This is the quote from my super-cool The Office page-a-day calendar:
April 5/6
"Okay, motivational dance contest, everybody!...Sometimes you have to take a break from being the kind of boss that's always trying to teach people things. Drive points home. Sometimes you just have to be the boss of dancing."
--Michaal Scott
Man, I love this show.
So, I'm finally learning the value of feedback, both positive and negative. I guess it's taken me a while to get to a place where I'm ready to hear what people have to say about my "work." So, here's my other blog which is a where I post my sermons. I'd love to have feedback, if you'd like to tell me what you think. Mind you, there's a difference between the spoken word and the written word, but I thought this would be a good start.
Maybe I'll learn something from you.
It's ACTUALLY one of the article headlines on the March issue of Southern Living.
Only in the south would people fly through the pages of a magazine to learn how frying food would finally be healthy, or at the least, ok.
I love my homeland.
It's been a little while since my last post. Part of the reason for that is that my computer has been dysfunctional. I know, I know: all you PC friends of mine are saying the following in a whiny, patronizing voice:
"But I thought Macs never broke down!"
Well, hard drives of all kinds are flawed from time to time. They're kinda like us in that way--no matter how close to perfection they strive to come, there may always be a flaw buried there somewhere...
Anyway, it's back now, with a new hard drive and a new keyboard. Yay! It's quick, it works, and I no longer have 17 thousand copies of "choir practice" on iCal. Hooray!!!
The other reason I haven't written in a while is that we were out of town and taking some days for retreat last week. While I did not intend it to be retreat FROM using a computer, it kinda turned out that way. And that was nice in a way. It really was a break, and the work I did was by hand--a nice throwback to days gone by, like the second grade.
While we were away, we went to a local restaurant where we were staying. The server who waited on us greeted us with a hearty, "How y'all guys doing tonight?" I've never heard that one before. Y'all guys? I'm guessing it was Southern attempt at sounding smarter by peppering yankee-language into her speech. Did it work?
I wasn't impressed. She served us well, thought, so I'm grateful, and we left a good tip.
Y'all guys heard any other crazy sayings lately?
That's what I paid to fill my gas tank the other day.
Now, I live in the south, where gas has always been cheaper than a lot of other places in the US. AND, I drive a 4-cylinder sedan. My gas bills SHOULD NOT be this high. Public transportation (such as it is in Atlanta), here I come!
And speaking of Atlanta, y'all it's been weird weather here. I know its the rainy season, but it's not TORNADO season--it never is here. Much of downtown Atlanta has been damaged, some places destroyed. Millions of dollars will have to be spent to repair homes, business places, convention centers, CNN, etc. It's weird.
We're not near water; we're not in the plains. We're nestled all snug among rolling hills and only one major river. What the heck?
What will this surge of "strange" weather do to Atlanta? How many homes have been destroyed, and whose were they?
These are the questions and prayers that will be on my lips for a few days. I kinda forgot about the $41.09 I spent on gasoline when I was under a tornado warning this afternoon.
My old friend asked me this question when I ran into him at the local hospital the other day. I was there early in the morning to visit with someone having knee replacement surgery. Only, I didn't know where to go and was there so early that the information desks were still shut down from the night before. I was just about to walk out to my car (quite a walk, I might add!) to get my cell phone and call a family member of the person that I was there to see and find out where they were, hoping he would have his phone on.
Then I run into my old friend who happens to work in pharmacy at the hospital. When he saw me he had that momentary look in his eye--the one you have at age 3 when you run into your preschool teacher at the grocery store and you can't figure out why she's not at the classroom getting ready for your return the next morning. He asked, "What are you doing here?" And I guess he was surprised to see me there at 6:30 in the morning. I was thrilled to see him because he helped find where I needed to go.
Thank goodness for old friends.
In honor of my new design, I'll tell you a funny little story about myself.
When I applied to graduate school in 1998, the application had to be typed. So, I took it to my dad's office where there was a typewriter because his secretary wouldn't use a computer. (Yeah, it was 1998. He was kind.)
So, I sat down with my application in front of said typewriter and looked at it in some trepidation. I asked, "How does it turn on?" My dad flipped a switch somewhere, and it started to hum. The little "screen" came on, and my dad helped me put the paper in so I could get started.
I had some trouble getting the lines on the paper and the lines of text I was typing to line up. Finally, I threw my hands in the air and said, "Who uses these things, anyway?" It seemed like such an archaic way of doing things.
So, my dad took the desk chair and I dictated the application to him.
I wonder if people who thought the internet was a "blip" ever screamed the same kind of frustration I had with the typewriter?
But its a cute little design.
Sometimes my memories play like movies in my head. I like it because I get to do subconscious editing and crop out all the extraneous or difficult parts. (Actually, I think I just mean difficult parts there because I LOVE the extraneous stuff, truly; ask anyone who's ever heard me tell a story.)
Anyway, today was a triple feature. A friend invited me to lunch and asked me to choose the place, so I chose the restaurant. It was one of my favorite places to go in college; we would go and load ourselves down--pockets, purses, and backpacks--with chocolate chip muffins. It's a gigantic salad bar, which makes you feel good about eating there until you realize you've loaded yourself with tuna and chicken salad, ranch dressing, and bread! So, walking into that place was like the first reel of movie-time for today. Suddenly I remembered faces I haven't seen in literal years. I remembered the feeling of being out at a restaurant and spending my own money for the first time. I remembered the closeness I grew to take for granted of friends who now live across the country. I enjoyed lunch with my new-er friend there and the silent film running in the background in my imagination.
When the credits ran on that one, I got into the car and headed for my 2 o'clock appointment in one of my old 'hoods. I drove by one of my old apartments and saw that the name and proprietor have changed. Suddenly, the film became a history flick and not a contemporary life flick. The street address to which I was headed was in the same neighborhood as one of my former "work"places. As I drove by it, film #2 began with a montage of faces from that job, like the opening credits of a sitcom during which you see scenes from well-known episodes with name credits appearing across the bottom of the screen as each cast member's face comes in for a close-up. Remembering those days was fun and emotionally rewarding.
As I turned onto the street where I was going, I realized that I had tread it on foot many, many times when I lived in that area. A good friend and I have walked that street and all the ones intersecting it for many hours, sorting out our 23-year-old lives. Man, those were good days and good talks. The triple feature began as if the projector had been suddenly plugged in with the switch already turned to on. Before I had time to find my seat, the movie was already running quickly forward through a favorite and (until this moment) forgotten memory.
My friend and I were taking one of our walks. It was a cloudy day, but we were young and stupid and much more risky then, so we decided to take our chances and take the walk. As we knew it would, the sky opened up and dropped its entire liquid contents on us as we walked back in the direction of her house, our starting point. What could we do? We couldn't escape it. We couldn't change it. We were young and relatively healthy, and it was spring or summer (warmer weather). So, we just kept walking and laughing at ourselves for being stuck in the rain with no umbrellas, rain gear, or really any concern about our predicament. As we went, a car pulled up beside us. A man was driving it, and no one else was in the car. He offered us a ride; we hesitated for about half a second with, "Oh, thanks, but we don't have far left to go." And yet we stood there being soaked to the skin by the rain (which today I would welcome in the midst of this drought we seem to be living in forever), so he asked one more time, and we said yes and got in the car, thinking that we'd be able to help each other if anything went ary. (I guess that's what we thought; truthfully, I don't think we really thought anything. We just did it.)
Memory movies are fun. Sometimes they hurt because you want to still be making them and yet you are watching them on the big screen. But when you get enough time and distance, they can bring light into dark days and laughter into tense life moments. I'm grateful for the ways that my memory movies remind me of really good days gone by. Because if there have been good ones, there will be good ones again.
A few weeks ago I received an invitation to attend a "Ladies' Tea" in the community where I live. It was addressed to me by name, albeit the wrong name. You see, I have a double, non-hyphenated last name, and people outside my circle of friends and family rarely get my name right in writing, or speaking for that matter!
But I digress.
I was invited to a "tea," and I love tea and fancy things like china and table linens, so I thought I'd go and meet some other women who live in my 'hood while enjoying tea poured from what I imagined to be a silver tea pot into what I felt sure would be fine china cups and saucers. I wondered if I would wear a dress or skirt; I've kind of gotten out of the habit of either one lately, but I was willing to consider it for "tea." I would have been pleased, even, to feel underdressed if everyone else had on gloves and hats. It would have been cool in a very Old South kind of way.
Here's what happened.
When I arrived at the community clubhouse, there was nowhere to park. I saw a space coming open, so I went for it, only to be stopped by a woman waving her arm at me and walking toward my car. I rolled my window down and she told me that I couldn't have that space because another woman who had parked illegally was going to get it. Then she stood in front of my car while the switch went down--I'm sure just to be sure that I didn't wip around into the space she was holding for her friend.
So, I parked on the street. No big deal. I approached the porch of the community clubhouse just about 6 paces in front of a group of 3 women who had parked near me. When we got to the porch, there was a guest book to sign and a door prize drawing to enter. So, I stood patiently behind the woman in front of me--the one who had gotten the space next to the building. When the 3 behind me caught up, the loudest one said, "Hello, Mitsy*! (Names have been made up to protect the innocent and to embellish the story.) Why is there a LINE?"
It sounded like a different language that I immediately translated into, "Why am I being treated like a nobody and forced to wait behind someone I do not recognize?"
When she noticed the prize basket, she started speaking English again...LOUDLY about how she ALMOST didn't wear her outfit because she was afraid it wouldn't be in good taste for the event. She should have trusted herself.
The 3 opt out of waiting behind me to sign in and give their names for the prize. By the time I get to the name tag table, they've all made their way into the schmoozing and small talk. So, I pick up a sharpie and write my name down on the tag. The woman at the name tag table is enthralled with the other woman at the table, so I just write my name down and wander into another room, wondering where I should go first. As I enter the big room filled with women chattering and LOTS of food, grapefruit juice served in plastic cups, and a small station hidden by the hallway to the restroom where the tea is being served, I think to myself, Give it a few minutes. Try to meet some people. You could make a new cool, interesting friend here today and then think back to this moment after 10 years of friendship! Wouldn't that be great fun?
No one talks to me.
So, I find some folks to talk to, namely the woman who kept me from parking next to the building while she stood in the parking space she was "saving" for her friend and another woman who attends the Baptist church in town. They introduce themselves to me and then have a conversation without me. Another woman spots me and comes over. She says, "You're supposed to write your street on your name tag so your neighbors will know to talk to you." A strange way to put that, I think. So, I tell her my street name and she tells me hers. We're not neighbors.
I see a few people who look like they might be friendly, but before I can get to them I'm hijacked by a few women I know. They introduce me to a few people who live around the corner from me. One says, "Oh, I've been wondering who was living there now. It doesn't look like you're home much."
What did that even mean?
Another turns out to be in the lot behind our home, separated by a pretty thick tree line. She is interesting and funny. FInally I meet Peggy, a woman who looks to be in her 70s or 80s who tells me about how she has lived here for a few years but doesn't really know anyone. She actually lives directly across from the community club and walked over to the tea. She tells me all about her church (she's a Unitarian) and we have a very nice conversation. She was definitely the nicest person I met.
After meeting people who were less than thrilled to meet me for about an hour, I decided to go home. Once there, I put on pajamas, took a nap, started some laundry, and continued to hide out in my house on a Sunday afternoon, giving the neighborhood the idea that no one lives here. Or at the least, that we're not home much.
I think I'll have a cup of tea in one of my very own fine china cups and saucers. Should I put on a pair of gloves?
An entry from the journal I'm keeping during Lent:
Why do people send emails that I don't want to read?
I refer, of course, to the plethora of email forwards floating around in cyberspace, waiting to penetrate our inboxes and waste our time, either through reading them or deleting them.
I don't care if you (or someone you've never met) captured a photograph of a cloud formation hovering over an accident scene in which *miraculously* no one was hurt, and the cloud looked like a hand shaped in the ASL "slang" version of "I Love You"--you know, the one that looks like the "Hook 'em Horns!" symbol Texas fans give when they pass each other's monster trucks in the road.
And I already know intrinsically, without the help of your forward, that (theoretically) I shouldn't worry so much about what is to come tomorrow or fret over what happened yesterday, and give my undivided attention to today.
And everyone knows that puppies and kittens are cute.
Why, pray tell, is this stuff meaningful to people when "Christ is risen, he is risen indeed!" is not?
Sheesh!
