Two posts a day apart??? Keep breathing, Reader. Boredom begets many a blog post.
Have I introduced you to this cat?
I didn't think I had....here he is, sunning on our stoop. He lives around our little duplex, and belongs to someone, but we don't know who. (I think he has an owner--Andrew thinks he's feral). But he loves me. I mean, seriously. Cat will be waiting in the driveway when I come home to Chapel Hill after a work week. (Andrew says he loves everyone, but I'm convinced. It's me.)
I don't know his name--sometimes I call him Basil, (with a short 'a', like the Brits), sometimes I call him Marbles. But mostly I just call him Buddy Boy or Sugar Pie or Honey Bear or Muffin Pants or some such endearment. I really don't even know if he is, in fact, a he. But what I do know is that this cat meows and meows and meows and rubs and rubs and rubs until you pet him and sit down and let him climb up and make himself comfortable in your lap. How could a cat this sweet be feral??? And how could he not want to run away and live with us for the rest of his nine lives? I think he wants to.
Now, before you go callin' me Cat Lady and buying me long denim jumpers for Christmas, let it be known that I love this cat because he is nice. Lots of felines are not nice. Not nice at all, i.e. you unwittingly reach out to pet them and subsequently pull back a bloody nub. But this kitty is a nice kitty.
So what if he faintly smells of dirt and dead animal. (It's true. Gross. I know. But hey, cat's gotta survive in the wild, right? King of the Jungle and all that. And vigorous hand washing after petting.)
I'm thinking he probably won't be coming with us when we move. Andrew already said I couldn't steal him. Durn.
Last I checked I was squaring up a rotund, homegrown pumpkin on my front stoop, craning my neck to see if the October issue of Martha was in my postman's hot little hand.
And there it came and there it went. And ThanksgivingChristmasandNewYear's rolled by right along with it.
I wouldn't say that 2010 was a bad year, either. It was fraught with good times and tough times, elation and despair, frustration and epiphany. January through August, which seem like eons ago, were spent grasping for a nursing job, whilst the summer was whiled away making-over the greater Southpoint area at the nations most user-friendly cosmetic store. [Would you like to sign up for two free issues of InStyle magazine?] And then came the job offer that was both impossible and incredible in the same breath. Scrubs, stethoscope, and a full tank of gas, I headed south for the winter. Well, three days a week at least.
One thing I've learned in my sage 24 years of life is that things rarely go as planned. Plans are for the birds. Plans are unmet expectations waiting to happen. Disappointment in the flesh. Do I sound jaded? I don't mean to be. I'm declaring the folly of plans, not the futility of hope, mind you. Hopes are altogether different than plans. Hopes are born of God, plans are ferreted out my me, myself, and I. To hope is to trust. To plan is to control. And to contrive to control is to cater to that niggling little part of me that doesn't hope, trust, or persevere. To give over to the bully who mutters in a huff, "if you want it done right, do it yourself!" is to deny the sovereignty of my Maker. Do I really think I know better? Sheesh.
And so 2011, I relinquish my resolutions, my plans, my deadlines.
But I will keep tight hold of Hope, tucked in my heart and held by a string.
Once upon a time when I was driving back to Charleston from Chapel Hill for work on a rainy, windy, f-f-freezing cold Sunday afternoon I happened upon a shiny, white Cadillac. This Cadillac was, in fact, an ordinary Cadillac, as it was driven by a blue-haired, hundred-year-old lady at approximately 57 miles per hour in the right hand lane. Now what was so special about this centenarian and her lily white Caddy?
Well, it may have had something to do with the triple scoop Butter Pecan ice-cream cone she was downing like a madwoman on her way to Bridge club.
It's as if a torturous seamstress has threaded her fiery needle through each of my shoulder blades to draw them together, tightly, tightly.
It's as if bathroom breaks are a luxury, a bonus, a plus.
It's as if crumbling mascara and crumbling composure were part of the job description.
It's as if a mean-spirited cobbler inlaid my arches with cobble stones rather than mounds of supportive cushioning.
It's as if my calves had spent all day pirouetting without my knowledge until that fateful moment of alighting on a chair for the first time all shift.
It's as if a trickster barista brewed my brew without the zing of caffeine to ensure my second visit of the day.
It's as if my figurer will go on figurin' until somebody hits the lights. My brain does not stop when my badge swipes the clock.
It's as if I will never blow dry my hair or stay up late or wear normal clothes again.
It's as if I were a nurse, or some such thing.
For every ache, I am thankful.
For every complaint, there is a gut check.
Hard earned exhaustion is the unction, the ointment, of searing unemployment.
And I wear it well, and am thankful.
1The Spirit of the Lord GOD is upon me,
Because the LORD has anointed me
To bring good news to the afflicted;
He has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted,
To proclaim liberty to captives
And freedom to prisoners; 2To proclaim the favorable year of the LORD
And the day of vengeance of our God;
To comfort all who mourn, 3To grant those who mourn in Zion,
Giving them a garland instead of ashes,
The oil of gladness instead of mourning,
The mantle of praise instead of a spirit of fainting
So they will be called oaks of righteousness, The planting of the LORD, that He may be glorified. [Isaiah 61]
My life is straight-up bananas right now. So sorry if my lack of blogging has messed up your morning routine. But I'm not going to tell you a sob story about how busy I am. 'Cuz I don't have time for that.
So. Andrew and I both grew up camping every summer and sometimes fall. Ironically enough, my family went from the beach to the mountains, just minutes from Andrew's parents' house and Andrew's family went from the mountains to the beach, a few hours north of my parents' house. We probably passed each other on the highway. Good thing we didn't meet back then though. I was pretty squirrely. Like I'm not now. Right.
Anyway, Andrew and I decided to take our first fledgling camper steps as newlyweds last weekend, at a state park only a half hour from our apartment. We kept it simple--tent, stove, sleeping bags--got everything in the car and headed out Friday afternoon to spend the night in the woods. (Which has always been kind of been an enigma to me. But whatever.)
Plastic bins always get the job done.
We got to the campground just as the sun was setting--we tried and tried to get there before dark, but Ranger Rick and his Girlscout assistant gave us a site that already had someone in it so we had to go back to their little hut and switch sites. We ended up pitching our tent and starting the fire during the wee twilight hours of the evening. (This has nothing to do with vampires, for those of you who's hearts just skipped a beat).
I built the fire, Andrew pitched the tent. Contraptions are not my thing.
We decided to be super low maintenance in the grub department: hot dogs, baked beans, and s'mores for dinner and coffee and biscuits on a stick for breakfast, granola bars while we were ABSOLUTELY DYING for our biscuits to get done. Easy peasy lemon squeesy. I can't say much for the nutritional value of these meals, but who counts calories while they're camping? You look like a swamp creature anyway, (remember you forsook your nice warm bed to sleep on a leaky air mattress in the middle of the woods that happens to be less than two miles from the highway. And BONUS, it's frickin' freezing Mr. Bigglesworth.), so who cares if you feel a bit squidgy around the middle, too. Right? Right. I love camping.
I know what you must be asking yourself: what on earth is a biscuit on a stick??? Well, Reader, they are only the most delightful, if just a hair troublesome, camping breakfast foodstuff that will ever cross your lips in the pale blush hours of the morning.
What you need:
Biscuits
Sticks
Fire
Critical Thinking Skills
Acute hunger makes men do crazy things.
YUM!
We filled ours with grape jelly, but you could use honey, butter, strawberry jam, chocolate...oh, the possibilities!
Our first solo camping trip was a great success--we enjoyed ourselves immensely and might even do it again sometime. Heh, heh. Although if I had to choose camping or Christmas, I'd choose Christmas.
Speaking of Christmas!...I started decorating this weekend. I KNOW! My obsession is out of control. But I just love it. Pictures will follow forthwith!
Instead of posting on all that I haven't accomplished in the last ten or so days, I will post on a few notable things juxtaposed to that blessed and proverbial check mark. Glass half full, mm?
1. Half of the curtains are hung in our apartment. Score. This is an accomplishment because, A] we have cinder block walls on all outside walls (can't nail or screw into them without special equipment) and B] I made two of the curtains myself and I have one pair left to make.
2. Andrew and I paid off half of our credit card yesterday. Cheers to being [almost] debt free!
3. Sometime between the months of August and September I completed 30/30 days of Jillian Michaels' 30 Day Shred. They were not consecutive days because I was one giant hematoma after about a week straight of killer work-outs, but more like every other day with long walks on the "off" days. I lost just a couple of libbies, but I could tell a big difference tone wise. I think the biggest thing for me is monitoring what I put in my mouth. And I like brownies.
4. Today, I did Level 1 on the Shred DVD after not having done it in about a month. It was brutal. And I'm being kind. But I finished. Barely. So, it's an accomplishment in my book.
5. Chubby bunny.
6. It's less than a month 'til my birthday. My Dad's birthday is on Friday. He'll be 35. ;)
7. This list is no longer resembling the list that I set out to make. Oh, well.
8. I started looking for a Christmas card yesterday. Loves it.
9. I love Martha Stewart, but I know there's no way that she freakin' makes all those pies and cakes and decorations and crap. I mean, get real. But, I love her.
10. For the life of me, I wanted to make this list a consistent and congruous catalog of accomplishments, but pretty much the first three are the only legit achievements for today's inventory. But three is a good number. Makes a balanced arrangement. Adds height and dimension and interest.
1] Although it is not technically Fall yet, I am burning a Yankee Candle Company Autumn Wreath candle. It smells like Fall and Christmas all at the same time which, you know, is amazing. Calendar dates are more like guidelines, mm?
2] My last day at the Best Cosmetic Store Ever is Monday. And there was much rejoicing.
3] Today at the aforementioned cosmetic store, a lady came up to pay for her items whilst smoking a cigarette. Another lady had her yip-yip dog in her purse and it was growling at everyone. We had to call the police because a dude was pilfering fragrances. And a man asked if we had any snacks. (???) This is not Sam's Club. There's no shrimp cocktail on ice behind the counter.
4] The Clemson Tigers won this afternoon. As if we would lose. Pfft.
5] My hubby got us Med Deli, (short for Mediterranean Deli. Doi.), for supper tonight. If you don't know what that is you need to get your baba ghanoush to Chapel Hill and find out.
6] Andrew keeps asking me to watch 24 episodes on Netflix. We've watched Seasons One and Two. Annnnd I'm kind of over it?? Is that blasphemous?? I mean, I looooove 24. (Oh, Jack!) But it's kind of stressful.
It's me again. I just wanted to check in with you and make sure you're still on schedule with the cool weather and pumpkins and everything. I know, I know. We've talked about this before. But you have to admit, sometimes you're late and then there's a few embarrassing episodes with seasonally inappropriate clothing and pit sweat. I know you're not really familiar with pit sweat, given your chilly disposition, but trust me. It ain't pretty. I mean really, you could come a little early. I don't think anyone would complain. Just make sure you let Mother Nature and Father Time know where you're going. It's kind of annoying when you show up early without their knowledge and they make you go back and call Summer to fill in for a few more weeks. Ugh. She's not pretty when she knows she's sloppy seconds.
Anyway, I'm looking forward to your visit, and I think everyone else is, too. You're kind of a favorite. Just remember to show up no later than September 22. I don't want to be wearing a sun dress on my November birthday. Awkward.
Of course, if I am in Charleston, I'm going to carve out some time to see my ~*gurlies*~, one about to be flung to the far east, and one about to be flung into jewelry design fame. No, seriously. Kelly a.k.a Stinks is going to China to be a missionary. Used to be she might've said you couldn't get me to be a missionary in a foreign land for all the tea in China...and now she just might get to find out exactly how much tea they're talking about. Lauren a.k.a La or Raren is just tapping into the amazing world that is gemology and metalsmithing and is about to take Two Blue Stripes to the next level-like, woah!
And I am lucky enough--no, blessed enough--to call them dear.
Thursday afternoon the three of us convened at Lauren's house, both Kelly and Lauren pleasantly surprised that I was in town, to catch up, ogle Lauren's latest creations, and exclaim that Kelly just purchased her plane ticket to the ends of the earth. It was a glorious reunion, I have to say. It always is.
After an hour or so of chatter, we set out to see if we might find Lauren some "scraps" at a local pawn shop. She'd been dying to go and check it out, but needed reinforcements because, well, it's a pawn shop. Sketchy doesn't really cover it. None of us had ever been into a pawn shop before, and had only envisioned it as a place that burglars frequent to exchange their loot for cash, or that divorcees go to cash in on their dissolved marriages and turn in their rings. But what we didn't imagine was that this pawn shop was a cleverly disguised arsenal with guns of all makes and models lining the walls and glistening behind the fingerprint riddled glass cases. SCARY.
Unfortunately, we left empty handed, astonished at the overpriced junk jewelry but ready to get the heck out of dodge. Good story, huh? Hey, a blogger's got to blog about something, right?
Anyway, we met at Chic-fil-a the next morning to put our Bridge Run Free Chicken Biscuit coupons to good use and then Kelly went to work and Raren and I went to the beach with some peeps. Great day in the mornin'.
If you're totally disillusioned with my story-telling abilities, just wait until Episode Three. There are pictures and they are funny. I'll give you a hint: it's been a long time comin'.
1. I saw a gentleman in Harris Teeter the other day with two 12 packs of Mountain Dew and a bag of Funyuns. Wikipedia says that Funyuns were invented by a bloke named Douglas Bubbletrousers. I'm having a hard time believing that the "Funyuns" bio isn't one of the reasons Wikipedia is not an acceptable source on college term papers.
2. I just painted my nails OPI's Bubble Bath. Ah, bliss.
3. I purchased Tigi's Rockaholic Dirty Secret Dry Shampoo so that my husband and I can take our grungy, dirty, hippie steez to the next level.
4. I'm already thinking about Christmas. and Fall.
5. Bing Crosby originally sang the song Pennies From Heaven in the clip from Elf. How'd you like your nickname to be an onomatopoeia?
6. "Elf" is a funny word.
7. It looks like we're having chicken again tonight. Womp, womp.
8. Why can' we have juss like a salad? (please, tell me you know what movie I'm talking about.)
On the fourth day of the seventh month of the two thousand and tenth year of our Lord, Andrew and I got no takers on an Independence Day afternoon on the American Tobacco Campus in historic Durham. But we went anyway. Just him and me, me and him. We actually went out to lunch with some new church friends, spend two hours talking, came home and fell asleep and didn't leave the apartment until about six o'clock. But, since no one was joining us, we weren't actually late at all. In keeping with my latest trend of sharing the history of my topics, here's a brief rundown of the story of the American Tobacco Company, which later was renovated and refurbished to be the American Tobacco Campus, now a thriving area for art, music, food, sports, and community.
In 1865, Washington Duke of North Carolina was released from Libby Prison, having been captured during the Confederate army's retreat from Richmond. He was sent to New Bern, North Carolina-137 miles from his 300 acre farm four miles north of Durham. A federal soldier gave him 50 cents for his 5 dollar Confederate note, and with that Duke set off, walking 137 miles to his home.
There was little left of the farm except for a small amount of Bright leaf tobacco. Duke subsequently sold some of his land and became a tobacco farmer. With his family's help, he pulverized and cleaned the crop in a small log barn. Then he packed it into muslin bags and labeled it "Pro Bono Publico"--for the good of the public. The first wagon load he took to Raleigh was drawn by two blind mules.
Soon Duke & Sons found itself in tight competition with the Genuine "Bull Durham Tobacco Factory. His son, James Buchanan "Buck" Duke, decided the company could generate much needed profit for the relatively small but growing cigarette market. He succeeded in this area so well that in 1890 his four biggest rivals joined him and he became president of the new firm--The American Tobacco Company.
Duke & Sons found W.T. Blackwell's Genuine "Bull" Durham Tobacco Factory to be strong rival. In fact, it was one of the largest in the world. The "Bull" had many imitators, other brands that capitalized on the words "Bull" or "Durham" in their tobacco advertising. Buck Duke refused to follow suit, choosing instead to delve into the cigarette market in order to compete.
In subsequent years, American became the biggest tobacco company in the world with successful products such as the unique, "toasted" tobacco in the Lucky Strike brand. Pall Mall and Tareyton also ranked among their successes. American even enjoyed the help of celebrities such as Frank Sinatra and Jack Benny in its promotional efforts.
In the early 1890's, Washington Duke left the business for his sons to handle while he became involved with local affairs. He succeeded in bringing Trinity College to Durham. Through the continued generosity of the Duke family, the school soon became the largest endowed college in the Southeast and, in 1924, Trinity College became Duke University.
Congrats for making it through that snooze fest. Raise your hand if you skipped to this paragraph. Be honest. Now I don't care much for cigarettes, or Duke for that matter, but I'm a big fan of history and knowing the Five W's about a place. Andrew and I went and listened to some live music on the lawn, ate tapas at Cuban Revolution, and then attempted to watch the fireworks after the Bull's game, however, we soon found that the best place to see them was from the highway. C'est la vie. (...Er, "that's life". Probably shouldn't throw in a French catch-phrase during a post about American patriotism. Uhh, um...freedom fries?)
Listening to live music on the lawn, "Red, White, Blues & Bluegrass". A very peaceful afternoon. I'm pretty aware that my eyes are quite misshapen in this photograph. Moving on.
The Lucky Strikes tower and the stage underneath, housing performing "Mandolin Orange".
The stage underneath the tower (you can't see it in the pic, but the stage was "floating" in a stream that ran through the middle of the lawn.
Annnd we're on to a different topic altogether! This past weekend we went to Brad and Cory's engagement party in Society Hill, SC. It was a delightful evening meeting family and friends and celebrating with the Coopers and O'Tuels, and one soon-to-be Mrs. Cooper!
Me and Andy--yep, there's a ponytail back there.
The good ol' Pee Dee River. Man, I love me some South Cackalacky. For those of you who thought you might appear in some of these party pics, let's just say I exercised my artistic license and decidedly omitted them. If you're not pickin' up what I'm puttin' down, call me and we'll chat.
Oooohhh yeah, don't forget to visit your old pal Facebook and vote for Meghan to be the next Levi's girl!
Ok, I think I'm done here. Am I done? Yep. Done. I mean, finished.
What do you think of when you hear the word "Levi's"? Do you think "mom jeans"? or cool name for a hipster kid? or a Biblical tribe? Well, think no further--I'm talking about Levi Strauss & Co., making denim look good since 1873. Levi Strauss, a German-Jewish immigrant to America, started his company in San Francisco, CA in 1853 selling dry goods (fabric, clothing, combs, purses, hankerchiefs, etc) at his store, Levi Strauss & Co. Obviously since San Fran was the hub of the California Gold Rush, he was in a fine geographical location to make a pretty penny helping all those miners get outfitted for their forays into the wild unknown. Jacob Davis, a tailor out of Reno, Nevada, approached Strauss with a business deal: he wanted to make men's work pants "with metal points of strain for greater strength" and wanted to use the fabric that Strauss sold wholesale, as well as to make Strauss his business partner. In 1873 they received US Patent #139121 for using copper rivets to make the pockets of denim work pants stronger. They began manufacturing "jeans" and the rest, as they say, is history. In the LS&Co. archives in San Francisco they house hundreds of garments from just about every time period, (including the "XX", the oldest pair of 501 jeans in the world, circa 1879). There are also letters to the company from people like Cary Grant, Ronald Reagan, Lady Bird Johnson, Clint Eastwood, Henry Kissinger, and a cowboy from the silent movies--William S. Hart. Back in the day, they also didn't call 'em jeans they called 'em "waist overalls". Ha! You can read more about Levi Strauss & Co.'s rich American heritage by visiting their website.
So, why am I giving you a history lesson? Well, it just so happens that one of my friends is a FINALIST in a contest to be the face and the voice and the, er, "click" of Levi Women's online presence in social media: Meghan Ellie Smith. The contest is to be the next "Levi's Girl", someone who is "socially minded, culturally connected, and will best represent the Levi's Brand". Meghan is all those things and more--she is an incredible artist, a daring fashionista--even when she doesn't try --and she lives in Brooklyn, NY and goes to school at the Fashion Institute of Technology. Y'know, FIT? Yah. Meghan was born and bred in the deep south and now she kicks it with her urbanite pals in the Big City. When she's not in school, she's either painting or frolicking around the subway, streets, or parks making video montages and uploading them to her hilarious blog, Antlered Pigeons.
HERE'S WHAT YOU NEED TO DO. Go to FACEBOOK and search Levi's. Then go to the company page, follow the link to vote, watch Meghan's stand-out video and VOTE FOR HER. You can vote once a day, every day, until July 15th. I'm going to do it. You should, too.
If you can't follow all that clicking mumbo jumbo, here's the link.
Just saw Toy Story tres with my lovely amiga Abby. If you're wondering why I'm inserting occasional palabras de espanol, you'll just have to see the movie to find out. It was quite precious, actually. Aside from the little girl behind us asking if every character was sad in almost every scene, and the infant crisis down in front, it was quite a care-free and enjoyable movie-going experience. I highly recommend it.
Now. If my allergies would just take a chill pill, I might be able to tell you about the beach. There's just nothing quite like a span of two or three days of soaking up the salt air and the sound of the crashing waves. As much as the beach comes with it's own innate set of unpleasantries, (you know, the sweating, the repetitious sunblock application, the sand in the crotch of your bathing suit that is amazingly on the inside of the lining), it really is one of God's greatest masterpieces. Andrew and I drove down on Sunday morning and met the whole clan at the campground--everything was in it's place, the "mamas" had each site laid out to be most organized and user-friendly, but to also provide the most community fostering atmosphere--the "git-the-sand-off-ya" showers were rigged up, and the shared mini fridge was stocked with waters, juice, and just about anything else cold and wet. The sun was shining bright and the only thing between us and the edge of America was a quick costume change. The next handful of days were filled with games, (Corn-Hole, Sequence, Cranium, and Fishbowl, to name a few), laying out, playing in the water (or cooling off), going out to eat, hangin' around the campsite, cheering on the Tigers, and an assortment of brownies to tempt even the most disciplined of dieters. It was quite the vacation.
On this week's docket, there's laundry, grocery shopping, work, sleep, and sweating off the brownies. Oh, and I almost killed my plants again while we were away. Leave it to me to abandon my garden on the hottest span of four days this summer. I'm still willing them to live.
In other news, next weekend is the Fourth of July!!! My second favorite holiday next to CHRISTMAS, of course. I don't know, there's just something about America that just makes me smile from the bottom of my heart. There's a part of America that's trademarked by tiny flag pens on expensive lapels, million dollar campaigns, I'll-scratch-your-back-you-scratch-mine and then there's a part that's more jorts than Jaguars, more "count on me" than count my votes, more nose to the grindstone than nose in the air--that's the part I'll sing about with my hand over my heart. God bless America, land that I love.
Apparently, before the days of wikipedia, Funk & Wagnalls used to be a publisher of dictionaries and encyclopedias, with it's last issue going out of print around 1997. But more on that in a minute.
This weekend, Andrew and I headed way down south, where the wisteria drips off the trees like jewels on a royal's necklace. The weather was spectacular--not too hot and not too cold--sunny skies and a slight ocean breeze. Just magical. On Saturday night, my mother whipped up an amazing passover spread, complete with lamb and mint jelly and topped off with blackberry cobbler and creamy vanilla ice cream. Yummm. During our dinner conversation, with our lovely guests Dane and Meghan, my father began a discussion about something that, apparently, was quite incredulous, because we started saying things like, "huh?", "are you sure?", "really??", and he responded with, "yeah! Look it up in your Funk & Wagnalls!" *cricket, cricket*. Except it didn't sound like "Funk and Wagnalls", it sounded like "funkin' wagnalls" which sounded like something else. You can imagine the guffaws and side-splitting laughter that ensued. And I'm pretty sure I'm going to try to use the phrase, "look it up in your Funk & Wagnalls" at least once every day.
Easter morning, we dragged ourselves out of bed to beat the traffic to Boone Hall for St. Andrew's annual Easter celebration. Every one of the 4,000 chairs had a bum in it and there were people standing in the back. The children's tent was packed out. It was an awesome, awesome time of celebration and thanksgiving! I didn't take pictures until after the service, however, because we were busy chit-chatting with people, but I think I still got some good ones!
The celebration tent, nestled between the river and the "cotton field".
The annual, obligatory family phooootoooo! Minus two siblings and a sibling-in-law. We're looking quite natty in our Easter duds, if I do say so m'self. ;)
The flowered cross this year was a leeetle chaotic, (usually you bend the stems or cut them off prior to sticking them in the mesh), but our good friend Todd was in charge of it and his lovely wife, Elizabeth, was home with two sick cutie-patootie kiddos. So, we'll cut him some slack--this year. ;)
Every year, there's myriad carefully selected songs for pre-service music and for the service itself--this year, one of the opening songs was a Hillsong selection called Mighty to Save with the first lines of the chorus declaring Saviour/He can move the mountains/My God is mighty to save/Mighty to save, words borrowed from Matthew 17. As I was belting out this song with the other 4,000+ people in attendance, I got the feeling that Jesus wasn't necessarily talking about geographical feng shui. I think He was talking about people. Who in your life do you perceive as an immovable mountain? Who's heart is so hard that you have an inkling of doubt that even the One who cheated and pummeled death couldn't handle them? Well, he can. He is so mighty that His love and grace can move even the most stalwart of your friends or family to turn to Him and know the He is love. He is truth. And He is yours and mine--and theirs.
Happy Easter, everyone. And may we celebrate every day what Christ has done for us all.
1. I always get the grocery cart with the squeaky/epileptic wheel. Always.
2. When I am shopping by myself, (which, these days, is more often than not), I verbally process my loves/likes/dislikes/horror-at-the-price-tag-sticker-shock. Out loud. Meaninggggg I talk to myself. While I'm shopping. In public.
3. I have watched more CNN in the last eight months than a regular person should. I think a healthy balance of in-the-know and out-of-the-loop is the norm. Right now I am in the know. I am so. in. theknow.
4. I love snow day number one. Snow days following? Notsomuch. I thought I would love living in NC with all four seasons present and accounted for, and I do--but I also love 70 degrees from October to April and 9o degrees otherwise. Makes for a much simpler wardrobe.
I gotta be real for just a second. The snow was awesome the first day. Still very pretty the second day, even though it cancelled our church meeting. But today, it's annoying. And helloooo road worker people--you can't just scrape the interstates and not the roads that lead to the interstates. That's just all around bad form. Good thing Stella is a beast and we made it to and from the grocery store without incident today. Granted, I was going approximately seven and a half miles an hour, much to the chagrin of the fancy pants Lexus behind me. Hold your horses, lady. I didn't back my seat up four inches to prevent major facial damage from my airbag in the event of a slip n' slide just to have you ride my tail like you've got somewhere to be. Chiiill, Winston. (Name that movie!) Anyway, before the driving in slush adventure, I had to make like a Yankee and scrape the glacier off my car. With one, little, half broken ice scraper. I had to get it off the front windshield (obviously to see where I'm going) and the back windshield to see where I've been. JK--heh-heh, no-- I had to back out of my precariously tight parking space between two gas guzzlin' SUVs. [Gulp]. One little fish-tail to either side and the owner of the white Tahoe or the red Expedition was going to have a nice new dent. Whoops. Not my fault? Annnnyway, I wish I had taken a picture of the continental shelf that was melting ever-so-slightly atop my vehicle. It would have lent to a more humorous mental picture of MaryGene's Snow Demolition Project 2010. Basically, the snow on the top was a little melted and stuck together so I could chisel out large pieces, (much like the breaking off of our glaciers and polar ice caps), and push them off of the edge of the car, but the snow underneath was still powdery so I had to methodically scrape the second layer of powder off without getting it all over myself. Which did not work. Passersby probably thought I was playing in the snow instead of trying to get into my car. Fail. All in all it took about 30 minutes which was way too long in my book. But Rome wasn't built in a day (or was it?) and you can't snap your fingers after a snow day and summon Spring at a moment's notice.
Too bad you can't. I'm ready for fresh flowers on the table, sandals and toe nail polish, and having a low/no heating/air conditioning bill. I always do this, though: get a hankering for the next season when we're still in the middle of the current season. In an effort to speed things up, I painted my nails ElePhantastic Pink yesterday (thanks, Lauren!). I don't think it's working. Shucks. Sorry, Mother Nature. Didn't mean to rush you.
Tonight, we're having Pioneer Woman's Cajun Chicken Pasta. Go ahead. Be jealous. Or come to dinner. Either one.
