I slept very ill--I am tired, and have a bad headache.
What a great holiday.
Actually the headache isn't bad, and I think more tiredness-induced than anything. Celebrations were fun -- they happened in at least two states this year (Indiana and Maryland), which is significant growth from last year. If anyone else celebrated in any other states, I want to know! My goal really is to see this printed on calendars someday.
I was glad to be able to attend, having had to leave work early (thankfully I had gotten all my work done for the day) and go home and sleep off whatever Steak 'N' Shake had done to me. Grim determination also helps, and WHHD is only once a year.
We honored the holiday at the Fiddler's Hearth, kicking off with Sonia's limerick and an original sonnet of mine (printed below), and going on to read the poetry of various other (and better) poets than Wm (one gal, the fabulous Laura, is herself published, and brought her own. I was as green as the beautiful cover on her printed book with awe and envy). MP read "Nutting" with the most delightful innuendos in her tone, much Guinness was had by nearly all, and ridiculous arguments about Wal-Mart notwithstanding (this girl was quite enjoyable till she insulted everyone in the USA who can't afford to shop anywhere but Wal-Mart -- as a proselytizer she's decidedly inept -- and after awhile, tired of the badly formulated arguments and possibly impersonal but still inexcusable rudeness, I forcefully suggested we talk about something else, so we discussed them Cubs and the nature of Frank's Place, a charming dive in my general neighborhood), the holiday was a brilliant success. The Meg Formerly Known as Boss was there, and her friends Jennifer and Matt, and altogether it was roaring good fun. We stayed too late, and I slept too little, but today I'm so full of good poetry and good camaraderie it doesn't particularly matter.
Tonight, though, I'm kicking back. I've been extremely social after eight or nine months of being extremely antisocial (Meg and I agreed that my nine months in PEDS were like a gestation period, and now I'm suffering separation anxiety and she's suffering post-partem depression), and my body is just plumb worn out.
So Happy Wm Had a Headache Day, everyone!
The Lost Poem
Tonight I'm so exhausted I can't write--
With all the watching underneath the trees,
While Dorothy bought our food and shoes, of bees
Whose velvet stroking on the clover white
Inspired such ecstatic contemplation
I nearly lost my great and noble mind--
With wrestling all the thoughts of all mankind
I lost my gift for penmanshipped oration
And asked dear Dorothy if she'd write, for now,
The words that I myself could hardly say
That I would claim as mine the foll'wing day,
And while she did, if she would rub my brow.
But now perhaps my greatest poem is dead,
Because she told me no, and went to bed.
Tuesday, January 31, 2006
Monday, January 30, 2006
It's William Had a Headache Day (Observed)! So observe it!
I want to say three disparate things in this post.
1. Wm. Had a Headache Day
Two hundred four years ago tomorrow, Dorothy Wordsworth recorded of her brother in her Grasmere Journals that "Wm had slept very ill -- he was tired and had a bad headache." To celebrate this only moment in history when a rational human being might sympathize with long-winded and self-absorbed Wm, the fabulous MP and I started our own holiday. In commemoration of his headache, we go out the night of Jan 30 and toast Wm's ridiculous poetry with several or more drinks, so that on Jan 31, we can say with Wm that we too had slept very ill, are tired and have a bad headache.
So celebrate this holiday! Take your friends out tonight, drink, and read poetry (even other people's poetry. This is a holiday in mockery of Wm, after all). This is our only opportunity to spend time in the mind of one of history's most famous blowhards. Sure, it's a Monday, but any excuse for a cold beer, right?
2. Steak 'N' Shake
...is evil. Although I routinely get horribly sick every single time I eat there, I go back for more thin and crispy fries and Mushroom 'n' Swiss steakburgers. Which I did last night to obscure the bad effects of Underworld: Evolution (which, though inarguably terrible, I privately enjoyed). And I'm paying for it in digestive bowel agony today. I think MP is right; they coat all their food with Ex-Lax. But I know that, in a month or two, I'll go back.
3. Plumbing Prowess
While I'm on a related subject, I proudly state that last week I fixed my toilet. I didn't do anything that required ancient poopstained jeans -- nothing so complicated -- but still, it was a sizeable problem. When I pushed the handle to flush last Tuesday evening on the phone with my sister, I felt it give in an unnatural way, and five minutes later when I came back to check I found my toilet still running.
Damn, I thought, the chain has come loose from the hatch. Well, no biggie. So I lifted the lid off the tank to rehook it and found, to my consternation, that the chain fastens to the hatch with a little loop...and chain, hatch, and loop are made entirely of rubber. No convenient hooks; no sturdy metal; no. And the loop that holds the chain to the hatch had entirely snapped like a broken rubber band.
What to do? I put my sister on speakerphone and stared at the conundrum and swore and fumed about how long it was going to take to get repaired. Laura's helpful input was not to shit at home for a few weeks.
Now, I come from a long tradition of determined, independent women who don't take "no" or "wait" for an answer. If something needs fixing and there's no one else to do it, we fix it, right then and there. So not fixing the toilet was not an option. And neither was pouring a bucket of water down the toilet each time I used it.
So I racked my brains. What can I use? Tape? No, the whole thing is underwater. String? My fingers aren't small enough to tie it. If only I had some wire. But I don't have any wire. Wire...wire...wire!
That afternoon I had pulled a Christmas ornament hook out of the carpet (the months following Christmas are full of digging up needles and ornament hooks and strands of tinsel, aren't they? Christmas never dies) and laid it on the coffee table to store or pitch later. I said to Laura, "I'll be right back" and went to fetch the hook. I straightened it out, plunged my hands into the hellishly icy toilet tank water, and with the wire bound together the end of the rubber chain and the broken rubber loop. And then I flushed. And it worked.
I'm still, as you can see, congratulating myself -- though not doubting my career calling. I love finding resourceful solutions to practical and immediate problems.
Look, she can hang her own pictures too!
1. Wm. Had a Headache Day
Two hundred four years ago tomorrow, Dorothy Wordsworth recorded of her brother in her Grasmere Journals that "Wm had slept very ill -- he was tired and had a bad headache." To celebrate this only moment in history when a rational human being might sympathize with long-winded and self-absorbed Wm, the fabulous MP and I started our own holiday. In commemoration of his headache, we go out the night of Jan 30 and toast Wm's ridiculous poetry with several or more drinks, so that on Jan 31, we can say with Wm that we too had slept very ill, are tired and have a bad headache.
So celebrate this holiday! Take your friends out tonight, drink, and read poetry (even other people's poetry. This is a holiday in mockery of Wm, after all). This is our only opportunity to spend time in the mind of one of history's most famous blowhards. Sure, it's a Monday, but any excuse for a cold beer, right?
2. Steak 'N' Shake
...is evil. Although I routinely get horribly sick every single time I eat there, I go back for more thin and crispy fries and Mushroom 'n' Swiss steakburgers. Which I did last night to obscure the bad effects of Underworld: Evolution (which, though inarguably terrible, I privately enjoyed). And I'm paying for it in digestive bowel agony today. I think MP is right; they coat all their food with Ex-Lax. But I know that, in a month or two, I'll go back.
3. Plumbing Prowess
While I'm on a related subject, I proudly state that last week I fixed my toilet. I didn't do anything that required ancient poopstained jeans -- nothing so complicated -- but still, it was a sizeable problem. When I pushed the handle to flush last Tuesday evening on the phone with my sister, I felt it give in an unnatural way, and five minutes later when I came back to check I found my toilet still running.
Damn, I thought, the chain has come loose from the hatch. Well, no biggie. So I lifted the lid off the tank to rehook it and found, to my consternation, that the chain fastens to the hatch with a little loop...and chain, hatch, and loop are made entirely of rubber. No convenient hooks; no sturdy metal; no. And the loop that holds the chain to the hatch had entirely snapped like a broken rubber band.
What to do? I put my sister on speakerphone and stared at the conundrum and swore and fumed about how long it was going to take to get repaired. Laura's helpful input was not to shit at home for a few weeks.
Now, I come from a long tradition of determined, independent women who don't take "no" or "wait" for an answer. If something needs fixing and there's no one else to do it, we fix it, right then and there. So not fixing the toilet was not an option. And neither was pouring a bucket of water down the toilet each time I used it.
So I racked my brains. What can I use? Tape? No, the whole thing is underwater. String? My fingers aren't small enough to tie it. If only I had some wire. But I don't have any wire. Wire...wire...wire!
That afternoon I had pulled a Christmas ornament hook out of the carpet (the months following Christmas are full of digging up needles and ornament hooks and strands of tinsel, aren't they? Christmas never dies) and laid it on the coffee table to store or pitch later. I said to Laura, "I'll be right back" and went to fetch the hook. I straightened it out, plunged my hands into the hellishly icy toilet tank water, and with the wire bound together the end of the rubber chain and the broken rubber loop. And then I flushed. And it worked.
I'm still, as you can see, congratulating myself -- though not doubting my career calling. I love finding resourceful solutions to practical and immediate problems.
Look, she can hang her own pictures too!
Saturday, January 28, 2006
and the truth will set you free...and tick you off
So, while my professional week was amazing and totally awesome (unbelievably, I didn't leave work yesterday too exhausted to think), my social week was full of a froth of insecurities I thought I'd buried right after high school.
See, in high school, like so many people of academic and artistic bent, I was an uncool, badly dressed, painfully awkward geek. The only setting in which I felt comfortbable was the classroom, where I won a certain amount of respect for being smart. When I had to set foot in the hallways, though, it was like running a gauntlet from one class to another.
So when I came to college I blossomed. Particularly because at Grove City the cool people WERE the academics and artists. I have never in my life been surrounded so consistently by so many brilliant and truly cool individuals. I don't think I ever will be again, unless we all scream "Chuck it!" to the world and start a Grove City Alum commune somewhere in Montana. In college I learned that I'm likeable, fun, outgoing (but still an introvert!), engaging, and a decent addition to a group of people. I had so much fun I didn't sleep for four years. I came out with a completely madeover and much more accurate self-perception, which stood me in good stead talking to strangers in retail and meeting people who were continuing their education at higher levels. I had confidence in more than my intellect; I had confidence in me. (Insert Julie Andrews singing and swinging a suitcase around here.)
But at some point this past week it all fell apart. Granted, after last Friday's insane party we were probably all tired; but Club 23 felt a bit strange and my interpretations of people's behavior faltered. Now, it's true that when I'm tired my grip on reality fragments like a dropped light bulb, but even being tired didn't explain the strength of the resurfacings of the old, old convictions that no one likes me and everyone wishes I weren't around because I'm not good enough.
Because that's all hogwash. I knew it; but still, I wanted to know where the misery came from. I like to understand my own irregular tickings. And in a conversation with MP yesterday (now that we're not roommates we've gone back to being best friends, it's fabulous), I figured it out. It was an occurrence in church that set the whole thing off.
Last week, in compliance with my 2006 goal of 3/4 Sundays in a month church attendence, I went to church. Rather eagerly, in fact, as the (young single) people in my Sunday School class have been welcoming and fun, while letting me have my newcomer distance. I went to the early service, where I noticed a few new (to me) faces sitting with more familiar Sunday School faces, and I thought, Oh goody, I'll get to meet more people. Several of them were rather good-looking mid-twenties guys. (Hence the oh goody. Not that I'm cruising for a boyfriend, but I like to test the waters, you know?)
But when I set foot in the Sunday School classroom, it was like plunging into cold bathwater. A couple of people I'd already met said hi, but the group was so much larger that they were the minority, and the people I didn't know made no overtures of friendliness. None. They wouldn't even make eye contact with me. The seats were set up along three eight-foot folding tables arranged into a "U," with the chairs running along both the inside and outside perimeters of the "U." One particularly good-looking guy (good-looking in the way that you notice him and think, "He's probably an asshole" -- he had a sort of cultivated indifferent arrogance to his mien, rather like some guys I knew at Grove City) sat directly across from me. Two feet away. He would not look at me or acknowledge my presence, before, during, or after class. From two feet away.
The other guys were more or less the same. And something in me quailed. Part of me thought defiantly, "Why should I introduce myself? I'm the newcomer. It's THEIR reponsibility to make the first gestures of niceness." And part of me, very simply, was afraid. What if I stick my hand out and introduce myself and they ignore me?
I left CHURCH on the verge of miserable tears. I endured my share of Christian assholes in my high school youth group, who made me feel marginal, awkward, and worthless, but I met a greater share of Christian and agnostic guys in college (mostly in the English department and theater) who treated me with dignity and love. This throwback to adolescent anguish caught me completely off guard.
Why? Why wouldn't they say hello? Why wouldn't they look at me? Oh yes. BECAUSE I'M PRETTY. And because I'm single. Somehow that appears to spell "danger" to the usual Christian guy. And I don't understand. The way they ignored me (and I was looking at them with friendly, open interest -- not interest in their hands in marriage, interest in meeting them -- most of the way through class) made me feel ugly and small. I wondered what was wrong with me. I forgot all the lessons I learned in college and through the grad school community and began to slip into old patterns of self-doubt and fear.
I'm not going to rant about this at length. I would just like to point out the strange irony that I felt safer, more cherished, and more appreciated at last Friday's party at 3 a.m. among people who had had too much to drink than I felt thirty hours later in the house of God. And while I won't apologize for the fun I had at the party or criticize anyone there, myself included, I want to say that there is something WRONG with the contemporary church when the best and warmest times I have in my life fall outside it. And this has been the case for a long time.
This is one of the reasons why I basically eschewed church attendance all the way through college. And I don't know what to do about it. Because now I NEED a church body, a baseline of people who share the same faith. Especially with my family so far away. So I'll continue to attend, but not with the same eagerness; more with a sense of perseverance through something mildly scary and unpleasant. I love the services. I love the preaching. I don't like having to try to convince people that I'm a good person to have around. I shouldn't have to. Everyone that I've met anywhere else but church hasn't needed convincing. Why should the church body? I like most people I meet on sight. I like people. What is this furtive silence that cripples the outgoingness and warmth of the church? I haven't even busted out with my scary opinions yet.
But at least I know again that everyone else, church aside, enjoys my company. Self-doubt is a horrible thing, but now that I know where it came from this week, I can categorize and contain it, and not let it bleed out into all my other relationships.
Maybe I should be bluntly specific and say that this whole post (which you might have already gathered) has centered around guys. The girls in Sunday School are much more approachable and friendly. So I guess what I'll do is go to make friends with them, and forget about the guys completely. But for how long is that a healthy thing? Part of being a body is interacting with members of both sexes. And part of being a woman -- particularly a single woman, with more social freedom -- is interacting with men. Not because culture dictates it, but because I want to interact with men. I want to cultivate friendships with men, because I like men, and some far-off, hoped-for day I want to have a man who is exclusively mine.
Gah. Oh and one more thing, while I'm irritated -- why can't Sunday School classes and small groups exist apart from study books and study guides? My youth pastor might have screwed up a lot of kids through leading them to believe that God only loved a perfect individual, but one thing he did right: He had us do this novel thing and READ THE BIBLE. My high school Bible studies went something like this: "This month we're studying First Peter. Open your Bibles. Okay, ready? Chapter one, verse one. Go."
Sola Scriptura. One of the glories of being a Protestant -- in fact, one of the fundamental tenets of Protestantism for which, as MP pointed out, people in history have died -- is knowing that, with the Holy Spirit inside us, we can read and accurately understand the Scriptures ourselves. We don't need a "Life Issues" book, a topical studies book, a study guide, or a set of videos to interpret the Scriptures. We have the Holy Spirit, the vast context of the Bible itself, and the body of believers to make, clarify, and guide our interpretations.
I'm sick of study books. I love the Bible. I love the beauty, the power, and the awful magnificence of the words of the Word. We're not refined by the words of John MacArthur, or Jerry Bridges, or even Oswald Chambers. Sure, their opinions can be helpful and serve to expand our understanding. But they shouldn't be our tools for interpretation. We have the most valuable tool -- the Spirit of God -- right at our fingertips, right under our ribs, enfolding our minds, less than a breath or a firing neuron away. Why are we cheapening that, and our own ability to understand what the Spirit gives us to understand, by thrusting it aside and clinging to things from the NavPress? And why are we cheapening the Bible itself by not allowing it to stand on its own?
It's a glorious book. I just want a group of people that can sit down around one chapter a week and dissect it. Other people's insights -- the insights of normal, everyday, nontheologians -- are so enriching. And when people sit down to discuss the Bible, just the Bible, together, there is a revelation and a powerful accountability that takes place. If someone has an opinion that's way off base, other people can point it out -- using Scripture. If someone has a fabulous insight that no one else has heard before, it can be heard. And when the Bible is sat down to and read in its own context (a whole chapter, not just a verse here and there...I'm not a big fan of topical studies, unless it's relevant to the chapter you're actually talking about), something holy happens. Because this is a book that is meant to be shared, bread broken among the body of believers. This is the book that lays out the whole basis of our faith. Why are we letting it collect dust in our minds by only opening it where the Navigators tell us to? Not that the Navigators are bad interpreters; but they're limited. The Bible is not.
The Bible speaks for itself. So does the living Spirit of the living God.
So we should read it. Corporately. Because this is where real transformation happens.
See, in high school, like so many people of academic and artistic bent, I was an uncool, badly dressed, painfully awkward geek. The only setting in which I felt comfortbable was the classroom, where I won a certain amount of respect for being smart. When I had to set foot in the hallways, though, it was like running a gauntlet from one class to another.
So when I came to college I blossomed. Particularly because at Grove City the cool people WERE the academics and artists. I have never in my life been surrounded so consistently by so many brilliant and truly cool individuals. I don't think I ever will be again, unless we all scream "Chuck it!" to the world and start a Grove City Alum commune somewhere in Montana. In college I learned that I'm likeable, fun, outgoing (but still an introvert!), engaging, and a decent addition to a group of people. I had so much fun I didn't sleep for four years. I came out with a completely madeover and much more accurate self-perception, which stood me in good stead talking to strangers in retail and meeting people who were continuing their education at higher levels. I had confidence in more than my intellect; I had confidence in me. (Insert Julie Andrews singing and swinging a suitcase around here.)
But at some point this past week it all fell apart. Granted, after last Friday's insane party we were probably all tired; but Club 23 felt a bit strange and my interpretations of people's behavior faltered. Now, it's true that when I'm tired my grip on reality fragments like a dropped light bulb, but even being tired didn't explain the strength of the resurfacings of the old, old convictions that no one likes me and everyone wishes I weren't around because I'm not good enough.
Because that's all hogwash. I knew it; but still, I wanted to know where the misery came from. I like to understand my own irregular tickings. And in a conversation with MP yesterday (now that we're not roommates we've gone back to being best friends, it's fabulous), I figured it out. It was an occurrence in church that set the whole thing off.
Last week, in compliance with my 2006 goal of 3/4 Sundays in a month church attendence, I went to church. Rather eagerly, in fact, as the (young single) people in my Sunday School class have been welcoming and fun, while letting me have my newcomer distance. I went to the early service, where I noticed a few new (to me) faces sitting with more familiar Sunday School faces, and I thought, Oh goody, I'll get to meet more people. Several of them were rather good-looking mid-twenties guys. (Hence the oh goody. Not that I'm cruising for a boyfriend, but I like to test the waters, you know?)
But when I set foot in the Sunday School classroom, it was like plunging into cold bathwater. A couple of people I'd already met said hi, but the group was so much larger that they were the minority, and the people I didn't know made no overtures of friendliness. None. They wouldn't even make eye contact with me. The seats were set up along three eight-foot folding tables arranged into a "U," with the chairs running along both the inside and outside perimeters of the "U." One particularly good-looking guy (good-looking in the way that you notice him and think, "He's probably an asshole" -- he had a sort of cultivated indifferent arrogance to his mien, rather like some guys I knew at Grove City) sat directly across from me. Two feet away. He would not look at me or acknowledge my presence, before, during, or after class. From two feet away.
The other guys were more or less the same. And something in me quailed. Part of me thought defiantly, "Why should I introduce myself? I'm the newcomer. It's THEIR reponsibility to make the first gestures of niceness." And part of me, very simply, was afraid. What if I stick my hand out and introduce myself and they ignore me?
I left CHURCH on the verge of miserable tears. I endured my share of Christian assholes in my high school youth group, who made me feel marginal, awkward, and worthless, but I met a greater share of Christian and agnostic guys in college (mostly in the English department and theater) who treated me with dignity and love. This throwback to adolescent anguish caught me completely off guard.
Why? Why wouldn't they say hello? Why wouldn't they look at me? Oh yes. BECAUSE I'M PRETTY. And because I'm single. Somehow that appears to spell "danger" to the usual Christian guy. And I don't understand. The way they ignored me (and I was looking at them with friendly, open interest -- not interest in their hands in marriage, interest in meeting them -- most of the way through class) made me feel ugly and small. I wondered what was wrong with me. I forgot all the lessons I learned in college and through the grad school community and began to slip into old patterns of self-doubt and fear.
I'm not going to rant about this at length. I would just like to point out the strange irony that I felt safer, more cherished, and more appreciated at last Friday's party at 3 a.m. among people who had had too much to drink than I felt thirty hours later in the house of God. And while I won't apologize for the fun I had at the party or criticize anyone there, myself included, I want to say that there is something WRONG with the contemporary church when the best and warmest times I have in my life fall outside it. And this has been the case for a long time.
This is one of the reasons why I basically eschewed church attendance all the way through college. And I don't know what to do about it. Because now I NEED a church body, a baseline of people who share the same faith. Especially with my family so far away. So I'll continue to attend, but not with the same eagerness; more with a sense of perseverance through something mildly scary and unpleasant. I love the services. I love the preaching. I don't like having to try to convince people that I'm a good person to have around. I shouldn't have to. Everyone that I've met anywhere else but church hasn't needed convincing. Why should the church body? I like most people I meet on sight. I like people. What is this furtive silence that cripples the outgoingness and warmth of the church? I haven't even busted out with my scary opinions yet.
But at least I know again that everyone else, church aside, enjoys my company. Self-doubt is a horrible thing, but now that I know where it came from this week, I can categorize and contain it, and not let it bleed out into all my other relationships.
Maybe I should be bluntly specific and say that this whole post (which you might have already gathered) has centered around guys. The girls in Sunday School are much more approachable and friendly. So I guess what I'll do is go to make friends with them, and forget about the guys completely. But for how long is that a healthy thing? Part of being a body is interacting with members of both sexes. And part of being a woman -- particularly a single woman, with more social freedom -- is interacting with men. Not because culture dictates it, but because I want to interact with men. I want to cultivate friendships with men, because I like men, and some far-off, hoped-for day I want to have a man who is exclusively mine.
Gah. Oh and one more thing, while I'm irritated -- why can't Sunday School classes and small groups exist apart from study books and study guides? My youth pastor might have screwed up a lot of kids through leading them to believe that God only loved a perfect individual, but one thing he did right: He had us do this novel thing and READ THE BIBLE. My high school Bible studies went something like this: "This month we're studying First Peter. Open your Bibles. Okay, ready? Chapter one, verse one. Go."
Sola Scriptura. One of the glories of being a Protestant -- in fact, one of the fundamental tenets of Protestantism for which, as MP pointed out, people in history have died -- is knowing that, with the Holy Spirit inside us, we can read and accurately understand the Scriptures ourselves. We don't need a "Life Issues" book, a topical studies book, a study guide, or a set of videos to interpret the Scriptures. We have the Holy Spirit, the vast context of the Bible itself, and the body of believers to make, clarify, and guide our interpretations.
I'm sick of study books. I love the Bible. I love the beauty, the power, and the awful magnificence of the words of the Word. We're not refined by the words of John MacArthur, or Jerry Bridges, or even Oswald Chambers. Sure, their opinions can be helpful and serve to expand our understanding. But they shouldn't be our tools for interpretation. We have the most valuable tool -- the Spirit of God -- right at our fingertips, right under our ribs, enfolding our minds, less than a breath or a firing neuron away. Why are we cheapening that, and our own ability to understand what the Spirit gives us to understand, by thrusting it aside and clinging to things from the NavPress? And why are we cheapening the Bible itself by not allowing it to stand on its own?
It's a glorious book. I just want a group of people that can sit down around one chapter a week and dissect it. Other people's insights -- the insights of normal, everyday, nontheologians -- are so enriching. And when people sit down to discuss the Bible, just the Bible, together, there is a revelation and a powerful accountability that takes place. If someone has an opinion that's way off base, other people can point it out -- using Scripture. If someone has a fabulous insight that no one else has heard before, it can be heard. And when the Bible is sat down to and read in its own context (a whole chapter, not just a verse here and there...I'm not a big fan of topical studies, unless it's relevant to the chapter you're actually talking about), something holy happens. Because this is a book that is meant to be shared, bread broken among the body of believers. This is the book that lays out the whole basis of our faith. Why are we letting it collect dust in our minds by only opening it where the Navigators tell us to? Not that the Navigators are bad interpreters; but they're limited. The Bible is not.
The Bible speaks for itself. So does the living Spirit of the living God.
So we should read it. Corporately. Because this is where real transformation happens.
Thursday, January 26, 2006
Mommy, wow! I'm a big kid now.
A year ago, sick to death of retail, I was desperately considering two options: grad school or a desk job. I fantasized about sitting down most of the day. I thought about having my own phone extension and a business card. I thought about wearing all my pretty Ann Taylor clothes to work, but not to advertise them; just because that's what was in my wardrobe, and they're professional.
So I talked to a few of my Ann Taylor associates who, unlike me, also had full-time office jobs, and they promised to keep their eyes open for similar occupations for me. I allowed myself to go wild in my imagination of a future as a professional woman...but still thought of myself as being perhaps a receptionist, having no real experience in the business world apart from selling people clothes. I never bothered to daydream about my own office; I realistically decided not to shoot too high, but imagined a better life than fourteen-hour days in retail in constant terror of employment termination due to low sales.
And now I have an office job.
It's better than what I had allowed myself to dream. I have my own office. I am not a receptionist, but a director. I have my own phone extension, my own computer, and soon my own business cards (that will say Director of Events and Marketing on them!!). I've held the position for just over a week, and I've already started meeting important people in the community, and making contacts with area businesses in preparation for our most involved and productive fundraising event of the year, the Miracle Auction in March.
I love it. I report to the Sr. Director of the Development Team (Angie), and as I'm a complete rookie I'm relying heavily on everyone else's knowledge and experience (particularly as I'm still green to the South Bend area and don't know anyone -- right now there's a flurry of names being tossed around that I'm just scribbling down and hoping to learn as time goes by), but largely I'm responsible for myself. I'm in charge of getting done the daily tasks that need accomplishing. I'm in charge of keeping updated, complete, and accurate records of every call I make and every donation promise I receive.
It's awesome. My Virgo self is in love with all the recordkeeping and listmaking. My independent self is in love with the control I largely have over my own time management. My get-out-of-here self is in love with lunchbreaks and off-site meetings. My professional self is in love with making so many new contacts and meeting so many new people. My ambitious self is in love with the goal of improving upon the people who have held my position in the past and being the best Director of Events and Marketing ever. My social self is in love with being able to do things with people relatively late at night again, and with being able to get around and visit coworkers periodically during the day.
Last week I attended an off-site committe meeting which flowed freely with ideas, laughter, appetizers, and wine. Tuesday I went out to lunch with the fabulous MP and one of our friends in the area. Tomorrow for lunch I'm attending a meeting to taste-test the entrees for the Auction at the ritzy Palais Royale.
I feel like I've graduated to real life. Not that anything I've done since graduation wasn't real life -- it was very real life, being poor and overworked and uninsured, and then poor and overworked (but insured) with at-risk children -- but this, now, is real, settled, relatively secure professional life. Of course there is the small, familiar voice in me whispering, "But what if you screw it up and get fired?" but the larger, newer voice briskly answers, "You won't." And that's the voice I believe.
When I first accepted the promotion a couple of months ago, MP said, "Sarah, you're your own chicklit heroine!" And, funny, it's true. I have a decently-paying (though I won't by any stretch of the imagination be rich), high-powered, fulfilling job for a really worthy cause, I get three weeks paid vacation every year (THREE WEEKS!!!)...and at the end of the day I come home to a reheated dinner and my cat, change into casual clothes (usually pajamas), and sit alone on the couch to watch DVD collections of TV shows.
It's a really good thing the job is going so well, and that I wake up eager to go to work in the morning, and that I have such fun with my fabulous female and gregarious grad school friends, because the singleness aspect of my life has been wearing lately. Leigh Ann pointed out last night that, really, it isn't necessarily a boyfriend I want, but certain things (physical contact -- almost no one hugs me or touches me at all -- companionship, walks, dinner options) that usually come neatly and conveniently packaged in a boyfriend. So if I can't have that tidy package, I need to look for the broken-down elements in separate places. (Isn't she smart?)
And I'm feeling, after my long absence from and sudden ready presence among the graduate school community, sort of passed over (left out? forgotten? pick the least offensive word, since I'm sure no one does it consciously). Maybe it's that I'm too tired this week and lacking perspective, or that I can't expect to dive back in after keeping such limited hours for so long and expect to be effusively welcomed or expect things to go right back to where they were. Actually it's probably both. But the truth is that while I'm extraordinarily comfortable with my own company and certainly need a majority of quiet evenings and time alone, I'm also tired of being by myself. I don't work closely with any one person every day, so my social needs are no longer met through Meg (insert forlorn sad face). And after years of holding people off out of a fear of not being able to give them the right, agape sort of love, and out of the fear of being hurt and let down, I want to jump back in and cultivate a close group of good friends who love each other well and have a relaxed, good time together. But those things take time, and at the best of times I'm not very patient. So I need to dedicate myself to a gradual process, and wait. (Getting more involved with my church will help in this area, too...and so far I've attended church within my goal for the year: 3 Sundays a month.)
So yes -- wonderfully, thankfully, the job is going beautifully. I love it. And now I must go and continue checking off the items on today's priority list.
So I talked to a few of my Ann Taylor associates who, unlike me, also had full-time office jobs, and they promised to keep their eyes open for similar occupations for me. I allowed myself to go wild in my imagination of a future as a professional woman...but still thought of myself as being perhaps a receptionist, having no real experience in the business world apart from selling people clothes. I never bothered to daydream about my own office; I realistically decided not to shoot too high, but imagined a better life than fourteen-hour days in retail in constant terror of employment termination due to low sales.
And now I have an office job.
It's better than what I had allowed myself to dream. I have my own office. I am not a receptionist, but a director. I have my own phone extension, my own computer, and soon my own business cards (that will say Director of Events and Marketing on them!!). I've held the position for just over a week, and I've already started meeting important people in the community, and making contacts with area businesses in preparation for our most involved and productive fundraising event of the year, the Miracle Auction in March.
I love it. I report to the Sr. Director of the Development Team (Angie), and as I'm a complete rookie I'm relying heavily on everyone else's knowledge and experience (particularly as I'm still green to the South Bend area and don't know anyone -- right now there's a flurry of names being tossed around that I'm just scribbling down and hoping to learn as time goes by), but largely I'm responsible for myself. I'm in charge of getting done the daily tasks that need accomplishing. I'm in charge of keeping updated, complete, and accurate records of every call I make and every donation promise I receive.
It's awesome. My Virgo self is in love with all the recordkeeping and listmaking. My independent self is in love with the control I largely have over my own time management. My get-out-of-here self is in love with lunchbreaks and off-site meetings. My professional self is in love with making so many new contacts and meeting so many new people. My ambitious self is in love with the goal of improving upon the people who have held my position in the past and being the best Director of Events and Marketing ever. My social self is in love with being able to do things with people relatively late at night again, and with being able to get around and visit coworkers periodically during the day.
Last week I attended an off-site committe meeting which flowed freely with ideas, laughter, appetizers, and wine. Tuesday I went out to lunch with the fabulous MP and one of our friends in the area. Tomorrow for lunch I'm attending a meeting to taste-test the entrees for the Auction at the ritzy Palais Royale.
I feel like I've graduated to real life. Not that anything I've done since graduation wasn't real life -- it was very real life, being poor and overworked and uninsured, and then poor and overworked (but insured) with at-risk children -- but this, now, is real, settled, relatively secure professional life. Of course there is the small, familiar voice in me whispering, "But what if you screw it up and get fired?" but the larger, newer voice briskly answers, "You won't." And that's the voice I believe.
When I first accepted the promotion a couple of months ago, MP said, "Sarah, you're your own chicklit heroine!" And, funny, it's true. I have a decently-paying (though I won't by any stretch of the imagination be rich), high-powered, fulfilling job for a really worthy cause, I get three weeks paid vacation every year (THREE WEEKS!!!)...and at the end of the day I come home to a reheated dinner and my cat, change into casual clothes (usually pajamas), and sit alone on the couch to watch DVD collections of TV shows.
It's a really good thing the job is going so well, and that I wake up eager to go to work in the morning, and that I have such fun with my fabulous female and gregarious grad school friends, because the singleness aspect of my life has been wearing lately. Leigh Ann pointed out last night that, really, it isn't necessarily a boyfriend I want, but certain things (physical contact -- almost no one hugs me or touches me at all -- companionship, walks, dinner options) that usually come neatly and conveniently packaged in a boyfriend. So if I can't have that tidy package, I need to look for the broken-down elements in separate places. (Isn't she smart?)
And I'm feeling, after my long absence from and sudden ready presence among the graduate school community, sort of passed over (left out? forgotten? pick the least offensive word, since I'm sure no one does it consciously). Maybe it's that I'm too tired this week and lacking perspective, or that I can't expect to dive back in after keeping such limited hours for so long and expect to be effusively welcomed or expect things to go right back to where they were. Actually it's probably both. But the truth is that while I'm extraordinarily comfortable with my own company and certainly need a majority of quiet evenings and time alone, I'm also tired of being by myself. I don't work closely with any one person every day, so my social needs are no longer met through Meg (insert forlorn sad face). And after years of holding people off out of a fear of not being able to give them the right, agape sort of love, and out of the fear of being hurt and let down, I want to jump back in and cultivate a close group of good friends who love each other well and have a relaxed, good time together. But those things take time, and at the best of times I'm not very patient. So I need to dedicate myself to a gradual process, and wait. (Getting more involved with my church will help in this area, too...and so far I've attended church within my goal for the year: 3 Sundays a month.)
So yes -- wonderfully, thankfully, the job is going beautifully. I love it. And now I must go and continue checking off the items on today's priority list.
Saturday, January 21, 2006
toto, stop chasing the white rabbit
Last night I discovered something about myself: After a Grolsch or two and the hour of midnight in very old houses, I regress to the age of five and begin hopping about looking for adventures.
It all started calmly enough, a birthday party for one of Marianne's colleagues at a lovely old house in downtown South Bend which is undergoing a massive renovation at the skilled hands of its owner. We arrived, mingled, had fun meeting new people (or at least I did; I've been out of the loop for a semester and now that I have a job that does not necessitate daily and total superhuman patience I can lose a small bit of sleep and still function), and generally behaved ourselves until Hans, the owner of the house, mentioned that the first floor boasts a trapdoor but wouldn't say where.
It was all ridiculousness from there.
I charged over to Marianne and shouted over the music about the trapdoor, and the two of us were off like little bunnies (or one big and one little bunny) jumping up and down on various places on the floor listening for hollow noises. We searched built-in cupboards. We opened a door and were nearly staked in the heart by a vast bundle of falling wood. We stomped and capered until we found the door in a most obvious place, then begged Hans to open it. We ran down the spidery stairs into the basement and came back up through the proper basement door. We were giddy with the spirit of exploration. We wished there were a secret passageway.
The rest of the night is a bizarre montage of poetic renumerations of springtime and autumn in Pennsylvania to a tall interesting gentleman who responded with stories of the Ukrainian Catholic church, a British marker fight, a self-proclaimed scary and ugly German student who is neither scary nor ugly, and clattering explorations of the many rooms of the house.
We stayed till four a.m. I woke wondering how much had really happened and how much was the product of the busy imagination of a bored and lonely single woman who stayed up far too late with people she hadn't seen in far too long. But there on my bedside table was the folded hand-drawn map to the Ukranian Catholic church in Mishawaka, with the tall interesting gentleman's phone number. (Yes, ladies and gents, I got a phone number at a party from a man who invited me to church.)
A perfect evening. Even if I had to talk to Marianne to verify that it actually occurred and wasn't a result of too many Buffy fumes clogging the brain.
It all started calmly enough, a birthday party for one of Marianne's colleagues at a lovely old house in downtown South Bend which is undergoing a massive renovation at the skilled hands of its owner. We arrived, mingled, had fun meeting new people (or at least I did; I've been out of the loop for a semester and now that I have a job that does not necessitate daily and total superhuman patience I can lose a small bit of sleep and still function), and generally behaved ourselves until Hans, the owner of the house, mentioned that the first floor boasts a trapdoor but wouldn't say where.
It was all ridiculousness from there.
I charged over to Marianne and shouted over the music about the trapdoor, and the two of us were off like little bunnies (or one big and one little bunny) jumping up and down on various places on the floor listening for hollow noises. We searched built-in cupboards. We opened a door and were nearly staked in the heart by a vast bundle of falling wood. We stomped and capered until we found the door in a most obvious place, then begged Hans to open it. We ran down the spidery stairs into the basement and came back up through the proper basement door. We were giddy with the spirit of exploration. We wished there were a secret passageway.
The rest of the night is a bizarre montage of poetic renumerations of springtime and autumn in Pennsylvania to a tall interesting gentleman who responded with stories of the Ukrainian Catholic church, a British marker fight, a self-proclaimed scary and ugly German student who is neither scary nor ugly, and clattering explorations of the many rooms of the house.
We stayed till four a.m. I woke wondering how much had really happened and how much was the product of the busy imagination of a bored and lonely single woman who stayed up far too late with people she hadn't seen in far too long. But there on my bedside table was the folded hand-drawn map to the Ukranian Catholic church in Mishawaka, with the tall interesting gentleman's phone number. (Yes, ladies and gents, I got a phone number at a party from a man who invited me to church.)
A perfect evening. Even if I had to talk to Marianne to verify that it actually occurred and wasn't a result of too many Buffy fumes clogging the brain.
Friday, January 20, 2006
Monday, January 16, 2006
at long last love has arrived
We met two Easters ago, while I visited home from Grove City on Spring Break. He was new to the neighborhood, and we hit it off the moment we saw each other. We spent some time hanging out, and I introduced him to my parents, who had seen him around but never formally met him. As he had no family or friends in Erie, my parents took him under their wing while I went back to college and eventually moved to South Bend. I made it a point to see him whenever I came back to town. Visiting him always made me ecstatic, and for his part he always seemed pleased that I was home (he's not a man of many words, but he communicates effectively nonetheless. It's a surprisingly good combination).
This past Thanksgiving everyone sat down for some discussions. I'm lonely in South Bend and while he is generally a little reserved, he loves me and always has, and Erie really has nothing for him. Plus it was crowded and noisy where he was living, and he needs some space and some quiet. (Finally, someone who appreciates my space and quiet!) Mom and Dad thought he was right for me, and so they helped us get set up for him to move to South Bend. He came back with me right after Christmas (the drive back was distracting, I can tell you!) and moved into my apartment. It's a lot smaller than what he's used to, but for the time being we're making it work, and he's not a complainer, which I certainly appreciate.
I didn't think it would make much of a difference, really -- I was only a little annoyed, to be honest, at the thought of having to share my bed. But everything is indescribably wonderful. In the morning he cuddles me awake; after work we romp around the apartment (so far no complaints from the neighbors) and I laugh at his antics; in the evenings we curl up together on the couch to watch TV (he's remarkably tolerant of Buffy and Angel). And going to sleep at night is so much warmer.
It makes all the difference in the world, having someone to come home to. I can't take two steps anywhere without him coming to cuddle and tell me how glad he is that I'm around. It's so nice to have someone to touch. And we don't have to talk all that much; it's enough to be in the same room with him. He knows when to leave me alone, and when to snuggle. He's perfect (except for his insistent demands to be fed. He can't cook to save his life). He's the sole reason I haven't been blogging lately; I love spending time with him too much even to talk about it to the blogosphere.
Marianne likes him tremendously, and even Meg says he's not that bad. It helps that he's extraordinarily good-looking, and charming to boot.
Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I have a cat. And everything is changed.
This past Thanksgiving everyone sat down for some discussions. I'm lonely in South Bend and while he is generally a little reserved, he loves me and always has, and Erie really has nothing for him. Plus it was crowded and noisy where he was living, and he needs some space and some quiet. (Finally, someone who appreciates my space and quiet!) Mom and Dad thought he was right for me, and so they helped us get set up for him to move to South Bend. He came back with me right after Christmas (the drive back was distracting, I can tell you!) and moved into my apartment. It's a lot smaller than what he's used to, but for the time being we're making it work, and he's not a complainer, which I certainly appreciate.
I didn't think it would make much of a difference, really -- I was only a little annoyed, to be honest, at the thought of having to share my bed. But everything is indescribably wonderful. In the morning he cuddles me awake; after work we romp around the apartment (so far no complaints from the neighbors) and I laugh at his antics; in the evenings we curl up together on the couch to watch TV (he's remarkably tolerant of Buffy and Angel). And going to sleep at night is so much warmer.
It makes all the difference in the world, having someone to come home to. I can't take two steps anywhere without him coming to cuddle and tell me how glad he is that I'm around. It's so nice to have someone to touch. And we don't have to talk all that much; it's enough to be in the same room with him. He knows when to leave me alone, and when to snuggle. He's perfect (except for his insistent demands to be fed. He can't cook to save his life). He's the sole reason I haven't been blogging lately; I love spending time with him too much even to talk about it to the blogosphere.
Marianne likes him tremendously, and even Meg says he's not that bad. It helps that he's extraordinarily good-looking, and charming to boot.
Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I have a cat. And everything is changed.
Friday, January 13, 2006
ends and beginnings
Today is my last day in the PEDS program. Tuesday (we get Martin Luther King, Jr. Day off) I begin my new position at the Center as Director of Marketing and Events.
How do I feel? Mixed, of course. There's the incredible relief at not having to change diarrhetic diapers or wipe slug-snotty noses, relief at not having to calm temper tantrums or constantly count to ten to hold my own. There are the pangs of loss and sadness at not being close working partners with Meg anymore. There's excitement for the energy Vanessa the new PEDS Assistant will bring to the classroom (my energy's been about gone since October). There's guilt at being offered this position while Meg, who's been here longer and worked much harder, has to hang on in PEDS for awhile longer and train yet another new PEDS staff member (when she was the PEDS Assistant, her boss Angie was offered and took a position as Director of Development, so that Meg became the Program Director in Angie's place and I took Meg's old position. Now Angie is going to be my new boss, since my new position is included in the Development Team. It's ironic and awful at the same time). There's hope and joy at having my own office and a new and challenging job.
The next few weeks are going to be topsy-turvy as I adjust.
There's so much I've wanted to say, the past couple of weeks, but no time to say them the way I want, so this little update is, I hope, an appetizer for more consistent posting.
How do I feel? Mixed, of course. There's the incredible relief at not having to change diarrhetic diapers or wipe slug-snotty noses, relief at not having to calm temper tantrums or constantly count to ten to hold my own. There are the pangs of loss and sadness at not being close working partners with Meg anymore. There's excitement for the energy Vanessa the new PEDS Assistant will bring to the classroom (my energy's been about gone since October). There's guilt at being offered this position while Meg, who's been here longer and worked much harder, has to hang on in PEDS for awhile longer and train yet another new PEDS staff member (when she was the PEDS Assistant, her boss Angie was offered and took a position as Director of Development, so that Meg became the Program Director in Angie's place and I took Meg's old position. Now Angie is going to be my new boss, since my new position is included in the Development Team. It's ironic and awful at the same time). There's hope and joy at having my own office and a new and challenging job.
The next few weeks are going to be topsy-turvy as I adjust.
There's so much I've wanted to say, the past couple of weeks, but no time to say them the way I want, so this little update is, I hope, an appetizer for more consistent posting.
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