Clearly I have reached the procrastination stage of freaking out, because instead of working on ALL THE STUFF that I really absolutely need to get done right now in order to end my work at two jobs, put all my stuff in a POD and drive across the nation in time to start on Christmas Eve, I am blogging and surfing the web. This is what usually procedes periods of great productivity tinged with hysteria for me, so I am embracing it. By searching for list of great good-bye songs online.
My favorites so far?
Hello Goodbye by the Beatles (What the hell is this song actually about? Not sure, but it is awesome.)
I've Had the Time of My Life from the Dirty Dancing Soundtrack (An eternal truth: Nobody puts Baby in a corner. Another eternal truth: why is this still the best movie ever?)
I'm Coming Home P.Ditty with Skylar Gray (Love the ridiculous nature of this video, and the message that PDitty is trying to return to his ghetto roots despite having been a millionaire now for the better part of two decades.)
Leaving on a Jet Plane (or NOT, see previous post) by Peter Paul and Mary
Friends by Michael W. Smith (A tribute to my sappy, quasi-evangelical youth group days and anyone whose eighth-grade graduation slide show had this as the background music. Also, this particular video is a fairly amazing slide-show of cheesy images that will make you tear up or laugh hysterically depending on what mood you're in.)
Midnight Train to Georgia by Gladys Knight (Yes!)
Any favorites to add that I should look up on you tube and play on repeat while I pack boxes and weep? Send em on over!
Friday, December 2, 2011
Travel
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| I actually don't really understand this cartoon, but I love it. Thanks orthocuban.com! |
So, we'll actually be driving to Oregon when we leave in a few weeks. Turns out shipping an 85 pound dog across the country in winter is a bit of a thing.
But I am happy about this fact for a single reason: it will mean no airline travel during the holidays. This will be good for me, because I've decided that air travel is just not what it used to be. And not only because you are stuck like a veal in seats that get smaller every year with no food or movies and not even tiny bars of soap to steal that say American Airlines on them. And not only because now that they are charging to check bags everyone brings on three pieces of luggage large enough to fit the entire cast of CATS inside.* But mostly because air travel these days brings back bad memories of middle-school gym class.
What, you might ask, does a seventh-grade class full of sweaty and awkward pre-teens trying to learn basketball have to do with domestic air travel? Well, quite frankly, the fear of getting picked last. I don't know if I'm overly sensitive to this given my not-very-athletic childhood**, but has anyone noticed the increasingly ridiculous boarding procedure plaguing domestic air travel recently?
At least in my memory, boarding announcements used to go like this:
The gate agent announced: "First Class Passengers are welcome to board at this time along with any passengers needing additional assistance or those traveling with small children." Then we would wait several minutes while men in suits with briefcases annoyingly and unhelpfully brushed past families juggling multiple car seats and several small children. We peons traveling in coach without children would patiently stand by or make a final bathroom run. Then we would hear, "Passengers seated in rows 27 and higher are welcome to board." And everyone would line up and slowly make their way down the gangway. And finally "Passengers seated in rows 6 and higher are welcome to board." And the rest of us would get on and everyone would feel okay and we would take off.
But now this process has morphed into a ridiculous pageant of elitism that leaves me brimming with fury and Mr. L sad that he ever agreed to go anywhere with me in the first place. It starts like this:
"Welcome, ladies and gentleman, we are ready to begin boarding flight #12345 to Whereversville." at which point everyone in the waiting area whether they are on the flight or not jumps up and crams toward the boarding gate like a mob at a Black Sabbath concert (yours truly included. "What if they don't have room for my bag?" I think, judgmentally eyeing a carry-on burdened family of five a few paces ahead of me.) Now that we are all standing there, you might think it was time to actually board the flight. But no, no, mon cher. "First I'd like to invite our Delta Super-Platinum Elite First-Class Gold Star Flyers to board via the red carpet on the right side of the boarding area." Approximately two men in suits go forward. And then we all wait for several more minutes, I assume while those two men are seated, hang up their suit jackets, and have a Manhattan prepared for them and the Wall Street Journal laid out. "Now I'd like to welcome our 2011 MVP Gold-Status Top Tier Frequent Flyers to board via the red carpet on the right side of the boarding area." Maybe one more person boards and then we wait for five minutes. This is the point at which my middle-school induced status anxiety mixes with my self-righteous tendency toward egalitarianism, which together make for a potent tincture of indignation. "Oh," I seethe to Mr. L who is trying to ignore me having already anticipated this outburst, "they get to board via the RED carpet, because they are ELITE flyers with SUPER special talents. What is this? The Roman Empire?" "Please just chill out. All seats depart and arrive at the same time," says Mr. L. Though factual and sensible, this is not at all helpful. "Thank you. It is now time to welcome our 2011 Silver Class Honored Members to board via the red carpet." And my fury increases. And it goes on like this for what feels like forever until every possible combination of precious metals, status labels, and membership categories has been combined in order to welcome, in total, about 8 people. And one of the children of the family of four with all the luggage trips and starts crying and I briefly feel badly for judging them. But only for a moment until I hear the nail in the coffin of my good traveling spirits: "Passengers in Boarding Group 2 are welcome to board via the BLUE carpet on the left side of the boarding area." And that is it. It is just TOO much. Because now having my anxiety raised for the last 30 minutes while we welcomed business people like monarchs of old, I have to spend the next 30 minutes FREAKING OUT about which boarding group I am in (usually something like 5, but is that in the middle or at the end? How do we know?) and if I'll have a place to put my bag. And so I cram forward annoyingly like everyone else and at the last minute am forced to confront my mediocrity when I board via a completely different stupid little lane with blue carpet. And, when finally aboard, I have to shove past the Delta-Super-Platinum guy in first class who is already on his second free drink and is looking at me as though he is slightly annoyed that I am there at all and have accidentally brushed his arm with my bag which probably they will end up checking anyway because there is not room. And my good traveling juju is lost forever. And not even Sky Mall Magazine can save me.
So, hopefully, you can see why I'll be glad to be packing it up in the Accord this holiday season with the dog, some books on tape, and free snacks galore. We'll be having our own super-elite, top-tier, diamond members party up in there.
*PLEASE STOP BEING SO RIDICULOUS WITH THE BAGS, EVERYONE. Now let me get my prejudice-against-folks-with-kids on for a second and don't get pissed because this is just common sense: your five-year-old SHOULD NOT carry on his bag and a personal item. That's just ridiculous. Several months ago, I was on a plane sitting the row behind a family of six. ALL of their children, aged about 3 to 9 had huge rolling suitcases and backpacks so big compared to their frame that they could have hiked the Andes with them. And it probably took the family 25 minutes to exit the row. Why is this? Because three years olds aren't that coordinated. AND THEY ALSO CAN'T GET THEIR OWN DAMN LUGGAGE OUT OF THE OVERHEAD BIN BECAUSE THEY ARE ONLY A FOOT TALL. I understand it is frustrating and expensive to travel with a family and I feel for you man. That seems tough. And I understand that the airlines are bleeding you dry. But let's work together to fight for justice and find a better solution than treating your toddler like a sherpa and making me worried I'll miss my connection.
**I seriously think that there should be more psychological support for those of us who had to endure middle-school gym class. I have talked with SO many friends who were seriously traumatized by these barbaric scenarios such as picking people for teams, etc. Most of them have just barely recovered. Isn't there a better way to educate young people about the value of physical activity without subjecting them to the very expression of social hierarchy that as awkward adolescents they spend all their time fearing? Get on it America.
Westward Expansion
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| My sister gave me this bumper sticker a few years ago, which I put in a drawer and forgot to put on our car. I got it out the other day and realized that the back reads, "Follow your heart. It will lead you home." Turns out its true! |
So, as it turns out, my last several sentimental posts about Boston and our adventures in NE do, in fact, have a common purpose which is not to eternally and sap-tasitcally memorialize my life here: it is to help me say goodbye to it. Because we are headed home.
A few months ago, the painful reality that my little church was not going to be able to pay me much longer came into specific relief. And so I started searching around for something else. I was not imagining that I would be able to find an opening in the particular part of the world most appealing to me (Oregon), but, as it were, that is exactly what I found. And it worked out. And we're going.
And thus the reason I've been so delinquent in posting these past few weeks is not because nothing erratic or hilarious has happened (believe me, it has), but because I haven't had time to write about it amidst goodbye saying, box packing, farewell letter writing, condo renting, wall spackling, furniture taking-aparting and generally freaking out. Because, surprisingly, it turns out that even doing the thing you really want to do can be scary as S**T.
We've always said that we were moving back to Oregon. And we've always dreamed about the days when we would get to live amongst the mountains and neo-hippies again and have a garden to grow tomatoes and actually see our families and friends at regular intervals and have organic, fair-trade, fresh-roasted coffee delivered to our door via bike messenger. But it so happens that when your dreams become reality, things are more complex than your imagination would have made it seem.
This is the right thing for us, and we are so grateful for this opportunity. But it is more complicated than I ever thought it would be to say goodbye. Because this place is now a part of who I am. And I will miss it. I will miss my friends and my colleagues. I will miss my home and my neighborhood. I will miss the Indian food restaurant across the street and its constant provision of take-out. I will miss the snow (not that much, but maybe a little). I will miss my work and all the people there and how it and they have frustrated and fulfilled me in ways that I could not have imagined. I will miss not having a toaster. I will miss Shabbat dinner. I will really miss my book club.
Looking back, I realize that in many ways, this the place where I became an adult. It is the place where I prepared for and entered my career. It is the place where I feel I fully and truly lived into my role as a partner to Mr. L (we've now lived here 5/7 of the time we've been married, which is a lot proportionally.) It is the place where we created our own unique family traditions and made friends who had only known us together. It was the place where we did things on our own and found out that we're fairly capable people.
So in saying goodbye to this place, I feel I'm saying goodbye to all that. But I am already starting to realize that there are great things ahead, too, and other stages of life that will be just as transformative and fulfilling and frustrating and exciting.
We just bought and shipped my nephew his first ever bike, a birthday gift.* And we'll get to see him ride it soon. And we'll get to be there for many milestones after that. And there is something giddily happy about that for me. Also, I hear the coffee is great out there.
*Brother-in-law: If you are reading this, we are SORRY that you will be the one who has to assemble the bike, which I am afraid may have come in 24,000 pieces. Clearly we did not fully think through the awesomest-long-distance-aunt-and-uncle-in-the-world plan enough to realize it came with a mandatory burdening-parents-who-are-already-busy-doing-other-stuff-with-putting-bikes-together-at-midnight addendum. We will buy you a bottle of gin as soon as we arrive to make up for this oversight.
Sunday, October 30, 2011
Clutter Free Living
I don't know that I've shared before in this forum one other fact about my urban life that surprises most people outside of the Boston area: that the place in which Mr. L and I currently live is, in total, 450 square feet. No, that is not a typo, that is the actual square footage of our condo give or take about 8 feet (we've never been able to tell if that bathroom is part of the calculation). I just wanted to throw this out there in case any of you ever find yourself in a very TINY living situation for a very LONG time (a submarine, prison, Manhattan, for instance) so you will know where to turn for help.
Over the years, Mr. L and I have worked hard to cultivate a lifestyle that we have labeled, "Clutter Free Living." Let me be clear, this is not some values-based idealism ("Oh, we just decided to free ourselves from the constraints of our stuff!" or "You know, we can feel fulfilled by other means and don't feel the need to accumulate material possessions.") No. That's not it at all. It's just that there is literally NO room for clutter, unless we decide to get rid of our dog or, say, all our clothes. In fact, I'm always keeping in the back of my mind a list of material possessions that I will accrue the minute there is more space to be had to put them (1. Couch, 2. Toaster, 3. Cat, etc. etc.) But for now, clutter-free we are and clutter-free we will be.
In case you are interested, some of the policies associated with this lifestyle are the following:
1) Throw away (or recycle more likely, if you care about the earth) ANYTHING that you will not read, or use, or look at again until the next time you move or clean our your closet. This includes old birthday cards or other cards (unless they are filled with lengthy, meaningful and UNIQUE proclamations of love or friendship that you think will be meaningful to read in the future), owners manuals (you must learn to admit early-on that you will never read these or consult them ever again), other benign documentation (this is the paper your new credit-card came glued to in the mail, receipts of any kind and notices of marriages, baby's births, etc.), pet toys your pet has lost interest in and chargers for devices you no longer own.CAST THEM OUT.
2) Throw away (or recycle if possible) anything that is BROKEN. This sounds silly, right? Who would keep things that are broken? You would. And so would I. Because it always starts off so innocently: "I'll get around to fixing that." or "Maybe it can still be useful somehow." No. You won't. And it won't. You'll simply banish said broken item to a distant closet to be consumed in dust and your guilt until you move five years from now and throw it away. Why not do it now?* This includes old computers, sporting equipment, and ceramic products that have not been glued back together within six weeks of being broken. Seriously.
3) BANISH all trinkets. The ceramic alligator you got in the Everglades? The really cute little cardboard box you got at your friend's wedding that was full of candy? The bandana they gave you at that road race that you'll never wear but that you fondly remember? OUT LIKE TROUT. A very limited number of trinkets (think 2-3) may be displayed on book cases or other flat surfaces. But any trinkets that need to be stored away need to be thrown away.**
4) Buy one, set one free. Whenever you buy something, get rid of something else. This way, you will always maintain approximately the same amount of stuff, instead of creeping toward a cluttered life with every nook and cranny full to the brim. (Note: this does not apply to handbags or kitchen gadgets...at least not in our house.)
5) Review your wardrobe every season in search of: items you didn't wear at all this year (why do you think you'll wear them next year if you didn't find cause to this year?), stained items (if it hasn't come out by now, I hate to break it to you, but it ain't comin' out), ripped items (if you didn't sew it up yet, you probably don't care that much), and items that no longer fit you (though some small spectrum of fat to skinny fit items is appropriate for seasonal changes in physical make-up, extreme storage of clothing reminiscent of another body is not a great way to live without clutter....and regret).
6) Limit nostalgia. Nostalgia for stuff usually only comes when you keep it. So unless an item has some great personal meaning to you (it was your grandmother's broken falafel maker, which she bequeathed to you, we just CAN'T give it away), snap a photo if you must and say sayonara. Once it's gone, you'll forget it anyway and move on.
In addition to these helpful guidelines, here are a few indicators you are falling off the bandwagon:
1) You are storing things in the trunk of your car large enough that you must remove them in order to put other things in there. (Guilty.)
2) You are attempting to justify to your partner purchasing some huge item for which there is no room. (Guilty).
3) You are considering moving to a bigger place in order to get a toaster. (Guilty. That's just a really expensive toaster.)
*I should be clear that I AM for fixing things, if they can be fixed. Someday I'll tell you about the wild goose chase I had to go on to get my lamp fixed, one that involved 14 phone calls and a visit to the fairly sketchy apartment of a man named Brian. But seriously if you don't have a real, concrete plan and timeline to fix something (one that includes either hand tools or the cell phone number of a skilled handy-man), axe it. (NOTE: SB and WEB3, if you are reading this, should you ever decide to live in a tiny place, you will be EXEMPT from this category, mostly because you had that broken jukebox in your LIVING ROOM for like 20 years and then fixed it which makes you awesome and probably able to actually fix anything in the world.)
**One helpful thing to do to make this easier is to shift your souvenir buying habits. Instead of trinkets, collect something else on your adventures: Christmas ornaments, place mats, something that will help you remember but also be useful.
Over the years, Mr. L and I have worked hard to cultivate a lifestyle that we have labeled, "Clutter Free Living." Let me be clear, this is not some values-based idealism ("Oh, we just decided to free ourselves from the constraints of our stuff!" or "You know, we can feel fulfilled by other means and don't feel the need to accumulate material possessions.") No. That's not it at all. It's just that there is literally NO room for clutter, unless we decide to get rid of our dog or, say, all our clothes. In fact, I'm always keeping in the back of my mind a list of material possessions that I will accrue the minute there is more space to be had to put them (1. Couch, 2. Toaster, 3. Cat, etc. etc.) But for now, clutter-free we are and clutter-free we will be.
In case you are interested, some of the policies associated with this lifestyle are the following:
1) Throw away (or recycle more likely, if you care about the earth) ANYTHING that you will not read, or use, or look at again until the next time you move or clean our your closet. This includes old birthday cards or other cards (unless they are filled with lengthy, meaningful and UNIQUE proclamations of love or friendship that you think will be meaningful to read in the future), owners manuals (you must learn to admit early-on that you will never read these or consult them ever again), other benign documentation (this is the paper your new credit-card came glued to in the mail, receipts of any kind and notices of marriages, baby's births, etc.), pet toys your pet has lost interest in and chargers for devices you no longer own.CAST THEM OUT.
2) Throw away (or recycle if possible) anything that is BROKEN. This sounds silly, right? Who would keep things that are broken? You would. And so would I. Because it always starts off so innocently: "I'll get around to fixing that." or "Maybe it can still be useful somehow." No. You won't. And it won't. You'll simply banish said broken item to a distant closet to be consumed in dust and your guilt until you move five years from now and throw it away. Why not do it now?* This includes old computers, sporting equipment, and ceramic products that have not been glued back together within six weeks of being broken. Seriously.
3) BANISH all trinkets. The ceramic alligator you got in the Everglades? The really cute little cardboard box you got at your friend's wedding that was full of candy? The bandana they gave you at that road race that you'll never wear but that you fondly remember? OUT LIKE TROUT. A very limited number of trinkets (think 2-3) may be displayed on book cases or other flat surfaces. But any trinkets that need to be stored away need to be thrown away.**
4) Buy one, set one free. Whenever you buy something, get rid of something else. This way, you will always maintain approximately the same amount of stuff, instead of creeping toward a cluttered life with every nook and cranny full to the brim. (Note: this does not apply to handbags or kitchen gadgets...at least not in our house.)
5) Review your wardrobe every season in search of: items you didn't wear at all this year (why do you think you'll wear them next year if you didn't find cause to this year?), stained items (if it hasn't come out by now, I hate to break it to you, but it ain't comin' out), ripped items (if you didn't sew it up yet, you probably don't care that much), and items that no longer fit you (though some small spectrum of fat to skinny fit items is appropriate for seasonal changes in physical make-up, extreme storage of clothing reminiscent of another body is not a great way to live without clutter....and regret).
6) Limit nostalgia. Nostalgia for stuff usually only comes when you keep it. So unless an item has some great personal meaning to you (it was your grandmother's broken falafel maker, which she bequeathed to you, we just CAN'T give it away), snap a photo if you must and say sayonara. Once it's gone, you'll forget it anyway and move on.
In addition to these helpful guidelines, here are a few indicators you are falling off the bandwagon:
1) You are storing things in the trunk of your car large enough that you must remove them in order to put other things in there. (Guilty.)
2) You are attempting to justify to your partner purchasing some huge item for which there is no room. (Guilty).
3) You are considering moving to a bigger place in order to get a toaster. (Guilty. That's just a really expensive toaster.)
*I should be clear that I AM for fixing things, if they can be fixed. Someday I'll tell you about the wild goose chase I had to go on to get my lamp fixed, one that involved 14 phone calls and a visit to the fairly sketchy apartment of a man named Brian. But seriously if you don't have a real, concrete plan and timeline to fix something (one that includes either hand tools or the cell phone number of a skilled handy-man), axe it. (NOTE: SB and WEB3, if you are reading this, should you ever decide to live in a tiny place, you will be EXEMPT from this category, mostly because you had that broken jukebox in your LIVING ROOM for like 20 years and then fixed it which makes you awesome and probably able to actually fix anything in the world.)
**One helpful thing to do to make this easier is to shift your souvenir buying habits. Instead of trinkets, collect something else on your adventures: Christmas ornaments, place mats, something that will help you remember but also be useful.
Urban Excursion
There are many times (given the incredible human capacity for adjusting one's sense of normal) that I forget that I live in the city. It's not that I'm in denial, it's just that I kind just think of this as my home and forget about other homes I've had that do not have so much concrete, and so little parking and so many other people.
But every now and then, I am reminded of my reality by some hilarious occurrence that could only happen in an urban environment. And thus when I walked into our laundry room/bike storage area the other day and saw this, I laughed aloud:
Now, to someone who has never been in our laundry room before, this might look like an unremarkable scene (other than to note that we are approaching a bike storage crisis). But if you look closely in the bottom left, you will notice what I noticed which is this:
Yes. A tiny pink tricycle locked WITH ITS OWN TINY CABLE LOCK to the bike rack. I don't know why I found this so precious, but I did. Perhaps it was because I envisioned all the other tiny pink tricycles that litter the yards and expansive front porches of families that do not live in the city, that can get left out all night and picked back up whenever the spirit moves. But here is this little one's trike locked up with a cable, amidst a million other salt-encrusted, Kryptonite secured commuter bikes: all of which made me feel compelled to give a shout out to the gritty urban parent that rigged this up so their daughter or son might have the same opportunities for trike riding that those suburbanites have.
God bless the city.
But every now and then, I am reminded of my reality by some hilarious occurrence that could only happen in an urban environment. And thus when I walked into our laundry room/bike storage area the other day and saw this, I laughed aloud:
Now, to someone who has never been in our laundry room before, this might look like an unremarkable scene (other than to note that we are approaching a bike storage crisis). But if you look closely in the bottom left, you will notice what I noticed which is this:
Yes. A tiny pink tricycle locked WITH ITS OWN TINY CABLE LOCK to the bike rack. I don't know why I found this so precious, but I did. Perhaps it was because I envisioned all the other tiny pink tricycles that litter the yards and expansive front porches of families that do not live in the city, that can get left out all night and picked back up whenever the spirit moves. But here is this little one's trike locked up with a cable, amidst a million other salt-encrusted, Kryptonite secured commuter bikes: all of which made me feel compelled to give a shout out to the gritty urban parent that rigged this up so their daughter or son might have the same opportunities for trike riding that those suburbanites have.
God bless the city.
FHH
My sister very often reminds me that when I first moved to Boston, I spent about the first 18 months lovingly referring to it as "This Frozen Hell Hole." For the most part, I have left that agony behind with some key wardrobe additions and the adjustment that comes with doing anything for a while.
But it snowed here last night. On October 28.
I'm just saying, was I that far off?!??!
But it snowed here last night. On October 28.
I'm just saying, was I that far off?!??!
Friday, October 28, 2011
Nostaligia's Here Early This Year
I thought I was too young for nostalgia to have kicked in yet. And then I made my second cousin cry.
It wasn't intentional really. He's only 4.
We were all on vacation together (my cousins that is) and his father asked if I might help out by turning on the TV for the little ones. Hoping to get some gold stars in the cool and collected older-relative-without-kids category, I obliged.
"I want cartoons," Mr. 4 year old demanded.
"No problem." I said and flipped on the set. It was on MSNBC so I pressed the channel up button. That wasn't cartoons either. I thought it was no problem. But it was a BIG problem.
"I want carTOOOONS," he screamed.
"Just a second" and I pressed the channel up button again. And didn't find cartoons there either.
"I WANT TO WATCH CARTOONS," he shrieked bordering on hysteria. And that's when it all went to hell. He continued to disintegrate further and further each time I clicked the button desperately searching for cartoons, as though the actual fact of me pressing the button was existentially tazing him or something. And then he started to cry. "But I wanted the CARTOONS."
Thankfully, this is when his father stepped in.
"Oh, sorry about that. He doesn't understand broadcast television. He only understands things that stream instantly. He thinks you're torturing him by refusing to put on the show he wants."
Oh my Lord, I thought. This was truly the child of another generation, a child who would grow up without many of the formative experiences of my youth. And that was when I fell down the rabbit hole of nostalgia.
He (clearly) will never understand waiting for his favorite TV show to come on. He will simply watch them on Netflix.
He will likely never watch a video tape of something recorded off TV, in which the editing out of commercials meant the first 3 seconds after every break were missing. Instead, he'll log onto Hulu and find it in its entirety.
And he probably will never have to wait up all of Friday night to hear if he favorite song would come on the radio, finger poised over the record button of his tape player the entire time. Instead, he will download things on ITunes.
Actually, come to think of it, he probably will grow up without knowing what a tape is: without the whir of the player, without the loud click of it reaching the end, without the agony of having just spent 8 minutes rewinding the wrong side.
He will probably never spend most of his life singing the entirely wrong lyrics to his favorite songs ("Secret Asian Man" for instance) only to be corrected by a lucky friend who bought the album and can consult the lyrics in the front booklet. He will simply look all these things up on the internet.
Will he ever, I wonder, learn to look things up in an encyclopedia? Hauling the big volume emblazed with the correct letter off the shelf in order to answer some dinner table quarrel? Likely not. Even my father, who is not far from twenty times his age has a Droid for these types of things.
In many ways, he will have a totally different life. Which makes me wonder, is it always like this? What are the things that our parents said of us, 'I can't believe they'll grow up without..." I can think of some, but I wonder if others are lost to us. Lost to the tides of change where changing channels is as foreign as an 8-track.
What a world we live in.
It wasn't intentional really. He's only 4.
We were all on vacation together (my cousins that is) and his father asked if I might help out by turning on the TV for the little ones. Hoping to get some gold stars in the cool and collected older-relative-without-kids category, I obliged.
"I want cartoons," Mr. 4 year old demanded.
"No problem." I said and flipped on the set. It was on MSNBC so I pressed the channel up button. That wasn't cartoons either. I thought it was no problem. But it was a BIG problem.
"I want carTOOOONS," he screamed.
"Just a second" and I pressed the channel up button again. And didn't find cartoons there either.
"I WANT TO WATCH CARTOONS," he shrieked bordering on hysteria. And that's when it all went to hell. He continued to disintegrate further and further each time I clicked the button desperately searching for cartoons, as though the actual fact of me pressing the button was existentially tazing him or something. And then he started to cry. "But I wanted the CARTOONS."
Thankfully, this is when his father stepped in.
"Oh, sorry about that. He doesn't understand broadcast television. He only understands things that stream instantly. He thinks you're torturing him by refusing to put on the show he wants."
Oh my Lord, I thought. This was truly the child of another generation, a child who would grow up without many of the formative experiences of my youth. And that was when I fell down the rabbit hole of nostalgia.
He (clearly) will never understand waiting for his favorite TV show to come on. He will simply watch them on Netflix.
He will likely never watch a video tape of something recorded off TV, in which the editing out of commercials meant the first 3 seconds after every break were missing. Instead, he'll log onto Hulu and find it in its entirety.
And he probably will never have to wait up all of Friday night to hear if he favorite song would come on the radio, finger poised over the record button of his tape player the entire time. Instead, he will download things on ITunes.
Actually, come to think of it, he probably will grow up without knowing what a tape is: without the whir of the player, without the loud click of it reaching the end, without the agony of having just spent 8 minutes rewinding the wrong side.
He will probably never spend most of his life singing the entirely wrong lyrics to his favorite songs ("Secret Asian Man" for instance) only to be corrected by a lucky friend who bought the album and can consult the lyrics in the front booklet. He will simply look all these things up on the internet.
Will he ever, I wonder, learn to look things up in an encyclopedia? Hauling the big volume emblazed with the correct letter off the shelf in order to answer some dinner table quarrel? Likely not. Even my father, who is not far from twenty times his age has a Droid for these types of things.
In many ways, he will have a totally different life. Which makes me wonder, is it always like this? What are the things that our parents said of us, 'I can't believe they'll grow up without..." I can think of some, but I wonder if others are lost to us. Lost to the tides of change where changing channels is as foreign as an 8-track.
What a world we live in.
Bean Town
I never know what to say when people ask me if I love living in Boston. There are things I love about it, sure, and other things I despise about it. But it will always have a special place in my heart. The only salient metaphor that I can find is (probably no surprise to many of you) cooking. If I were, for instance, to write a recipe for the city of Boston, it would go something like this:
Add rugged indigenous peoples. Let sit one thousand years.
Incorporate a good number of self-righteous British Puritans. Stir until sour. Add cranberries, turkeys, fur, and maple syrup. Remove any visible witches.
Let a thick crust of patriotism develop over all.
Set over heat and allow to boil until revolutionary influences begin to thicken. Take off heat. Strain out any British influences with a tea strainer.**
Freeze.
In a separate bowl, place several major educational institutions and allow to rise.
Slowly pour educational mixture into frozen Puritan mixture, and whip until it holds a sense of cultural superiority. Sprinkle with sea salt.
Fold in abolitionist tendencies.
Freeze again.
Add several waves of immigrants. Mix after each addition.
Let mixture ferment in a hot and humid location until you notice that the patriotic strains have lain dormant for long enough to transform into a fanatic sports obsession at least strong enough to support 4 professional sports franchises. Layer with ridiculous product endorsements. Add two tablespoons Dunkin' Donuts coffee.
Simmer with river water for several decades. Slowly pour in 1.5 million aggressive drivers. Make sure not to add any street signs.
Sprinkle with 180,000 college students.
Serve frozen.
*To make completely from scratch, use the "Planet" recipe on page 96,000,000.
** Use one if by land, two by sea.
Boston
Take One established coastal landscape with a relatively extreme climate.*Add rugged indigenous peoples. Let sit one thousand years.
Incorporate a good number of self-righteous British Puritans. Stir until sour. Add cranberries, turkeys, fur, and maple syrup. Remove any visible witches.
Let a thick crust of patriotism develop over all.
Set over heat and allow to boil until revolutionary influences begin to thicken. Take off heat. Strain out any British influences with a tea strainer.**
Freeze.
In a separate bowl, place several major educational institutions and allow to rise.
Slowly pour educational mixture into frozen Puritan mixture, and whip until it holds a sense of cultural superiority. Sprinkle with sea salt.
Fold in abolitionist tendencies.
Freeze again.
Add several waves of immigrants. Mix after each addition.
Let mixture ferment in a hot and humid location until you notice that the patriotic strains have lain dormant for long enough to transform into a fanatic sports obsession at least strong enough to support 4 professional sports franchises. Layer with ridiculous product endorsements. Add two tablespoons Dunkin' Donuts coffee.
Simmer with river water for several decades. Slowly pour in 1.5 million aggressive drivers. Make sure not to add any street signs.
Sprinkle with 180,000 college students.
Serve frozen.
*To make completely from scratch, use the "Planet" recipe on page 96,000,000.
** Use one if by land, two by sea.
Thursday, October 13, 2011
It Just Has to Stop
Okay. That's it. It's time for a little coming-to-Jesus meeting. Not an actual come-over-to-Jesus-camp meeting but a hey-heads-up-folks-this-is-getting-ridiculous meeting. And it goes like this. Non-religios: You MUST must must must must MUST stop being so awkward about me being a minister.
When I became a minister, I was fully aware that talking about my work could be sort of a buzz kill for a lot of folks. And it is. Trust me, I get this. It's not like saying you're a doctor ("Cool! Want to see this rash on my ankle?!") or a teacher ("You are a saint to put up with all those kids!") or any of the numerous vague jobs people have that no one really understands but feels comfortable letting slide by without asking too many questions. But having to say your a minister is just different....in a put down your beer quietly and stop using the f-word from this point forward kind of way. (Ironic, as I have a deep love of both these things.)
For my part, I have attempted to alleviate this by devising numerous strategic responses to the inevitable hard-swallowing, neck-torquing intensity of the moment when the cocktail party conversation turns to me and asks what I do for a living and I have to oblige. Sometimes, I say "I work at a church," which allows a small percentage of people to imagine me as a church secretary or preschool teacher and proceed without another thought. Sometimes I say "I'm a teacher," which is also true but a little bit of a cop-out. I've contemplated many other tongue-in-cheek responses such as "I'm in sales" or "I run a non-profit" or "I do institutional strategy." But truthfully, I've never really had the guts to pull one of them off because I fear the follow-up questions. Actually, my most successful strategy when greeting people I don't yet know is to say, "This is going to be a bit of a buzz kill, but I'm actually a Presbyterian minister." Kill 'em with comedy, I always say. It's awkward. But it's my life. And I knew it would be.
The part of all this that I wasn't prepared to deal with is that while many people will eventually integrate this idea and move on with whatever fun program of drunkenness and debauchery they were on before, there are other people that absolutely CANNOT move beyond this in a reasonable, mature way. Which leads to massive amounts of awkwardness all around.
Case in point: We (as in, Mr. L and I) have a number of sets of friends who, though seemingly interested in me as a person and delighted my general hilarity*, ABSOLUTELY refuse to EVER acknowledge that I am a minister. In fact, they avoid the topic like the plague. They won't ask me about it, won't talk about it, won't EVER let on that they even know (except that I know they do). All this is fairly amazing given that in adult conversation, one has to go pretty far out of the way to avoid asking someone else about their work life, likely the activity that takes up 70% of their waking hours. It is especially awkward when we find ourselves doing the rounds of "Oh, how's your work?" and "Are you still liking your job?" and "How did that interview go?" and when it gets to me, suddenly it morphs into "Oh, but what have you baked these days?"** Or "Anything interesting around the condo building lately?" Some people will go so far--and this is not an exaggeration, but you're going to think it is--as to NOT RESPOND at all if I mention something about my work. I'll say, "Oh, the other day at the church....blah, blah, blah....something hilarious...blah, blah,blah," and they'll simply stare back at me blankly as if I hadn't even said anything at all and then change the topic.***
What's really strikes me as bizarre about all this is that I have been surrounded by people who aren't religious all my life. And somehow many of those people, my closest friends from adolescence and college, especially, have always found ways to ask about my faith and my work and show their interest even if they didn't fully understand it. But now I find myself surrounded by this bizarre subset of folks who act as though me saying I'm a minister is akin to me saying I torture puppies for a living or that I'm a professional Dungeons and Dragons instructor.
I can't tell if this comes from some deep-seated**** fear that somewhere hidden inside me is a crazy fundamentalist Christian just waiting to pop out and tell everyone they are going to hell or perhaps it is simply a complete lack of religious awareness leading to a "File Not Found" pop up in their brains that makes them go totally blank.***** But I tell you what: I can't take too much more of it. This can't be that difficult. I meet people all the time who tell me crazy stuff about themselves that I don't understand at all (like that they are conservative-Tea-Party-Republicans who think we should eliminate all immigration in this country or that they believe in unicorns), and I don't go all black-belt-ninja-of-awkwardness-silent-treatment on their ass. I simply smile and nod and ask some general questions about it as it clearly is important to them and also I'm not a jerk.
What general questions, you say? How about starting it off easy with such as: "So, how are things at the church?" (You can usually continue with: "Oh, it's going bankrupt? I'm so sorry to hear that.") Or you could try something more direct such as: "You know, I have no idea what the heck you do all day." or "It's so strange that you work at a church. I feel like I can't use the f-word around you." At which point I will have the opportunity to tell you a bit about my life, which may be highly entertaining to you, will likely make liberal use of expletives and will definitely help us all feel edified in the end.
I'm not asking you to come to Jesus camp. I'm just asking you not to throw a strip of awkward nails under the bus I'm riding there. Capiche?
*Okay, okay. That's a little self-aggrandizing, I know. But this is a blog about my life, so it sort of fits.
** Some really awesome shit, by the way.
***For those of you concerned about my tendencies toward exaggeration, don't fret. I can verify that this is ACTUALLY HAPPENING because Mr. L also notices and will periodically say, "It's strange that we didn't talk about your work that whole (fill in time period: night, weekend, LIFE, etc.), huh?"
**** Okay, I just typed deep-seeded (which is probably what I've been saying my whole life) and my spell checker caught it. This is like the time I told Mr. L that we had to go see a Notar Republic. How did I make it this far without being exposed as a complete idiot? Yet another mystery to probe in the blog-o-sphere.
***** If the former is what's happening, you're just going to have to get over your religious ignorance and fear. When someone tells me they are a banker, I am not irrationally fearful that they are going to steal all the money in my IRA and invest it in the sub-prime mortgage market. That would be silly.
When I became a minister, I was fully aware that talking about my work could be sort of a buzz kill for a lot of folks. And it is. Trust me, I get this. It's not like saying you're a doctor ("Cool! Want to see this rash on my ankle?!") or a teacher ("You are a saint to put up with all those kids!") or any of the numerous vague jobs people have that no one really understands but feels comfortable letting slide by without asking too many questions. But having to say your a minister is just different....in a put down your beer quietly and stop using the f-word from this point forward kind of way. (Ironic, as I have a deep love of both these things.)
For my part, I have attempted to alleviate this by devising numerous strategic responses to the inevitable hard-swallowing, neck-torquing intensity of the moment when the cocktail party conversation turns to me and asks what I do for a living and I have to oblige. Sometimes, I say "I work at a church," which allows a small percentage of people to imagine me as a church secretary or preschool teacher and proceed without another thought. Sometimes I say "I'm a teacher," which is also true but a little bit of a cop-out. I've contemplated many other tongue-in-cheek responses such as "I'm in sales" or "I run a non-profit" or "I do institutional strategy." But truthfully, I've never really had the guts to pull one of them off because I fear the follow-up questions. Actually, my most successful strategy when greeting people I don't yet know is to say, "This is going to be a bit of a buzz kill, but I'm actually a Presbyterian minister." Kill 'em with comedy, I always say. It's awkward. But it's my life. And I knew it would be.
The part of all this that I wasn't prepared to deal with is that while many people will eventually integrate this idea and move on with whatever fun program of drunkenness and debauchery they were on before, there are other people that absolutely CANNOT move beyond this in a reasonable, mature way. Which leads to massive amounts of awkwardness all around.
Case in point: We (as in, Mr. L and I) have a number of sets of friends who, though seemingly interested in me as a person and delighted my general hilarity*, ABSOLUTELY refuse to EVER acknowledge that I am a minister. In fact, they avoid the topic like the plague. They won't ask me about it, won't talk about it, won't EVER let on that they even know (except that I know they do). All this is fairly amazing given that in adult conversation, one has to go pretty far out of the way to avoid asking someone else about their work life, likely the activity that takes up 70% of their waking hours. It is especially awkward when we find ourselves doing the rounds of "Oh, how's your work?" and "Are you still liking your job?" and "How did that interview go?" and when it gets to me, suddenly it morphs into "Oh, but what have you baked these days?"** Or "Anything interesting around the condo building lately?" Some people will go so far--and this is not an exaggeration, but you're going to think it is--as to NOT RESPOND at all if I mention something about my work. I'll say, "Oh, the other day at the church....blah, blah, blah....something hilarious...blah, blah,blah," and they'll simply stare back at me blankly as if I hadn't even said anything at all and then change the topic.***
What's really strikes me as bizarre about all this is that I have been surrounded by people who aren't religious all my life. And somehow many of those people, my closest friends from adolescence and college, especially, have always found ways to ask about my faith and my work and show their interest even if they didn't fully understand it. But now I find myself surrounded by this bizarre subset of folks who act as though me saying I'm a minister is akin to me saying I torture puppies for a living or that I'm a professional Dungeons and Dragons instructor.
I can't tell if this comes from some deep-seated**** fear that somewhere hidden inside me is a crazy fundamentalist Christian just waiting to pop out and tell everyone they are going to hell or perhaps it is simply a complete lack of religious awareness leading to a "File Not Found" pop up in their brains that makes them go totally blank.***** But I tell you what: I can't take too much more of it. This can't be that difficult. I meet people all the time who tell me crazy stuff about themselves that I don't understand at all (like that they are conservative-Tea-Party-Republicans who think we should eliminate all immigration in this country or that they believe in unicorns), and I don't go all black-belt-ninja-of-awkwardness-silent-treatment on their ass. I simply smile and nod and ask some general questions about it as it clearly is important to them and also I'm not a jerk.
What general questions, you say? How about starting it off easy with such as: "So, how are things at the church?" (You can usually continue with: "Oh, it's going bankrupt? I'm so sorry to hear that.") Or you could try something more direct such as: "You know, I have no idea what the heck you do all day." or "It's so strange that you work at a church. I feel like I can't use the f-word around you." At which point I will have the opportunity to tell you a bit about my life, which may be highly entertaining to you, will likely make liberal use of expletives and will definitely help us all feel edified in the end.
I'm not asking you to come to Jesus camp. I'm just asking you not to throw a strip of awkward nails under the bus I'm riding there. Capiche?
*Okay, okay. That's a little self-aggrandizing, I know. But this is a blog about my life, so it sort of fits.
** Some really awesome shit, by the way.
***For those of you concerned about my tendencies toward exaggeration, don't fret. I can verify that this is ACTUALLY HAPPENING because Mr. L also notices and will periodically say, "It's strange that we didn't talk about your work that whole (fill in time period: night, weekend, LIFE, etc.), huh?"
**** Okay, I just typed deep-seeded (which is probably what I've been saying my whole life) and my spell checker caught it. This is like the time I told Mr. L that we had to go see a Notar Republic. How did I make it this far without being exposed as a complete idiot? Yet another mystery to probe in the blog-o-sphere.
***** If the former is what's happening, you're just going to have to get over your religious ignorance and fear. When someone tells me they are a banker, I am not irrationally fearful that they are going to steal all the money in my IRA and invest it in the sub-prime mortgage market. That would be silly.
Friday, September 23, 2011
Home Is Where the Mart Is
I don't know why exactly, but I've been thinking a lot recently about
the idea of "home." Perhaps it's because I spent a good part of last
month in a place I think of as "home" only to get on a plane and fly
east for six hours in order to go "home". Or maybe because it's been a
rainy and cool fall in New England that has already filled me with the
sense of wanting to spend more time "at home." It might have to do with the fact that a while ago we read a book in
my book club called "Home" which I LOVED and everyone else hated.* Perhaps
it's because only rarely do I spend a day without interacting with
folks we've labeled "home"-less but who nonetheless have places they stay and identify themselves as being residents in our city and I've
been forced to wonder what exactly it is they are lacking that puts them
in this category. **
Perhaps I missed the day of kindergarten on which they explained all this, but I've realized that I actually don't know exactly what homes means. At least not entirely. But I feel that I should, as home seems an incredibly important concept in our society, what with homework and homing pigeons and TJMaxx HomeGoods and home games and home plate and nursing homes and home schooling and the home office and being home free and the general consensus that things are better if they are homemade. This might seem incredibly naive, but how am I supposed to know where my home is?
I wonder, is my home simply the place I live? In that case, if I've moved about 15 times in my life, does that mean that I've had 15 different, successive homes? Or is there something more enduring about home, a sense that some places we live are more "home" than others? Many of the "homeless" people I know return to the same place every night to sleep be they friends' houses or shelters or favorite (and seemingly proprietary) spots to sleep outdoors. Are those their homes?
Or is home the place where my family is? If so, what family? Is it where Mr. L and I are together? Or the place where our families of origin live? If it's both (or either really), then is one who lives far from one's family destined to a life of feeling "not at home"? If someone has no family, do we really say that that person has no home? Not likely.
Perhaps home is the place where I feel I belong or feel I would return to if I had a choice (is home, as the old adage goes, where your heart is?) Is it the place I identify myself as being "from" or that I generally identify the most with? Maybe, except that if these are true, then I don't know that I currently live "at home" as there are many days when I dream of being other places that would fulfill these things for me. Is it where we feel safe? Likely not, as my friends who teach in inner city schools will tell you, they send kinds "home" to places that aren't safe all the time.
Or maybe it is some combination of all of these things. Maybe it is where I live, and where Mr. L is and where I feel safe and where I belong and where my family is. Which means that sometimes it's many places and sometimes only one and maybe even nowhere at al. But this is all very abstract, you see.
For more concrete identification purposes, I've been cooking up a new adage: Home is where the mart is. Shopping mart, that is. You see, somehow, in a crazy way, I associate home not only with the place I live but also with how I feel when I'm there. It's the place I feel comfortable, stable, familiar, the place where I can drive to without thinking about where I'm going. Home is the place that I am when I feel comfortable at the supermarket, where I know just what aisle has the lemon soda that I love and which one has my favorite cans of black beans. Maybe that's how I know where my home is. Where is it for you?
*A regular occurrence.
**This very conundrum has led some service providers and homeless advocates to refer to their situation as "unhoused" meaning they lack permanent housing.
Perhaps I missed the day of kindergarten on which they explained all this, but I've realized that I actually don't know exactly what homes means. At least not entirely. But I feel that I should, as home seems an incredibly important concept in our society, what with homework and homing pigeons and TJMaxx HomeGoods and home games and home plate and nursing homes and home schooling and the home office and being home free and the general consensus that things are better if they are homemade. This might seem incredibly naive, but how am I supposed to know where my home is?
I wonder, is my home simply the place I live? In that case, if I've moved about 15 times in my life, does that mean that I've had 15 different, successive homes? Or is there something more enduring about home, a sense that some places we live are more "home" than others? Many of the "homeless" people I know return to the same place every night to sleep be they friends' houses or shelters or favorite (and seemingly proprietary) spots to sleep outdoors. Are those their homes?
Or is home the place where my family is? If so, what family? Is it where Mr. L and I are together? Or the place where our families of origin live? If it's both (or either really), then is one who lives far from one's family destined to a life of feeling "not at home"? If someone has no family, do we really say that that person has no home? Not likely.
Perhaps home is the place where I feel I belong or feel I would return to if I had a choice (is home, as the old adage goes, where your heart is?) Is it the place I identify myself as being "from" or that I generally identify the most with? Maybe, except that if these are true, then I don't know that I currently live "at home" as there are many days when I dream of being other places that would fulfill these things for me. Is it where we feel safe? Likely not, as my friends who teach in inner city schools will tell you, they send kinds "home" to places that aren't safe all the time.
Or maybe it is some combination of all of these things. Maybe it is where I live, and where Mr. L is and where I feel safe and where I belong and where my family is. Which means that sometimes it's many places and sometimes only one and maybe even nowhere at al. But this is all very abstract, you see.
For more concrete identification purposes, I've been cooking up a new adage: Home is where the mart is. Shopping mart, that is. You see, somehow, in a crazy way, I associate home not only with the place I live but also with how I feel when I'm there. It's the place I feel comfortable, stable, familiar, the place where I can drive to without thinking about where I'm going. Home is the place that I am when I feel comfortable at the supermarket, where I know just what aisle has the lemon soda that I love and which one has my favorite cans of black beans. Maybe that's how I know where my home is. Where is it for you?
*A regular occurrence.
**This very conundrum has led some service providers and homeless advocates to refer to their situation as "unhoused" meaning they lack permanent housing.
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
I'm BAAAAAACK!
So I could try to convince you that the reason that I haven't posted in a month was because I was on vacation, but really that was just a small part of the laziness and disinterest-in-being-inside that has characterized my entire summer. But as I am back, desperately trying to shake off that sense of wanting to do nothing, and simultaneously trying not to FREAK OUT that there is so much to do, I thought saying hello y'all would be a great and balanced act of denial to fill out my day today.
Also, I want to give a shout out to the dozens of people that I visited while on my vacation who informed me that they are ACTUALLY READING this, which on one level makes me FILLED WITH JOY and on another, shamed enough to want to get my act together and post something worth you clicking over. So welcome, clandestine readers who include some old, old friends, the parents of those old, old friends and some former ministers. I will now write with much more purpose knowing you are part of my audience.
But for now, let me share with you something that has taken on great meaning for me recently. And made me seriously consider changing my career from ministry to "amazingly-inane-and-yet-somehow-addictively-awesome jingle composer":
Also, I want to give a shout out to the dozens of people that I visited while on my vacation who informed me that they are ACTUALLY READING this, which on one level makes me FILLED WITH JOY and on another, shamed enough to want to get my act together and post something worth you clicking over. So welcome, clandestine readers who include some old, old friends, the parents of those old, old friends and some former ministers. I will now write with much more purpose knowing you are part of my audience.
But for now, let me share with you something that has taken on great meaning for me recently. And made me seriously consider changing my career from ministry to "amazingly-inane-and-yet-somehow-addictively-awesome jingle composer":
Monday, August 1, 2011
Important Things to Consider When Writing a Guidebook
I should start by admiting that I've kind of always wanted to be a guidebook writer, as they get paid to go on vacation all the time and then come back write about it, which sounds like basically the opposite of any other vocation in which one works most of the time and goes on vacation sometimes. Sweet deal, right? But I digress. The true point of this post is to express some thoughts I have about how these incredibly lucky professionals do a more effective job and save us from getting killed.
For example, perhaps they might see fit to mention that the bike route which they suggested we take is completely devoid of any street signs and thus impossible to traverse without a GPS which I don't have. Had they mentioned this I might have considered taking another route rather than biking aimlessly through the hills, wondering what street I was on. Though this detour gave me the opportunity to note some new developments in above-ground pool technology of the suburbanites all around me, also made me tired and cranky and thirsty. Also, it might have been prudent to note that the fairly major intersection that the book labeled "Clapp's Corner" is actually marked by the town with a giant sign reading "Itchy's Corner." Though my mind is as dirty as the next gal's, I thought for sure that the intuitive connection could not have been so clearly made by the leadership of a stuffy New England township. But I was wrong, and hence, more aimless biking through the suburbs.
Or another example: maybe it might make sense (tell me if I'm going overboard here), if the backpacking guidebook would have mentioned that the trail we chose a few weeks ago was not actually a trail at all, but rather a dry riverbed full of granite boulders over which one had to climb, hand over foot, for several miles.* Though our dog (who you might imagine is built much like a mountain goat) enjoyed this challenge immensely, we bipedal folks weighed down and unbalanced by huge packs thought it not so novel. It also seems as though at least a sidebar or inset box could have been dedicated to the fact that this particular hike, if attempted in the summer, is so infested with mosquitoes that one cannot stop forward momentum for even a second lest one is eaten alive. As you might imagine, the necessity of constant forward motion, up a pile of boulders likely to appear in some dinosaur movies, while carrying all one's provisions on one's back, when it is 90 degrees outside, can cause some of us less rugged travelers a good deal of concern.
Lastly, when describing somewhere in a tropical vacation destination as an opportunity for "nightlife" you may wish to qualify that by dropping in that it happens to be a huge and almost scary meat market for locals....I will likely choose a different dining/entertainment option.
But I know I can't hold you to any of this. What can we expect from folks who are paid to go on vacation? Also, do you have any openings?
*Did I end up doing this for SEVERAL HOURS with a huge backpack on my back? Yes I did. Was I happy about it? No I was not. Was the trail SO difficult that after going for four hours and only making half the progress we expected to make we actually TURNED AROUND AND GAVE UP AND WENT HOME? Yes, yes it was. And did the guidebook fail to mention that the trail we were on was paralleled by another, well groomed, slightly sloping and easy trail that we could have taken? NO IT DID NOT. Was I annoyed that it did find it important enough to mention the different types of trees along the trail, as if I could care about them at all while sweating so heavily that drops of perspiration were falling into my eyes blinding me with salt and fury? Yes I was.
For example, perhaps they might see fit to mention that the bike route which they suggested we take is completely devoid of any street signs and thus impossible to traverse without a GPS which I don't have. Had they mentioned this I might have considered taking another route rather than biking aimlessly through the hills, wondering what street I was on. Though this detour gave me the opportunity to note some new developments in above-ground pool technology of the suburbanites all around me, also made me tired and cranky and thirsty. Also, it might have been prudent to note that the fairly major intersection that the book labeled "Clapp's Corner" is actually marked by the town with a giant sign reading "Itchy's Corner." Though my mind is as dirty as the next gal's, I thought for sure that the intuitive connection could not have been so clearly made by the leadership of a stuffy New England township. But I was wrong, and hence, more aimless biking through the suburbs.
Or another example: maybe it might make sense (tell me if I'm going overboard here), if the backpacking guidebook would have mentioned that the trail we chose a few weeks ago was not actually a trail at all, but rather a dry riverbed full of granite boulders over which one had to climb, hand over foot, for several miles.* Though our dog (who you might imagine is built much like a mountain goat) enjoyed this challenge immensely, we bipedal folks weighed down and unbalanced by huge packs thought it not so novel. It also seems as though at least a sidebar or inset box could have been dedicated to the fact that this particular hike, if attempted in the summer, is so infested with mosquitoes that one cannot stop forward momentum for even a second lest one is eaten alive. As you might imagine, the necessity of constant forward motion, up a pile of boulders likely to appear in some dinosaur movies, while carrying all one's provisions on one's back, when it is 90 degrees outside, can cause some of us less rugged travelers a good deal of concern.
Lastly, when describing somewhere in a tropical vacation destination as an opportunity for "nightlife" you may wish to qualify that by dropping in that it happens to be a huge and almost scary meat market for locals....I will likely choose a different dining/entertainment option.
But I know I can't hold you to any of this. What can we expect from folks who are paid to go on vacation? Also, do you have any openings?
*Did I end up doing this for SEVERAL HOURS with a huge backpack on my back? Yes I did. Was I happy about it? No I was not. Was the trail SO difficult that after going for four hours and only making half the progress we expected to make we actually TURNED AROUND AND GAVE UP AND WENT HOME? Yes, yes it was. And did the guidebook fail to mention that the trail we were on was paralleled by another, well groomed, slightly sloping and easy trail that we could have taken? NO IT DID NOT. Was I annoyed that it did find it important enough to mention the different types of trees along the trail, as if I could care about them at all while sweating so heavily that drops of perspiration were falling into my eyes blinding me with salt and fury? Yes I was.
I Try to Live Every Week Like It's Shark Week
....but it's especially important this week. Because this week it actually is Shark Week. So let's get together and put it all out there this week, following the advice of wise souls such as Tracy Jordan and your friend LIOLI.
 |
| What's that? Do I have a shark hat? Yes. Yes I do. |
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Matrimonial Boom can be a Ministerial Bust
Mr. L and I managed to accomplish a huge feat this week: Actually discussing and planning one third of our summer vacation plans after only 13 weeks of saying, "we need to plan our vacation" and then not doing it and watching more Modern Family (which is one of the best shows ever, by the way) plus a few episodes of Glee. But I am telling you this because in looking over my summer schedule to prepare for this conversation, I had a shocking realization: This is the first summer in about a decade that I will not participate in or preside over a single wedding. WOAH.
Since reaching the age of 22, weddings have been a big part of my life as friend after friend has taken the plunge into matrimony, and Mr. L and I have come along for the ride, sometimes donning brightly colored dresses (me mostly) or tuxedos (him mostly), or sometimes just being part of the revelrous crowd. We love weddings and think it important to bear witness to these important events in our friends' lives (apart from which Mr. L LOVES wedding cake.) But since becoming a minister things have become much more serious for me. It is quite cool to have someone you know as the officiant at your wedding (I know this as we had several people who knew us as officiants in our wedding and it was cool). And so having become a minister exactly at the age in which many of my contemporaries were getting married has meant that I have gotten swept up in the martial tide in an unexpected way.
Now, I, like many of my colleagues preparing for ministry, believed that officiating at weddings was going to be one of the most treasured privileges of my clerical status. I had imagined myself presiding wisely and authoritatively over crowds of well-wishers and young happy lovers, sprinkling it all with a dose of humor and theological profundity, while finding the whole thing incredibly fulfilling and gaining the respect of colleagues and friends far and wide. But it's turned out differently than that.
Because weddings are actually REALLY hard work. Ask any pastor, and he or she will likely tell you that they would MUCH rather preside over a funeral than a wedding.* Why, you ask? In short, because no one's been thinking about exactly what they want their funeral to be like since they were 7 years old.
Quite obviously, there are so many expectations surrounding a wedding. So many layers of emotion and anxiety and anticipation. And while you might have high ideals that as a minister you will be a grounding spiritual force in this swirl of fantasy and logistical madness, that is only seldom the case. Many times, you end up being simply one more check box of an expectation fulfilled. BUT, now here comes the really difficult part: the expectations of you can be high and vague at the same time. Though some people have constructed impressively detailed plans about what each piece of their wedding will look like (some before they even met their partner!), the ceremony and minister are not always a part of that fantasizing. They know it should be amazing and meaningful and unique and life-changing, but most have no idea what that will actually entail (especially if they are not plugged into a religious tradition already). And now you are in the super high-stakes game of trying to craft a meaningful ritual around your psychic predictions of the whims of a bride and groom with much more important things to do like choose the flower arrangements and create the DJ's playlist. This becomes even more uncomfortable in this instances in which you are asked to set aside your own carefully molded and deeply held beliefs in favor of something "more neutral." ("Not too much of that Jesus talk that I know you're into, if you wouldn't mind.") So you are left alone with the huge task of finding a way to say meaningful things and guide this couple into the world of marriage in a mature and wise way whether they're asking you to or not, often without the guidance and traditions of your own faith.** This takes thought and TIME, more than one might realize.
Additionally, being the officiant means you end up in this strange in-between place. You are not "in" the wedding, as in "in" the bridal party, and you don't get to experience the intimacy of those "in" moments. No matter the proximity of your friendship with the betrothed, you likely aren't invited to dressing room to see the holy moment of donning the gown or to the pre-wedding manicures or for a mimosa before the ceremony (though you might be the one who needs it the most!). No one cares if you are in any of the photographs or if you know the schedule of the day. You are like a free-agent milling the grounds waiting for your contracted part to being. Yet at exactly the same time you are very much more "in" than anyone. You are the one there in the moment; it is you that is saying their vows alongside them, you who is ushering their marriage into the world, like some sort of matrimonial midwife. An incredibly intimate affair indeed.***
And all this adds up to quite a bit of tension and anxiety for Madame Minister. Now let me be clear: And am I happy to be asked to officiate at weddings? YES, OF COURSE.. There are few greater honors. And it is sacred and a privilege? YES, CERTAINLY. And have I had fulfilling experiences? WITHOUT A DOUBT.
Some of my most favorite moments?
-Offering two of my dearest friends their first communion as a married couple as part of what I consider to be the Most Presbyterian Wedding Ceremony Ever Conceived (love you T & B!). It was so meaningful to be a part of something that represented my own tradition so thoroughly and the couple so authentically.
-Officiating at a tiny wedding ceremony atop a Portland, OR landmark....outside....in December..... in the snow and sleet....and seeing them be filled with happiness! I wouldn't have missed it. (K&N....hope to see you this summer!)
-Hearing a year later from friends and neighbors that they still remember my wedding sermon...and try to enact my advice! What a privilege to have spoken a word to you all that was helpful in your relationship, though you didn't need it, as you are an amazing couple. (K&S: If you are reading this, let's get drinks again soon!)
-Helping to co-officiate at my father-in-law's wedding to P (who we are so happy to have in our lives!).... It was such an honor to be invited into that special family event!
-My first ever wedding at the Grand Canyon, by far the most striking locale and two of my favorite people who also happen to be my cousins! Thanks for taking a chance on a novice officiant!
There have been more, though I don't have room to share them all here.
But I also feel compelled to share the challenges of this office. I should note that all my minister friends actually told me NOT to post these thoughts. Brides and grooms across the nation will be racked with self-reproach and fury if you critique your experience as their minister-in-that-moment, they warned. And I agree....sharing the frustrations of ministry with those to whom you are minister is tricky business (I still don't know how pastors get away with writing books about their congregants without totally betraying the pastoral relationship.....though I hope they tell me sometime, as I have some great stories!). But I do long for more awareness of what is being asked and what is being offered in the invitation to become an officiant. If folks don't know what it's like to be a minister, it's because we haven't told them. So I'm telling. And sharing my advice for how to help be a great couple to an officiant.
So here is the Love-it-or-leav-itt Guide to Interacting with Your Officiant in three simple steps:
1) Be professional. Maybe she is your cousin, or your best high school friend, or a buddy from the gym, but if she is also a minister, you must realize that she is a professional, and that you are asking her to support you in her capacity as a professional. Yes, this will blur the lines of your relationship a little bit. Yes, it my be uncomfortable. But becoming a minister takes years of preparation, significant education and, actually, a CALL FROM GOD. It is serious. And you should treat it that way.**** This means responding to her as a professional when you interact about officiating details. It also means allowing her to maintain her own professional integrity, whatever that means to her. And lastly, as this is a professional task, it is appropriate to offer to compensate her.***** You didn't ask the caterer to do this work "just for fun," and you shouldn't do the same with your minister either. Most likely she'll say, "No, way!" But offering, directly and concretely, is essential. It is a clear way to say, "We recognize you are a professional. We appreciate your expertise. We know this is work for you."****** If you have limited funds, find another way to say these things (I am excitedly awaiting a custom-made communion set offered as a gift to me by a couple in whose wedding I recently participated....perfect!). Just be sure to do something. If you don't, you risk making her feel as if you don't appreciate her professional expertise. (Exceptions to this rule MAY include: 1) Family. It's still nice to offer, but likely not as necessary. 2) The Minister of the church of which you are a member. This is their job and one of the "perks" of being involved in a church community!)
2) Be Clear. Communicate clearly your desires and wishes. Perhaps even think ahead of time about what you want the ceremony to be like, what message you'd like it to convey, and what elements you'd like to include. I officiated for a couple once who came to our first meeting prepared with three themes they wanted to weave into their ceremony, along with readings and song choices that were meaningful to their families and an self-apapted version of a pastoral prayer I had sent to them. (M&T....you are the best!). They had no idea how immensely helpful this was in helping me to think through how to craft something that was be meaningful to them. I wish everyone did the same.
3) Be thankful. Being a minister means doing a lot of thankless work, work which most of us ministers feel called and privileged to do. But that doesn't mean we don't like getting thanked every now and again, especially if we have gone out of our way (for instance, by taking off one of our limited vacation Sundays in order to fly all over the world and marry you). It helps to be thanked. Sincerely. Officially. Really. Maybe you could send a note (not the same one you sent to thank me for the $30 blender I got you, but actually a whole different note). And please don't say "Everyone really loved the ceremony." (We hear that all the time in the hand shaking line at the back of church....and it is a central truth that people will lie through their teeth in that line. ) Instead try, "It was so meaningful to me, personally, because....." We will cherish these words. We will put them in a file and read them when we are down and out, and they will be like manna for us in the wilderness of a trying job. As will the memories of couples who we have had the privilege to join together.
I hope whoever is reading this will not take offense at anything I've said here. What I do hope is that you will convey this information to your friends and loved ones who are on the verge of tying the knot, helping out a few of my many colleagues along the way and making the world of ministry and marriage a happier place for all!
And now, by the power invested in me by the world wide web, I declare this rant over!
*This is a verifiable fact...if you're not a minister you won't believe me, and likely if you ask a minister, they may lie to you about this, but it is TRUE.
**This is tough, right? Because you want to be open and affirming and create something that authentically reflects the people getting married, while at the same time you don't want to throw all your integrity about your own beliefs and commitments out the window. I have some friends who will refuse to perform any wedding that is not Christian....I don't know that I'm quite there, but it is a little bit deflating to be told not to use any theological language after spending years preparing to become a theological authority in the world.
***Strangely, in the instances in which I've officiated at the weddings of more distant friends, I've found there can be some awkwardness after the intimacy of being in the midst of someone's wedding covenant, from which the friendship may or may not recover. It's like making out with someone for the first time and then meeting them for coffee later....it's a challenge to return to a more shallow level of intimacy.
**** Please, please, please, please PLEASE do not get me started on getting ordained online to perform weddings. While I completely understand the impetus behind this and know many people who have chosen to do this for various reasons, it can feel like a bit of a slap in the face to have others accept a privilege for which I spent years preparing with the click of a button. I like Massachusetts' model of allowing a civilian to become a Justice of the Peace for a day in order to perform a wedding ceremony. This seems to make more sense and more importantly doesn't piss me off.
***** People will hate me for saying this, but really I am just being real. Your photographer friends, your cake-making friends, your flower decorating friends, they are all thinking this and just not saying it. So offer. Most likely they'll say no and you'll be off the hook. But they appreciate you saying it.
****** While I am on this crazy bandwagon, might I point out that covering transportation costs is not the same as compensation? Mr. L's employer, for instance, offers him a discount on his subway pass, but it would be considered INSANE if they did not also offer him a salary. Getting to the job is not impetus enough to do it. I might be going over the edge here, but it seems to me it should be the same for ministers.
A World Made of Butter
In our household, we have decided that this summer will be dedicated to the pursuit of healthier bodies. After a long winter in which we built up (slowly but surely) an extra layer of insulation mostly via Saag Paneer and Peshwari Naan from across the street, we have committed to taking charge of our health: nutritionally, cardio-vascularly, muscular-ly.
Jason has worked hard to get us ready for this: getting us really into biking and fresh summer salads and hiking. And so I thought what I would do to contribute to this endeavor was to register for a French Pastry class. I know....I am always so helpful, you don't even have to say it.
Actually, the wheels for this were already in motion, as my friends K and J and I had already been conspiring to take a baking class for sometime. So french pastries it was. What better way to emerge into a healthy, nutritional lifestyle than learning to cram as much butter as humanly possible into some flour, filling it with chocolate and then eating it? None, I say, none.
The class we chose at the local Culinary Arts school was advertised as a "Morning Pastry" class and billed as a way to "learn the techniques" used to make breakfast treats with croissant, puff pastry, and brioche dough.
Thankfully, it was also an unadvertised opportunity to work alongside some totally wacky characters, which delighted me as I knew it was going to be a blog worthy experience from the get-go.
Class began when "Chef" called us to order by taking attendance and then casually informing us that one could not make a quality croissant in less than two days. Since our class was two four hour sessions a week apart, we wondered what on earth we were doing there, but this did not seem to phase him. Chef was French of course, mostly very disorganized and unclear, and fortunately, incredibly talented at making pastries and jokes. For most of the four hours he wandered around showering us with puns about France, throwing flour everywhere while drinking wine from a paper cup that magically continued to be filled out of nowhere and periodically slamming down a rolling pin on the aluminum table for effect. Perfect.
Also present:
-The "know-it-all" couple, sadly placed at the cooking station directly across from me, who clearly gain a sense of self worth from taking courses such as this one and then pretending to know everything and spewing their half-formed knowledge around the room in the form of thinly-veiled criticism of others' work. ("Excuse me, but I think you're dough is a little too dry." or "You're going to need to roll that thinner.") If you imagine that this particular type of input is especially irritating to me, you are correct, but in the name of culinary compatriotism, I withheld the many witty and stinging retorts which I composed in my mind during our many hours of rolling.
-A VERY pregnant woman and her mother....pretty much nothing more to say here than "You are a genius and that's exactly what I would do if I were as pregnant as you."
-A somewhat awkward young man, maybe in high school, there with his mother, who was quite endearing and funny, though not completely adept at the detailed process of pastry making.....ultimately his turnovers ended up looking like some sort of CSI crime scene, with raspberry oozing out of odd places all over the place, but it was fun to get to know him.
-One of the more hilarious women I've met recently who I desperately want to be friends with forever and who continued to make jokes the entire time in step with Chef.
-And my friends and I.
And there gathered, for two weeks on Monday nights, we made pastries. But how do you make pastries, you ask? Like this:
1) Mix a bunch of ingredients (such as flour, salt, sugar, milk, eggs and water) in a stand mixer.*
2) Let that dough rise for one hour.
3) Punch it down. Hard. I said HARD, damn it. Punch it until your knuckles hurt from smashing them accidentally on the edge of the bowl if don't have the "techinique" quite down yet. This is easier if you are an especially passionate* person already.
4) Refrigerate this abused dough overnight or, in this case, for one hour.
5) In the meantime, take several POUNDS of butter (no joke) and bash them together as hard as you can with a rolling pin until they form an 8X8 square slab about a half inch thick.
6) Roll out the dough into a square about twice as big as the butter slab. Fold the dough around the butter and roll it. And roll it. And roll it. And roll it some more until it is a very long rectangle the thickness and consistency of which is a secret they must only reveal to you in the advanced pastry program. In our case, we rolled until chef said "ENOUGH."
7) Once finished, fold this slab in a very special pattern the purpose of which was not explained in the introductory level class and put a dot in the top with your finger (This is called a "turn").
8) Refrigerate it for another hour and then take it out.
9) And then roll it again and again and again and again until your arms hurt, all the while throwing flour on the table and dough and the floor and yourself until every inch of you is covered with flour including the insides of your shoes for week. When finished, fold it in the special pattern again and put two dots in the top.
10) Repeat steps 8 and 9 four times or until it is either midnight or you can't feel your triceps.
11) Roll the dough out a final time. Cut it into triangles. Fill with delicious things like almond paste, chocolate, cinnamon, nuts, whatever.
12) Bake.
13) Eat.
14) Die of happiness.
15) Return to life.
16) Bring home three boxes of pastries to husband who will eat them for breakfast and dinner for two weeks because they are SO good it's impossible to stop eating them and feeling amazing.
I'm completely serious about this last part. These were LITERALLY the best pastries I have EVER had. They were like a little puffy piece of heaven covered in satisfaction and glazed with joy. On the spot I vowed that I would never waste my time or calories on a mediocre pastry again in my life (a promise I quickly broke the next time I found myself hungry and at Starbucks, but the sentiment was legitimate.) It is amazing what a few pounds of butter can do, isn't it?
So here's to pastries, chef, and health plans out the window. Vive la France!
*Apparently, in the culinary world, a "recipe" serves a different purpose than it does in the actual world. A progressional "recipe" is just a list of ingredients in insane proportions with absolutely no directions at all. Here is what we were handed when we got to class as a "recipe" for croissants:
5 oz yeast
5 cups water
6 lb flour
3 oz salt
10 oz sugar
14 oz milk
2 eggs
4 lbs butter
1/2 tablet vitamin C
WHAT?!??!
*Read: Angry.
Jason has worked hard to get us ready for this: getting us really into biking and fresh summer salads and hiking. And so I thought what I would do to contribute to this endeavor was to register for a French Pastry class. I know....I am always so helpful, you don't even have to say it.
Actually, the wheels for this were already in motion, as my friends K and J and I had already been conspiring to take a baking class for sometime. So french pastries it was. What better way to emerge into a healthy, nutritional lifestyle than learning to cram as much butter as humanly possible into some flour, filling it with chocolate and then eating it? None, I say, none.
The class we chose at the local Culinary Arts school was advertised as a "Morning Pastry" class and billed as a way to "learn the techniques" used to make breakfast treats with croissant, puff pastry, and brioche dough.
Thankfully, it was also an unadvertised opportunity to work alongside some totally wacky characters, which delighted me as I knew it was going to be a blog worthy experience from the get-go.
Class began when "Chef" called us to order by taking attendance and then casually informing us that one could not make a quality croissant in less than two days. Since our class was two four hour sessions a week apart, we wondered what on earth we were doing there, but this did not seem to phase him. Chef was French of course, mostly very disorganized and unclear, and fortunately, incredibly talented at making pastries and jokes. For most of the four hours he wandered around showering us with puns about France, throwing flour everywhere while drinking wine from a paper cup that magically continued to be filled out of nowhere and periodically slamming down a rolling pin on the aluminum table for effect. Perfect.
Also present:
-The "know-it-all" couple, sadly placed at the cooking station directly across from me, who clearly gain a sense of self worth from taking courses such as this one and then pretending to know everything and spewing their half-formed knowledge around the room in the form of thinly-veiled criticism of others' work. ("Excuse me, but I think you're dough is a little too dry." or "You're going to need to roll that thinner.") If you imagine that this particular type of input is especially irritating to me, you are correct, but in the name of culinary compatriotism, I withheld the many witty and stinging retorts which I composed in my mind during our many hours of rolling.
-A VERY pregnant woman and her mother....pretty much nothing more to say here than "You are a genius and that's exactly what I would do if I were as pregnant as you."
-A somewhat awkward young man, maybe in high school, there with his mother, who was quite endearing and funny, though not completely adept at the detailed process of pastry making.....ultimately his turnovers ended up looking like some sort of CSI crime scene, with raspberry oozing out of odd places all over the place, but it was fun to get to know him.
-One of the more hilarious women I've met recently who I desperately want to be friends with forever and who continued to make jokes the entire time in step with Chef.
-And my friends and I.
And there gathered, for two weeks on Monday nights, we made pastries. But how do you make pastries, you ask? Like this:
1) Mix a bunch of ingredients (such as flour, salt, sugar, milk, eggs and water) in a stand mixer.*
2) Let that dough rise for one hour.
3) Punch it down. Hard. I said HARD, damn it. Punch it until your knuckles hurt from smashing them accidentally on the edge of the bowl if don't have the "techinique" quite down yet. This is easier if you are an especially passionate* person already.
4) Refrigerate this abused dough overnight or, in this case, for one hour.
5) In the meantime, take several POUNDS of butter (no joke) and bash them together as hard as you can with a rolling pin until they form an 8X8 square slab about a half inch thick.
6) Roll out the dough into a square about twice as big as the butter slab. Fold the dough around the butter and roll it. And roll it. And roll it. And roll it some more until it is a very long rectangle the thickness and consistency of which is a secret they must only reveal to you in the advanced pastry program. In our case, we rolled until chef said "ENOUGH."
7) Once finished, fold this slab in a very special pattern the purpose of which was not explained in the introductory level class and put a dot in the top with your finger (This is called a "turn").
8) Refrigerate it for another hour and then take it out.
9) And then roll it again and again and again and again until your arms hurt, all the while throwing flour on the table and dough and the floor and yourself until every inch of you is covered with flour including the insides of your shoes for week. When finished, fold it in the special pattern again and put two dots in the top.
10) Repeat steps 8 and 9 four times or until it is either midnight or you can't feel your triceps.
11) Roll the dough out a final time. Cut it into triangles. Fill with delicious things like almond paste, chocolate, cinnamon, nuts, whatever.
12) Bake.
13) Eat.
14) Die of happiness.
15) Return to life.
16) Bring home three boxes of pastries to husband who will eat them for breakfast and dinner for two weeks because they are SO good it's impossible to stop eating them and feeling amazing.
I'm completely serious about this last part. These were LITERALLY the best pastries I have EVER had. They were like a little puffy piece of heaven covered in satisfaction and glazed with joy. On the spot I vowed that I would never waste my time or calories on a mediocre pastry again in my life (a promise I quickly broke the next time I found myself hungry and at Starbucks, but the sentiment was legitimate.) It is amazing what a few pounds of butter can do, isn't it?
So here's to pastries, chef, and health plans out the window. Vive la France!
*Apparently, in the culinary world, a "recipe" serves a different purpose than it does in the actual world. A progressional "recipe" is just a list of ingredients in insane proportions with absolutely no directions at all. Here is what we were handed when we got to class as a "recipe" for croissants:
5 oz yeast
5 cups water
6 lb flour
3 oz salt
10 oz sugar
14 oz milk
2 eggs
4 lbs butter
1/2 tablet vitamin C
WHAT?!??!
*Read: Angry.
Fun Facts about Puerto Rico
1. Puerto has the only tropical rainforest in the US National Forest system, which is home to 50 species of orchids, the formerly endangered and also quite elusive Puerto Rican Parrot, and no mammals other than bats.
3. Gas is sold there in litres rather than gallons.
4. U.S. Dollars are called pesos.
5. Traditionally, everyone on the plane applauds upon touch down in Puerto Rico.
6. It is hot and tropical and fairly amazing.
7. And I love Mr. L.
8. And I'm 30.
3. Gas is sold there in litres rather than gallons.
4. U.S. Dollars are called pesos.
5. Traditionally, everyone on the plane applauds upon touch down in Puerto Rico.
6. It is hot and tropical and fairly amazing.
7. And I love Mr. L.
8. And I'm 30.
Thursday, July 7, 2011
The Big 3-0
Exactly ten years ago today I was in Barcelona, in an archery bar*, celebrating as I entered my 20s. At that time, when I imagined what I would be doing at 30, I felt filled to the brim with potential. I was sure that in one decade I would be the following:
1) Newly married (I wanted to get married at 28...how exactly I chose this number now eludes me.)
2) Finished with Law School at a prestigious institution.
3) Enjoying my career as a successful lawyer in public service (a career which in my mind somehow also made me well-off...hmmm.)
4) The newest up-and-coming political star likely to be the President of the United States or at the very least Governor of Oregon. (This is not a joke....I really thought this.)
5) Beautiful, fit, tan, and all that jazz.
Now, standing on that threshold (or I guess already having crossed it as it is 6am here), I find I have done very few of those things and that my life has taken a completely different direction. I was not who I thought I would be. And I realize this morning that that is okay. So it is on my list of things to do today to say goodbye of some of those goals and to embrace new ones.
I think my 20s was about "emergence," as I emerged in my adulthood, into my marriage, into my career. I realize that I could spend today asking if I had "emerged' enough...if I had accomplished enough or become enough or been enough, asking myself if I had hit the mark of what I wanted my life to be. But that's not what I'm going to do. Because now I'm 30. And 30-year-old me is focused on cultivating balance rather than calculating achievement....balance spiritually, professionally, and emotionally as well as balance in my expectations. I hope to reach 40 again aware that, sometimes, not fulfilling your expectations can be the best possible thing.
And so I'm off! (No, I actually really am. Our flight leaves in a few hours for the surprise tropical birthday vacation planned by my amazing husband who I married too early. At least this might help me work on part 5c!)
Here's to you 30!
*Yes....this is absolutely a bar where you shoot arrows in the bar while drinking (at the time) Rum and Cokes. Best idea ever.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
A List of Things I Wish They Had Taught Me in Seminary
An episcopal priest who works in the same building as me has often joked that we should start a Post-Seminry Degree Program (for-profit, of course) called, "Everything You Wished You'd Learned in Seminary." What better opportunity than my sort-of belated but also almost two year anniversary for a little glimpse into that endeavor?
Courses to Include:
Stewardship 1: How to get people to give you money.
Stewardship 2: How to get foundations to give you money.
Stewardship 3: How to get the government to give you money.
Building Management 101: Plumbing, Electrical, Heat
Building Management 102: Roofing, Flooring, Interior/Exterior
Combatting Sinfulness and Gluttony: How Not to Get Sued
Real Skillz Workshop: How to do a funeral.
Real Skillz Workshop 2: How not to hate everyone at a wedding rehearsal.
Nonviolent Communication: How to avoid attending meetings I don't want to attend.
P90X for Congregations: How to Make Your Church Grow!
Institutional Strategy 1: How to affirm people while dismissing their ridiculous ideas.
Delegating 101: How to assure you'll never have to give a children's sermon again.
Forgiveness Practicum: Why did my seminary teach me about Irenaus and not about any of this other stuff?
Fire Gel, Flying Doves, and Paper Cranes: Liturgical Toys to Keep Your Worship Interesting!
Djembe Playing for Beginners
I could go on and on.........
Courses to Include:
Stewardship 1: How to get people to give you money.
Stewardship 2: How to get foundations to give you money.
Stewardship 3: How to get the government to give you money.
Building Management 101: Plumbing, Electrical, Heat
Building Management 102: Roofing, Flooring, Interior/Exterior
Combatting Sinfulness and Gluttony: How Not to Get Sued
Real Skillz Workshop: How to do a funeral.
Real Skillz Workshop 2: How not to hate everyone at a wedding rehearsal.
Nonviolent Communication: How to avoid attending meetings I don't want to attend.
P90X for Congregations: How to Make Your Church Grow!
Institutional Strategy 1: How to affirm people while dismissing their ridiculous ideas.
Delegating 101: How to assure you'll never have to give a children's sermon again.
Forgiveness Practicum: Why did my seminary teach me about Irenaus and not about any of this other stuff?
Fire Gel, Flying Doves, and Paper Cranes: Liturgical Toys to Keep Your Worship Interesting!
Djembe Playing for Beginners
I could go on and on.........
Two Down.....
 |
| One of my favorites: Laying on of hands during my ordination service in 2009. |
About two weeks ago, I celebrated the second anniversary of my ordination to the ministry. About two weeks from now, I will observe the second anniversary of my first day on the job as a minister.* So, it seems a sensible interval to stop and ask myself what on earth I have been doing.
My Pastoral Record book tells me that I have given about 70 sermons, made approximately 238 pastoral visits, and presided over communion about 50 times. I have organized 3 funerals, participated in 2 baptisms and officiated at 8 weddings. I have helped welcome 7 new members and ordained 7 officers. I have moderated a dozen session meetings, led bible study about 63 times, created 2 annual budgets and sent approximately 3,000 emails.
I have orchestrated two stewardship drives and one capital campaign. I helped to facilitate one sanctuary renovation, including the coordination of 2 committees, 3 carpenters, 5 painters, 6 carpet installers and 29 community conversations about what color the walls should be. I have helped dispose of 50 pews and paid for the 80 chairs that would replace them twice: once to the company that stole our deposit money and went out of business and once to the company who actually delivered chairs to us. This also means that I have made 749 calls to Church Chair Industries, 3 calls to Jerry Boyd at the Floyd County Sheriff's department in Rome Georgia and 2 to the Clerk of the United States Bankruptcy Court of North Georgia.
I have consumed upwards of 193 cups of coffee and ordered about 28 pizzas. I watched out my window as 6 tomato plants have grown and flourished and witnessed just as many pepper plants whither in the sun when our volunteer watering brigade failed to materialize. I saw 96 Easter eggs hid, almost all of which have been found.
I walked down the main street in our town with a live donkey twice. I responded to the church getting sued, the basement being flooded with sewage and trees falling on the roof. I burned 900 tea-light candles, sung 548 rounds of Taize songs and washed 9 pairs of feet.
In each of these distinct moments it was easy to forget that I was living out the promises I made on my ordination day. As I slogged through sewage and received summons from the Sheriff and screamed at Church Chair employees and wasted away in meetings that went late into the night, I didn't always feel as though I was being guided by our scriptures and confessions, or furthering the peace, unity and purity of the church or working for the reconciliation of the world. It was easy to forget what I was doing and the larger purpose behind it. But luckily, there were many instances in which God and others helped me to remember. Such as every time someone said thank you unexpectedly, or told me they were praying for me unsolicited, or called me "Pastor" and reminded me of who I was supposed to be.
If I had to name a theme that encompasses these two years, it would be, without a doubt, humility. I set out on that ordination day a sense of inflated potential. And while I have fulfilled some of that, I have also realized how much I am unable to do alone. Because despite all the things I've done, the one thing I have not done is save the church. I think I have learned that I can't do that. We are still small, still struggling and still relatively insignificant except for in our little corner of the world. And God has taught me to feel humble about this. And taught me that salvation is God's department. While mine is to mop and pray and not to forget the grape juice.
Though I spend an exorbitant amount of time wondering what is ahead (for me, for the church, for ministry), I have come to the conclusion that I hope the next two years involves less time obesssing about these things. I've recently been reading "An Altar in the World," by one of my favorites (certainly one of the greats!), Barbara Brown Taylor. This morning, serendipitously, I finished her chapter on vocation entitled, "The Practice of Living with Purpose." In it she discusses the challenges of living with a purpose and working with a purpose. In a section in which she discusses the significant implications of the Christian belief incarnation, she writes of the wisdom of sometimes doing and not just thinking. So let me sign off with some of her words:
Jesus clearly thought this was the best plan....With all kinds of opportunities to tell people what to think, he told them what to do instead. Wash feet. Give your stuff away. Share your food. Favor reprobates. Pray for those who are out to get you. Be the first to say, "I'm sorry."
*Which means, church types, if you are reading this, which I don't think you are: you are supposed to be getting me a gift made from cotton, I believe.
Monday, June 13, 2011
Two Wheeled Ticket to Happiness
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| My new best friend. |
"What's the you say? You were outside biking and not blogging? But, L, I thought you HATED biking, as in despise, detest, loathe, abhor. I thought you NEVER wanted to get on a bike EVER again?!??"
And to that I say, "Yes. And I was wrong. Just as I have been wrong about so many things: about how the fashions of the 80s were flattering on me, about how to make a vodka-watermelon, about how deep-fried ice-cream wasn't really fried, about how burning tiki torch fuel indoors would create carbon monoxide. But now I'm going to make it right."
But first, the back story: As a child (you'll be surprised to know), I did a lot of biking. It was my parents' transportation method of choice to get us around the city in which I grew up, and so I biked to school and church and the park...first in a bike seat on my parents' bikes* and then on my own. But upon moving to the top of a mountain in Oregon in fifth grade, biking was excised from my life for the simple reason that one would have to be in Marathonn shape to bike anywhere from my home or back to it. So I gave up on it for the better part of a decade. And anyone who says "It's just like riding a bike" in reference to the ease of reclaiming a sport that one has neglected for the better part of one's life can shove it where the sun don't shine. My several attempts to re-enter the cycling world several years ago ended in disaster, thwarted mostly by my bad attitude and being really, REALLY out of shape. And then I moved to Boston where biking is an extreme sport the side effect of which can be death, given that not only it is the least bike friendly city on the planet (it just installed it's first ever bike lane....which runs for one mile) BUT it is also home to all of the world's worst, most aggressive drivers.
But last month, serendipity (or providence?) intervened. First, some good friends from Oregon (SB and WEB3) told me that they had just gotten super into cycling. These are people who I really like and who like many of the things that I like (jukeboxes, beer, my husband)....and now BIKING. But I hate biking, I thought, and dismissed it. Until the very next week, when a woman who recently began attending our congregation happened to mention to me that she was super into biking, had biked 160 miles last year and had never found another exercise that she loved so much. Strange, I though, so many bikers in my life right now. And THEN, our ex-neighbor stopped by the other night and mentioned that she was excited for biking season to begin, because "isn't that cheese shop you can bike to in Concord so amazing?" Wait a minute, BIKING AND CHEESE? Worlds colliding. And that was it. I couldn't resist the pull of the universe.
And I got a bike.
And I went for a ride.
And it was pretty darn awesome.
Mostly because it was so much better than running, which I have always found to be a torturous experiment in pain and self-hatred.** But BIKING is awesome. Because you are covering so much ground, so fast that it never gets boring, and you are whizzing past all the panting, sweaty, red-faced joggers and thinking "SO LONG SUCKAS!" which is a great feeling.
In fact, the first ride I went 8 miles. And the second ride, I went 11. And the third, 18. And the fourth, 21. And the fifth 38 (although that almost ended in tragedy, but more on that to come). And I never even found that cheese shop. I'll update you more as I go, but for now, thanks to SB, WEB3, church lady, SM and the universe for a new-found passion.*** In the words of that woman who was in the Montgomery Bus Boycott, though slightly adapted of course, "My butt is sore, but my soul is at rest!"
*There was a photograph of me in the Village Voice as a toddler completely asleep in my bike seat, with my mom, riding down 5th Avenue. Little did I know then, this would only be the beginning of my fame and fortune....
**Runners: Please stop being that person who says, "Oh, you'll just get so addicted to running once you get into it. I started running and now I can't go a day without it" No, I won't. I've been running. And all I want to do when I go running is to stop running. And never do it again. All I can think of, in fact, while running, is how awful it is and how I want to stop. RIGHT NOW. Addiction my A*%.
***Does anyone worry that I am a serial hobbyist? Do you think there are therapy groups that can help you become a hobby monogamist?
MIA
Where have I been lately? Well, I've been in a wonderful and far-away place called "Outside." For those of you from more moderate climates, there exists something here in New England called "Winter." For those unfamiliar, this is basically a six-month long period in which it is so cold outside that you consider being infused with bear hormones so that hybernation becomes possible, but, as an alternative, you are tempted to eat nothing but cheese, drink nothing but alcohol, and do nothing but watch sad movies and blog. Here is a metaphor for what winter feels like:
Unfortunately, long after the snow is gone, winter continues. Skies are clear, but temperatures continue in the 30s and 40s for about two months, though after a single day at 52, sundresses and sandals abound among the inappropriately optimistic. Fortunately, just about the moment when all hope is lost comes the beloved gift we call "Spring." Spring in New England is beautiful: sunny, warm, low-humidity, flowers, graduations, fro-yo. Perfect. Unfortunately, it only lasts for about 3 days. And of course, these aren't three days in a row, but rather three days scattered here and there, admist dips into 40s and spikes into the 90s that make you feel as though you're on some sort of meterological roller coaster. Despite all this, I was able to take advantage of those three days: biking, hiking, walking the dog....which is why I've been MIA. Yay!
Luckily for you, summer will arrive in a few days. It will be 99 outside with about a billion percent humidity for the next two months. So I'll be driven back indoors and into the blogosphere. (Also, I just found out that my friend DRJ's dad who is awesome reads this blog, so I had to get back on track!)
Unfortunately, long after the snow is gone, winter continues. Skies are clear, but temperatures continue in the 30s and 40s for about two months, though after a single day at 52, sundresses and sandals abound among the inappropriately optimistic. Fortunately, just about the moment when all hope is lost comes the beloved gift we call "Spring." Spring in New England is beautiful: sunny, warm, low-humidity, flowers, graduations, fro-yo. Perfect. Unfortunately, it only lasts for about 3 days. And of course, these aren't three days in a row, but rather three days scattered here and there, admist dips into 40s and spikes into the 90s that make you feel as though you're on some sort of meterological roller coaster. Despite all this, I was able to take advantage of those three days: biking, hiking, walking the dog....which is why I've been MIA. Yay!
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| Here is a pic of The Beloved and I canoeing up the Concord River to the Concord Battlefield a few springs ago....One if by land, two if by....Canoe! |
Luckily for you, summer will arrive in a few days. It will be 99 outside with about a billion percent humidity for the next two months. So I'll be driven back indoors and into the blogosphere. (Also, I just found out that my friend DRJ's dad who is awesome reads this blog, so I had to get back on track!)
Friday, April 29, 2011
E-tech-itte
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| Courtesy of |
Could someone please, please, please start a blog about technology etiquette? You could call it e-tech-itte. I would do it, but obviously I need to remain loyal to my HUGE and burdensome following here at What's Up Jesus?
But I would appreciate it if someone could take this one on, as something clearly MUST be done. Because technology misuse is ruining my life and I need a resource from this century to refer folks to who are blatantly rude without knowing it. (Sorry, Post family, I think your time has passed.)
For instance, I think we might mutually discern that it is not appropriate to text incessantly during a one-on-one conversation with someone. It makes me feel as if you aren't interested in talking to me (which in a way, you clearly aren't), so maybe we should just end the conversation. Also, texting and checking email on your phone during meetings also seems egregious except in the most urgent circumstances. Who are you? Barak Obama? No one is that important. (p.s. Lady next to me in the meeting last night, in case it was unclear, it was SUPER AWKWARD when you were obviously checking your email on your phone and then someone asked you a question related to the topic we were currently discussing and you just blabbered around and then practically yelled, "I just don't know what you're talking about." and then flipped around in your binder as if you'd just lost the page instead of been ignoring the rest of us and playing with your phone. Also, I can see that you're reading your email because I'm sitting right here and I have eyes.)
Also, we may want to make clear to the masses that if I send you an email and in it ask a question, it is clearly not just a rhetorical device. I would actually like for you to respond. Not just if you feel like it or if the answer is yes or if it's Wednesday today, but always. Even if it's just to say, "Got this. On it." (I think this is mostly a problem with younger folks, which is a strange irony in that everywhere I turn, young people are on their smart phones yet younger folks email me back WAY less frequently than their older peers. What are they doing on there if not actually responding to forms of communication?)
Additionally, let's agree that when emailing in a professional setting (at least the first email in the string), we could use the common format of greeting, message, closing, signature....and maybe even throw in punctuation and correct grammar just for fun. When emailing me to ask if I or my congregation will support your cause, post your materials, or use your product or if you are contacting me as a student to ask for an extension, extra support or my mercy, let's agree that poor grammar and text lingo is just not going to cut it. For the record, U, for instance, is a letter of the alphabet, while "You" is a pronoun used to address another party. R is another letter while "are" is a form of the verb "to be." Typically, the first word in a sentence is capitalized and special marks called commas and periods are used to break up ideas into more manageable chunks. I know, it sounds overwhelming but you will catch on.
These are just a few of my ideas, so step right up future blogger, grasp your destiny and make the world a better place.
For fun, see this page of possibly THE most ridiculous list of text acronyms ever. Can we all agree that no one in the history of the universe has used AWGTHTGTTA and meant "Are we going to have to go through this again?"
Also, did you know there are texting championships? Yeah. Dear God......
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