"That's just what every man wants... to start his dinner with half a grapefruit."

The benefit of being ill and couch-ridden in your parents' cable-deprived house, is that you only have access to channels that you ordinarily would not deign to watch. While some may view this deprivation as a fate worse than ulcerative colitis, it is, in fact, a valuable opportunity to examine prior generations. I have learned many valuable lessons over the past three days, and I feel compelled to share them with you.

From "I Dream of Jeannie" I learned...



It is perfectly acceptable to paint your living room wall sherbet orange.

Even if you give him ulcers, he'll still want to keep you-- in a pink, bejewelled bottle, maybe, but he'll keep you nonetheless.

And the way to a man's heart is by serving him half a grapefruit for dinner.

From "Beverly Hillbillies" I learned...



If you're over the age of fourteen, you're "past your prime," and it's time to employ a little love-voodoo.

Rope belts are totally in vogue.

And from "Bewitched" I learned...



One should interview live-in maids, and ones named "Agatha" (or "Amelia" or something...) are the ones that are most likely to be trusted.

Also, your mother-in-law will always sabotage your hollandaise sauce. Even if you have magical powers.



What can I say? Maybe I should stay home more often...

Blessings of a day on the couch

Today, curled up under multiple blankets...

Paula Dean(my Food Network icon) just made deviled eggs with goat cheese. It looked amazing, and I promptly boiled some eggs, despite my very obvious lack of goat cheese.

The sun was streaming through the windows, and the clean blue sky reflecting in my living room windows, and I curled up a little closer under my blankets and hummed a happy Easter song to myself.

My dad left me a funny message on my voicemail, and in the background I could hear Julie giggling.

Nothing can rival the comfiness of my brother's old, faded, soft sweatshirt.

As I curl up, napping amid comfy, down pillows, I reveled in my blessings.



Collecting blessings is my Easter hunt, and searching for tidbits of happiness is far more rewarding than any chocolate bunny and jelly beans.

Introvert at lunch time

When everyone else crowds into the breakroom, ready to munch their hard boiled eggs and moist sandwiches, while discussing the drama of their morning...

I just want to go outside and soak up the sun. Alone. In the silence.

I feel constantly overwhelmed these days, and alone time... silence... peace... They serve to rejuvenate me in a way that hilarious patient stories fail to do.

Perhaps someday, when I'm less stressed and... new, I'll hard boil some eggs and chuckle over the little old lady who thought an allergy test was like surgery, but for right now:

Just give me the sun and a breeze... peace...

Good doesn't always equal "good"

Today was the crappiest of all crappy days.

And I'm not even supposed to say the word "crappy." I view it as crass and jr. high-ish. Especially when it slips out in front of patients who are triple my age.

But it really was crappy. I cried almost the entire way home, which can't be good because:
a) bawling while driving 77 mph on the highway is hardly safe, and
b) It's a pretty long drive, and that much crying is sure to dehydrate my already feeble mucous membranes.

I just kept saying, over and over and over, "I will never stop doing good to them..." (Jeremiah 32:38-41 is this week's memory verse). But it took 55 miles of highway before I began to breathe normally again.

Today I...

recorded all of one patient's information into another patient's chart and had to spend half of my lunch break correcting my error.

I successfully gagged a patient while conducting an exam of their larynx. I went into this woman's mouth FIFTEEN TIMES and was unable to obtain a clear picture of her vocal cords. FIFTEEN TIMES. And it wasn't my first strobe. Oh, no. I had practiced. Rigorously. And I still failed.

I sat. On edge. Grinding my teeth through a two-hour patient session in which I couldn't help thinking, "Could these people get more abrasive, stupid, and illogical?" You have barely completed high school, and you're sitting in my office chair and telling me that doctors-- DOCTORS: aka "forever students"-- are stupid? Why are you incapable of giving me an accurate, organized medical history? Just answer my questions. Can you do that? Apparently not. And no, the drug DOESN'T just do what the ad on TV says it does. It helps with additional problems. You are not a freakin' pharmacist, stop medicating yourself. And for crying out loud, please stop railing everyone as a complete idiot when you can't even correctly pronounce your own diagnosis. And God help me, if you start developing some sort of superiority complex because, "No one can figure out what's wrong with me... Aren't I special?" I will hurt you.

My day in conclusion: blinded by a light, horizontal in a dentist's chair, I had to defend my "no dental insurance" policy to a man who clearly wanted to rip my gums to shreds at the happy tune of $1714.

I'm sick. Tired. Incompetent. Poor. The proud possessor of two "inoperable wisdom teeth." And I'm anemic. (Which is why I'm sipping orange juice. Supposedly it will speed the absorption of my multiple iron pills.)

This week I've been seeking to revel in God's grace. Sobbing my way down I-65, I repeated my "verse of the week" over and over...

"They will be my people, and I will be their God. I will give them singleness of heart and action, so that they will always fear me for their own good and the good of their children after them. I will make an everlasting covenant with them: I will never stop doing good to them, and I will inspire them to fear me, so that they will never turn away from me. I will rejoice in doing them good and will assuredly plant them in this land with all my heart and soul." (Jeremiah 32:38-41)

God's definition of "good" and my definition of "good" are radically different.

My definition of good is flawless performance, beautifully executed exams, healthy teeth, and orange juice for pleasure, rather than medical necessity.

But God's definition of good is so much deeper. Richer. More complex.

In Jeremiah 32, prior to my "special" verses, the outlook is anything but pleasant. The people are depraved. Sacrificing their sons and daughters in violent rituals. Saturated evil. God has sent plague, sword, and famine while handing them over to their enemies. "They turned their backs to me and not their faces." Despite the face that the Lord had "performed miraculous signs and wonders in Egypt and [had] continued them to this day," the children of Israel had "done nothing but evil in my sight from their youth." They are obliterated by their enemies. Handed over for 70 years of torturous exile.

And yet God said, "I will never stop doing good to them." During those 70 years, God's goodness did not stop. Esther saved her people. The Jews integrated into the society. Developed homes. Freedom to worship. Eventually (after the promised 70 years) they received royal blessing and funds to rebuild their kingdom. Nehemiah and Daniel are stunning examples of the fact that God's punishment served to turn the people back to Him. God's definition of "good" is not what will make us happy, but rather what will make us holy.

If my debilitating health, impossible patients, repeated failures, and cantankerous teeth cause me to become more like Christ, to cling closer to my God, to remain broken and dependent on Him, then God has "never stop doing good" to me!

"But he said to me, "My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness." Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ's power may rest on me." (II Cor. 12:9)

A guest blogspot for my little bro...

**The following was written for my little bro's "Man Blog" per his request. The blog is witty observations and advice, and I was delighted to appear as a guest columnist. Check the blog out for yourself at: http://thingsifoundinjasonstathamsgarbage.blogspot.com/**

**********************

From The Enemy Camp
Words of pseudo-wisdom from a lady on the other side


Dear Sirs, Noble Gentlemen, and Knights in Shining Armor,

It is my pleasure to address you on this exceptional day. Disclaimer: although I am addressing you from the “enemy camp” and can, after many years of experience (i.e. late-night ice cream talks) provide an accurate view of the female mind, I cannot claim insight to every female mind. Such ability would require divine intervention.

So… the question hovering before all your eyes is: “Why?”

“Why on earth does she like that shlub?” “Why do they care about mascara?” “Why doesn’t she realize that I like her?” “Why is door-holding such a big deal?” “Why is chocolate like a drug?”

Yes. We women come with quite a few question marks—some perplexing, some obvious, some as of yet hidden and unknown to man. Let’s address the first one, shall we? What are we looking for when it comes to men? What do we want? To touch the tip of that iceberg today, I will address several misconceptions. Possible further conversations are at the mercy of these fine gentlemen.

Women want a man who is tall,
False. Tallness is completely arbitrary. If you are a midget—rally. Women don’t care if you’ve touched six feet, or gone toe-to-toe with Shaq. We care whether or not we can wear our favorite shoes when we are with you, and not look like the gorilla Homo-sapien of the duo.

dark,
False. Darkness is unnecessary. If you are a purebred albino, you still have a chance at truelove. (Maybe with a sunscreen rep, but still… you have a chance). The average woman cares more for your eye/hair combo than your swarthy appearance. Should you be freckle-y and redheaded, but have shockingly green eyes—bemoan not your freckles. They only serve to make us love your eyes more.

and handsome.
This one is true. Every woman wants a handsome man. But don’t bury your pug nose into your misshapen hands and moan. Women are not like men in their definition of “handsome.” You can be a complete dog (true!), but still have a drop-dead gorgeous woman claim you as a “hottie.”

Let me explain. The details of your appearance are not the determiners of our attraction. This explains the couples you see in every town, city, state, and nation. Next time you sip a cup o’ joe in your favorite java spot, take a look at the couples around you. How many are equal in attractiveness? How many adoring women are hanging on the arms of men, far inferior in appearance? Lots, right? How many Pierce Brosnan men are sweet-talking completely dog-faced women? Not so many.

It’s because the first thing we, as women, are attracted to is your general demeanor. Should you be intelligent—cite your most interesting facts. Witty—break out your banter. Quiet—listen intensely. Focus on her. Not yourself. Never forget that your service and thoughtfulness will serve you far better than six feet of solid manhood, dark swarthy skin, and ruggedly proportioned features. Remember her favorite latte (skim milk, no foam, extra hot, added shot, caramel macchiato) and you have an in. Listen to yet another “horrible hair cut” story, and you’re golden. Maximize your character’s best assets. And you will find a lady who finds you very handsome… despite your midget height and albino complexion.

Best of luck from the enemy camp,

Lady C.

Sometimes I feel as though my life has been paused.

I'm going no where.


But it seems so fast.




Sorry for the lack of posting. As soon as I figure out my life, I'll be back in the swing of literary endeavors. Thanks for your patience!

I just had an amazing evening, a fabulous talk with God, and then I make the mistake of opening my e-mail inbox.

Arrgh!

I am so frustrated that all my holiness flies right out the window when confronted with (what I perceive to be) rude, petty behavior.



Changing this simmering anger to a gracious, loving firmness is not something I want to tackle at 11:24 p.m.

Tonight, instead of pouring over voice notes, starching my beautiful GAP shirt, and obsessing about shoe choices for my first day of my internship:

I drank chocolate soy milk and watched "The Little Mermaid."








Longer, more in-depth posts to follow my drug-induced haze. Tomorrow's going to be crazy!

No one had better tape-record my Tylenol P.M. ramblings...

Last night I was convinced that I was getting married in a drainage ditch.

I got trapped in a MacDonald's play-scape. It was slowly filling up with water.

I wandered up and down Target aisles for hours.

I was turning into a giant tortoise.

I was in Hawaii. A tsunami came. But somehow lava saved me.




Fact and fiction meld into one cohesive mess when I'm drugged...

Where I'm Supposed To Be...

I'm not supposed to be here.

I'm supposed to be cruising down 5th Avenue, avoiding the allure of Saks. I'm supposed to have basked in the musical, theatrical grandeur of "The Lion King" with my little brother beside me. I was supposed to be exploring Central Park, meeting all his amazing friends, and wearing my golden heels out, trekking from one end of Manhattan to the other.

Instead I'm here.

Curled up on a couch, sipping tea, sucking on sherbet, anything to soothe my persistently painful throat. I'm curled up under massive amounts of blankets, alternately shivering and then shaking them off. I can barely read. My grasp of words has flown. I'm sick. Very sick. More sick than I've been in years.

The only thing I can assume is that this is where I'm supposed to be.

And I have no idea why.

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.