It's been too long, and I have to say that too often. Ahh, but the holidays are in the air. My heart is telling me that it's time to slow down and do fun things, while my head (and calendar) tell me something quite different. I do have a little lull this week, which is why I am able to write this blog.
I can smell turkey already. Not just in my head, there's actually a turkey roasting in this building for the school's thanksgiving celebration tomorrow. It's finally turned cold, or it did this morning. Now it's nearly 70 degrees and I'm roasting in my boots and turtleneck.
I love fall. I love everything about it. I love the leaves, the holiday atmosphere, the family and friends, the smells. I love the history. One of my top ten favorite movies, it might even make it into the top five, is "The Last of the Mohicans." I have owned the book for a couple of years, but just read it this last week. Well done, Mr. Cooper. Well done. What a spectacular book! The descriptions and the subtle way he weaves romance and adventure. The vividness of the characters and the vitality in all the action. My, my. . .
Although the story takes place in the summer months, the New England setting is quintessential to this time of year and the emotions I feel. One day, I hope to celebrate a Thanksgiving in New England, even though, without family along, it might prove somewhat lonely, and not as special as I imagine it being.
That brings me to one of my points: What is it about other, unknown locales that seem to hold our (my) interest? I am intrigued by the east, all of it, Maine to Florida. Well, maybe not Florida so much, but the rest of it for sure. Maybe it's just because I haven't spent time there, other than a few days in NYC. I've lived in the west, and now I live in the south. I've never experienced the Midwest, but it doesn't call to me. I really do think it's specifically the east, and I think it's the history.
As a pre-teen, I became near obsessed with my ancestors and family tree. I wanted to know where and whom I came from. That has subsided some with maturity, but I also did a lot of research, and now I do know where and whom I came from. That said, I think my preoccupation with the eastern seaboard is wrapped up in it's importance in national history. That is where our nation began. It's the very soil that the wave-tossed Pilgrims stepped onto. That fact is special to me. And, Thanksgiving is special to me. It becomes more and more so each year. It's OUR holiday, as in America. And, as I see more and more our country being unappreciated, the people who fought for it and built it unappreciated, it is my special purpose to do more to uphold the traditions and attitudes that made this country, and made it great. Those same attitudes and traditions can make it great again, if, well I'll just say it, if some of our forefathers and mothers would pay us a visit and kick some a#* in Washington and a few other places.
One theme in “The Last of the Mohicans” is the desire to escape the oppressive government and live. Our forefathers desired to do it on their own and make it on their own. They escaped the governments that had inched too far into their lives. It is that independent mindset, that grit that founded and fostered the nation we have today. Why are some trying so hard to undo all of it?
Freedom of religion was fought for – BY CHRISTIANS, and now Christians are the very ones that must apologize for their beliefs and back down. Blood was spilled to wipe out unfair and abusive taxes, and we have signed our paychecks over to an out-of-control, greedy and oversized government once more. There are many more examples I could cite. Today, military heroes are afforded little respect by the media, and must step ever so lightly as they defend our nation from tyrants. But, this week, terrorists, the tyrants our men in arms fight daily, will stand trial in our nation. They will be presumed innocent and granted the rights of an American citizen – they will be treated the same, equally, as those they saw fit to murder.
Look at what has been done for us, and look at what we have done, and not done, in return.
Freedom of speech, press and assembly seem untouched, but look at our track record. What do you think comes next?
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Sweater Saga
There are times in a woman's life when she just wants stuff. Be it clothing, a piece of decor, a new home, or perhaps a certain food. Yesterday, I wanted a sweater. I didn't have any particular style or color in mind, I just wanted a sweater - something cozy and feminine to wear in the beautiful fall weather currently descending upon us. My only parameter was the amount of money I intended to spend on said sweater. However, the number in my mind was more than adequate. I've bought many sweaters in the past for less.
I went to seven stores. No sweater purchase was made. I tried on approximately 176 sweaters, all of which were too baggy, odd color, weird neckline, ill-fitted waistline, too much glitter thread (?? any glitter thread is too much in my opinion ??), or it just cost more than I wanted to spend - yet I would try it on anyway because I know myself. I am weak, and if it looks good enough, I'll buy it and forget my "budget."
In my final store, it seemed my luck was a'changin'. I found a beautiful sweater coat. It was "cozy" with toggle buttons!! It was also on sale and they had it in my size - that's a winning combo. Toggle buttons!! I took the sweater off the rack and meandered around the store a little longer. I finally tried the sweater on, just slipping it over the t-shirt I was wearing. It fit nicely and I was mentally pairing it with a lovely pair of brown boots (which I have yet to purchase also) when a vile stench of some sort violated my nostrils. I searched my immediate surroundings for the source of this odious invasion, but found nothing. Then I sorrowfully comprehended what was going on. I pulled the collar of the sweater up to my nose, and almost fainted. It reeked of sour mildew. I don't know what happened to this poor sweater en route to Longview, Texas, but I'm sure it needs counseling. I hurriedly took it off and returned to where I'd found it, hoping there was another one in my size that didn't smell putrid. There were several more, but they all boasted the same scent.
Alas, I left sweater-less. It was beautiful and affordable, but that smell doesn't come out in the wash. So the charm and femininity of the garment would no doubt be cancelled out by the fact that I would smell like a week-old dishrag while wearing it. Not really my style.
I went to seven stores. No sweater purchase was made. I tried on approximately 176 sweaters, all of which were too baggy, odd color, weird neckline, ill-fitted waistline, too much glitter thread (?? any glitter thread is too much in my opinion ??), or it just cost more than I wanted to spend - yet I would try it on anyway because I know myself. I am weak, and if it looks good enough, I'll buy it and forget my "budget."
In my final store, it seemed my luck was a'changin'. I found a beautiful sweater coat. It was "cozy" with toggle buttons!! It was also on sale and they had it in my size - that's a winning combo. Toggle buttons!! I took the sweater off the rack and meandered around the store a little longer. I finally tried the sweater on, just slipping it over the t-shirt I was wearing. It fit nicely and I was mentally pairing it with a lovely pair of brown boots (which I have yet to purchase also) when a vile stench of some sort violated my nostrils. I searched my immediate surroundings for the source of this odious invasion, but found nothing. Then I sorrowfully comprehended what was going on. I pulled the collar of the sweater up to my nose, and almost fainted. It reeked of sour mildew. I don't know what happened to this poor sweater en route to Longview, Texas, but I'm sure it needs counseling. I hurriedly took it off and returned to where I'd found it, hoping there was another one in my size that didn't smell putrid. There were several more, but they all boasted the same scent.
Alas, I left sweater-less. It was beautiful and affordable, but that smell doesn't come out in the wash. So the charm and femininity of the garment would no doubt be cancelled out by the fact that I would smell like a week-old dishrag while wearing it. Not really my style.
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Learning not to lean
There is a picture that my parents have, my aunt and uncle have the same one, and a second set of aunt and uncle also have it. The picture is of three children, suspiciously crouched behind a set of steps, holding giant orange-and-black balloons. The looks on their faces would tell you that their whole world's happiness is wrapped up in the balloons, and in the company of one another. The latter is true, the former, however, might be misconstrued, as I know our whole world's happiness was wrapped in the security and love offered us by the six adults in the house.
My two cousins and I have remained close since that photo was taken about 24 years ago. Krystal has since married and moved to California, and David moved back to Texas from Mississippi, and married earlier this year.
Growing up it was me and Krystal, and our families respectively that wound up in Idaho together. Those years, formative for me, cemented forever the feeling of having a second set of parents, a second set of people to run to with my problems, a second set of ears to just listen and then help figure it all out. They left Idaho and returned to Texas before I was even a teenager, but the attachment remained. When I moved to Texas permanently and this aunt and uncle became my pastor and pastor's wife, the practice of sharing my worries and fears compounded. Once again, these miniscule threats to my peace of mind became theirs as well, although I now know bigger ones have always waited at the top of their mind's awareness.
(Hopefully) when we are children, we all have adults such as these. I think of what a wonderful childhood I had, and what a wonderful family I have today, and the picture I spoke of says it all. However, the three of us are no longer children, no longer babies. Nonetheless, (I can speak for myself if no one else) I still lean and depend heavily on the support and security that was in that house that day.
Recently, that changed. The tables have begun to turn, and now I must offer safety, security and even guidance to one or more of those all-important adults in my life. There was one night of fear and even selfishness, for lack of a better term, where my dreams were filled with needs and worries, none of which I could figure out without their help. Beginning the very next morning, their fears and worries were voiced to me, and out of love, honor, and respect, I could do nothing but start on the road to becoming whatever they needed me to be.
People constantly search for ways to be strong, fierce, even to be unaffected by what goes on around them. Ironically, I guess, I believe the purest form of strength is both found in, and refined by, love. Your love for someone else will propel you to set everything else aside and do what is necessary for the well being of that person or persons.
Think of a newly married, free-spirited man, holding his new born baby girl (yes, I'm stealing this from the insurance commercial). The first thing he thinks of is doing whatever is required to care for her forever, even in his absence. That is love. Think of the fear associated with being completely and totally responsible for another life (you already know if you are a parent), yet you find the strength to care for them.
It takes strength to forgive and love covers all sins. It takes strength to stand for what is right, and God's unconditional love encourages us to do this.
As you search for strength in your daily walk, look for love first. You will find the one, although a contrast in some ways, ultimately leads to the other.
My two cousins and I have remained close since that photo was taken about 24 years ago. Krystal has since married and moved to California, and David moved back to Texas from Mississippi, and married earlier this year.
Growing up it was me and Krystal, and our families respectively that wound up in Idaho together. Those years, formative for me, cemented forever the feeling of having a second set of parents, a second set of people to run to with my problems, a second set of ears to just listen and then help figure it all out. They left Idaho and returned to Texas before I was even a teenager, but the attachment remained. When I moved to Texas permanently and this aunt and uncle became my pastor and pastor's wife, the practice of sharing my worries and fears compounded. Once again, these miniscule threats to my peace of mind became theirs as well, although I now know bigger ones have always waited at the top of their mind's awareness.
(Hopefully) when we are children, we all have adults such as these. I think of what a wonderful childhood I had, and what a wonderful family I have today, and the picture I spoke of says it all. However, the three of us are no longer children, no longer babies. Nonetheless, (I can speak for myself if no one else) I still lean and depend heavily on the support and security that was in that house that day.
Recently, that changed. The tables have begun to turn, and now I must offer safety, security and even guidance to one or more of those all-important adults in my life. There was one night of fear and even selfishness, for lack of a better term, where my dreams were filled with needs and worries, none of which I could figure out without their help. Beginning the very next morning, their fears and worries were voiced to me, and out of love, honor, and respect, I could do nothing but start on the road to becoming whatever they needed me to be.
People constantly search for ways to be strong, fierce, even to be unaffected by what goes on around them. Ironically, I guess, I believe the purest form of strength is both found in, and refined by, love. Your love for someone else will propel you to set everything else aside and do what is necessary for the well being of that person or persons.
Think of a newly married, free-spirited man, holding his new born baby girl (yes, I'm stealing this from the insurance commercial). The first thing he thinks of is doing whatever is required to care for her forever, even in his absence. That is love. Think of the fear associated with being completely and totally responsible for another life (you already know if you are a parent), yet you find the strength to care for them.
It takes strength to forgive and love covers all sins. It takes strength to stand for what is right, and God's unconditional love encourages us to do this.
As you search for strength in your daily walk, look for love first. You will find the one, although a contrast in some ways, ultimately leads to the other.
Sunday, October 4, 2009
The importance of coffee
My blog has been silent for some weeks. I apologize. I've been a little discouraged on the writing front as of late, and decided to take a break and concentrate on some areas that maybe needed more of my attention. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, though. I have missed it, and I'm ready to start again.
What's a writer without coffee? It's a necessary accessory, if you ask me. I've been a "hardcore coffee drinker" for close to seven years. When I say "hardcore", I mean coffee is first thing I think about when I wake up in the morning (after thanking God for waking me up at all, that is). When I go to bed at night, I am excited about drinking coffee the next morning. I giggle with glee when I smell coffee. I plan whole days and trips around coffee. I will book a more expensive hotel based on its proximity to Starbucks, or another worthy and proven conveyor of my most favored elixir. I LOVE coffee.
I have a brief anecdote to illustrate this. I normally grind and brew my special, snobby coffee at home, but last week, my roommate was out of town, and I'm a big baby that doesn't like being by herself, so I stayed at my parent's house, where there is only instant coffee. . .GASP!!! On the morning in question, I had a doctor's appointment, so I simply left early with the plan of picking up a latte from the "we proudly brew Starbucks" place in the hospital food court. By the time I reached Longview city limits, I had the headache. I skipped getting gas just to get my coffee quicker. I arrived at the hospital, parked and went to the market. In my mind, I smelled the coffee, but when I rounded the corner, I was greeted with only darkness. Darkness and a steel gate. There was no coffee in this place. Derision must have been present on my face, because a kind nurse took pity on me and asked: "Are you looking for the coffee shop?"
"Yes," I answered. "Yes, I am. What happened?"
"This one closed down, but there's one in the main hospital building."
"How do I get there? Can I take the skybridge, or do I have to drive?" (My head was pounding, and my senses, unaided by caffeine, were not functioning properly.)
She answered yes and I set out to the neighboring building, where I would find the elevator, take it to the second floor, cross Highway 80 on the skybridge and sniff my way to my coffee. Keep in mind that, my doctor's office was exactly one elevator ride and five short floors away at this point, and my quest for coffee was going to take me approximately four blocks, round trip, out of my way - on foot and in heels. Didn't matter. Needed the coffee.
I boarded the elevator only to read a sign telling me it does not stop on the second floor. No problem, I think, I'll go to the third floor and take the stairs down to the second and get on the skybridge. So, when the elevator stopped on the third floor, I went directly to the stairwell and entered, paying no heed to the sign reading "No Re-entry."
In retrospect, this was not my finest moment. My instincts were operating at a deficiency, but that was little comfort when I replayed the words in my head just in time to hear the door click behind me. Before panicking, I tried the handle. Definitely locked. Remain calm, Rachel. Go downstairs and try that one. I amble down the concrete steps, in my three-inch heels, still legitimately more concerned about getting coffee than over the possibility of being locked in a stairwell for some undetermined amount of time. However, when door number two was found to be penetrable only by a four-digit code unknown to me, my need for the legal stimulant faded slightly and was replaced with earnest unease.
Movie scenes began to fill my head, and every creak above and below me was a deranged individual crouching in the corner waiting for just such and opportunity, and just such an idiot as I. I immediately thought of my cell phone, but remembered that I was entombed in concrete. I then walked down to the first floor and beheld what appeared to be an unsecured door. I tried the handle. Salvation!
Crisis averted. Back to the coffee quest. As I emerge from the stairwell, the same concerned nurse appears before me. "Did you find it?" she asks.
I shake my head and she points to my left where there is a broad staircase leading to the bright, light-filled second floor. I feel my face illuminate as I turn to it. Soon I am walking above Highway 80 and the enticing aroma of coffee fills my nose. Soon I have placed my order and have a non-fat caramel latte in my hand. All is right with the world!
What's a writer without coffee? It's a necessary accessory, if you ask me. I've been a "hardcore coffee drinker" for close to seven years. When I say "hardcore", I mean coffee is first thing I think about when I wake up in the morning (after thanking God for waking me up at all, that is). When I go to bed at night, I am excited about drinking coffee the next morning. I giggle with glee when I smell coffee. I plan whole days and trips around coffee. I will book a more expensive hotel based on its proximity to Starbucks, or another worthy and proven conveyor of my most favored elixir. I LOVE coffee.
I have a brief anecdote to illustrate this. I normally grind and brew my special, snobby coffee at home, but last week, my roommate was out of town, and I'm a big baby that doesn't like being by herself, so I stayed at my parent's house, where there is only instant coffee. . .GASP!!! On the morning in question, I had a doctor's appointment, so I simply left early with the plan of picking up a latte from the "we proudly brew Starbucks" place in the hospital food court. By the time I reached Longview city limits, I had the headache. I skipped getting gas just to get my coffee quicker. I arrived at the hospital, parked and went to the market. In my mind, I smelled the coffee, but when I rounded the corner, I was greeted with only darkness. Darkness and a steel gate. There was no coffee in this place. Derision must have been present on my face, because a kind nurse took pity on me and asked: "Are you looking for the coffee shop?"
"Yes," I answered. "Yes, I am. What happened?"
"This one closed down, but there's one in the main hospital building."
"How do I get there? Can I take the skybridge, or do I have to drive?" (My head was pounding, and my senses, unaided by caffeine, were not functioning properly.)
She answered yes and I set out to the neighboring building, where I would find the elevator, take it to the second floor, cross Highway 80 on the skybridge and sniff my way to my coffee. Keep in mind that, my doctor's office was exactly one elevator ride and five short floors away at this point, and my quest for coffee was going to take me approximately four blocks, round trip, out of my way - on foot and in heels. Didn't matter. Needed the coffee.
I boarded the elevator only to read a sign telling me it does not stop on the second floor. No problem, I think, I'll go to the third floor and take the stairs down to the second and get on the skybridge. So, when the elevator stopped on the third floor, I went directly to the stairwell and entered, paying no heed to the sign reading "No Re-entry."
In retrospect, this was not my finest moment. My instincts were operating at a deficiency, but that was little comfort when I replayed the words in my head just in time to hear the door click behind me. Before panicking, I tried the handle. Definitely locked. Remain calm, Rachel. Go downstairs and try that one. I amble down the concrete steps, in my three-inch heels, still legitimately more concerned about getting coffee than over the possibility of being locked in a stairwell for some undetermined amount of time. However, when door number two was found to be penetrable only by a four-digit code unknown to me, my need for the legal stimulant faded slightly and was replaced with earnest unease.
Movie scenes began to fill my head, and every creak above and below me was a deranged individual crouching in the corner waiting for just such and opportunity, and just such an idiot as I. I immediately thought of my cell phone, but remembered that I was entombed in concrete. I then walked down to the first floor and beheld what appeared to be an unsecured door. I tried the handle. Salvation!
Crisis averted. Back to the coffee quest. As I emerge from the stairwell, the same concerned nurse appears before me. "Did you find it?" she asks.
I shake my head and she points to my left where there is a broad staircase leading to the bright, light-filled second floor. I feel my face illuminate as I turn to it. Soon I am walking above Highway 80 and the enticing aroma of coffee fills my nose. Soon I have placed my order and have a non-fat caramel latte in my hand. All is right with the world!
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Blessed toes
I am currently writing an article on a church with an amazing emphasis on being the Body of Christ, which really should be the emphasis of every church if you get to thinking about it. In my interview with the pastor, he exmeplified his ministry by saying that the toes aren't the most gratifying part of the body, but somebody has to play the part. If toes are so unimportant, why does it hurt SO BAD when you stub them?
This is a side story, but I walked into the solid-wood base of a chair last night and immediately found myself curled into the fetal position on the floor with tears in my eyes and dirty words on the tip of my tongue. I was certain one or two of my toes were broken, which concerned me, because I need my toes fully functional. If I'm not mistaken, the toes provide balance, and thus, the ability to walk? (Toe experts feel free to comment.) My point is: The smallest, most seemingly insignifcant parts, sometimes play incredible roles, and when they are hurt, every other part feels it and reacts (cue mental image of Rachel on the floor writhing in pain and contemplating x-ray trip).
I work really hard, every day. It seems I spend a lot of time doing things for other people, and solving problems created by others instead of "doing something constructive." In actuality, I must do things for others, because they are constantly doing stuff for me, so I can in fact, do something constructive for at least some amount of time every day. It is a cycle. Just by showing up every morning, daycare staff is in place to care for children and run the center so I don't have to. I may have to get them latex gloves, bring paper towels, remove a child for "level 2" discipline, and a whole bunch of other tasks that may at the moment irritate me, but in the end, I'm helping them do their job, so they can in turn allow me to do mine. I didn't just realize this cycle existed, I've always known it was there. However, I don't believe I have fully appreciated it, or the people involved in it.
If I went to work Monday and no one else arrived, I would be up the creek. Not only would I not be able to do my "job" I would be unable to run the center in a safe and legal manner. I would also undoubtedly lose my mind caring for 50+ children all alone. That scenario would never actually occur, but you get my point. Child care workers may be some of the most overworked and under appreciated people there are. To society at large, they may appear to be the "toes" but in the body of my work life, they are the part that provides balance and allows me to walk. So if I haven't said it lately - I appreciate the Calvary Way Daycare staff.
This is a side story, but I walked into the solid-wood base of a chair last night and immediately found myself curled into the fetal position on the floor with tears in my eyes and dirty words on the tip of my tongue. I was certain one or two of my toes were broken, which concerned me, because I need my toes fully functional. If I'm not mistaken, the toes provide balance, and thus, the ability to walk? (Toe experts feel free to comment.) My point is: The smallest, most seemingly insignifcant parts, sometimes play incredible roles, and when they are hurt, every other part feels it and reacts (cue mental image of Rachel on the floor writhing in pain and contemplating x-ray trip).
I work really hard, every day. It seems I spend a lot of time doing things for other people, and solving problems created by others instead of "doing something constructive." In actuality, I must do things for others, because they are constantly doing stuff for me, so I can in fact, do something constructive for at least some amount of time every day. It is a cycle. Just by showing up every morning, daycare staff is in place to care for children and run the center so I don't have to. I may have to get them latex gloves, bring paper towels, remove a child for "level 2" discipline, and a whole bunch of other tasks that may at the moment irritate me, but in the end, I'm helping them do their job, so they can in turn allow me to do mine. I didn't just realize this cycle existed, I've always known it was there. However, I don't believe I have fully appreciated it, or the people involved in it.
If I went to work Monday and no one else arrived, I would be up the creek. Not only would I not be able to do my "job" I would be unable to run the center in a safe and legal manner. I would also undoubtedly lose my mind caring for 50+ children all alone. That scenario would never actually occur, but you get my point. Child care workers may be some of the most overworked and under appreciated people there are. To society at large, they may appear to be the "toes" but in the body of my work life, they are the part that provides balance and allows me to walk. So if I haven't said it lately - I appreciate the Calvary Way Daycare staff.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Adventures in movie going
Friday night I went out with my parents and sister to celebrate my mom's birthday. Mom wanted to see The Time Traveler's Wife, so my sister and I went with her, and my dad opted to see Inglorious Basterds on his own. Our movie let out about 50 minutes earlier than his, so we waited for him in the lobby of the theater. Oh wow. It wasn't really late, 9:10 or so, but already nocturnal phenomena was occurring.
If you've seen Men in Black, you know that Tommy Lee Jones explains that a certain number of "humans" on earth are actually aliens in disguise. What he failed to mention is that they congregate at the Carmike Theater in Longview, Texas. That sounds severe, I know, so let's soften it and be more specific. What I witnessed was mostly the confusion and insecurity of junior high exemplified in dress and behavior.
This was the last weekend ahead of the start of public school, so I'm sure the kiddos were out in full force solidifying their alliances for the school year. When I was in junior high (shudder) I always had a list of people to call at the end of the summer to set myself up socially for the school year. You have to compare schedules and find out where lockers are so you can easily find one another at break and lunch and avoid the awkward "loner" moments and panic that comes with not having anyone to sit with. I was a poster child for insecurity in junior high. I didn't want to appear alone for even the shortest amount of time. Nevertheless, these poor kids. . .I can see things have not changed.
In my 50 minute adventure Friday night, I saw many things. I observed a faction of the pre-teen Mexican mafia act and react to stimuli in their natural habitat: the arcade game corner. There were young ladies that seemed to be skinny jean/punkish types on the bottom halves of their bodies, but something entirely different and preppier on the top. One group entered the lobby only to buy movie theater nachos, and then apparently left. I know I go out of my way constantly for stale chips topped with thick, congealed, re-warmed, processed cheese product. (??!) The plastic container is the cherry on top. Oh, and the fact that they cost $6.75!!!
I also saw adults that piqued my curiosity. Although, people that attend ten o'clock movies intrigue me in general. I admire them, as it's something I cannot accomplish. I haven't gone to a movie past nine o'clock since high school, and the chances are I didn't go then. I just said I was to stay out past curfew. Nowadays, I'm tucked in by ten watching The Nanny and it's lights out by 10:30. Anyways, back to these adults. One gentleman wore loafers, white linen pants, and a pale pink button down untucked. His wire-rimmed glasses were brushed on the top by his slightly shaggy, sandy blonde hair, and he walked in relaxation with grace and ease. I anlayzed this person and created an entire existence for him while he was buying his popcorn and soda, which took a really long time, by the way. . .Carmike. I decided he was a writer, go figure, who has been published before (so jealous. . .why can't I get my break?), and is staying in Longview to research his book on, well I didn't get that far, but I decided he had written several chapters that day and was going out for a movie to relax his mind before hitting the writing hard again the next day.
What fun people-watching is! If you haven't tried it, you should. It can be inspiring and just plain interesting. My experience was so interesting, I took notes. To write this blog. See, inspiring.
If you've seen Men in Black, you know that Tommy Lee Jones explains that a certain number of "humans" on earth are actually aliens in disguise. What he failed to mention is that they congregate at the Carmike Theater in Longview, Texas. That sounds severe, I know, so let's soften it and be more specific. What I witnessed was mostly the confusion and insecurity of junior high exemplified in dress and behavior.
This was the last weekend ahead of the start of public school, so I'm sure the kiddos were out in full force solidifying their alliances for the school year. When I was in junior high (shudder) I always had a list of people to call at the end of the summer to set myself up socially for the school year. You have to compare schedules and find out where lockers are so you can easily find one another at break and lunch and avoid the awkward "loner" moments and panic that comes with not having anyone to sit with. I was a poster child for insecurity in junior high. I didn't want to appear alone for even the shortest amount of time. Nevertheless, these poor kids. . .I can see things have not changed.
In my 50 minute adventure Friday night, I saw many things. I observed a faction of the pre-teen Mexican mafia act and react to stimuli in their natural habitat: the arcade game corner. There were young ladies that seemed to be skinny jean/punkish types on the bottom halves of their bodies, but something entirely different and preppier on the top. One group entered the lobby only to buy movie theater nachos, and then apparently left. I know I go out of my way constantly for stale chips topped with thick, congealed, re-warmed, processed cheese product. (??!) The plastic container is the cherry on top. Oh, and the fact that they cost $6.75!!!
I also saw adults that piqued my curiosity. Although, people that attend ten o'clock movies intrigue me in general. I admire them, as it's something I cannot accomplish. I haven't gone to a movie past nine o'clock since high school, and the chances are I didn't go then. I just said I was to stay out past curfew. Nowadays, I'm tucked in by ten watching The Nanny and it's lights out by 10:30. Anyways, back to these adults. One gentleman wore loafers, white linen pants, and a pale pink button down untucked. His wire-rimmed glasses were brushed on the top by his slightly shaggy, sandy blonde hair, and he walked in relaxation with grace and ease. I anlayzed this person and created an entire existence for him while he was buying his popcorn and soda, which took a really long time, by the way. . .Carmike. I decided he was a writer, go figure, who has been published before (so jealous. . .why can't I get my break?), and is staying in Longview to research his book on, well I didn't get that far, but I decided he had written several chapters that day and was going out for a movie to relax his mind before hitting the writing hard again the next day.
What fun people-watching is! If you haven't tried it, you should. It can be inspiring and just plain interesting. My experience was so interesting, I took notes. To write this blog. See, inspiring.
Friday, August 14, 2009
Acquired Fears
When I was a child, I spent my summers running barefooted around my cul-de-sac. I picked the legs off of grasshoppers and lowered myself to eye level with spiders, attempting to feed them, usually by throwing the legless grasshoppers into their webs. I crawled and laid on the floor of my garage and those of my neighbors. I ate before washing my hands. I drank out of the water hose. And, I just didn't worry.
These days, I cringe at the sight of nearly any bug and find a way to alter my path to avoid coming within its jumping distance. I don't even like sticking my hand under my bed for fear of what might be under it (I live in the country, folks. Brown recluse spiders and snakes are a realistic threat). It is always with scrutiny that I eat at a new restaurant or partake in a homemade treat made by someone I don't know, or trust. I drink only bottled water, although I'm working on that one. Why can't the ease of living we experience as a child be transferred to adulthood? I wish somedays I could unlearn all the facts that have taught me to worry and fear, but I can't. Truthfully, that knowledge is valuable, although cumbersome at times.
I came across a very large, terrifying grass spider the other day. Normally, I avoid even the tiniest of arachnids and wait for someone braver (like my 16-year-old sister) to come along and kill them for me. But at this particular time, I was interviewing a prospective employee and needed to appear as adult-like as possible. So, I gathered my wits, and from across the room, threw a magazine on top of the creature. I then cautiously approached the area and stomped the magazine a dozen times, and left the magazine in place, its weight guaranteeing my safety against any zombie-like characteristics this spider might posess. (Have you seen Arachnaphobia?!) Looking back, I see how this display most definitely secured my repuatation as a competent and professional person for the woman I was interviewing. What's more, I believe the spider may have already been dead, but I killed it more, because it was horrifying to look at. . . even in death.
After the woman left, I took a deep breath and lifted the magazine, and after two full minutes and ten tries, was able to scoop the remnants onto a sheet of paper and deposit it all in the trash.
Ten, twelve. . .wait. . . seventeen to nineteen years ago (HOLY COW!!!) I would have stomped the spider with my shoe, would have had great fun doing it, and then I would have gone about my summer day making mud pies. That's another thing - I hate being dirty now, and as a kid, I came home coated in dirt.
I taught a lesson last week that emphasized the importance of being child like when approaching the Kingdom of God. Such useful advice, but hard to apply, as most good advice usually is. I didn't worry as a child, and now I seem to worry about everything. I am making a conscience effort to stop, to approach life in general with a more child-like, not childish, attitude and outlook. God is going to take care of it all, but as an adult human it is often so hard to step aside and let Him. So, today's moral may be - the more difficult the advice is to follow, the more important it is that you do.
These days, I cringe at the sight of nearly any bug and find a way to alter my path to avoid coming within its jumping distance. I don't even like sticking my hand under my bed for fear of what might be under it (I live in the country, folks. Brown recluse spiders and snakes are a realistic threat). It is always with scrutiny that I eat at a new restaurant or partake in a homemade treat made by someone I don't know, or trust. I drink only bottled water, although I'm working on that one. Why can't the ease of living we experience as a child be transferred to adulthood? I wish somedays I could unlearn all the facts that have taught me to worry and fear, but I can't. Truthfully, that knowledge is valuable, although cumbersome at times.
I came across a very large, terrifying grass spider the other day. Normally, I avoid even the tiniest of arachnids and wait for someone braver (like my 16-year-old sister) to come along and kill them for me. But at this particular time, I was interviewing a prospective employee and needed to appear as adult-like as possible. So, I gathered my wits, and from across the room, threw a magazine on top of the creature. I then cautiously approached the area and stomped the magazine a dozen times, and left the magazine in place, its weight guaranteeing my safety against any zombie-like characteristics this spider might posess. (Have you seen Arachnaphobia?!) Looking back, I see how this display most definitely secured my repuatation as a competent and professional person for the woman I was interviewing. What's more, I believe the spider may have already been dead, but I killed it more, because it was horrifying to look at. . . even in death.
After the woman left, I took a deep breath and lifted the magazine, and after two full minutes and ten tries, was able to scoop the remnants onto a sheet of paper and deposit it all in the trash.
Ten, twelve. . .wait. . . seventeen to nineteen years ago (HOLY COW!!!) I would have stomped the spider with my shoe, would have had great fun doing it, and then I would have gone about my summer day making mud pies. That's another thing - I hate being dirty now, and as a kid, I came home coated in dirt.
I taught a lesson last week that emphasized the importance of being child like when approaching the Kingdom of God. Such useful advice, but hard to apply, as most good advice usually is. I didn't worry as a child, and now I seem to worry about everything. I am making a conscience effort to stop, to approach life in general with a more child-like, not childish, attitude and outlook. God is going to take care of it all, but as an adult human it is often so hard to step aside and let Him. So, today's moral may be - the more difficult the advice is to follow, the more important it is that you do.
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