A new boyfriend

Raise your hand if you saw this link on Twitter or Facebook and clicked on it because you thought I had a new human boyfriend.

I shake my head at you. You should know better, after all this time, my luck with men...

No no. No human boyfriend. But a cat boyfriend?

YES.

A coworker squealed and gave me a hug yesterday morning when I told her that I had -- finally -- procured a cat over the weekend. She even set her coffee down to give me a full, two-arm hug.

I had to set down my breakfast eggs before returning the embrace. As hugs go, it was a high maintenance one.

Our nearby colleague may have thought we were a little too hyper for a cat adoption, but we were recognizing a legitimately momentous occasion. It is, on some level, on par with gaining a human boyfriend.

Too far? I'm not so sure. I'm a champion cat lady who should probably have a cat at all times and who had been without one for two years.

So the new guy's name is Office Max, and the short story behind his name is that he has been living in the office at the shelter where he came from for the last year and some months.

It will be not long at all before you start hearing about him all the time (I've already posted three videos to YouTube, and I got him two days ago), but/so for now I would like to honor the babe who graced my presence for the last 11 years (and who is gratefully still alive and kickin' it, just not living in California with me).

.......

I first met Dibbs when I was 18, through a picture. My family was visiting me at college during my first semester as a freshman, and they showed to me on the viewing pane of their digital camera the new tabby cat they had adopted since I started school. I guess they needed to fill the void I left in my absence, or something.

Also cats are great and they were moving out of a no-cats-allowed rental into a pay-a-mortgage-so-you-can-have-as-many-cats-as-you-want home, so duh.

I made my first venture away from the dorm to my parents' place for Thanksgiving, which was when I first met in person the cat who loved, even then, to curl up on top of crumpled plastic grocery bags.

It's a weird habit, yes, but it was one of the only ways my last (human) boyfriend could sorta, kinda, not really bond with the cat. He would fluff a bag upward to catch some air; Dibbs would watch it above him, then his eyes would follow it the whole distance to the ground where he would then automatically move himself to lie on it.

If you're waiting for more of a climax to that, you can stop. That's all it is. He just lies on the bag. And loves it. Personally I think a blanket would be a little cozier, but his fur is pretty soft so I guess he doesn't need more softness than what he's already working with.

When I came home for my freshman Thanksgiving holiday, it didn't feel like "home" to me. Having moved three times around the country before ever graduating from high school, I had long before abandoned the traditional sentiment of home being the place that houses your friends-since-kindergarten, your retired kindergarten teacher, your favorite restaurants, and your musty bedroom with your third grade spelling bee championship certificate still hung on the wall above 1980s carpet.

For me, I rekindled friendships with a few childhood friends when we moved back to a town we had lived in before; we had one Chinese restaurant that we still actually frequent; and to this day I have never put a hole in my own bedroom wall to hang a picture. It feels too permanent.

I am beyond lucky to have grown up in a loving, safe household, but all that side stuff that many are able to take for granted (a close group of friends to go to prom with, continually excelling on one sporting team, being recognized in school hallways) I wasn't able to take for granted. So for better or worse, "home" in the material sense hasn't necessarily carried a lot of sentimentality with it, and "home" in the up-for-interpretation sense has been where my parents, my brothers, and (more recently) the niece and nephews are.

And where the cats are.

I still don't really use the term "home" to describe much more than whatever apartment I'm currently living in ("I've gotta go home, I have work in the morning"), or to talk about the Midwest (because LA natives don't know the individual states -- I'm sorry, but it's true) when I'm flying to see my family ("I'm going home next week for Christmas").

I've gotten better in my adult years about not hijacking a simple conversation to start rambling on about how I'm so different because I have no traditional sense of home. During that first semester of college, I was learning with some discomfort how to patiently listen to my classmates' woes about missing old friends and their excitement to go home for visits. Half the class couldn't wait to play with their childhood Labrador again, the Wisconsinites couldn't wait to eat some cheese curds, and I just wanted to yell: "I'M SO DIFFERENT!!!!"

(That urge to yell that particular statement hasn't quite gone away, unfortunately).

When I "went home" for Thanksgiving as a college freshman, the sense of detachment to the place where I had spent my last two years of high school was amplified by the fact that my parents weren't even living in the home they were living in when I left for college three months prior. Their new house was very cool and funky looking (in a good way), but my attitude was one of shrugged shoulders and indifference. I really couldn't muster up any excitement beyond that, nor too much grief over the house before.

I was assigned the hide-a-bed in the basement as my sleeping quarters. Being on a nocturnal college schedule, my light was often on after the rest of the Brewers had gone to sleep that week. But the newest, littlest Brewer was still awake, and would follow the light and timidly trot his tiny four feet down the stairs to join me.

Holidays can be a loud occasion with my family, and I think all the noisy, extra humans in the house were stressing him out, and frankly, kind of frightening him. On those holiday-week nights, the basement was calmer, quieter. But also not isolated; I was there. And for me, Dibbs was there.

Diblets would make himself comfortable on the hide-a-bed and snooze while I occupied myself with thinking about my friends back at school, the absence of normalcy in my life, and probably shuffling through trinkets I hadn't taken to my dorm room. I would eventually crash around 3 a.m., and when I woke each day, my kitten friend would still be with me.

I really believe that we made each other feel safe that week, and less alone. And that was the beginning for us, and beginnings are important for the future, especially a long one with several bouts of time in which a pair doesn't always see each other.

For the rest of my college years, my breaks from school created something of a Bailey-Dibbs relationship cycle. And what I mean by that is I was continually in love with him always, more and more in love after each visit, and he was pissed that I kept leaving him. If I was home long enough, we would get back to our purring, snuggling things we had going before, but I always had to rebuild what I had worked so hard for after returning from another semester away.

Even so, I was always able to be more affectionate with the cat than any of the other family members, who lived with him full time. I could throw him over my shoulder for an (albeit quick) snuggle, and they had to catch him when he was too tired to move quickly enough away from their petting.

As time went on, I had even more victories of breaking the personal space barrier with the cat. Let's just say my face has been in his belly much more than one time.

My brother Riley told me once that he came home from somewhere, and the cat started to eagerly take steps toward him, only to back off when he realized it was my brother walking in the door instead of me.

Let's be real: I was winning. The cat race was mine for the keeping.

When I graduated from college and moved back home, and Riley (the technical owner of Dibbs) left for college himself, it was all over for England. Dibbs was fully mine and I fully his. When I left for graduate school four years later, the phone call with my brother was quick. He didn't fight me, or express a lot of sadness at the loss. "Yeah, he's your cat," he simply said, matter of fact, and I prepared the pet deposit for my new place.

Our new place.

In grad school Dibbs quickly became a household name among my classmates. Many of them met him at least once, usually while he slept (i.e. hid) during one of the many get togethers I held at my apartment. If I didn't bring him up in conversation first, then one of my friends would, never missing an opportunity to rib me for my cat obsession.

During my last semester at school, I applied to an internship in Los Angeles. Having grown tired of the Midwestern winters and non-dating scene, I wanted a change. To my disbelief, I was selected for the position. I had less than 24 hours to respond to the offer, and I took it.

It was a short window of time between when I received the offer and when I realized and gasped: "! Oh my God, Dibbs."

I knew I couldn't take him with me. I was going to rent a room in LA, and my cat would vomit and moan and poop in the car during a 2 ½ hour drive; I could only imagine a 2 ½ day journey. There was no way he was going to California, at least not for the short term. I would have to be committed to the region before he could be.

My parents took him back under their roof, and for months I couldn't eat macaroni and cheese with canned tuna mixed in. I would come very close to crying just thinking about how I used to let him lap up the juice from the fish, while I stirred the meat in with the noodles for myself.

Mostly, though, I was surviving and doing pretty well in my new home, spending most of my energy trying to understand stocks and dividends (my internship was at a business journal) and make new friends.

Eventually I got my own place in LA, and made sure it was one that would allow cats.

That was eight months ago.

Curious colleagues and friends have often asked, a little puzzled, why "my cat" doesn't live here with me. Over and over I would explain the situation -- how he doesn't travel well, like really doesn't travel well, how it costs tens of thousands of dollars (really) to privately fly cats cross-country, how getting a new cat would make my life less anxious and more happy yet how taking the final step to get a new cat felt like I would be breaking up with my cat, my beloved, my Dibbs.

It felt like I would be terminating a relationship with someone who had done nothing wrong. Even worse, someone with whom I was mutually in love.

I grew to hate this conversation about "the move" of the cat. It was on par with discussing a really nasty childhood fight with a sibling in therapy -- just didn't want to go there and touch all the still-prevalent emotions.

In the last few months I suppose I have tired myself out, the way a wailing baby will, assuredly, eventually fall asleep. I grew less upset at the feeling of finality of not bringing Dibbs to California and more eager to get a cat in my home approximately right this instant.

When my parents came to visit last month (and did not surprise me by getting off the plane with Dibbs), I stayed in a hotel with them. During their visit, when I would think ahead to my return to my apartment, I imagined that a cat was there. As in, I forgot that I didn't have a cat in my apartment; I just instinctively assumed there was one there, like a migraine aura.

I knew then that it was time.

.....

I love Dibbs so much. Too much, some might argue, but no. It's the right amount. Time and again he has provided me with comfort during my often difficult twenty-something years. Even while on very fun vacations with friends over the years, I would stop to think of him while he and I were apart (not in a crazy obsessed can't-enjoy-my-vacation way, but in a normal amount of crazy obsessed way).

Dibbs always met me at the door and purred before I even picked him up. He slept in my bed with me, something he's done with no one else. He's finally started to, reportedly, get in my dad's lap, an action previously reserved only for moi.

Dibbs used to bite my ankles while I would talk on the phone, because he didn't understand why I wasn't talking to him. My brother Patrick finds this to be incredibly disturbing. I think it is the sweetest thing ever (Patrick also finds that disturbing).

He is in good hands. He is less scared of my parents' two new kitties, and he talks to my dad in the mornings and likes to eat grass outside. (They would like him to go on a walk outside, but as with the plastic bags, he's content to sit, thank you very much). I love him love him love him, but I am finally content with finding a new baby to love, and that contentment is a gift as big as Dibbs and Office Max themselves.

Dibbs was the cat of my twenties*,

*full disclosure, I was 19 in this picture (looks like it was taken last week...)

and Office Max will be the cat of my thirties. Welcome, Baby.

Intellectual Autobiography pour vous

Well, chillins. For my Literature of Journalism class, we were asked to write "intellectual autobiographies." Below is mine. Enjoy!

Dad showed me that you win if you don’t worry about being silly in public. Mom taught me to seek after education, and a career. My big brother Kelly taught me to drink Hershey’s chocolate syrup straight from the bottle, when no one else was in the kitchen. He also assured me that talking to a therapist didn’t qualify me as being crazy. My parents have shown me that waiting to get married pays off. My brother Patrick and his wife Jenny have shown me that getting married young can work too. My younger brother Riley told me last night not to worry about today. Grandma showed me that if she can get her college degree at the age of 80, then I have no reason to whine.

My fifth grade teacher Mrs. Borth told me, at age 11, to “keep writing.” I talked to a guy named Keith for about ten minutes once and he told me I would be a good writer. My friend Dave let me know I was deserving of romantic love. My parents called me “cute,” “pretty,” creative, funny, and smart often enough growing up that I didn’t have to spend my adolescence seeking the attentions of casual boyfriends and could instead make friends, play sports, and study. My dad still tells me that nothing good happens after midnight.

Anne Lamott’s Traveling Mercies taught me that I could be a cynic and a Christian. Corrie Ten Boom’s The Hiding Place taught me that the Holocaust affected more people than just Jews. The Babysitters’ Club books let me step into a fictional world that was actually realistic. The book Wonder gave me permission to laugh at middle school. I learned to French braid hair from the Kudos Braids & Bows book. The Bible has taught me to humble myself in the sight of the Lord. Cats have shown me that it’s okay to do your own thing, that solitude is vital. Too much time alone continues to teach me that, as the Bible taught me, “It is not good for man to be alone.” My family, and pastors, have shown me that faith is worth fighting for.

A semester in Africa taught me that “exotic” experiences can feel like everyday life. A girl in a computer lab told me that she felt the same way about her experience there. I learned from moving growing up that people are different yet the same everywhere you go. I learned about adoption and civil rights at a young age, and was immediately transfixed with the concepts.

I learned from several great friendships that it is important to be friends with men and women. I learned from overhearing other females say that they “hate” other women that I hate it when women say that about each other, and I learned from observation that such verbal attacks are destructive, even to those who utter them. I learned ballet at a community college last summer. I learned from a semester of social work study that I hate doing social work.

I continually learn from elderly men wandering the streets everywhere that adorable old men can put a smile on my face just about always. My middle school librarian taught me the Macarena. Youtube taught me how to knit. I learned yesterday, when I attempted to eat my breakfast, that I’ve had too many scrambled eggs in grad school and have maybe overdone it. And I learn all the time that I will never stop learning.

Paper "goods"

I'll tell ya what stresses me out at the grocery store:

the toilet paper aisle.

No, it's not a fear of social stigma, or just general embarrassment. In fact, this morning when I bought an emergency refill pack at the gas station I walked out the front door with it tucked under my arm, as casually as if it were my wallet.

So it's not that I have a fear of someone catching me with some TP in public.

It's the numbers!!

1. The prices, i.e. dollar numbers. No, it's not too expensive (except for at the gas station! Phew! Well, desperate times.), that's not the issue.

We'll get back to this.

2. The number of plies. Single ply? 2-ply? Triple?

3. The number of rolls per pack.

And finally,

4. The sheer VOLUME of options! I don't know what the deal is, that toilet paper needs to fill up an entire aisle (or close to). I don't know if it's because it's made of fluffy paper and there's a lot of air space coiled up in those rolls, or what! Regardless, it's

1. ridiculous, and
2. stressful.

Which brings me back to the prices. And the plies. And the rolls per pack, and the number of options. All of it really works together to stress me out, which is where I believe the success of the monster that is the toilet paper aisle really lies.

Think about this with me. Perhaps you already have, during your own stress session; if so, welcome to this internet group therapy. You're safe here.

Okay. So you enter the aisle. You look at the rolls; well, some of the rolls, since, as we've established, the aisle is so freakishly full of rolls. How many individual rolls do you think are there, actually? Upwards of 2,000?

Anyway.

So you look at the individual packs themselves. You start, perhaps, thinking about price. How much you're willing to spend on something that doesn't stay with you long (my apologies on the subtle crudeness; although I am smirking at my clever quip). Or maybe your first thought is brand. Or number of plies.

I'm willing to bet 10 squares that no matter where you start in your thinking, quickly you are hit by all your questions at once.

And my question is, how do we stop this madness? Is there a solution?

So you look at the first five kinds or so, you settle on 2-ply, then you realize the package only has four rolls, or maybe eight. Well you don't want to come back to the store so quickly to restock. So you look at the 12 pack, or the 24 pack. Then you realize that the 24 pack has single rolls, while the 12 pack has double rolls.

Well now you're in a pickle.

So then you're thinking, "Well what's the difference?!" Then you look at prices. Say, a 37 cent difference. Meh. A meaningful amount to save. Then you wonder if the double rolls are really worth their extra 37 cents. Then you wonder if the 24 pack is all it's cracked up to be.

Then you wonder if this whole idea of "double" is some big marketing sham

--it probably is--

and then you're back at square one.

Literally.

And then,

well, assuming you're as neurotic as I am, which you luckily probably aren't,

you're literally pacing the aisle, because it's so freaking big!, walking back and forth between brands, then those orange "best value" signs start to glare even brighter as you get more and more confused, and then you

stop.

And then you think some more. You take a deep breath. You realize this does not deserve so much to-do. It's just 37 cents.

And then you grab something. Put it in your cart. Hover for a moment, considering trading it for something else.

And then you capitulate. You walk away. The toilet paper wins again.

You guys might think I'm exaggerating, but I am serious when I say that I honestly think just about every time I buy toilet paper I am somehow dissatisfied with my decision, wondering if I got ripped off, or how quickly the squares are gonna get ripped off their rolls before I'll find myself right back where I started:

The evil, white, paper filled aisle. Right next to the paper towels and napkins.

Collage Morissette

Today I began my mandatory creativity time. Every Thursday from 3-6 it is written in my calendar to do arts or crafts. Today was day 1. It went pretty well. I made a collage of the lyrics to "You Learn" by Alanis Morissette. Fantastic song, agreed?

You live you learn

You love you learn

You cry you learn

You lose you learn

You bleed you learn

You scream you learn

You grieve you learn

You choke you learn

You laugh you learn

You choose you learn

You pray you learn

You ask you learn

You live you learn

So true, sister, sing it! The song also includes the lyrics, "I recommend walkin' around naked in your living room," which I agree with, but these lyrics did not make the final collage cut.

If I were technologically savvy I would take a picture of this collage for you with my digital camera and post it here. But I am not. So you will get a picture of Miss Alanis instead. Love you peeps, night!

Oh this Crazy Life

You know that "How are you Feeling Today?" poster? Well today I'm writing in my own little emotional vote: Neurotic.

I just folded my underwear, friends. I'm pretty sure I haven't done that since I was 12, and even then it didn't last long, because I knew it was over the top.

I am just slowly coming to realize that I have not allowed myself to be even the slightest bit high maintenance since I was about, well, 12. In other words, I haven't allowed myself to make anything inconvenient for others, and unfortunately in the meantime I have often made things inconvenient for myself.

So I'm letting myself fold my underwear. I'm allowing myself to be a little neurotic. Because you know what? As much as I hate high maintenance(-ness?), I think that as humans we all need to possess it to a small, healthy degree. Healthy, people, meaning asking for 1/2 of a Splenda packet in your latte is taking it TOO FAR!! Ahem, I mean...

But really, this is huge for me, you need to understand. And I will not be surprised if I talk myself out of this in a couple of weeks, so you as my friends need to keep an eye on me. It is your responsibility to make sure I am taking care of myself and not eating fruit snacks for meals because I'm scheduling my social life in a way that interferes with my basic nutrition (although please note I might snap at you because I am in my 20s only the one time and beer and nachos really make a fine dining choice on occasion).

Growing up my family moved three times by the time I graduated high school. This made me 100% able to make friends, and has made me who I am and has grafted me to my family for life in a way that I will never want to trade in. But. I have tried to let other people's schedules and priorities interfere with mine. I wouldn't say I've allowed my values to be compromised, in fact I would argue those are stronger as a result, but at some point I just said, "oh well, I'll just do whatever's easier for everyone else." It's not that I don't have opinions (see what I mean, this back and forth talk? Neurotic. It should have been on the original poster).

Basically what I'm trying to say is that when you're 16 and your dad becomes a pastor and moves you for the 3rd time, you think, "I understand that this is the right thing, and that God's hand is obviously on this, and there's nothing I can do to change it. And besides, I'd miss my family if I didn't tag along with them to Kansas." But the problem is I've let that carry over to an unhealthy level. It hasn't been entirely negative in the shaping of my character, but it's time to start taking care of myself. Having some confidence not only in my own opinions, which I have practice at, but in my own ability to create motion in my own life, and the world.

Thank you to all of you for your continued support.* Keep it up, my awesome friends (seriously). And I will try to do the same for you.

*(Particular shout outs to Braden, Nick, and Sarah this evening. And Riley, for putting milk in the fridge. And Lorri and Phil, for providing the last of their milk before Riley replenished our supply.)

Hard Day

There are days in my life when my social skills just flee me. Scratch that. Perhaps the skills are still with me, I just choose to ignore their presence and my ability to use them.

There are times, like today (and this entire past week), where my heart is so very on my sleeve you can see it beating. And it's a grumpy heart. It's an annoyed heart that doesn't want to listen, it just wants to whine, and yell, and it sort of wants to be heard but it also wants people to go away. It is moody. It has had too much time with people and needs to hibernate.

It worries, it wants to cry but is too stressed to create tears. It tries to read, watch TV. It phones a friend, leaves a message, the friend calls back and now it has changed its mind that it really wants to talk to the friend. It loves the friend, but can't be a good friend in return at the moment.


It goes to work and sees other hearts hurting. This sends a message to the gut that says, "now we are more tense, and dinner will just be an option at this point; we don't feel like digesting." The heart reacts properly in the presence of others' distress, and does the right thing amidst its own stuff. So apparently it is still working, still capable of loving. It sighs. It knows this too shall pass, it just has to accept the fact that it can only beat so fast. It can race at moments, but that doesn't usually mean getting ahead.

High-Low

1. Low: Fighting with family is for sure in my top ten least favorite activities ever. Unfortunately I experienced a bit of it today. :( My family relationships are sacred to me, and if I had it my way there would never be an ill word between us. It breaks my heart every time opinions need to clash in the air between us. Sticky, bad air. Ugh.

2. High: I babysat for my 7-year-old friend "Steve" this afternoon, and we had some good times. At lunch he let out a big sigh over his mac & cheese (made my Yours Truly) and said, "I had a big day." Following lunch he introduced me to all of his stuffed animals. I met a pig, named Pig (who sometimes answers to Eggbert), a bobcat named Bob, and a blue dog named Blue Dog. Nice to meet you, Friends.

Lost

Kim leaves for the Peace Corps tomorrow. Corie leaves for Boston in August. The 'rents and sibs who I am so close to live hundreds of miles away from me. I won't lie, I'm feeling a little (or a lot) helpless at times. I fear what will happen to friendships, I fear that I will miss deadlines for big life choices for myself. Then I remember that God is in charge of the perfect timing and I am not, but for a person who doesn't consider herself a control freak, I guess I do desire a little bit of control in that area. It's not exactly a funny joke to me if I realize I should have taken the GRE 3 days ago in order to get into a program that starts in 2 years, and now I have to wait a whole extra year to apply (that didn't really happen, this is hypothetical. That said, I would not be even a little surprised if that did happen to me, hence my concern).

My mom was thinking out loud the other day and realized how long a year can be for someone in their lower 20s, and I was glad she had the epiphany because that is something I struggle for my elders to understand on a daily basis. To tell someone, "oh it's just a year of your life" when they are 24 years old: People. That is 1/24th of my life. To my dad that is only 1/60th of his life. Of course he can shrug it off better than I can. Hence my occasional panic attacks while steaming milk at work, feeling the sudden desperate need to run out the door, board a plane and fly to whatever city or country I want to spend my thirties in, chat up all the single men on the flight there, so that when we touch down I've got a diamond on my finger and we can cross that marriage step off the list.

This is not making a whole lot of sense.

I was telling my friend Brittani the other day that when I was growing up, I very rarely compared myself to others. Seriously. I walked into middle school and totally missed the memo about self-consciousness. I was like, "So...explain to me again why I'm supposed to stop enjoying myself because that girl has a boyfriend/is cuter than me/has more friends than me?" When I went to middle school I was so excited that I had seven teachers in one day. And a locker for my books? Sold. So really, it just didn't phase me. I think it's in my genes, particularly the set from Daddy. Dad's motto is, and it's not really a motto at all, it's a serious mantra for him: "Never give up your right to be easily entertained." What can I say? I'm a good listener, and an obedient one (note extreme enjoyment of locker ownership above).

But...in my twenties, it is SO HARD not to compare my life to others. I was talking to Kelly back in February, and he called me out on it and said, "Bailey, I'm hearing a lot of what your life isn't, but what about what your life is?" My answers to that question were a little lacking and therefore depressing, but it put things into perspective. All I seemed to be able to report to him was what my friends were up to--what made me jealous. In today's culture and world, you can do just about anything and everything when you're young. This is why all the older adults think it's so great to be this age (which, I'm sure the wise elders are right on a lot of things, I don't mean to get into a generation conflict here). I told Brittani, at my age I could be in the Peace Corps, married, single, with kids, without kids, in a steady job, in an unsteady job, in the Americorps, overseas, on the coast, in Kansas (check). The possibilities are endless.

Point being here, friends, this is what is on my heart. Just wanted to share--which is the point of this blog, so good work, Bails. Mission accomplished. I do hope that in reading, you guys come across feelings you can identify with (be it mad love for Celine Dion or frustrations in growing up). Much love and coalition to you.

Kelly Job Coach

My brother Kelly called me tonight with an urgent need to share his recent epiphanies concerning my future career. These are my three options (he didn't list law school but he has mentioned that in the past so I assume he would support that as a write-in):

nurse

special ed teacher

pastor or deaconess

I told him that he has a choice, and he can only choose one. He can either be in charge of my future career plans or in the selecting of my future husband (another area of my life he has strong opinions on). He chose Career Counselor. Hmm.

Les Tournesols

I just finished watching the movie Calendar Girls. I first saw it this winter, and told my parents they would love it, and just now watched it with Mom (she did love it).

Not only is this movie hilarious, I think it is brilliant, and so sweet. It is based on a true story, which makes it all the more powerful than if it were simply fictional, but even so it is a fine piece of art. Every piece of life that the story touches upon--friendship, beauty in age, death, humor, tensions with those you love the most--touches me so deeply and personally. I L-O-V-E love it. Here is my favorite line (spoken in the movie by character John Clark, who in real life is named John Baker):

"I don't think there's anything on this planet that more trumpets life than the sunflower. For me that's because of the reason behind its name. Not because it looks like the sun but because it follows the sun. During the course of the day, the head tracks the journey of the sun across the sky. A satellite dish for sunshine. Wherever light is, no matter how weak, these flowers will find it. And that's such an admirable thing. And such a lesson in life."

The Gym

I've seen this episode a hundred times. Monica: I am not smitten! Phoebe: Oh you are so much the smitten kitten. I can't help but smirk ever so slightly, because I'm a sucker for that line, but when the episode is over I click off the TV. I know it is sapping my positive energy. Mom calls us to dinner. We had a late lunch, so I am not hungry, but I eat a bit. We watch part of another episode of Friends over dinner. Again, I stay until the end of the episode, but then I head to the gym.

I don my sports bra and tank, but decide to tote along my swimsuit as well. I think some hydro resistance will be good for my mind. It is racing. Well not exactly racing, but distraught and back and forth. My best friend's family is going through a crisis, and she needs some space, which I understand, but it is hard for me to provide it, yet at the same time hard for me to run at her with open arms; I am childishly hurt by the distance, knowing I shouldn't be but am nevertheless. My mom is in town visiting, so I am not sleeping in my own bedroom nor using my own shower. The bedroom I am lodging in is a mess. I tried to start shuffling items in between Friends episode number one and dinner, to move my bones and my sludgy, negative thoughts. I need better pay, better hours, more hours. I need one book that strikes my chords, so I can finish and snuggle and meditate in it, take comfort. Small to big, you name it, I want it changed. At the library today I allowed myself only one chick flick to take home, knowing that watching kiss after kiss would not be good for my psyche.

I get to the gym and decide to swim. The lanes are full, so I pause in the hot tub. It is then that I realize how many thoughts I have had in the last hour alone. The lyrics to a song my friends Dan and Holly wrote join the rest of my thoughts. "My mind is racing, but you are keeping pace, Lord." I pray, "please quiet my thoughts." I don't ask that He make me numb, I've learned in the past that ignoring things makes them worse. I simply request rest for the evening.

A lane clears, I seize the opportunity before another buoyant body might. I swim the length of the pool only six times, with breaks between. Wow, I am less prepared for this than I thought. I take peace in the exercise, though, in the deep breaths, in the semi-stillness. I head to the steam room. I am the only one inside the dripping walls. Another man joins me. He moves to lay down in the corner he has chosen, moves and makes noises like a flopping fish. I smile to myself, not out of rudeness but thankful for the entertainment provided. He is precious. He says something like, "Excuse me? Bebe?" All I gathered from it was that he was apologizing for interrupting my steaming session. I offer a smile that says, "you're not bothering me." Another young man comes in, doesn't sit down, just stretches for a few. We can faintly hear his pump-iron iPod tunes while he communes with us. The older man begins doing sit-ups and I think, never seen that before. Hmm. Both men leave and so do I.

I consider changing clothes and walking or lifting before heading home, but decide to soak in the hot tub instead. I let my hair down, gather my things from the locker room, head for my car. My body is warm, like a glowing ember. My feet are red with heat. There is a woman walking to her car, she looks a little sad, perhaps. I look to see if there is a ring on her finger, wonder about her life, how old she is, hope that she will find love and be happy. Maybe she is just tired.

During the drive I switch the radio to the Christian station. Michael W. Smith is singing "God you reign." A second song comes on, the opening lyrics about God knowing the number of stars in the sky. I am reading a book about Abraham. God promised him descendants outnumbering the stars in the sky, and Abraham and his wife Sarah laugh at God, because they are old and barren. They each wonder and fight with God, "how do we become the parents of many nations if we have no child?!" Sarah even lets Abraham sleep with her maidservant to take matters into their own hands and attempt to create an heir. Time passes and God proves his truth by providing them with their own offspring, Isaac. I wonder about my own life, and relate.

One of my best friends is moving far away in August, another told me today he quit his job, is thinking of going back to Ohio or maybe Indiana. I laugh a little bit myself at God for the irony. I can't sit still for two minutes, have spent much of the last two years daydreaming about other places to live, yet He is asking me to be the pillar, to stand in place where I am until further notice. The adventure seeker, the girl who wants to have fish chew on her feet, has been asked to remain in Kansas. And her little cat, too. I know that God will provide the pieces to my creative future eventually, and in the meantime he provides my daily bread, just like he did for S & A. He is teaching me patience, this is becoming pretty obvious to me. Perhaps He wants me to be an example and a resting place for others, my friends running to and fro around the country and the world. A wise sage at the watering hole, available via telephone and email, who can prove that they can make it, since I've made it too. Some days it is just harder to remain at the bit and not charge ahead, is all.

I get home, turn off my engine but listen to the rest of a song. It is not until I close the garage door that I realize the other car is gone. Mom and Riley went somewhere, there is no note. I come into Riley's room to type this. I stop down the hall to give Dibbs a few finger strokes on the head. A few minutes later I realize he has relocated to recline on the floor behind me. Later he gets up to nudge the hard drive tower. Riley has a USB drive that is lit up on the end, red. Curious Dibbs moves his nose to it, and for a second he is Rudolph the Red Nosed CatBoy.

Not Bringin' my A Game...

I feel kind of like a bad friend lately. I feel very scatterbrained, unfocused, lacking direction. Therefore I feel like I haven't really been there for people the way I normally would or would want to.

Sorry this is depressing. Just wanted to get it off my chest, and I have to go to bed so this has to be quick.

So my apologies if I have been lacking in the humorous email department, phone calls, birthday greetings, long listening sessions (I used to specialize in those), etc. I love you guys, truly.

Tomorrow's post will hopefully not be so boring. I just know that at least 2 readers get sad when there is not a new post.

'Cuz now it's time for the Birthday Rap!

Today's my birthday.

Thank you, thank you. :)

Well as you may have (hopefully) noticed, I blundered yesterday and forgot to post. But you will have to excuse me, because I was celebrating Birthday #1, aka Fake Birthday. So far it seems Fake Birthday went better than Real Birthday (although Real Birthday has been fine, honestly, I am blessed and aware of my blessings).

Fake Birthday (to review, Fake Birthday=yesterday) went as follows. Early alarm, sleepy girl, but all this was quickly shrugged off, because I had volunteered to wake up to an alarm to get RILEY FRANCIS, baby bro extraordinaire from the airport, i.e. my birthday present!!!! On the way home from the airport Riley and I had near panic attacks as we stacked more and more miles on the trip odometer and couldn't find a gas station. 310 miles when we pulled up to the pump, usually I refill at 270. Just saying. Then lunch with parents, grocery shopping for party, chores, blah blah blah, then friends and fam at my house for BBQ, cake, and general carrying on. A fine time had by all.

Real birthday (today). Earlier alarm than day before, after late night (see "general carrying on" above), due to early work schedule. Yes, that's right, I had to work, on my birthday, on a Saturday. "Yeah...I'm gonna need you to come in on Saturday..." It honestly wasn't that bad, but there goes the day, ya know? So then I get home and Riley and Mom and I decide to go get pizza and hit up a movie. Well after pizza Ri decides to ditch us (it's okay, he's forgiven), so Mom and I go to the movie, just the two of us.

We went to see Is Anybody There? with Michael Caine. Now, Mom and I both agreed it was a good movie, and Mom said she would recommend it to others, and I wouldn't say it necessarily has a bad ending, but let's just say I was a little unsettled. Now don't worry, I'm not going to ruin the ending for you, but there are just a lot of layers and a lot of emotion throughout the film, and I was very tense during the whole thing because I never knew what was going to happen. So whenever I see a film like that I think, "this better have a good ending or Girlfriend's gonna be mad." (Seven Pounds? Don't even get me started.)

I took an Intro to Theater class my freshman year of college and I remember we learned that Aristotle said that for the theatrical viewer, a play is a form of catharsis. You watch the actors go through a range of emotions, you feel the happiness/sadness/disgust/rage alongside them, and at the end, you are purged. Or something like that--whatever, I didn't write a dissertation on the man. Well Stotty was right tonight. So about ten minutes before the end of the film, there is an obvious scene where you feel, "this is the height, I should grab the tissues now." And you certainly have tears brimming on the lids. But then the scene is over, and ten minutes later the whole movie is over! There's closure (okay so maybe I lied, I realize I am ruining this for you, but I'm only ruining the concept, not the details), but you still feel "I didn't get my chance to cry! You made the scene too short, dammit!"

So then credits roll, Mom starts laughing and apologizing for bringing me to such a depressing movie on my birthday and I say, "that's okay, it was good, but now I need to cry!" And people are wanting to get out of our row, so I am in the aisle, hugging Mom, overwhelmed with unexpected emotion, not quite sobbing, but almost choking because I am so caught offguard by my own tears, arising too quickly for my slower awareness of them.

Anyway. It was a good film. View at your own risk. I wouldn't recommend going on your birthday. But this blog is getting long and I'm not done yet. So THEN, we get home, and somehow I manage to get these tiny tiny but MEGA painful splinters in my hand! Where did those come from??? So whatev, I'm thinking, "work, sad movie, splinters...." But I did have a profound thought as I was picking at my hand with a needle and tweezers, which inspired me to write this, and here it is.

So the difference between splinters and other injuries, bodily nuisances--bruises, scabs, sore muscles--is that you have to deal with a splinter right away. I would say I'm a big fan of instant gratification, but the emphasis there is on gratify. If it's a fun activity, I want to do it right away. If it's not so fun? The word "later" is one I've used probably more than most in my life, right up there with "precious," "holla," "Brad said," "Dibby Wibby," etc. But a splinter? Gotta deal with it. Birthday or no birthday, be it fake or Round Two, you've gotta stop what you're doing, and keep stabbing at the little punk embedded in your skin until it's out. Nothing else comes first. This is a hard concept for me, but one I continue to slowly learn nonetheless. I realize that grass needs to be mowed, bills need to be paid, doctor's appointments need to be made, before I watch America's Next Top Model, or read a whole book, or eat Laffy Taffy and whisper sweet nothings to the cat. Ahh, the first lesson of my twenty-fifth year. Thanks, God. Appreciate it. Thanks for 24 great years, an amazing family, all the people who love me and teach me lessons, kitties, and all your other blessings, day in and day out. All glory truly is to You.

[I love Alicia] Keys

Today at work I was sharing my locked-out-of-my-car story with everyone, and Nick said, "isn't it amazing how such a small object can have so much control over us?"


Profound, Nick. I love it.