice. It's also new and safety conscious. As a result, it has a sensor on the front passenger seat to determine if a small child is sitting there. If the weight in the passenger seat is between a certain number of pounds, the car (wonderful Versa!) decides that a young child must be sitting there and (as a result) the air bag turns off.

The scale does not activate for weights below 20-something pounds, or over 60 pounds.

I don't have children. As a result, the little light to notify me about the disabled airbag never comes on.

Until yesterday.

I look around. No children in my car. Actually, no passenger whatsoever. I'm confused. Why is the passenger airbag off? The seat is empty except for my purse.

My purse....


Yes, so apparently I'm carrying around a bag that weighs as much as a small child.

This could help explain the recent tension I've been feeling in my neck and shoulders...

Note to Self: Don't believe ABC Family movie previews

I am very well aware of the fact that I am corny. I'm a hopeless romantic, and my very obliging boyfriend has only served to destroy what little cold, hard, career woman exterior I had ever managed to assume.

I'm a sap.

Now that that's out on the open, I would like to confess something. There have been previews on ABC Family of a movie (alluringly entitled "Princess") which was set to air last night at 8 p.m. I cleared my calendar and turned down social engagements. (Actually, everyone else was busy and I needed something to justify my existence that evening...) . I was excited. Girly, princess movie (complete with tiaras and huge skirts of taffeta) here I come!

It was so lame.

I know most of you are shaking your heads, giving me a very harsh, "duh!" expression. But I was looking forward to a Princess, a dragon, a handsome rescuer, and a happily ever after. (Granted, there was a happily ever after, but nothing traumatic really happened before they reached that point...)

All I have to say is that the previews were very misleading.

Next ABC family movie I won't block out the entire evening.

I'll have a back-up plan, just in case it's cheesy...

Neurosis #12

I do not, as a general rule, have a problem with nature. I love hiking. An occasional bonfire makes me quite happy. In the summer I enjoy the smells of new-mown grass and lemonade. The pleasures of winter are just as a great with clean snow and the crackle of ice. I even like wildlife. I smile at deer, raccoons, and water bugs. I find them endearing.

But I hate birds.

I'm pinning my horrible paranoia on my dear grandmother. She liked to raise chickens, geese- and one very tempermental rooster. At age three, a rooster can be a terrifying creature, and an angry rooster even more so. Although nothing traumatic ever occured between me and said rooster, I decided to be a wise three-year old and learn from the chicken's mistakes. I never approached that volatile rooster, and to this day I'm scared of all things feathered.

Unfortunately, the feathered creatures seem oblivious to my antipathy for them. Several days ago I noticed a pile of debris collecting in the corner of my front porch. With words muttered under my breath about my raucous male neighbors and their dirty habits, I brushed the straw off the porch. A couple days after that the debris was back, and I, with a sinking feeling in my stomach, looked up to my door mantle, dreading the inevitable. Yes, birds were mid-construction on a very substantial nest. I started shaking. I jump whenever birds fly over me, I wince when one walks within a 20 foot radius. I could not- I WOULD not- walk underneath a bird's home every morning as I left for work. Nor could I do a half dodge, half tuck 'n' roll inside every night, each moment fearing that a bird would fly into my house or my hair. There was only one thing to do...

I knocked the foundation of the nest to the ground. I swept every piece of gathered building material to the wind. I did so with a vehemence that is typically reserved only for those whose pictures I walk by in the post office, but this was serious! Every day since then, I sweep. And every day since I started sweeping, they re-gather their straw and nest-making supplies. I will keep sweeping. Soon, if they don't take the hint, I will have to start confiscating their straw and hay, so that they will never find it.

I'm really not a mean person, promise! Why couldn't a little, homeless puppy decide to make my doorway his home? I would love a puppy...

Excuse me, I have to go sweep my porch.

Because I don't have the attention to write an actual blog entry....

I like orange soda. This is the first orange flavored item I have ever liked. (Barring actual oranges of course...)

Wet dogs smell funny and shouldn't sit on your pastor's arm chair. (Even if it is your pastor's dog...)

The Lysol with Febreeze is my new favorite cleaning supply.

I beat Markus for the first time on any board game this weekend. I didn't win the game. I just beat Markus. It was enough for me. :)

I think (if it wasn't rank cruelty) I would call one of my future sons "Edgar."

Without coffee I'm literally (no joke!) falling asleep while standing. This would be known as an addiction.

I want to paint a room plum and orange. Probably people would be blinded as soon as they entered, but I think it sounds fun... and completely impractical.

I can't beat 5th grade second language learners at Scattegories. However, I can beat the 2nd graders. Good to know.

Buying gas is my least favorite thing to do.

I need to write a full-blown, coherent journal-approximated blog entry some time in the near future. Not sure why I have been so completely unable to formulate coherent thoughts and witty ideas. Perhaps it's because I have been busy doing other things. (Like finally seeing family and boyfriend! Yay!)

PROMISE U!!!

It was wonderful working with these (and other!) kids. Jana became one of my bestest buds and Marney one of my godly mentors. Sign me up for next year! (More pics in just a bit...)

Question

Is the lady at the Chinese take-out allowed to *69 you (thereby calling you back) when you cancel your order?

In the local news...

The neighbors underneath me have started a rock band.

Because I often feel grossly inadequate...

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

Note to self: Work on Phone Skills

So, this was the weekend of phone faux pas. Let it be stated (before the following is read) that I am a horrible phone conversationalist. I don't like talking on the phone. I'm not good at it. I'm getting better (I used to pace psychotically and stammer), but I'm still not entirely comfortable with the phone.

Friday I worked with Drew. As soon as I dropped him off I picked up the phone to call Markus. (We had been playing phone tag all day.) Once again, I get his voice mail. Halfway through the message I get to a blind intersection. It always freaks me out, so I put myself on autopilot in my voice message so I could pull out safely. Unfortunately, autopilot me chooses to say, "Okay, honey, I love you bunches!" The real me suddenly hears autopilot me. Real me is shocked.

"Whoa chicken! I don't love you! I mean... of course I LIKE you. I like you a lot. I thought I was talking to my dad. I mean, I don't think you're my dad, but you know. Um, I'm driving. Actually, I probably shouldn't be talking and driving. I think I'll say goodbye now. Bye." **click**

Markus listened to it 4 times and called me laughing uncontrollably. He saved it. Many people have since heard it. This is why I never sing the "Humble me" songs in church. I'm afraid God will actually listen and do it.

The Littlest Blakeling

One year ago, today, my little sister, Julie Ann Blake, was officially (according to the Chinese powers that be) inducted into the Blake family. She refused to eat food, she was not even on the Chinese growth chart (and the Chinese are small!). She was terrified of toys, didn't know how to hug, and was a persistent head-banger. She couldn't walk or crawl and consistently engaged in autistic-like behavior.

Now, one year later she is, (to quote my mother) "most definitely a Blake." She loves to perform, she'll imitate walks, voices, conversations, and actions. She eats more than my teenage brother on pizza night, and is growing a nice little "Buddha belly." She says, "Wassup!" (with hand gestures), she jumps, squeals, and laughs. Her favorite items are pieces of costumes jewelry donated by various older women and some pink paisley sunglasses that she loves to slide down her nose and gaze over in disdain at whoever happens to be in her vicinity. She'll stand in front of the mirror and make herself laugh for as long as we let her. She has a "Mama," "Da," a "Cookie" and an "AlBoo," a "Ver" and an "Ka" who love her so very, very much. She's our joy, our delight, and our Friday night entertainment- our little Bops, Juju Bean, Boperoni, JuAnn, Jules.

She's my little sis.

HAPPY ONE YEAR ANNIVERSARY AS A BLAKE, LIL' BOPS!

God knew you'd be perfect for our family...

For the tougher day...

My heart is not proud, O Lord, my eyes are not haughty; I do not concern myself with great matters or things too wonderful for me. But I have stilled and quieted my soul; like a weaned child with its mother, like a weaned child is my soul within me. O Israel, put your hope in the Lord both now and forevermore.

(Psalm 131)

The Word of God is refreshing...

When my love of real estate and excess Spring Break time meet...

I think it would be fun to live here. I believe it was found under the Google search "Crazy Houses." Just think all the weird, wacky ways you could decorate- although my mother might need to take dramamine before coming over. It makes me dizzy just looking at it.

Okay, this little beauty came up under the search "condos in France." I think it should be noted that the lakeside view makes the $700,000 sticker price (of a one bedroom section of this beauty) quite reasonable.

Okay, so this one isn't the most convenient... I'd have to relocate to Ukraine, but I think I could manage... I'm telling you, lots of nobility in Europe must be moving. Just type in "Castles for Sale" and you'll see a zillion options. Although, if they have the address "West Virginia," I'm less inclined to believe they're actual castles...

My (almost!) Run-In with The Law

I'm terrified of police officers. Most authorities in my life I can develop a relationship with. I respect and fear them, but I also understand and (in many cases) love them. This sort of affinity cannot be developed for the police. As a result there is total authority and fear. No love. And I get freaked out.

For instance: Thursday (yesterday) I had an almost run-in with the law. Wednesday I had been cleaning (and consequently yowling at the top of my lungs to whatever happened to be in my CD player). I opened the door to take out some trash. Halfway out the door I realized that my music could probably be heard (due to the paper-thin nature of my apartment walls) for a three-block radius. Horrified, I dropped my trashbags, whirled around inside, and turned my music WAAAAY down. But coming back from the dumpster I saw a woman peeking her head around the door,

"Yes, yes, well, it's coming from apartment number -----." (No, I'm not putting my apartment number on the web....)

I started shaking. I was pretty sure she was talking to the police (or the landlords) regarding my illegal noise level. Every step on my porch startled me (I share it with my neighbors...). Every car that drove by I'd rush to the window to see the police officer who was coming to haul me off to the clinker.

Thursday I pulled into my apartment complex and there, parked right outside my apartment, was.... A POLICE CAR. My heart palpitating, I slowly climbed the steps to my apartment. I opened the door, calling, "Hello? Anyone here?" (I mean, they're the police, surely they have keys to every building in town.) For the next hour I waited in trembling anxiety- very sure that the officer would soon pound on my door.

I am a total idiot. Mr. Policeman must have had friends in the complex. He left wthout any door-banging or clincker-hauling, and I started breathing again. (Then I slapped myself upside the head for rampant, unfounded paranoia.)

This would be why I'm dating a guy who is almost antagonistic in his reaction to police enforcement. Markus was pulled over for rolling through a stop sign. (In his defense, trains don't even use that track any more...) But at the next stop sign (with the police officer still behind him), my dear boyfriend stopped. And stayed stopped. For many, many seconds.

Case-and-point: opposites attract.

And the police still haven't shown up to rebuke my overly enthusiastic Christian Contemporary music.

Lee Morrison once said a very profound, life-impacting thing to me. I have never forgotten it.

"Courtney," he said, "People who wear sweatpants in public have officially given up on life."

I was humbled. I was rebuked. I was at a movie night with Leah clad in my men's XL Purdue sweats. I was comfy. But I was chastened.

Others have been similarly confronted: Leah, Bev, Sarah... the list goes on.

Well, to those humbled, rebuked, and chastened in their comfort- I think you should know:

Lee wore sweats. In public. On stage. Last night.

Apparently he's given up on life. Just thought you should know...

My Supervisor: What culture do we celebrate on St. Patrick's Day?
Christian: The culture of the leprechaun!
Jasmine: The culture of pointy-eared people!
Melissa: Umm... I don't know, but they must like green.

From my students...

"Luis, what's all that goop in your hair?"

"Aww! Miss Blake! It's not goop! It's fancy stuff." (Luis, age 8)
******

"Miss Blake, your babies will be very, VERY white." (Yarla, age 9)

******

"Jaelyn and I are pretty much tied, Ms. Blake, 'cause she's getting a new brother and I'm getting two dogs." (Lauren, age 8)

******

"I don't speak SPANISH. I speak MEXICAN." (Christian, age 6)

******

After reading about Albert Einstein: "I don't care HOW smart he was. He married his COUSIN. Ew." (Amanda, age 10)

YAY!

I just officially submitted my acceptance to Purdue University's offer of study in the Graduate Department of Speech, Language, and Hearing Sciences.

However, prayers would be appreciated as I try to decide what to do monetarily and how Indiana University and Vanderbilt's offers figure into this whole equation.

GOD IS GOOD!

To whom it may concern on the TSC school board:

Dear Sirs,

I feel compelled to voice my concern over your education and fine arts policy at Klondike Elementary. It has come to my attention that your students only attend and/or participate in plays, convocations, and other various guest performances and events on a bi-weekly basis. The other three days a week are completely devoid of such musical gems as "Stone Soup" and "The ABC's with Dr. Seuss." Now, I have been told that of those remaining three days two of them are used for field trips to dairy farms and dentist offices, but what about that one vacant day each week? What is being done with that day? Are these students actually sitting in a classroom learning, reading, and memorizing meaningless information (such as the differences between a pronoun and preposition, and how many presidents there have been in the U.S. of A.)? I must tell you I am deeply concerned, and I suggest remedial action be taken ASAP. This day can not long remain productive. To leave it as such would be a travesty.

Thank you for your time.
Sincerely,

C. E. Blake

And for our last dish... Humble Pie!

So I messed up.

It happens a lot. I let one little thing (or sometimes a conglomeration of little things) become larger and larger in my mind. And then I go into camouflage mode. For some reason I think this is a good thing... (still not sure how I arrived at this brilliant deduction), but I labor (erroneously) under the delusion that I should cover up or not address the issue. I think that by doing so I'm maintaining control and not harming anyone around me- not blowing things out of proportion unnecessarily. However, sooner or later those little things add up to straws that break the camel's back, and I'm done. Finished. I completely lose it.

Sometimes I go off the deep end and buy throw pillows ( I love buying pillows). Other times I write volatile, fiery blog and journal entries. Or I'll curl up on the couch and escape through a chick-flick, and there are some days when I'll pull out my bread pans and begin punching some dough.

And sometimes I hurt someone else.

Then I have to lay it all out there. All my horrible, entangling (wrong!) thought patterns. All the convoluted pathways that led me to my emotional outburst. All the sin that I've indulged in (sometimes consciously, sometimes not).

And what hurts the most is not the huge slice of humility that I am forced to imbibe, but rather the knowledge that my lack of self-control has caused pain for those around me. It's after those episodes that I'm grateful for verses such as Ephesians 1:7.

In HIM we have redemption through his blood, the forgiveness of sins, in accordance with the riches of God's grace.

NOTE TO SELF: Vote the WalMart store manager to city council...

Since the WalMart parking lots were plowed before the roads.

Ouch.

Epiphany of the Week

No one gets "picked up" at the gym...

For there is a future joy...

Then I saw a new heaven and a new earth, for the first heaven and the first earth had passed away, and there was no longer any sea. I saw the Holy City, the new Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God, prepared as a bride beautifully dressed for her husband. And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying, "Now the dwelling of God is with men, and he will live with them. They will be his people, and God himself will be with them and be their God. He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away."
He who was seated on the throne said, "I am making everything new!" Then he said, "Write this down, for these words are trustworthy and true."
He said to me: "It is done. I am the Alpha and the Omega, the Beginning and the End. To him who is thirsty I will give to drink without cost from the spring of the water of life. He who overcomes will inherit all this, and I will be his God and he will be my son...."

Amen.

Rev. 21:1-7

Edible Ministry

This would be my father's to-scale, edible rendition of Vision of Hope. (I helped, but I was hardly the mastermind...) If you look closely you can see Trey walking through the garden to the left... Since he was judging the dessert competition my father and I thought this would sweeten the deal- putting him in the dessert.

But we didn't win...

:(

Note to self: There are bigger fish to fry (or stress over)

Grad school. Work. Paperwork. Kids. Classes. Lesson plans. Bills. Broken blind. Another pimple on my chin. Dusting to do. Cold feet. Full inbox. Oil change.

or...


Every day 4,000 babies are aborted by their mothers.
Over 1.5 million persons have died of starvation this year.
30,000 children die each day due to poverty.


Seriously, there are bigger issues to worry about. Grow up, Blake.

A little girl I was tutoring yesterday mentioned the new book she was reading. I was thrilled that she was reading (she has literacy problems) and decided to ask for more info. Apparently there's a new American Girl doll, "Julie" and her pal "Ivy" on the market and in the library. (For those illiterate in the wonder that is the "American Girl doll" it's a collection of dolls which take portions of American history and make them cute by dressing them in crisp colonial dresses and giving them little Victorian tea sets and writing fictional books to accompany them. They're amazingly trite. And so much fun. Definitely made for girls...) I asked what era this doll is from.

"Well, she's from the '80s, but she's still cute."



Ouch.

My Diagnosis

I think I'm bipolar.

Some mornings I LOVE eggs. Others- can't stand them.

I want to be a teacher. Then I decide I never want to see another child ever again.

I want to go to grad school here at Purdue. Then I don't.

I want to be a punk rocker one morning, and a preppy professor the next.

I like dark nail polish. And then I don't.

I can go from incredibly insanely happy in the morning to "Don't even try to make me smile or I will hurt you" in the evening.

Some days I like gummy worms. Other days- not so much. (Same thing with mushrooms and orange flavored candy...)

I want to go to school forever on Monday, but on Tuesday my goal is to drop out and be a bum.

And it's not like these are mild fluctuations. I'm a very opinionated individual. I go from one extreme to another. Middle ground is not my forte.

Apologies to all those who have to live with my constantly fluctuating, completely irrational, and (probably!) sleep-based neuroses. You (parents, siblings, roommate, boyfriend, friends, casual acquaintances, and the Target bag boy) are very gracious.

I appreciate it. (Or I expect it, depending on the location of my bi-polar pendulum.)

**sigh**

It's Thursday. I'm supposed to be at work. But I'm not.

Last night I got a letter from Purdue University stating that I was not going to be considered for their graduate program due to an incomplete application.

I have spent my entire morning trying to figure out what was incomplete and to reinstate my application.

Apparently my GRE scores (though taken and sent) are lost in the vast Purdue data base through a combined error of the testing service and Purdue.

The Graduate Speech Pathology committee is deliberating as to whether this constitutes "extenuating circumstances" and whether or not to admit my application back into the pool of hopefuls. I'm praying that this would be the case, seeing as this omisson was in no way my fault.

Prayers would be appreciated...


I have been deprived of peace...Yet this I call to mind and therefore I have hope: Because of the LORD's great love we are not consumed, for his compassions never fail. They are new every morning; great is your faithfulness... it is good to wait quietly for the salvation of the LORD.
(Lamentations 3)

You conquerors of domains, you leaders of the free world, you investors of millions- you have nothing on me today. You can't hold a candle to my Tuesday. Despite your feeble attempts at greatness, you could not approximate the extreme triumph that I tasted. Try as you might, you cannot trump what I did. Your weak efforts cannot compare.

I made bread.

And it was edible.

Garage Door Dance

Today, as I was backing out of the garage, I realized that I did not have a garage door closer and would, as a result, have to jump out of my car, run back in the garage, close the garage door, and then exit from the "manual" garage door. I jump out. I run to the garage door button. I push it, and it starts to go down. I head to the manual door. Half way there I realize I could just run out of the closing garage door. I turn, but it's too far down. I turn back to the garage door button to make it go up, so that I can exit by my new plan. Halfway there, I remember that I can still exit through the manual door. I turn back around. Almost to the manual door I remember the last time it slammed down on my toes, and I turn back to push the electric door button again, so that my toes don't get squashed. Then I remember that my car is right outside, still running with gas at a whopping $3.09 per gallon. I turn back to the manual door and exit via my first strategy.

The electric door slams shut.

My thought pattern was quite clear to me... but to the casual observer it probably looked like I was doing some voodoo dance as I ran around in three circles, very quickly, inside the garage as the door descended.

I should probably think more (or less) before my feet start moving...

**EPILOGUE**
My feet did not get squashed in the manual door. Next time I plan on using the "exit closing door" strategy.

Note to self: In a panic situation- never rely on the roomie.

My roommate has the worst panic reflexes.

When she lost control of her car, she dove out of it. That's right. Threw open the door and bailed.

When our neighbors started fighting (rather loudly) one night, she flew across the hall and dove onto my floor, "Get down! Get down! I think she's going to shoot him!" (This was particularly amusing since I couldn't even hear the fight...)

Tonight, when our neighbor went out on the deck and peered in our window, and I calmly noted, "Oh! There is a man looking in our window." She quickly assumed the crouched fetal position on our kitchen floor (still in plain view of every window) and whispered in a strained voice, "Oh my gosh, oh my gosh. Where is he?" It took a while to convince her that it was okay to stand up.



My roomie is so adorable.

Mitt Romney's no longer running for president! And in the local news...

Today I had to do mouth-to-mouth resuscitation on my door. Yes. I did.

Let it be noted that the roomie and I have door problems. I noticed it in July when it became necessary to body slam the door in order to lock it. (This action is now second nature.) But the problem became more evident in November, when locking the door started to take two hands to pull, hoist, and tug the door to the appropriate angle and a third hand to turn the lock. (Seeing as I only have two hands, this produced some interesting gyrations for my neighborhood audience.) But the bitter cold of January showed the true stubbornness of this door. Today I couldn't even get the door unlocked. The key would not even insert into the key hole. It was due to the cold. I myself was cold. (And possessing rather fragile patience after saying, "Sound it out. Sit still. No... what sound does "b" make again?" countless times...) I was a brave woman. A resourceful woman. And a desperately in need of food woman, so I leaned over, and breathed warm air all over that lock. It worked. I'm lucky it wasn't colder or the roomie would have arrived to find me with my tongue attached to the door knob...

I bought throw pillows tonight. They're gorgeous and stuffed with down. They make me feel rich.

I also bought my FIRST EVER pair of frivolous shoes. Despite what I say about loving shoes and spending obscene amounts of money on them- I don't. I had one pair of black heels (which I had owned since my junior year of highschool- 6 years.) until Leah's wedding in October, when I bought some others because I was afraid the heels would snap from over-use mid-ceremony. I have one pair of black flats, one pair of brown flats, and one pair of brown heels. All cute-ish. But all practical. Today I bought impractical shoes. Suffice to say they are patterned, peep-toed, and have dark red trim. I will wear them on Sunday. MY FIRST PAIR OF FRIVOLOUS SHOES!!! Gosh, they're cute...

I taught Drew how to preach today.

I usurped the control of 18 3rd graders from a clue-less student teacher. The kids were running wild. I took over for self-preservation. And I was obsequious and deferential to the teacher the rest of the hour. But she probably hates me. I'd hate me if I came in and did that to me...

I cleaned. It smells like eco-friendly apple cleaner.

I loved today.

Okay. Markus and I played "Twenty Questions." I think he loves this game because he's good at it. (The day he beat the little electronic version they sell at Walmart was a red-letter day.) I'm horrible. (I couldn't even beat my sister when she was five.) But this time I "beat" him... well, kind of. You decide:

In 22 guesses my final guess was "Post-It." The word Markus was thinking of was "index card."

In 27 guesses, Markus's final guess was "figurine." The word I had chosen was "inbox."

You decide who came closer to "winning." Keep in mind total number of guesses and proximity of the final guess to the actual word. This is important. Not only are bragging rights attached to claiming this victory, but the loser is also subject to random acts of service based on the winner's whims.

I bought some half-and-half, but there was a mistake. Someone must have put skim milk in the bottle labelled "half-and-half."

I just dumped it into my coffee.

Seriously. This is NOT creamy. Or thick. But still fattening.

Boo. Not okay.

I learned this week that I'm horrible at communicating.

I've learned that it's okay to have a "boring" morning routine.

I've learned that days with focused Bible study are better than those whose study is haphazard.

I've learned that chili (though good) every lunch and every dinner (for an entire week!) can be a little much.

I learned that Yankee Candles "Buttercream Icing" is like an olfactory sedative.

I've learned that I am completely and totally unable to formulate coherent thoughts and phrases when problem solving.

I've learned that kicking your shoes off vehemently is not good. Especially when they get lost in a pile of clothes.

I've learned that if you're wearing anything pink (even if you look ghastly) a kindergarten girl will think you're beautiful.

I've learned that flowers from the right person are wonderful.

I've learned to redefine what a "good week" is.

I've learned that learning isn't always color-coded notes and textbooks.


This is good.


But I think next week I could do with a little less learning...

Epiphany of the Week

There is a huge difference between being a good conversationalist and being a good communicator.

The roomie and I are going dog shopping.

"Edgar" (on the left) is mine. "Sumatra" is the roomie's.

We figure it will make us cooler.