Oceanside Notions

Texting, texting, one, two, three...is this thing on?

2009-03-26T22:49:00.000-07:00

My husband, Jonathan, and I are a bit slow to the latest trends in technology. Well, Jonathan is. I am resigned to ride the waves of his reluctance. All thanks to his parents, who instilled in him the "if it ain't broke, don't fix it and for goodness sake, why replace it with something more modern" mentality. Their adherence to said philosophy is evidenced by their possession-- amongst other petrified artifacts-- of Moses' microwave. I am convinced they unearthed it during an archaeological dig in the Middle East, though they swear it's early Sears.

Anyhow, due to his upbringing and my lack of applicable funds, when we got hitched we compiled an impressive array of antiquated machinery: a stack of randomly functioning VCR's; three Jurassic Era televisions; a dot matrix printer and a dot com-less computer (a Packard Bell boasting a whopping eight megabytes of RAM); several telephones with actual cords; a couple boom boxes-- the upgraded kind bearing double tape decks; a set of gigantic, free-standing man speakers; a real live record player (including the vinyl versions of We Are The World; Breakdance: Learn to Moonwalk, Electric Boogie and Headspin; and Fonzie's Favorite Happy Days Hits). Oh, and a wind-up clock with an alarm designed to wake up astronauts. From Earth.

Did I mention we both hoofed it to work, uphill both ways, in the snow?

Just kidding. Hubby was the proud owner of an eleven-year-old Honda Civic hatchback he called, with enviable affection, Red Roxanne. At the current age of eighteen (four hundred ninety seven in car years), his mistress--I mean, faithful companion-- could claim nearly three hundred thousand miles, six mufflers and what used to be a paint job.

Dare I exclude the loosely interpreted "furniture" Jonathan attempted to plant in the middle of our living room? Namely, a circa-1970 couch (under the cushions, Afro picks a plenty) and his grandfather's coffee table that survived two-- yes, two-- floods. If you even bumped the thing, pieces fell off. "It's not so bad," he'd argue. "Look how far it's come."

To which I'd reply, "That's because it was made from remnants of the ark!" (Interestingly, while we were away on our honeymoon, our thoughtful four-year-old niece decided to give us the ultimate wedding gift and reconstructed the relic using two entire rolls of Scotch Tape. It was a marked improvement. But I digress.)

Though we were just finalizing our transition from cassettes to compact discs, we'd held fast for the last bus out of VCR-ville (didn't purchase a DVD player until friends staged an intervention to address our tenacious attachment to video tapes). But by far, the leap to mobile communication was our most daunting. To ease Jonathan's apprehension at becoming instantly accessible, as well as his fears of being dislodged from the nineteen eighties, we chose to purchase phones from Nextel. Their primary model featured a nifty device that allowed for correspondence with the push of a single button. It was enough like an old school Walkie-Talkie to sell my husband. I was convinced he'd revert to childhood and I'd find him crouching behind the love seat with that thing, dressed like G.I. Joe and shouting something about me being a Cobra operative.

My own slowness to integrate became painfully obvious when a co-worker, who happened to be a fellow church member, sent me a text message one day. We'd always been pals, but team teaching in our one room church school had deepened our friendship. When my cell alerted me to a missed call following class one afternoon, I discovered it was actually a text from her. I didn't even realize my phone had that capability.

I was excited, but have never, even to this day in text-crazed 2009, sent a text message. If you were a super-villain and threatened to eradicate chocolate unless I wrote and transmitted one, I would personally be responsible for the obliteration of the most coveted substance in the universe (and subsequently, the mental unhinging of ninety-five percent of the female population). In other words, my brain is wholly devoid of texting know-how. I get LOL and OMG and BTW. But that's A-L-L.

My friend's message-- a heartfelt declaration of her high regard-- so moved me that I attempted to respond, but eventually abandoned the effort in fear I might accidentally call China (which still wouldn't cost as much as sending a text). My e-mailing skills were much sharper, so I crafted on my computer an equally tender endearment for my new BFF. I was quite pleased as I hit the SEND button, still revelling in her complements.

As is the case, in many instances, when a person has released information into cyberspace they cannot retrieve, I was washed with sudden dread that the message may not have been for me. After all, this girl had never texted me before. Nor had she witnessed me doing so on my phone to someone else, and texting was still new enough to not be a service one would expect most people to have. No, I convinced myself. How could she have mistakenly sent that note to me?

Three embarrassing days later, when my friend had neglected to mention my sentiment-soggy e-mail, I concluded her note was not intended for me. Turned out she wasn't so tech-swift, either. She'd meant it for the lucky individual who got the slot next to mine in her contacts list, of which I was humbly reminded about six more times. I can only hope that Alyson eventually became aware of my friend's admiration, and that she made it to that darned baby shower.

Notwithstanding the computer as a whole, I submit that some advances in electronics are not worthy of the hassle. However, I am confident that I could successfully operate an iPod. It's a risk I'm willing to take. With my husband, we'll be comfortably settled on the fourth quadrant of Saturn before I'll ever get that privilege. And by then, we'll be able to watch movies on the inside of our eyelids. But that's okay. When the Zorks come for dinner capsules, I'll proudly display our home entertainment system comprised of surround sound, Blu-ray and a high-def, flat screen TV. Perhaps they'll call us retro. According to my teenage gal-pals, retro is way cool.

Hey...maybe we're more hip than I thought!

Pride Goeth Before a Face Plant

2009-03-23T11:00:00.000-07:00

I used to be cute.

Used to be. Way back in the day, before all those cute parts began their migration south. Perhaps migration is not the optimal word, since the migratory tend to return to their place of origin. Last time I checked, my thighs had settled quite comfortably into their new region, with no apparent intention of moving back.

Ahhh...but the glory days were indeed glorious! Bikini-clad romps in the ocean side sun...shorts and miniskirts and summer dresses... flawless, bronzed skin. Cellulite, wrinkles and spider veins were blips only on my mother's vanity radar. I frolicked in the surf like some living version of Sports Illustrated's airbrushed beauties, deluded that time and age would never betray.

In my teenage naivete, I also dismissed the dastardly rumor about that grand dame, Fleshly Pride, leading the Fall on Your Face Parade. And even if such were true, I didn't consider myself proud. I was simply bearing the burden of my God-given physical assets in an era that labeled snug baby tee's, exposed midriffs and Daisy Duke shorts "high fashion". Yes, I was a Christian. But I was not fresh off the prairie. Laura Ingalls could keep her frock and bonnet.

There came a woefully fateful day, early in my college years, when I took a nose dive off my pedestal. Quite literally. Summer had South Carolina in its tyrannical grip, the breeze just off the ocean the only outdoor respite from suffocating heat. Towel, chair and beach bag in tow, I tucked myself into the space between the lifeguard's tower and the catamaran rental hut, a tactical maneuver to assure maximum exposure. All that remained was to shed my cutoffs and tank top and let the Alisha Show begin.

Never mind that pesky, inner Jiminy Cricket chirping about modesty and causing a brother to stumble. Sakes alive, it was the beach! I was one of a gazillion half-naked girls that paraded the shoreline every day. Here, men were subjected to a veritable smorgasbord of visual temptation. And I...well, I was simply a chick pea on the salad bar of beach life. Just another ingredient.

As I'd expected, my occasional strolls to the water's edge had the nearby lifeguard tuning in. When several surfboard huggers gathered around his high seat to talk waves, I recognized a delicious opportunity. A five-for-one deal. The noon rays had evaporated the sea water I'd been splashing on my skin, leaving a white, salty residue. Solution? The public shower on the boardwalk adjacent to the rental hut. No guy could tear his gaze from a dripping wet Betty.

Mapping the most advantageous route, I sauntered towards the dunes. But my audience was otherwise engrossed, limbs flailing in flamboyant re-enactments of wipe outs on the distant swells. No sweat...I'd wow them on the return. Moments later, I twisted the excess moisture from my hair and set a new course through the maze of watercraft that reposed just off the boardwalk. A glistening babe...interesting. A glistening babe and a boat...irresistible. A Christian young woman ignoring that her body is the temple of the Lord...heart breaking.

I gagged my conscience and plodded on as gracefully as the deep, scorching sand would allow. Sun-bleached heads turned as I wove through the catamarans and other boats, their flapping sails intermittently blocking transmission of my performance. This would not do. I cut back towards the dunes, intending to eliminate all interference, then ventured a fleeting glance at the boys. Yes...still watching...definitely impressed...going to remember me forever.

Oh, they would surely never forget me. The moments that followed, I am positive, are emblazoned upon their memories. How could they possibly erase the Youtube-worthy image of the self-absorbed girl who strutted around the backside of a catamaran and overlooked the vessel's rudders? Yeah...that genius.

In a move Jim Carrey could take to the bank, I took a header over that rudder and belly flopped every sopping wet pound of me into nature's sandbox. The searing grains blistered my limbs and torso while my brain kicked into instant replay mode. I just fell... fell... fell...

"Are you okay?"

I struggled to my knees and squinted up at the lifeguard. "I think so." He pulled me up, then stepped back to assess the damage, pointing out that both of my legs were bloody and packed with debris. But the throbbing in my mangled shins could not compare to the sting of my shredded ego as I stood feet from the young man I'd been scheming to impress. Some sight I must have been, sand caked into my damp hair and every crack and crevice of my front side.

"Better go wash out those cuts," my hero instructed, an expression of mingled pity and amusement clinging to his face. "Do you need my help?"

"No! I mean, I'll be fine. Thanks anyhow."

I was grateful, after I'd rinsed away the evidence of my wrestling match with the boat, to find the lifeguard was preoccupied by a herd of beach bunnies and the other witnesses had dispersed. Oh, for Jiminy Cricket's star that I might wish to shrink from view as I gathered my things and quit that scene. Wish number two? A less vociferous conscience. Pride goeth before a fall...

No kidding.

In the years that followed, I wished on many occasions to get that irritating bug in my cross hairs. But as I've aged, I have grown more fond of the still, small companion examining my intentions and guiding my actions. He has whispered to me of the inestimable value of modesty. Warned of the dangers of tempting young men. Shouted of the destructive nature of fleshly pride. I traded humiliation for preemptive humbleness, and have been more than satisfied with the results.

Granted, those now constant pings on my vanity radar--the laugh lines and crow's feet, the road map on my thighs, the unsightly dents in my fender-- aid in keeping me grounded. But it is God's Spirit who has done the greater work, and has given this ex-egotist an undeserved gift: my husband.

And he still thinks I'm a hottie!

Dread Sorrow, Sorrow for Thyself

2009-03-20T11:30:00.000-07:00

Dread Sorrow, sorrow for thyself
For thou hast been a thief of peace.
Thy days are few and numbered now
And none shall plead for thy release.

Dark Grief, lament for thy demise.
Tears and shadows art thy fare.
Thou shalt soon cease to dim the eye.
Thine own last hours shall be thy care.

Despair, weep now for thy just fate
For thy great work wast to destroy.
God's people weepeth for a night
But in the morning cometh joy.

Cruel Pain, mourn now thy fleeting days.
Thy heaviness hast stolen life.
The King shalt turn thee on thyself.
From thee, make ransom for His wife.

Cold Death, prepare thine own cruel shroud!
For thou hast reveled in thy sting.
Thou shalt be grounded, yea, laid low
And none shalt mend thy wicked wing!

Oh Grave, thy power hast been seized!
For thus the saying then shall be
Your prized possessions you have lost!
Death, swallowed up by victory!
Christ Jesus will the Victor be!

An Underestimated Gift

2009-03-19T13:38:00.000-07:00

Words For The Journey Christian Writer's Guild:
Rocky Mountain Chapter
http://www.wordsforthejourney.org/

Since my childhood, writing has been a passion. As with reading, penning original stories was a means of escape into a life rich with romance, intrigue and adventure. However, for a kid who was a member of an uber-dysfunctional family, it meant more than releasing torrents of creativity. It was my desperate attempt at self-preservation. A stab at a more ordered, controllable existence. So, with chaos as my background music, I would retreat beneath my bedspread, the essentials in hand--a flashlight, paper, pencil and the next great idea fighting for acknowledgement-- and the voyage to another world would begin.

Story writing yielded to poetic endeavors as I aged, my drive to set life to a metaphorical beat hitting its zenith in college. Days passed in a broken, troubled cadence. Maintaining healthy relationships, discovering my identity, the future looming on the horizon...it all seemed more sensible in metered, rhyming lines of sentiment.

After a dry spell of numerous years, the longing to empty my head onto paper resurfaced. I had never dreamed God would do more with the gift He'd planted within me than what I'd always used it for-- the maintenance of sanity. But inspiration found me in an unlikely place, and a novel was conceived. Short stories and poetry...yes. But an entire novel? God was stretching me, and it hurt! False starts up mountains of rewrites led to what I thought were pinnacles of failure. But I would squint into the blinding implications of what God was asking me to do and see the clouds part to reveal I had farther to go. The summit awaited, but I needed help!

The Lord, in his infinite loving kindness and provision, solidified my calling when he answered my cry in an unexpected way. Dissatisfaction with the direction of my life and my writing had led too often to overfilling my stomach and emptying my pocketbook. Feeling blocked, I allowed it to fuel a restless stroll, one day, around our disordered garage. I stopped to examine the recycling box into which my husband often tossed unwanted fliers and newspapers that appeared on our front door and driveway. I retrieved a paper and thumbed through with minimal interest, on the verge of chucking it back in when my gaze landed on an advertisement.

One that would dramatically alter my writing journey.

A few hours later, with clipping in hand, I dialed Sharen Watson's phone number. She painted an irresistible picture of her Christian writer's guild, Words For The Journey. The encouragement and guidance of fellow published and hopeful authors; the opportunities to write on a larger scale that were offered; the lessons I would receive to sharpen my craft; the further assurance from God of His calling upon my life...they were all waiting for me at the next meeting. God had indeed heard my cry for direction, and Words For The Journey was his solution.

Work and having a baby pulled me away from the group for a time, though what I learned there positively changed the way I write. My skills have greatly improved. I also learned that we-- writers for Jesus-- may reach one mountain top, but there are many peaks to scale. I don't ever want to say I've arrived! My writing continues to increase in variety and volume. I have returned to attending meetings, and have received, in a short period, abounding opportunities and encouragement.

Becoming a member of a writer's guild, if you are able, is an incredible chance to let God take you to that next level. If that's your desire, and you live in the Denver Metro area, join us at Words For The Journey. Click on the link above for more information, then buckle your seat belt.

You're in for the ride of your life!

A Mouthwatering Mistake

2009-03-19T11:32:00.001-07:00

When the Pampered Chef dreamed up cozy home shindigs with fantastic kitchen gadgets, food and famished women, you'd think he'd have considered the inherent dangers. Apparently not, since he didn't count on me.

We slumped onto Cheri's couch for the lively presentation of state-of-the-art garlic smashers and spoons made of space-aged polymers. "Ooooohs" and "ahhhhs" floated about the room, mingling with the aroma of an already-cooking sample of whatever goody we'd be taste-testing shortly. Now, my brain registers zero competition between eating and virtually any other activity, so it was no surprise I missed the merits of the products being showcased that evening. I wanted to consume something. Soon.

A little while later, as the women present gathered around our hostess' table and eyed the delectable Hawaiian pizza about to meet its demise, the consultant waved in my direction the most expensive pizza cutter in the universe.

"Here, Alisha. Why don't you slice that up while I demonstrate the Food Chopper."

"Okay." I could handle that, right? While she reduced a green pepper to atoms, I went to work piecing up the pie. My task was nearly complete when I noticed I'd slopped a tidbit of pineapple onto the table. Instinctively, I grabbed up the morsel and popped it into my mouth. As if the entire Colorado River had been resevoired into this one minuscule chunk of fruit, a deluge of Niagara Falls proportions gushed over my lips. Horrified, I stared at the section of pizza where my juice-laced saliva had splash landed.

Oh no...what have I done? I jerked my head up to scan the guests, begging heaven with a fervent plea that they'd all been too engrossed in our consultant's assault with a deadly utensil to witness my stomach-churning faux pas. No one was looking.

That is, no one but Cheri. Her wide gaze registered panic. "Ummm..."

"I saw where it landed!" I jabbed a finger at the offending area, then noticed her focus shift to the cutter I now brandished as if in defense of my very life. To my dismay, clumps of sauce and cheese and pineapple were dripping off and sinking into the fibers of her creamy white carpet. "Oh dear...okay, don't worry. I'll clean that up. And eat the piece I...that piece."

After I'd swallowed my last mouthful of shame--including the surrounding half inch of pizza that was mysteriously avoided by the rest of the party's attendees-- and had purchased more than I'd intended as penance for my indiscretion, I slipped out the door to the sanctuary of my car. A cleansing breath of relief tumbled back out in laughter. I suppose I got shortchanged on social grace, but I'm wealthy in memorable blunders with which to liven up any conversation. I knew I'd be relaying this one to my grandchildren.

And that it would be a chilly day in Hawaii before I went to another Pampered Chef party!

Welcome!

2009-03-19T00:02:00.000-07:00

Hi, everyone!

Welcome to my blog! Blogs are like daily journals you don't mind sharing with the world. A place to bear your heart and soul with hopes the reception is a warm one. This is a big step in my writing journey. By keeping up with this blog, I'm learning to write with discipline, a skill I must hone if I ever wish to enter the world of professional, published writing (complete with those dreaded deadlines!)

I can't promise I will write anything that interests you. But...maybe you'll be surprised! And maybe you'll be inspired to start your own blog! If you have one already, or decide to begin one, PLEASE follow me (under the sidebar heading "Beach Buddies"). I will do the same for you. Under "Breeze Through," you'll find the few things I've done so far. Like I said, I'm new at this. I will try to write once a day, though ministry and a baby may not always be so accomodating.

Mostly, I would hope for you to be blessed in some way by what you read here. It's my place to share my thoughts, feelings and the love of Christ. Please, slip to the water's edge with me and share in my Oceanside Notions!

Hungry for More

2009-03-17T13:18:00.000-07:00

HollywoodJesus: Pop Culture From a Spiritual Point of View
http://www.hollywoodjesus.com/

I have long enjoyed siphoning spiritual significance from popular music, movies and books. That is exactly what I have the privilege of doing, now, as a reviewer for HollywoodJesus! Contributing writers like myself watch, read, play and listen, then share their discerning conclusions with the world. Wondering how other Joe-The-Plumber Christians feel about that box office smash, Billboard hit or current bestseller? Stroll through the HollywoodJesus website and find out!

As for me, I'm quite satisfied when I come away from a media experience with positive answers to such questions as:

1. Did I just spend an hour and a half on an artistic effort worthy of my brain cells, or on something the makers of South Park would consider Golden Globe material? (Were there any redeeming qualities to this work?)

2. Am I convicted to end my misguided disgust campaign against the severely depressed, coffee-guzzling schlep in the next cubicle? Do I now long to tramp across the planet in a heart-binding adventure with my in laws, seventeen pets and a hitchhiker? Can I actually tackle a relationship crisis without my BFF Beyonce's sage advice? (Was there a meaningful life lesson weaved into the plot/message?)

3. Should I finally stop pretending my friendly-to-a-fault neighbor is a dyslexic obsessed with her infinitely wise, supremely powerful dog? (Did the characters/subjects have an encounter with God that was, if not cultivated, at least received on some level?)

4. Would James Dobson tattoo an advertisement for this on his chest? (Would the material be considered "Family Friendly"?)

5. Will I adopt a hungry kid in Rwanda...volunteer at a homeless shelter...donate to a charity...go to rehab...seek counseling...extend forgiveness...share the love of Christ with a downtrodden soul? (Have I been affected by the story or song in a way that prompts positive/Godly changes in my thoughts, feelings and actions?)

May your next DVD, CD, novel, video game or comic book leave you more than entertained!

The Problem With Self Pity

2008-12-28T19:10:00.000-08:00

The Narrow View

"Pity, party of one. Pity, party of one...your table is ready."

I nudge through the mass of people waiting to be seated and lift a tentative hand. "Did you call me?"

"Are you Ms. Pity?"

"Yes," I answer the bedraggled-looking hostess. "Self Pity."

"Right this way."

Packed in here tonight, I observe as I follow her to the designated section, noticeably removed from the rest of the dining area. "It's my thirty-third birthday." I volunteer this delicious tidbit in case it's restaurant policy to offer free desserts to those in the celebratory way. When she doesn't respond, I figure her for the silent, scheming sort and hang my hopes on something soaked in chocolate. "In case you're wondering, I'm eating alone 'cause all my friends went on a mission trip to feed starving kids in Africa. They know April first is my birthday and they decided to go anyhow. But that's okay, I'm not mad at them. Anymore."

"Sorry to hear that."

"Thanks." I take hold of her free hand. "What is your name?"

"Struggling Singlemother."

"Your sympathy means a lot, Struggling. Nobody else seems to understand my pain. It's like the whole world thinks their problems are so much worse than mine." Still clasping her hand, I give it an appreciative squeeze. "Say, what's with the crowd?" I add as we both swing our heads in the direction of boisterous shouts and applause.

Struggling works her fingers loose from my grip. "Staff party for that inner-city kid's outreach. Apparently, they met their budget for the coming year after a pretty substantial, anonymous donation. Group's whooping it up over being able to keep the doors open."

I consider extolling to my new friend the virtues of potlucks for have-nots. Granted, descending upon a lukewarm buffet of lovingly prepared, yet questionable, conglomerations can be quite the culinary adventure. I'm no Jo Welloff, and have pondered the mysteries of many an edible love offering. But, as it goes, those who must occasionally beg have not the luxury to choose. "Seems they should have spent some of that money on a catered event in the cafeteria instead of cramming this place full and making it hard for other folks to enjoy their evening."

"They're paying for it out of their own pockets."

"Oh. Well, good for them. Next time, though, I'd suggest to them some place more suited for children. They don't mind if you're loud."

"Your server will be with you shortly." Along with the menu, she passes me a forbearing smile and flits away as I slide uneasily into my chair. Goodness...did I do something to offend her? And why am I sitting here, so far away from everyone else? They must not think I'm good enough to eat in this place.

I regard the only other patrons within earshot, a young couple practically sprawled out over a nearby table. As they immerse themselves deeper into their soup and what appears to be a very intimate, candlelit conversation, they exchange a lover's kiss and I suddenly feel conspicuous. Painful visions of my beloved Typical trample across my mind. Typical and I ambling through the city park last Saturday afternoon...Typical's eyes sparkling in the sunset as he complements my outfit.... Typical kissing Floozie Von Officeflirt in the break room earlier today.

"What about us, Typical?"

"We were only walking back to our cars together after the company picnic."

"But you said I looked nice in my new dress."

"I said it looked expensive."

"Exactly! And then I catch you making out with Floozie!"

"She's my fiancee!"

Fling...fiancee...what's the difference? Mr. Man wouldn't know real love if it strutted up to him in a Cost Lee original, the monetary equivalent of six month's car payments, and asked for a romantic, twilight stroll. That's it, Self! Last time you trade in your car for a bus pass just to afford something to impress another Typical Man!

My curiosity once again settles on my dinner companions. I evaluate their unremarkable attire, then pluck at my own clothing, a Cheapforall-Mart sales-rack ensemble. Hmm...under dressed for the main floor, I guess. Sure wish I had more money. I'd buy myself better clothes, first off. Then people might stop treating me like gum stuck to their shoes.

Following a resigned sigh, I grab the menu and conclude that If I must partake of a silent, lonely meal in what's shaping up to be an overrated restaurant, why not in a poorly lit cubby hole adjacent to a window overlooking a stagnate swamp? I absorb the scenery beyond the panes of glass. Moonbeams break into shards as the surface of the inky water is disturbed by some unseen creature. Probably piranha. I let loose another lengthy exhale. If I was flailing about in those murky ripples, my extremities all but nubs, no one would even notice. Certainly not Kiss and Tell over there.

"Good evening."

I tear my attention from the window. Inches from my table hovers an apron-clad boy upon whom the lot has fallen of supplying me with the essentials for this disaster of a birthday. "Oh. Hello."

"Saltwater marsh is nice this time of year, don't you think?"

My eyebrows crank to the ceiling involuntarily. "Nice?"

"In the daylight, you can see the inlet, where it meets the ocean a few hundred yards out. Heron made a nest this morning, right there in the marsh grass."

"In that bracken? Poor thing. Somebody should rescue it." I commiserate with the unfortunate bird in its dilemma. I reside in a quagmire of an apartment complex, with flesh-devouring neighbors who only darken my door with requests for this pantry item or that, invitations to money-sucking plastic appliance parties and even offers of bible studies. Bible studies! Do I have a sign posted on my door that states, "Knock only if you intend to aggravate, swindle or intrude upon she who dwells within"?

"Anyhow," my waiter speaks up, retrieving me from my musings. "My name is Underpaid, and I'll be your server tonight."

"Underpaid...that sounds familiar. Is your father a skycap at the airport?"

"Yeah! Underpaid Tipmewell, Sr. You know him?"

"In fact, I do. He dropped my carry-on and broke my reading glasses. I cried the entire way to Hoboken 'cause I couldn't watch the in-flight movie. Do you know how long I've wanted to see "A Poodle in Paris"? My one opportunity, gone!"

"It's out on video."

"Pardon me?"

"I'm really sorry, ma'am. Pop has terrible arthritis. And he hasn't been the same since chemotherapy."

"Well, he should consider retirement. They've stopped making those glasses with pink frames, you know. So unfair. I've never really gotten over it."

The young man shifts from one foot to the other, visibly uncomfortable. Perhaps he's new at this gig. He readies his order pad and avoids my gaze. "So, what do you want...I mean, what can I get you to drink?"

I scan the menu. "Um, I'll take a cup of complaints. No ice. Not one single cube. I'm tired of paying three bucks or more for a whole glass of frozen water and barely two sips of beverage. And don't think I miss the fact that I'm the only one it happens to! It's like I walk in the door and the whole staff gathers in the kitchen and confers together. "Yup, this one's an easy target. Let's bilk her from drinks to dessert! And just for fun, let's see if we can sneak gratuity onto her bill. She'll leave a generous tip, too, and we'll split it and have ourselves a fine time compliments of Ms. Oblivious! So I failed algebra! Does that give people the right to take advantage of me?"

"Ma'am, I assure you--"

I halt his apology with a dismissive wave, then fan myself as I regain composure. Calm down, Self. Just...give the guy your order. "I'll have the fowl attitude with gripe gravy and the bottomless basket of boo-hoo."

Underpaid's eyes widen in fear. "I...I'm sorry, ma'am," he stammers. "We, uh...we served the last of our fowl attitude to the Divorcee's Dinner Club a couple hours ago."

"Great." I share my scowl with the piranhas and the hopeless heron, then turn it on my waiter. "My assumptions have been confirmed. You all saw me coming. That's why you crammed me into this dank closet."

"We're very busy this evening. And the view makes this our most coveted room!"

I take inventory of the sparsely populated space, catching furtive glances from Kiss and Tell. "Looks like it."

"We usually make this area available only to our most esteemed customers."

"Guess I should feel privileged to be sitting in the dark with Joined at the Lips over there."

"They happen to be very famous," Underpaid informs me in a hushed, yet gruff, tone. "That's Cad and Clangelina!"

"Don't get snappy with me! It's my birthday and I can't even get what I want!" I snatch up the menu. "Fine. Give me the fillet of frustration, well-done. I do not like my frustration rare. Also, a side of perpetual pessimism. And scratch the cup of complaints. Bring me a bottle of vintage whine, 1975. The whole bottle. You know...since it's my thirty-third birthday and nobody cares, I want my dessert first! I'll take a great big slice of why-does-this-always-happen-to-me, a la mode. I'm going to redeem this night and enjoy myself, or my name isn't Self Centered Pity!"

2008-12-14T21:15:00.001-08:00

"Write about it, honey."

This is my journal-loving husband's genuine, yet generally desperate, advice when I am perching on the edge of idealist introvert insanity and, in lieu of mass destruction, must find an effective--and legal--means of emotional expression. Were he asked, he quite possibly would answer his daring inquisitor, in a fearful and trembling whisper, that this is his beloved wife's perpetual state of existence. Thus, I am gently persuaded to write. A lot.

He's lucky. For me, to write is to breathe.

In fact, since it is my greatest desire to behold my name pressed into the cover of a real live, published novel some day, this "uber-basket case" gig may have actual potential.

And so, through the pummeling debris of this tempest called motherhood and ministry, I navigate towards what may be my (and dear hubby's) safest port in the daily storm.

Co-ordinates?
Latitude: Home Office Longitude: Computer

And then, I wax poetic...

It is at this faithful keyboard that my life is laid open before my peers, my critics and my God. In this comfortable chair, I spin about and my mind follows, mixing cocktails of thought that flow from my fingers, splash upon the monitor and ultimately become poetry and prose. Here, enduring characters are conceived, labored over and born. Tension is released in torrents of written words as I send spiritual e-mails to my Heavenly Father with hopes He'll IM me back. Sometimes, I get the chat box. More often, it's snail mail.

"But He always answers," my sweet husband is swift to encourage me. So it's back to the inbox.

Yes, this computer is my rose-tinted window to the world. Through it, I view the planet and the planet plays Tom and peeps in at me. And, as supporting cast to my heavenly leading man, I'm poised for popcorn-worthy performances. I'm just waiting for Tom to tell the right people. I believe, with a faith only slightly bigger than that famous little seed, that it will happen.

Until then, I pull back on the reins of life and dismount in this place, my soul ready for exposure and my heart pounding with the possibilities.

Oceanside Notions

2008-12-14T21:00:00.000-08:00

I think that I shall never be
alongside so provoking a body as the sea
should I repose at foot of mountain
alight its crest or breach its fount then
God will, I'll find there inspiration
yet could I choose, I'd take the ocean
waves ever singing, crashing, lulling
my veins, my soul, my mind fast filling
nimble fingers! dear paper and loyal pen!
as the tides, I pray, ne'er fail me when
I bear thee to the edge of land
where faithful waters meet fickle sand
where faithful God meets fickle man
and converts mere thoughts into masterpiece!