one holy church

After eight months of almost-faithful church attendance, I am finally fricking beginning to make friends.

It had gotten to the point where I was muttering grouchily under my breath as I located "church clothes," located car keys, and located familiar routes to get there of a Sunday morning, because however much I might enjoy the Sunday School discussions or the services, I knew hardly anyone would talk to me, except Chris-with-a-House who would tell me the latest tragedy of his life. (Today he came up behind me during the greeting time to tell me, without preamble, that he'd gotten hit in the face this morning doing something or other. Actually there was a preamble. He asked me if he looked like he'd been hit in the face recently. To which the obligatory answer is, "Well your nose is swollen, why, did you get hit in the face recently?" while you grit your teeth preparing for the obvious reply.)

It's just not a terribly social group. Eric Born pointed out that the Midwest is largely peopled by people who have lived there all their lives and don't need to look for new friends; they've had the same friends since kindergarten. (This is one of the reasons I left North East.) Sunday School was full of good discussion, but afterward the only real overtures I got were from Sweet and Hyperactive Amanda (which was welcome, I think she's adorable) and a fakey oh-we're-both-cornered-in-the-same-vicinity-I-should-croon-and-hug-you embrace from a girl who is consistently more closed-off than I am. (Gah, the Midwest.)

Just as I was marching into the sanctuary with a great big scowl on my face (and thinking, "I do NOT like your family, Lord"), a girl whom I actually, really like came dashing over to say hi, to invite me to hang out with her this week, to invite me to hang out with her and some of her friends this weekend, and to ask if she could sit by me during the service. I felt my jaw muscles slowly relax. That's a welcome.

This is Amy, the girl who shares a love for yerba mate and The Lord of the Rings. She's also ridiculously tall and uninhibited -- how better?

So all is not lost. I think I'll continue to attend this church for awhile, if only to see whether or not germinating seeds grow. (And I'll bet God spends a good deal of time grinning at me going, "See? I told you so.")

close encounters of the nice kind

One of our favorite volunteers at the Center worked her last day yesterday as a summer intern. Meg and I see her on Thursdays and Fridays, when she comes in to help with the kids (this requires a rather lion-like courage in someone like Carolyn, who wasn't especially comfortable with small children. She is, however, our favorite volunteer. Capable, entertaining, wry). She's the well-built, active, blonde soccer-player kind of girl. My favorite breed of athlete.

Two days previously she had come in to visit me while I, kidless, was cleaning toys with bleach in the all-consuming boredom of someone who works in a separate wing of the building from anyone else all alone.

Carolyn was being run ragged by her other jobs at the Center and said, "Two more days...I can last two more days."

I asked, seemingly at random, "How old are you?"

"Twenty-two."

"You drink?"

Her face lit up. "Yes!"

I was merely going to suggest, "Drink more," but then said instead, "Want to go out this weekend?"

Of course she agreed, and by yesterday boss Meg was roped into the going-out plan as well. So the three of us met at my apartment and headed -- where else? -- to the Fiddler's Hearth, where we parked ourselves at one of the sidewalk tables to enjoy the mild outdoor temperatures. I had told them of my crush on The Waiter Who Walks Into Things, and sure enough, he waited on us at the outside table. He's tall and skinny with a big goofy smile and no ass, and he comes by his nickname honestly. When he took our orders, he sat down in the extra seat at our table looking a little tired, so we grinned and said, "Take a load off!" He laughed, told us what the specials were, and went to get our drinks.

Whatever scent he was wearing won him extra points. Since I refused to ask him what it was, Meg and Carolyn rock-paper-scissored to see who would do it. (At this point I was greatly embarrassed by the soon-to-be surrender of someone's dignity.) Carolyn won the privilege, asked the next time he swung by the table, and was brusquely answered with a "whatever's on sale" before he disappeared back inside.

Well. Meg looked at me and said, "I think you should go for the bank teller."

Yet twenty minutes later he descended on our table with a glass of something, plunked himself down, and said, "I'm taking your advice, ladies." He stayed and chatted for five or ten minutes, asked our names and where we worked, told us stories of the homeless people that frequent the sidewalks outside the Fiddler's, and bounced back up to get to work. He did this several more times throughout the night, asked what our plans were, and told us that oftentimes the people who work at the Fiddler's head to Corby's after the Fiddler's closes.

Well...we all know me. When the Fiddler's closed, I decided I was hungry and tired and we didn't go to Corby's. Perhaps some other night. I can only handle breakthroughs one small step at a time.

At least now I know his first name: Joe.

fame and fortune, fame and fortune...

Yesterday I attended a project seminar connected with the hospital that funds my program at the Center for the Homeless. I got to wear real professional clothes (ordinarily my work clothes consist of jeans, a crappy T-shirt, and sneakers...great for getting drooled, sneezed, cried, and vomited on, depending on the day) and listen to two overly enthusiastic people hype up project-making for eight and a half hours. I spent most of the day trying very hard to wipe the disgust off my face (after all, these people give the Center the money for my salary) and some of the day actually considering a few projects I've had in mind for the P.E.D.S. program.

P.E.D.S. (pronounced PEEDS) stands for Play, Exploration, and Developmental Support (or, again depending on the day, Poop, Excrement, Doo-doo, and Shit because we change so many diapers containing every variation of those four words). It's the only program of its kind and I saw yesterday my boss-boss Beth's vision for the program.

Over turkey sandwiches (well, she ate egg salad because she's a vegetarian) she told me that she wants boss Meg and I to innovate and create as much as possible because she wants our program to be the number one early intervention program for at-risk kids in the nation. She wants other developing programs to come to us for advice and information. "In two years," she said, "I want you and Meg to be presenting at a national conference."

Now, I had known that she wanted Meg and me to develop the program. I had no idea how awesome it was really going to be. My jaw would have fallen open had it not been full of turkey, and I said, "BETH that would be so COOL!" (Me, behind a lecturn, on a soapbox, in front of hundreds of people? Bring it on.)

And then she said the thing that made my day and jerked me from the depths of despair to the heights of elation (Mom has expressed worry that I do such abrupt emotional turnarounds; well, I'm still getting a therapist and better euphoria than bone-crushing hopelessness): "And then you could write a book. The. P.E.D.S. book."

And I thought, My God, I could. It's not the Pulitzer-winning work of fiction I had always envisioned, but a foot in the door is a foot in the door. There are so many amazing stories, so many difficult stories, so many interesting stories where I work. So I'm going to start keeping a daily journal of my job. I can turn it into essays (which have captivated my writing interest for about a year, although I've done nothing with the inclination). I can get it published. My bosses would stop at nothing to see that it does get published.

Ahhh, now I have a short-term purpose. Which is what has been missing for a long time.

How have I been so ridiculously blessed? I'm doing EXACTLY what I was built to do...for now, anyway. And that's good enough for me. More than good enough.

confessions

These days I waver between contentment and desperate loneliness. It's disorienting how happy I can be with what I do -- my job, the upkeep on my apartment, gaining better expertise in budget management -- and how unhappy I can be with how I am -- holding everyone at arm's length, wrapping myself in a tight shell of isolation and shutting off every emotional valve to avoid thinking about the awful emptiness that I feel as a result of not loving people.

My favorite child at work won't be coming back. His mother has left the Center and likely I'll never see him again. When I learned this yesterday I wanted to cry, but I couldn't. Some overriding discipline rose up and slapped down the inclination toward tears. I thought to myself, That's what happens; that's the nature of my job; that's why you don't get too attached or take things too personally.

Probably when Meg comes back from vacation we'll be sad together. I can only be emotional communally, for the past couple of months. When I'm by myself I'm not emotional at all. Which is completely unlike me.

A large part of me doesn't even care that I'm lonely. I'm better off that way, right? It's much less effort to live with and for myself only. I can love the kids at work because that's my job, and it's a wonderful part of my life...but loving peers involves being vulnerable, and I can't do that with anyone except Leigh Ann, Laura, and the hilarious MP.

My creativity is dead. My faculties for higher thought are dead. I'm reading fiction again (yay!) but only as a means to occupy my mind with Story so that I don't have time to dwell on myself. All the things I want to do I can do alone (cooking, gardening, plant-rearing, reading), but I must, I must, I must learn to surround myself fearlessly with people, because if all my efforts are turned back on myself there's a flatness, a lack of love. And I do believe that love is all.

So I need at some point in the next month to check my insurance to see how it covers therapy. Because however disinterested I am in my own well being, I can't let myself live like this and still be a responsible human being. It's time to move on.

si estas inclinada

I had a wonderful time in Pittsburgh -- zooming from one thing to another so fast it gave me mental and emotional vertigo. I may or may not post extensively on my visit (I intend to, but you know what happens with my good intentions: They don't wind up paving any road at all), but today I would like to write about the most memorable five minutes of the trip.

After the Elvis Costello & Emmylou Harris concert (which was AMAZING), Garrett and I walked to the edge of Station Square at 11:15 p.m. and boarded the incline up Mt. Washington. For those who have never had the privilege of visiting Pittsburgh, let me say that the downtown is situated in the valley of the intersection of the famous Three Rivers, ringed around with very steep, high wooded hills (called "mountains" in this part of the country, and probably mountains indeed to anyone who has never been outside Indiana). Someone many years ago had the brilliant idea of engineering a mechanical lift ("incline") up the faces of the hills. The rails for the incline are lighted at night, making the already gorgeous downtown particularly spectacular, with chains of light running up and away from the city.

Garrett and I had ridden in the very back compartment of the incline on the way down, so we decided that, as the incline going up faces the city, we'd sit in the front compartment for a full glass-fronted view of the skyline on the way up. There were only two other passengers on the incline, sitting in the compartments behind us completely out of view.

Garrett was humming "Down in the River to Pray" (that lovely Alison Krauss song from O Brother, Where Art Thou?), and when he fell silent I started to sing it, quietly. Then the man in the back compartment called down, "We can't hear you up here!"

Thinking he was yelling at me, I called, "Sorry!" and shut up. After a moment he said, "No...we can't hear you up here. Sing louder."

So I sang the first verse as we rose up over the city. It echoed in the metal car. The man laughed and said, "I feel like I'm in church!" When I finished the verse I stopped and he said, "Come on, we have time for one more verse before we get out of here, I want to hear it again!"

So I sang the second verse. Garrett joined me on the harmony and when we finished the man said, "It's like a chorus! You should really do karaoke. Some places pay five hundred bucks for the winner. With your voice you could win."

Then the ride ended, and when we exited the car the other passengers were already gone, so I was spared the embarrassment of meeting the guy face to face. It was fun -- one of those once-in-a-lifetime moments of oneness that I'll carry with me forever -- the night, the city, the lights and the rivers and the hills, the yellow lit metal walls of the incline, the silent invisible audience, and the song.

vacation part 2

It's a funny thing, vacation...first paid vacation I've ever had. I rather like it. :)

So, vacation part 1 was home in North East, Pennsylvania....the most charming small-town grape-farming community one could imagine (although admittedly a hole in the wall when it comes to events like the Cherry Fest, when the streets are filled with the less savory and upstanding of our town's citizens, and carnies). It's the place where I'm from, but not the place where I belong anymore.

Having felt no social obligations after the fifth year reunion (yes, it appears our high school does reunions every five years. We have a fifteenth between the tenth and the twentieth), I have mostly spent my vacation blissfully sitting around on my arse. I've gotten some good reading done, and yesterday purchased a vegetarian cookbook with a wonderful introduction to whole food eating and a catalogue of most fruits, vegetables, root vegetables, seeds, legumes, pastas, etc. etc. etc. as well as some thrilling-looking recipes. (She may learn to cook yet, folks.) I won't be going completely vegetarian; that would be expensive and let's face it, I like steak. But I want to put my body on a diet that is natural and healthy and fun to prepare, and fairly lean. This looks like a good addition.

After the MOST DEPRESSING VISIT IN THE WORLD to my grandmother (two hours of listening to every sad event and bad deed of her life....do I have "Sarah the Confessor" printed in blood on my forehead, that everyone else can see but me? I love my grandmother but that day she had nothing remotely upbeat to say -- she was especially keen on repeating that she just wants to keel over, that's the best way to go...what do you say to a statement like that? -- and I came home and promptly chilled a beer) I did come away with a box of dishes that she couldn't wait to get rid of. I now have a popcorn pan, some pretty glass dessert plates, and a lovely unique set of very old red glass wineglasses. My memory of The Boxcar Children tells me that in the days of my grandfather's mother, to whom the glasses belonged, red glass was made with gold. Not that this makes them especially valuable, but it's an interesting fact. And, as my kitchen's accent colors are red and orange, they will fit in perfectly. I also have three new houseplants.

Now I embark on part 2 of my vacation....a visit to Pittsburgh! I'll be dropping in on Garrett, Evan, and Eric and Kristin, and my couch is now bristling with mapquest directions and I'm gearing up for getting lost at least twice. I haven't been to the Burgh since before I graduated over a year ago, and I'm excited to get back into my favorite city and visit some of my favorite people. Then it's back to the daily grind of work (but when I work, I feel that I'm earning my keep...which, remarkably enough, I am).

heh heh heh

I've gotten my parents back into Harry Potter. They read the first two books before I did, but then stopped.

I confessed once on Xanga, but I'll sum it up again: I couldn't get into the first two books. I committed the heinous sin of seeing the movies first, and then wasn't terribly interested in the novels. Until Fantasty Lit (yes, that class was fairly awful, but I will be forever in its debt for this), when we were required to read Book Three. And I fell headlong in love. I devoured Books Four and Five, then went back and read the first two, and liked them much better.

So I was as eager for Book Six as the next HP freak. I sequestered myself in my room for twenty-four hours during which my parents weren't sure whether or not I was really home, and read until I developed a crick in my neck which has just disappeared today.

What with all that, and the serious discussions Leigh Ann and I had about the series and our hopes for the finale, my parents became interested. And fortunately Leigh Ann has an extra copy of Prizoner of Azkaban, so now both Mom and Dad are flying through it.

It's a good feeling.

I never thought I'd say this but...

I have become crazed about Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

Okay, yes, I've always had a thing for vampires. More than a thing. When Laura and I were little, we had dozens and dozens of pretending games, and "Vampire and Werewolf" was one of them. I was always the vampire and she was always the werewolf. Interview with the Vampire is one of my favorite movies (although Anne Rice is a pretty terrible author). And then when Robin McKinley's newest novel, Sunshine, came out a year and a half ago, about vampires, I thought I was going to come out of my skin with happiness.

But somehow I never got into Buffy. Call it the corny effects, or the fact that as an impressionable adolescent, I was never allowed to watch anything remotely creepy. And then I thought myself far too elevated in taste to descend to the level of Sarah Michelle Geiller.

Until now. Until Leigh Ann started writing me e-mails about how much she loved the show and how interesting it was from a Lacanian perspective. (If you like Lacan, you'll love Kristeva...) And until I came home for my vacation to sit on couches for days watching episodes of Buffy and falling comletely, laughingly in love with the show against the better angels of my nature.

It doesn't hurt that Angel is so freaking hot.

(And I'm listening to my mom yell at one of the cats for being on the counter...in our household, "yelling" constitutes the offending pet hearing, "Bad kitty!" We're so strict and Naziesque.)

the return of the native

I skipped church to read Harry Potter.

I think there ought to be a T-shirt for that. Or...man, this would have been funny...I could have gotten up for church and taken Harry Potter with me to pull out and read during the sermon. The obnoxious semi-literate Christians who demonize the books without ever having read them deserve a little obnoxiousness in return.

I think this is my favorite book of the series so far.

The fifth year reunion wasn't the trip to the dentist that I thought it would be. Everyone was pretty laid back and talking about plans for the future and new jobs; no one was lording success over anyone else (because no one is successful yet); and a few people that never talked to me in high school came up and asked enthusiastically what I've been up to. So it looks like some of the clique borders (our class was extremely clique-ish...oh, I don't miss those days) are dissolving a little bit, becoming more semi-permeable. Most people are getting out of Erie as fast as they can drive...there are no jobs to be had and no homes to be bought; sad when a small town and its neighboring city cannot sustain the people who were born there...like nearly all of us were.

I accidentally impressed them by dropping the f-bomb in a story I was telling. When Joe went off into gales of astonished laughter and told him I had just made his day, I stopped and blinked for awhile and said, "Well...glad to have helped." Remembering that in high school I never. ever. swore. Well, things change, as some of you might have noticed.

*Note* The next paragraph repeats a rather bad word. If you are uncomfortable with bad words, skip to the following paragraph.

(My delivery of said f-bomb was perfect. Hillori was recounting the time a woman had pulled over while the two of us were walking in the road to scream at us about "fucking kids, when the fuck are you going to stop walking in the fucking middle of the fucking road and start walking on the fucking sidewalk," and at this point in the story I interjected, in a reasonable tone and totally deadpan, "But ma'am...there is no fucking sidewalk." Those of you who tutored me in f-bomb usage would have been proud.)

*Note* G-rated posting resumes here.

So that was the fifth year reunion...at the local Gravel Pit Park under a pavilion, with a couple of kids running around throwing rocks while their parents and classmates played beer-pong at one in the afternoon and flies crawled eagerly over the grilled hot dogs and hamburgers. Some people are married, most are not, three-quarters of the class didn't come, and all in all, although my head was thick and tired from a long week and a long drive and not enough sleep, it wasn't the afternoon of nagging torture that I was half anticipating. And I don't have to do it again for five more years.

(Mom and Dad have a narcoleptic computer. If you get up and walk away from it for more than thirty seconds, it's gone solidly to sleep by the time you come back.)

It's good to be home...I get up and the coffee is waiting, the smells are wonderfully familiar, I'm surrounded by animals (to whom I seem to be considerably less allergic than I was in my childhood), and Mom is giving me a cutting of a lovely house tree that she received as a gift...my goal of becoming a plant lady may be realized at rapid pace.

And Leigh Ann has bestowed upon me the gift of literature...I have fourteen new (well, not new at all, but new to me) books that she bought at the Erie-wide Used Book Sale in June. So in addition to a few gems that I can't wait to get my fingers into, like a collection of short stories by Ursula K. LeGuin, a novel by A. S. Byatt, and a volume of Billy Collins poems, I have a few twentieth century classics that I have no excuse for not owning, like The Bell Jar and Their Eyes Were Watching God.

Twentieth century fiction and poetry, particularly that written after 1975, really rocks my world.

Oh, and Charlie and the Chocolate Factory is excellent.

Wild living

I'm on vacation!!!

And because I'm poor, I'm vacationing at home where I don't have to pay for anything at all. My parents have turned my gutted-out bedroom into a guestroom which contains their old queen-sized bed. So I come home to better conditions than when I left. (My bed is a single.)

I love coming back to Pennsylvania. As soon as I cross the border from Ohio I scream myself hoarse with joy, out the window for all or no one to hear.

On my trip while passing a semi I was listening to music and singing and dancing in the car; I was happy and in love with life and glad to be on the road and heading home; I noticed that the guy behind me wanted to pass me, so I got over and kept right on singing. As the SUV passed I glanced over and saw the craggy profile of a middle-aged man just turning away. He was smiling.

AND I drove five and a half hours and jumped a time zone so I could procure my copy of THE SIXTH HARRY POTTER an hour ahead of the people back in South Bend.

Now I get to shower and get ready for my fifth year high school reunion. This should be rich.

quirkiness

I have one very good reason for not getting direct deposit: The Cute Bank Teller.

He goes by the rather unfortunate but potentially endearing name of Travis, and his left hand bears no ring. (Oh yes. The first time I saw him, ten-ish months ago, I checked.) He has a sweet smile and a friendly semi-shy manner. He was Very Nice to me after I stormed in one day demanding to talk to a manager about a ridiculous hold on a large check which would pay off my college debt. (I thought, ha, buddy, you're quite diplomatic.)

Well, after ten months of behaving myself, I'm glad to find that he now knows me by name. The past few times I've flown in at the edge of the close of business with my paycheck in hand, he has looked up, smiled, and said across the room, "Hey, Sarah, how are you?"

Today when I went to deposit that precious check, he was in another room, and Connie, my second favorite teller, waited on me. We were chatting about the weather while she deposited my check when Travis came by to use one of the nearby machines and said, "Hey Sarah, how are you?"

Ooooo. One of these days he's going to ask me out. Unless he's gay.

Then afterward as I filled up my gas tank at the ghetto gas station by Meijer, I noticed a police car stopped by a large group of people, and as I passed them to leave, I saw that the cop, who had gotten out of his car, was the same Billy Zane-looking cop who had chatted me up in such a friendly manner when Smoking Neighbor Ted fell down the stairs last month. We made eye contact as I passed.

Don't worry; I know from my dad too much about what cops are like. But still, that was a pretty fun hour.

The saga continues...

I realized today that I should write more about my work life, because what constitutes "a normal day" for me might not be normal for everyone else.

However, today I don't feel like it. I would rather fill you in on the continuing story of Wretched Tim.

Wretched Tim, tall, Asian, and extraordinarily handsome, attender of the Boring Church, rejector of my Christmas cookies, cyclical disappearer, cyclical reappearer.

He called on my last night at Ann Taylor and left a nondescript idiotic message, "Hey Sarah it's been awhile blah blah blah just thought I'd call you and catch up! blah blah blah give me a call back blah I look forward to hearing from you."

Yeah right.

I snickered as I snapped my phone shut on the voicemail and reported the call to manager (and Tim-hater) Deborah, with the comment, "Well, at least he can't stalk me in the store anymore" -- ever his habit when I don't respond to the phone call or e-mail which comes regularly every two months. So, unless this is The Last Time I hear from him, which I've thought every time he's vanished, I'll hear from him again sometime at the end of August. And then I'll know two months have gone by. And then he'll have something pseudo-suave and generally asinine to say....like the time he showed at the end of January up after six weeks of silence and said grandly, "Happy New Year!" And which point I was strongly tempted to consult a calendar and say, "When is the New Year for you?"

So then Deb called this week to tell me that he did, in fact, stop by to see me at the store...with his mother. (What? Yes. His mother. I've met her once before when she was visiting from California, and couldn't tell whether I had made a wonderful or terrible impression.) Dear sharp Deborah got a lot of glee out of telling him that I don't work there anymore and that she had no idea how to get ahold of me. Apparently he didn't believe her, because when I went to pick up my final paycheck yesterday, one of the new associates informed me that he'd stopped by...again. To hear, "Dude, she doesn't work here anymore."

A rather clumsy stalker and a completely inadequate suitor. It's not like we had anything much to talk about the few times we did hang out, and now I've cut all ties and disappeared myself. And I do intend to stay that way. Singleness doesn't feel like "settling" when contrasted with options like him. The situation long ago moved from hurtful to annoying, and is now becoming vaguely ludicrous.

The Monday Law

Every week must have a Monday. Even if that Monday does not fall on a Monday.

The past two calendar Mondays at work were designed in heaven -- only a few kids showed up, so Meg and I could spend more one-on-one time with them doing more interesting things...or we could just chuck the day's activities and head to the local play park for the morning, wear the kids out, and put them to bed right after lunch.

But karma demands a reckoning. The Perfect Day must be paid for. So the following day is gleefully orchistrated in hell.

The good things about these spiritual Mondays is that you really earn your rest for the evening. With the last bit of daylight left I will be shamelessly kicking back my heels and plunging into Middle Age: A Romance, a novel by Joyce Carol Oates which I have been immensely enjoying.

And believe it or not, my apartment is still clean.

Using others' digital technology

Karen Sommerville brought her digital camera with her when she visited me, and we had some photo-snapping fun at Fernwood Botanical Gardens in Niles, Michigan, where boss Meg had her wedding reception last Saturday.

So the following is one she took of me in a pretty grow-what-will sort of wild flowergarden. I'll be getting a membership to this place pronto. It's beautiful there.

Well, kids, here I am. 

welcome to the Midwest

I had a revelation last night on the phone with Leigh Ann. (She attended college at Wheaton in Illinois, so she's one of the two Easterners I know -- MP is the second -- who has dwelt in the strange place that is the Midwest.)

I've been having an incredibly hard time getting to know the people at church. They're warm, and friendly, and energetic, and fun; but at the same time closed-off. You can't get behind the nice smile. It's like looking at a shut door. I was telling this to Leigh Ann, and she laughed and said, "Yay, the Midwest!"

And I understood my confusion. In the East, there is no confusion. People aren't warm and friendly unless they like you and want to get to know you. When they first meet you they're brusque and curt and preoccupied. They don't say much. So when warmth and friendliness appears, it means you're friends.

I imagine moving from the Midwest to the East would feel extremely lonely, surrounded with all these people who openly don't give a damn. But I might prefer that. Easterners aren't fooling you. Friendliness is something you can trust. There's none of this tricky "I've-seen-you-and-chatted-with-you-for-months-why-aren't-we-friends" business.

Overall I like the Midwest. At least total strangers don't give you the "drop dead, idiot" look. But still...it's hard to make friends. Harder when you think you've been making progress only to find it's all been a grand sham.

Maybe it's time to go church-shopping again. Or maybe I just need to roll up my sleeves and start serving, and see what happens.

ala-kazaam!

That's what I always think when I hear the word "Kalamazoo." It's one of the smaller Midwest culture shocks, having to repress a giggle every time I hear someone mentioning this Michigan city. (Oh, yes, and Michigan City is the name of a town in Indiana. This place has identity issues.)

But yet here I am in Kalamazoo for the Fourth of July weekend, having entertained a fabulous Friday night and Saturday in South Bend. Karen Sommerville came down from Pontiac to do a Mary Kay party with me, Colette, and a few girls from church whom I am trying to persuade to be my friends. Yesterday I went to my boss Meg's wedding reception at Fernwood Botanical Gardens in Niles, Michigan -- a stunningly gorgeous place with a little tiny cedar-sided "Winter House" with whose floor plan I have fallen completely in love. I have a new life goal: build my own house. That house.

After the reception I backtracked to Indiana for a send-off party for manager-and-friend Ashleigh, whose Marines unit is being shipped to Iraq on Tuesday. Then I drove north again to Colette's family home in Kalamazoo. Because although, for the first time since moving in, my apartment is fabulously clean (nothing like the deadline of immanent company to get a girl motivated), I'm sick of sitting in it alone. And there's a freedom about waking up in the guest bed in a strange house, whenever I want, throwing on clothes, and cooking breakfast -- I made pancakes for the first time in my life -- yay! It's like a teeny-weeny vacation, particularly with Monday off.

I am once again at a place of loving my singleness, of being absolutely content with myself, and of getting out and being sociable as a result. It's truly perfect.

And I LOVE having a weekday job. It's so weird to be able to do things on a weeknight, or go away for the weekend, with a clear conscience. My brain keeps wanting to say, but you have homework you should be doing. But HA! that's not true anymore.

Happy Fourth!