Turkey Day Wrap-Up

Ah, all the turkey has been eaten. All that's left is a hollow carcass of what once was a living, moving, gobbling bird. That last bit of cranberry sauce, downed on the sly. I'm remembering that corn pudding and those collard greens that I savored with a bit of hot sauce. (Some a y'all know what I'm talkin' 'bout.) Anyway, enough with the enumeration of Thanksgiving foods.

However, my household has no leftovers because we had the fantabulous opportunity to visit some relatives in sunny California! This was the first time I had ever been to that side of the US. There are loads of palm trees just like in the movies. And on the way to my uncle's house, we saw the Pacific Ocean. The western edge of the United States.

Okay, 'nuff said. I had loads of fun and spent some time with family that I don't see very often. My little cousins are the cutest kids alive. Here's a pic so you can soak in the familyness.

Shout-out

I received a flattering shout-out via a letter to the editor in none other than my fave webzine of all time, ninetyandnine.com. The author of this letter? Well, a fellow IQ Forum attendee from my little St. Louis excursion last month. Check it out here.

His letter is the very first in the lineup. If you click on the title of the letter, it will link to the original article I wrote that he refers to. I will add a slight disclaimer (a notorious habit of mine) if you happen to have time and intentions to read it—one may note a bit of feminine ire poking through. But it was, I believe, justifiably felt ire at the time that I wrote it. And apparently, I wasn’t the only one because after it ran, it got a lot of “right ons” from other women who wrote in. It even inspired a guy to write a counter-article, or rather, a guy version of mine.

At any rate, my day was greatly made after reading that this morning. Said letter-writer scores 100 points for that one!

I Was a Mom Today

for about 7 hours to a 7-year-old and a 4-year-old while the real mom and dad went to church leadership training and ran other errands.

I came prepared with a little craft for them to do. Imagine a table spread with newspapers covering it, paint, those little googly eyes, and multi-colored Popsicle sticks, among other things, scattered about.

I also came bearing a recently-bought-from-the St.James-book-fair-book, A Treasury of Curious George. It has eight stories of my favorite little mischievous monkey, and the kids tell me he is their favorite, too. Imagine a full lap and little arms and legs snuggled up against you, ears listening in wonder as you read the phrase “George was curious” for at least the 10th time.

Settling arguments, explaining “why,” weathering little temper tantrums, playing house, giving hugs, drying tears, boiling pots of spaghetti—is this the stuff motherhood is made of?

I let my mind wander as I put the leftover spaghetti sauce in a Tupperware bowl (they wanted their noodles plain)—am I cut out for it? I like to think and hope that I am. I already have possible names and ideas for that possible phase in my life in the uncertain future. But I guess I realized even more today how all-consuming it must be to introduce a life into the world. More than that, an eternal soul. To nurture that soul and to be responsible for it.

There is a part of me that craves that simple kind of life Gwen Stefani sang about before she went solo, and for some reason, I used to be reluctant to admit it. But how will this craving ever be reconciled with my career woman, travel-the-world bent? Why do I always feel like I’m going to be forced to choose one day? Maybe because I will.

At least it’s not a decision I’ll have to make anytime soon, despite my text-messaged marriage proposal. lol. I will continue to ignore subsequent messages, voice mails and phone calls. There is no earthly reason to respond to any of that in any manner whatsoever unless I would want to prove to him that indeed I am the blithering idiot that he must’ve taken me to be when the ludicrous idea first entered his mind that somehow I would be his ticket to legality in this country. Oh, well. Así es la vida.

¡Ay, Caramba!

It's just a Spanish interjection which is the equivalent of "Oh, my goodness!" or some such variation.

Without boring you with detail upon detail of this whole FTC rigamarole (see previous post for more info), suffice it to say that my decision to end the friendship was one that was made quite rightly. I felt bad and such last night when I tried to (a bit tearily) explain to him why it was best that we stop "being friends." It wasn't so much that I felt so . . . attached to him, come on, I didn't know him for real. It was more that I felt bad for kind of cutting him off because he hadn't really given me an outright reason to suspect his motives of being less than noble. But now after reevaluating some things that perhaps I overlooked and doing a little bit of thinking (which is something I need to do more of these days), and in light of the following recent text message from him, I know without a doubt that womanly intuition or godly discernment or whatever it was that prompted me to say adios to him was on the real. It read (translated by yours truly):

"Forgive me for writing you, but I couldn't sleep from worry, thinking about you. Don't ever leave me, marry me, and I am not kidding. I will await forever a message from you. Take care."

No explanation needed. All I have to say is illegal immigrant seeking a green card by any means necessary.

Another Sunday Night

and here I am, wasting time again, when I should be getting some sleep, thinking over my week.

I don’t want to sit here and type out a what-I-did-this-week post. I really don’t. Perhaps this is not the best time to even write since I’m feeling a tad . . . unexplainable right now.

This is what happens. I always put myself into situations, usually impulsively, and then feel bad and even shed a few tears when I have to sort of somehow get out of them. Not that it’s something so . . . you know, serious or detrimental. But here I am, feeling ambiguous and melancholy (once again), and for something that was all my fault.

In short, I told FTC (see other related stories here and here) that we shouldn’t be friends anymore. I don’t want to go into the whole . . . story. I felt bad because it’s not like he did anything wrong. He didn’t give me any outright reason to suspect his motives of anything ulterior, but he’s like, something that I don’t need right now. There were just too many factors that could have turned an innocent I’m-practicing-Spanish-with-a-hottie thing into a mess. If that makes any sense.

Speaking of Spanish, my pastor, another Spanish-speaking young lady, the Honduran man we’re giving a Bible study to, and I went to the Southeastern Regional Spanish Conference in Atlanta this weekend. It pretty awesome, and the Honduran man received the wonderful gift of the Holy Ghost. It was pretty amazing. And I claim not to be a conference junkie, right?

Last night I ran what you could call a mouth marathon. First I talked to one of my way back buds from junior high and high school. I’ll just call him Brother because he’s like the brother I never had (even though I have two flesh and blood ones already). He’s doing well in med school, and I know that God is really leading him. For that, I am thankful.

I also talked to McD. I’ll be honest and say that at first, there was a part of me that was compelled to put lots of space between us. I tried to convince myself that it was easiest and best, and that eventually my system would be cleansed of any residue. Of course it helped that he is no longer in my locale. But what I’m learning is that once someone has . . . gotten into your system, so to speak, in a certain way, you cannot simply cut them off. Even though I realize our relationship is different now, and has been for about 4 months, and though I know without a doubt that things happened the way that they did for a reason, there is a part of me that always wants the best for him. That wants him to be happy. And once I am assured of that, I am content.

After church tonight, I received a blush-worthy compliment from a dear (married, just so you know) brother. He said that I looked so beautiful that he thinks I’m trying to capture some guy’s attention. I looked around the near-empty sanctuary, devoid of any hopefuls, and knowing that there were none in the foyer chatting with the rest of the church folk either, I simply laughed and said, “Thanks, but, I can assure you, that is not my purpose at all.”

Then he replies with something about some, “Well we’re going to have to change that, I might have to start doing a bit of meddling.”

I told him, “Uhhh . . . I’d rather leave that to God. The Bible says whosoever findeth a wife findeth a good thing, so I’m not on the hunt. I’m just doing my thing until I’m found.” And I should have added, and after I’m found, I’m going to keep on doing my thing!

Hotdogs and Other Musings

Today I was starving. Mom promised to bring home some Chinese food (one of my faves, second only to Mexican), but she had some other errands to run first. Being a supposed adult who has a job and money, I could have gone out and gotten some food on my own if I really wanted to. But I was content to wait. For a while.

Two little kids from church were over the house, and it was up to me to play babysitter until she came home with the goods. In the meantime, “Could you make the kids some h-o-t-d-o-g-s?” Mom spelled after she dropped them off and before she headed back out. They’re still young enough where you can spell stuff out you don’t want to them to necessarily hear and it go unknown to them.

So I made them some hotdogs. I was telling myself just wait until Mom gets back with takeout. In other words, I was trying to tell myself to wait until Mom came home with some delicious, higher quality food than settling for some processed, God-knows-what-all-is-in-there hotdog. But I put a third hotdog in to cook too. Like I said, I was starving. So when the hotdogs were done, I fixed the kids theirs, and, against my better judgment, I put one on a bun, slathered it with mustard and downed it. And not in as lady-like a fashion as I would have liked.

Yeah, my hunger was satisfied. And the hotdog wasn’t bad, in spite of everything. But now, when mom comes home with steaming hot cartons full of shrimp fried rice, chicken lo mein, egg foo young and sweet and sour pork, I may get a little bit, but I won’t be able to enjoy it like I would have been able to had I not eaten that ridiculous hotdog.

Okay, this is going to turn into an analogy, (who knew?) but it’s not as . . . one track as it may seem. Waiting for the Chinese food is not simply an absurd allusion to True Love Waits. Though it does kind of work, I guess. But I promise, it wasn’t even my intention when I first decided to write about eating a hotdog, of all things. I guess I was more thinking about waiting and life in general.

Not that I’ve had such profound experiences in my life that I’m so seasoned and have this Solomon-esque air about everything that happens. But I guess I’m starting to see that many facets of life will require waiting, refusing to settle for the fake, processed stuff and sticking it out until the goods come along—whatever it is that you truly, really want.

Imagine marrying a hotdog guy/girl. Settling for a hotdog job. Having a hotdog relationship with God. Blowing your money on hotdog things. Surrounding yourself with hotdog people and getting involved in hotdog friendships and hotdog relationships. And . . . okay, eating hotdogs on the side when you should have waited for a legally binding, long term, til-death-do-us-part deal with Chinese takeout. lol. What a yucky existence. Okay for the moment, but filled with ground cow and pig and whatever processed leftovers in the long run.

I pray to God that I will never get to the point where I am so undisciplined and impatient that I will be willing to settle for any hotdogs in life. The hotdog is a lii-ya! I have faith that there’s some Chinese takeout waiting in the wings.