Wednesday, December 19, 2007
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
Diet Diary- Entry #7
Dear Diary,
The holiday season is not doing a thing to assist me with my fitness endeavor. Of course, neither is my lack of motivation. Every time I turn around, someone is shoving cheesecake, or cookies, or some other tasty goodie in my face. It would be downright rude to decline. Being well mannered has its price!
This morning, I came out of the bookstore to discover a truck parked very close to my driver’s door. It was parked in the opposite direction, so the driver was sitting next to my car door as I carefully tried to open it without hitting his truck. He rolled his window down.
“I didn’t mean to squeeze you out there.”
“Thankfully it’s before the holiday, so I can still make the squeeze.”
“Now, you would have to eat a LOT to mess that up.”
I smiled politely and said thank you, but since he was a black man- and black men like women with junk in their trunk- I didn’t really consider it a compliment.
The holiday season is not doing a thing to assist me with my fitness endeavor. Of course, neither is my lack of motivation. Every time I turn around, someone is shoving cheesecake, or cookies, or some other tasty goodie in my face. It would be downright rude to decline. Being well mannered has its price!
This morning, I came out of the bookstore to discover a truck parked very close to my driver’s door. It was parked in the opposite direction, so the driver was sitting next to my car door as I carefully tried to open it without hitting his truck. He rolled his window down.
“I didn’t mean to squeeze you out there.”
“Thankfully it’s before the holiday, so I can still make the squeeze.”
“Now, you would have to eat a LOT to mess that up.”
I smiled politely and said thank you, but since he was a black man- and black men like women with junk in their trunk- I didn’t really consider it a compliment.
The Gift that Keeps You Going
“Thanks for the Reader’s Digest subscription, by the way.”
“Oh, you’re welcome. Everyone needs a Reader’s Digest to read in the bathroom.”
“Well…. I normally don’t spend an extended amount of time in the bathroom.”
“You will now that you have a Reader’s Digest!”
“Oh, you’re welcome. Everyone needs a Reader’s Digest to read in the bathroom.”
“Well…. I normally don’t spend an extended amount of time in the bathroom.”
“You will now that you have a Reader’s Digest!”
Sunday, December 16, 2007
Random Saturday Celebrations
A couple from Jon’s church hosted a Christmas party yesterday afternoon. Nothing quite conveys festive cheer like a house full of geriatric Lutherans, in their slacks, Christmas sweaters, and walking canes, boozing it up at the wine table.
I was only one of two non-Lutheran attendees, so I didn’t have much to contribute to the conversations about all things Lutheran. I’m not sure I could have held an attention span long enough to engage in any lengthy conversations though. I was too busy counting the number of times this gray-haired woman in a bright blue sweater with sparkly Christmas balls came back to get more wine. “Nothing wrong with a little holiday cheer,” I overheard her say as she topped off her fourth glass before going outside to smoke. When she wasn’t around, I was watching the only other person in the room under 60, a male college student sitting between two women who were discussing their ailments. I have to give him credit for enduring without alcohol.
I wish I could have stayed to witness more, but I had to get home for my own festivities- sloppy joes, poker, and a white elephant gift exchange. Nothing says “Christmas” like loose meat sandwiches, gambling, and stealing gifts from each other!
I was only one of two non-Lutheran attendees, so I didn’t have much to contribute to the conversations about all things Lutheran. I’m not sure I could have held an attention span long enough to engage in any lengthy conversations though. I was too busy counting the number of times this gray-haired woman in a bright blue sweater with sparkly Christmas balls came back to get more wine. “Nothing wrong with a little holiday cheer,” I overheard her say as she topped off her fourth glass before going outside to smoke. When she wasn’t around, I was watching the only other person in the room under 60, a male college student sitting between two women who were discussing their ailments. I have to give him credit for enduring without alcohol.
I wish I could have stayed to witness more, but I had to get home for my own festivities- sloppy joes, poker, and a white elephant gift exchange. Nothing says “Christmas” like loose meat sandwiches, gambling, and stealing gifts from each other!
Thursday, December 13, 2007
What We Call the Funky Chicken
One thing is a given during the holidays- entertainment is always provided.
And some are better than others.
And some are better than others.
Ready for Christmas?
“Are you ready for Christmas?”
That’s the question I keep hearing from people. By “ready” they mean, have I done all my shopping. Have I spent my money, marked off my list, wrapped my gifts? I can’t blame them really. This is after all the consumer-driven, materialistic society in which we live. Sure, those of us who are Christians will attend services, we’ll sing, we’ll proclaim the “reason for the season,” but we’ll end up askers of the same two questions:
“Are you ready for Christmas?” and “What did you get for Christmas?” This is the end result of our celebrations.
This year, I can’t seem to find the motivation to participate in the mass commercialism of Christmas. Maybe it’s the fact that I don’t like shopping, or crowds. Maybe it’s the fact that I’m trying to learn to budget my money better. Maybe it’s just rebellion against the consumer mentality. Or maybe… maybe it’s perspective. I can’t think of Christmas, or any other holiday, without thinking about my brothers who sit in prison. My brothers, who can’t receive gifts, and who would probably trade them anyway for the opportunity to experience what most of us will take for granted this Christmas- a sense of home, being surrounded by family, good food, feeling the embrace of someone who loves us. I wonder if my brothers have forgotten what it feels like to have someone hug them. Maybe it’s easier for them to not think about such things, and in forgetting, it lessens the pain of being without it. I wonder how many times I will half-heartedly hug someone this Christmas, or how many times I will take for granted the experience of being with those I love. I wonder how much I will fail to love those around me. Love is, after all, what we ultimately got for Christmas. How many of us will actually be “ready” for it?
That’s the question I keep hearing from people. By “ready” they mean, have I done all my shopping. Have I spent my money, marked off my list, wrapped my gifts? I can’t blame them really. This is after all the consumer-driven, materialistic society in which we live. Sure, those of us who are Christians will attend services, we’ll sing, we’ll proclaim the “reason for the season,” but we’ll end up askers of the same two questions:
“Are you ready for Christmas?” and “What did you get for Christmas?” This is the end result of our celebrations.
This year, I can’t seem to find the motivation to participate in the mass commercialism of Christmas. Maybe it’s the fact that I don’t like shopping, or crowds. Maybe it’s the fact that I’m trying to learn to budget my money better. Maybe it’s just rebellion against the consumer mentality. Or maybe… maybe it’s perspective. I can’t think of Christmas, or any other holiday, without thinking about my brothers who sit in prison. My brothers, who can’t receive gifts, and who would probably trade them anyway for the opportunity to experience what most of us will take for granted this Christmas- a sense of home, being surrounded by family, good food, feeling the embrace of someone who loves us. I wonder if my brothers have forgotten what it feels like to have someone hug them. Maybe it’s easier for them to not think about such things, and in forgetting, it lessens the pain of being without it. I wonder how many times I will half-heartedly hug someone this Christmas, or how many times I will take for granted the experience of being with those I love. I wonder how much I will fail to love those around me. Love is, after all, what we ultimately got for Christmas. How many of us will actually be “ready” for it?
The Season of Giving... Math Lessons?
Last week I had a conversation with a friend over our shared desire to “refresh” on basic knowledge… you know, stuff we learned in jr. high, but haven’t thought about since. Capital cities, basic geography, stuff like that. After arguing with a sales associate that 50% of $79 was $35, she decided she needed a refresher in basic math. I agreed. She does.
We were in the car together last night.
“Quick- what is 9 + 7?” I asked.
“Oh, uhhhh. I don’t know! See what I’m talking about?”
“Okay, here’s a trick with nines. Take one from the other number, 7, add to nine to make ten, then add the 6 that’s left.” (This should be a split second process.)
“Oh, my gosh! Why didn’t my teachers ever tell me that?? YOU HAVE CHANGED MY LIFE!!”
I do what I can. I like to think I’m making the world a better place, one addition at a time.
We were in the car together last night.
“Quick- what is 9 + 7?” I asked.
“Oh, uhhhh. I don’t know! See what I’m talking about?”
“Okay, here’s a trick with nines. Take one from the other number, 7, add to nine to make ten, then add the 6 that’s left.” (This should be a split second process.)
“Oh, my gosh! Why didn’t my teachers ever tell me that?? YOU HAVE CHANGED MY LIFE!!”
I do what I can. I like to think I’m making the world a better place, one addition at a time.
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
Men at Work
People often ask me if I like working at my church. On days when I get to work and have to empty the trash, wipe up coffee grounds and spills, and clean up after groups who have used the office, I don’t. On days when every church member calls and asks me for a phone number- when last I checked, the White Pages is still printed and delivered to every household in America- I don’t. On days when someone walks in the door every five minutes, or the phone rings every two minutes, or someone is at my desk every ten minutes, and with each occurrence I have to stop what I’m doing and I can’t get any work done, I don’t.
There are however, things I do like about my job. The hours, the atmosphere, the low amount of stress, my co-workers. Sure, there is a huge discrepancy between the testosterone and estrogen levels in the office, but the guys treat us two women like equals. For instance, today I made a trip to the store and came back with a carload of supplies. I made four trips from my car to the office with my arms loaded with supplies, each time walking within two feet of two male co-workers who were sitting at a table. Just when I was done, one of them asked, “Hey, do you need some help?” "Hmmm. I think I've got it at this point."
To their credit, they are men. And as any man will tell you, they can't be expected to read the mind of a woman. I mean, how would they know I needed help unless I told them?
There are however, things I do like about my job. The hours, the atmosphere, the low amount of stress, my co-workers. Sure, there is a huge discrepancy between the testosterone and estrogen levels in the office, but the guys treat us two women like equals. For instance, today I made a trip to the store and came back with a carload of supplies. I made four trips from my car to the office with my arms loaded with supplies, each time walking within two feet of two male co-workers who were sitting at a table. Just when I was done, one of them asked, “Hey, do you need some help?” "Hmmm. I think I've got it at this point."
To their credit, they are men. And as any man will tell you, they can't be expected to read the mind of a woman. I mean, how would they know I needed help unless I told them?
Saturday, December 8, 2007
Friday, December 7, 2007
If the Shoe Fits...
Lately, I have been in desperate need of shoes. I’m not one of those women who drool and obsess over footwear. My expressions of longing and affection are usually reserved for living, breathing beings. Well, and chocolate cake. You also won’t find me very knowledgeable about fashion and trends in footwear. The truth is- I just don’t care. I’m practical. I’m not going to replace all my shoes every year to keep up with the endless, vicious, cruel, never-ending cycle of trends. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t stick out like a pimp at a Promise Keeper’s conference. I at least wear stuff from this decade.
With Christmas approaching, I find it incredibly difficult to justify spending money on myself. There seemed to be only one way to meet my need without the guilt. I went to Target. My first trip was to the new Target in West Nashville. As I scanned the shoe aisles, I spotted the perfect pair. Perfect, except they were a size 5. Since I’m not an elf or a fairy, and I have four other toes that would need to get in the shoe, I despaired over my find… that wasn’t really a find- only a realization that the perfect shoe I was looking for was taunting me like some cruel neighborhood kid, riding by on his bike, eating a Snickers when I’m sitting on the porch sipping water and nibbling on a grain of rice. One pair. Size 5.
As any self-respecting person would after being taunted in such a manner, I squealed tires out of the Target parking lot and spit my gum at that bullseye on the side of the building. Some woman chased after me, shouting expletives. If she hadn’t been so ornery, I might have been nice enough to tell her that peanut butter is good for getting gum out of hair.
I headed to my usual Target- the one closest to my house. Imagine my excitement when I spotted several boxes of the same shoe. I happily pulled a size 8 from the shelf and tried it on. It fit, but I thought a 7.5 would be much better. Perfect probably. I looked around. No size 7.5. Still holding the size 8 box in my hand, I discovered one lone shoe on the shelf… size 7.5! This was going to be my day! I looked around for its mate. Hmmm. How hard could it be to find one shoe that was by itself? I looked up and down the shelf, then on the shelf behind me, then the next aisle… and the next. Ten minutes passed. Where the hell was that shoe? There I was, holding a shoe box in one arm and one shoe in the other, walking back and forth down every aisle, three or four times, trying to find one shoe. I squatted, thinking a new angle would help. Nothing. Then it hit me… that’s why they put those little elastic bands around the shoes. Normally I mumble obscenities as I waddle down the aisle in tiny steps, trying to walk in shoes that are tied together. Do they fit? Well, I’m not sure. They fit if I’m going to walk like a Geisha. Perhaps someone had tried on those 7.5 shoes and decided to walk in normal strides, snapping the band and thus set on course my shoe shopping frustrations. Stop the madness people!
With Christmas approaching, I find it incredibly difficult to justify spending money on myself. There seemed to be only one way to meet my need without the guilt. I went to Target. My first trip was to the new Target in West Nashville. As I scanned the shoe aisles, I spotted the perfect pair. Perfect, except they were a size 5. Since I’m not an elf or a fairy, and I have four other toes that would need to get in the shoe, I despaired over my find… that wasn’t really a find- only a realization that the perfect shoe I was looking for was taunting me like some cruel neighborhood kid, riding by on his bike, eating a Snickers when I’m sitting on the porch sipping water and nibbling on a grain of rice. One pair. Size 5.
As any self-respecting person would after being taunted in such a manner, I squealed tires out of the Target parking lot and spit my gum at that bullseye on the side of the building. Some woman chased after me, shouting expletives. If she hadn’t been so ornery, I might have been nice enough to tell her that peanut butter is good for getting gum out of hair.
I headed to my usual Target- the one closest to my house. Imagine my excitement when I spotted several boxes of the same shoe. I happily pulled a size 8 from the shelf and tried it on. It fit, but I thought a 7.5 would be much better. Perfect probably. I looked around. No size 7.5. Still holding the size 8 box in my hand, I discovered one lone shoe on the shelf… size 7.5! This was going to be my day! I looked around for its mate. Hmmm. How hard could it be to find one shoe that was by itself? I looked up and down the shelf, then on the shelf behind me, then the next aisle… and the next. Ten minutes passed. Where the hell was that shoe? There I was, holding a shoe box in one arm and one shoe in the other, walking back and forth down every aisle, three or four times, trying to find one shoe. I squatted, thinking a new angle would help. Nothing. Then it hit me… that’s why they put those little elastic bands around the shoes. Normally I mumble obscenities as I waddle down the aisle in tiny steps, trying to walk in shoes that are tied together. Do they fit? Well, I’m not sure. They fit if I’m going to walk like a Geisha. Perhaps someone had tried on those 7.5 shoes and decided to walk in normal strides, snapping the band and thus set on course my shoe shopping frustrations. Stop the madness people!
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