Atypical Musings

When the sky is clear or even partly cloudy, humans have the opportunity to witness one of nature’s greatest wonders–the rising of the sun in the east and the place of its setting in the west. While I’m not usually awake early enough to catch too many sunrises, each evening I stare in awe at the western sky as colors appear lightly, dramatically darken, and then disappear giving way to the night sky, which dances with stars and planets and the moon. It’s breathtaking beauty that blows my mind almost every day.

Sometimes I think I take too many pictures of sunsets. I take at least one a week, but I can’t help it. When I see something that beautiful, I want to capture it and share it with everyone else. I want to shout, “Look at the beauty the Lord has created in this fallen world. How can you not believe? The very heavens are screaming of His presence.” Still I imagine there are tired fathers driving on home, broken woman waiting at red lights, and kids to enraptured with their Nintendo DS’s to who rarely pay the sky much mind. Occasionally, everyone takes time out of his or her busy life and sucks in a deep breath at the beauty of the evening (or morning) sky. It happens every day in every city, state, country, and continent, whether we see it or not. The sun rises and it sets.

Thunderstorms rolled into area around 5 PM bring down harsh, rolling rains. The storms subsided for a bit and the clouds parts, giving way to a stormy sunset. So I grabbed my camera and took pictures as I smelled the damp summer earth and yelled at Maddy the shih tzu to stop trying to eat dirt out of the flower pots (weird dog). Here’s one of my favorites…

May beauty divine capture your eye. Oh, I stole the phrase “beauty divine” from a Brandon Heath song. I believe also likes sunsets/sunrises since he wrote a song about them on his first album (”Red Sky”) and on his new album (”Sunrise”). Plus, there’s a dramatic sunset on the cover of his CD jacket for What If We. Therefore, I believe it is completely appropriate to use Mr. Heath’s phrase. Besides, we’re old pals; he wouldn’t mind anyhow.

Even though I too young to watch “Golden Girls” when it originally aired (1985-1992), I’ve seen every episode of the show at least ten times on Lifetime re-runs during college. Since I attended an all-women’s college, the show was also popular among the students and faculty, even getting a few mentions in the college newspaper. The highlight of college meets “Golden Girls” was when a few friends and I did a scene from the show for one of our oral presentation classes. I was Blanche.

It’s always been hard for me to pick a fave out of the fab four because each character is so unique. However, who could deny the charm of Sophia Petrillo, Dorothy’s feisty mother? Ah, Sophia was great telling stories about Sicily (”Picture it, Sicily 1942…”), jabbing insults at the other ladies (especially Blanche), and making Dorothy miserable for putting her in the retirement home called Shady Pines (as well as for marrying that big botchagaloop, Stanley). Sophia was played by character actress, Estelle Getty, whose death was announced earlier today.

Estelle Getty, just under five feet, spent 40 years trying to land her big break in the business and finally did so when she got the role of Sophia on “Golden Girls” in 1985. Estelle was in her early 60’s when her true came true, and even won two Emmy’s for her role.

Learning about how hard Estelle fought to keep her dream alive–working bit jobs to pay the bills–inspires me. Not only was she an exceptional actress on-screen, it seems like she was a spunky woman with a lot of heart off-screen as well.

Thank you for being a friend, Estelle, and for making us laugh like “howler monkeys.”

I felt like vegging out in front of the TV to watch something mindless (but not too mindless. I drew the line at “High School Musical: Get in the Picture,” a lame new “reality” show on ABC). I settled on “Bridezilla”, a “reality” show on WE (Women’s Entertainment) about brides who go postal getting ready for their weddings. Personally, I like watching women act irrationally because it makes me feel saner. Yes, I find sanity at the expense of others.

These brides know what they’re signing up for when they have a television crew follows them around as they primp and preen and taste and decorate (and yell and scream and curse out and alienate all their close friends and family). I don’t feel that bad for them. If there was a show called “PMS Nation,” and I was asked to “star” in it for a few episodes, I would decline (unless I got a lot of money), but I doubt the world wants to see me act irrationally, eat chocolate, lie around moaning, burst into tears for no reason, and yell at people for no reason. Plus, this sort of behavior would scare off all men and prevent me from becoming a bride(-zilla).

Despite how I would act on “PMS Nation,” I’m pretty sure I would be nicer than these girls. On the last episode I saw, the one bride-to-be was particularly cruel signing up her future hubby for weight loss AND etiquette classes. Plus, she complained about everything he did—how he chewed, what he ate, how he dressed, and so on. I was beginning to wonder why she went on a date with him in the first place. It seems a little odd to marry someone she clearly finds so repulsive. Naturally, the groom was getting pretty angry, but did he dump her? Not yet. For the most part he put up with it! Is that love or stupidity?

The part that nearly killed me was this—she got the poor guy (Jeremy…I can remember his name because she was always screaming it) up at 5:30 AM for his surprise personal work-out. Who wants to get up that early…to work out…unexpectedly? I can’t think of a worse thing to do in the wee hours of the morning. While she’s “encouraging” Jeremy (OK, screaming at him and calling him cruel names), she downs a dozen donuts! Literally, 12 donuts! Plus, she was fat, too! She was the worst bridezilla I’ve ever seen.

This is the part that kills me—the guys ALWAYS marry these hysterical psychos! If this is how a woman acts under wedding stress, chances are this is how she will act when marriage gets tough or the kids are out of control. These men have the unique opportunity to see how it’s going to go down before they ever say “I do” and they say it anyway.

It’s times like this I truly wonder why I’m single. Look, I want my wedding to be beautiful, but I’d go to the J.P. You know, whatever works. Instead of having a wishing well to give me and my future mister cash, wouldn’t it be cool to use the money to buy a well for Blood: Water Mission? There’s no need to go broke having a “dream” wedding; the dreamiest part of the day is going to the man standing at the front of the church waiting to marry me. The decorations, the dress, the gifts, the guests, and the seating arrangement are just incidentals that come along with the affair, not the main event. Frankly, if my beloved wanted to wear comfy jeans, sandals, and his favorite t-shirt I’d be cool with that (as long as the t-shirt wasn’t one I found revolting. I do have standards after all).

I don’t understand how these women can spend so much money and hurt so many people just to make things “perfect.” Do these chicas also expect picture perfect homes and children and marriages, too? Because if they do, no wonder the divorce rate in the United States is so high. Nothing is that perfect, especially not weddings. Besides, things are usually more memorable and hilarious when disaster strikes.

If I ever do get to say “I do”, I count on tripping down the aisle, breaking something when I throw my bouquet (or accidentally nailing someone in the face. I apologize in advance), and waiting impatiently for a member of the wedding party as she arrives late. That’s life, especially married life. Any woman (or man) that refuses to deal with that reality has no business getting married because the real wedding disaster will be an unhappy marriage.

I’m back from my self-imposed exile.  I did Twitter from my cell phone a couple times and I posted a review of The Dark Knight on Backseat Writer (read it here).  All in all, I think I did pretty well disconnecting from “work,” relaxing, and chilling out with my Creator.  I feel refreshed and renewed, at least right now.

I spent part of Saturday at the pool with a couple of friends.  I decided that before summer’s end, I was going to cannonball into the pool.  On Saturday, I jumped in the pool FIVE TIMES.  At first, I was a little intimidated about how big of a splash I might make.  I wondering if people would look at me and wonder if I was too fat or too old to jump into the pool.

I decided that the bigger the splash the better (and I could even get a few sunbathers wet as an added bonus).  Since half of the people around the pool were passed out from the stench of their cheap suntan lotion, I doubt anyone would care enough to look at me.  And even if they did, so what?  No one is ever to old to jump into the pool.  No one.

So I jumped.

It was exhilarating and magical!  In fact, taking that plunge reminded me of everything that was great about being a kid in the summer—taking that first jump into the pool.  No more entering the pool via the steps on the pee (shallow) end of the pool.  I’m going in like a real woman—I’m jumping in on the deep end.

The only way to make an entrance into a sparking pool on a hot day is with a splashing.

Today was a rough.

I feel cranky, weary, and unsocialable.

So blogging in such a “chipper” mood makes perfect sense.

Or maybe it doesn’t.

I’ve been impressed by Jesus’ need to go off to “lonely places” to pray and spend time with God when the crowds overwhelmed Him; that’s exactly what I’m going to do right now.

I’m definitely running on empty tonight.

Until I saw this news article, I had no idea that Mia Tyler existed. Captivated by the title of a plus-sized model who wanted to commit suicide, I decided to give the article a looksy. Apparently Aerosmith’s Steve Tyler has another little girl besides actress Liv Tyler (who is one of my favorite actresses) and she’s coming out with a book called Creating Myself: How I Learned That Beauty Comes in All Shapes, Sizes, and Packages, Including Me. I’m sort of bummed that it doesn’t come out until August 26 because it’s on my must-read list.

Mia with her dad, Aerosmith’s front man Steve Tyler

Mia and I have a lot in common–we’re both models, daughters of famous rock stars, plus-sized, blue-eyed, writers, think Liv Tyler is cool, and former self-injurers. OK, so I’m not really a model or the daughter of a famous rock star, but the other stuff is true. When I look at photographs of this woman, I can’t believe that she would see herself as anything but beautiful. Yet I know her struggle all too well.

I remember staring at my fat bulges in hatred as I willfully cut myself, scarring my body forever. Like Mia, I remember thinking I would be better off dead because no one could love this ugly girl. Unlike Mia, my hope didn’t (and doesn’t) come from a phone call from MTV asking me to be a VJ (although being a MTV VJ would be pretty fly), it comes from God.

I’ve mentioned before that I thought God hated me for being fat, and defiling this temple I carry around planet earth. It’s OK if other people do things to defile their temples like smoke or drink or clog their arteries or whatever, but not me. I am completely devoid of grace on this one. Or so I thought. If I’m honest, I still wrestle with it in my mind. I’m working through it.

Mia and I have one more thing in common–we’re both beautiful. Really.

Remember a couple months ago when I told y’all why I didn’t Twitter? (read post) Well, I got a cheap texting plan on my phone and though to myself, “Self, you should Twitter so people can really know about your Cap’n Crunch eating habits.” I decided that you really need to know this important stuff, so now you can check in with me as I go about my daily routine and share random needless tidbits with you about my day.

All that’s left to say is…

Today I was thinking that I sometimes say and write the stupidest things.  If my live was a movie, I could just yell, “Cut!” and play the scene over.  However, it’s more like reality television and the cameras just keep on rolling.

I’d like to think my screw-ups are amusing, and at times, they’re, well, embarrassing.  I know we’re all impossibly imperfect, but did you ever think you mess up more than the average human being?  I talk and write a lot so the chances of me saying or doing the wrong thing increase with each line I type or word I say.   It’s enough to make an anxious person downright paranoid.

Growing up in church didn’t help much either because there are a ton of verses about the tongue and talking and saying the wrong things and how we’ll be “damned by our words” or something like that.  And don’t we always say that Peter the disciple’s big problem was that he spoke first and thought later?  Am I destined to just go around talking nonsense the rest of my life and reaping judgment onto myself?  I’m thinking that maybe I should just shut up.

Then again, if I shut up, I would carefully measure each and every word.  I probably wouldn’t say the things I should say in an effort to be pithy in speech.  Plus, let’s face it, I probably wouldn’t even make it through the first half hour of a silent retreat, what are the chances of me shutting up?  Not very good.

Sigh.

I try to temper my speech with prayer, compassion, concern, and encouragement, but I do have a slight sarcastic edge and a biting wit that can wound.  Generally, I’m even careful about that and fretting about saying “mean things” when really the other person wasn’t offended at all.  Proverbs says that a wound from a friend can be trusted, but I just hate to cause people unnecessary (or even necessary) pain.

If I’m really honest (and vulnerable) about it, I’m afraid of saying (or doing) the wrong thing because that’s what makes people leave.  I’m still that middle school girl who won’t talk because she feels she has nothing of value to say, but now I just keep talking until something good or humorous or clever spills forth.  I talk and tease and banter because I don’t want to be alone, misunderstood, or unimportant.  I want to matter not only to God, but to those around me.  I want to be noticed…with words and with speech.

I don’t think it’s egotistical to admit that.  We all want to be noticed for a job well done, a speech well presented, or an album well recorded.  Perhaps this post is merely musing out loud or a lame attempt to offer an apology (or explanation) for all the stupid things I’ve said and will say in the future.  Maybe I just want you to understand so when I do say the wrong thing, you won’t leave.  It could be that I said too much already.  Or not enough.  Here we go again!

Here’s the giant Amish man smiling and waving at the Hershey Farm in Lancaster, PA. I’d like to dedicate this picture to Jonathan Dunn…and he knows why.

Last week when I was frolicking about the highways and byways of Lancaster County, when I made a bizarre discovery–I think Amish (or Mennonite–it’s hard to tell at times) are hot. Maybe it’s the suspenders.

Let me pause here to explain the different between men and women looking at the opposite sex, at least from my perspective. I look at a guy and think, “Wow he looks cute/hot/interesting/nice/smart/human/male/breathing/whatever [maybe all of the above]. I wonder why it would be like to have a nice conversation with that gentleman or even go on a date.” From what I understand, males gape at women and think about things that may not be appropriate to discuss here.

I mean, I’m not a terribly conservative girl. I wear tank tops and I’m registered as an Independent. However, a (young) Amish/Mennonite man in suspenders with a wide-brimmed hat working on the farm or driving a horse and buggy is just attractive. I can’t explain this weirdness because nothing in the way the Amish/Mennonite women dress wants me actually change cultures, nor would I expect an Amish/Mennonite guy to change his ways for me. Still, I believe a mutual appreciation and attraction can exist between our two worlds.

Sadly, Amish and Mennonites generally do not appreciate having their pictures taken, so I had no photos to share with y’all. I do, however, have a pictures of the 30 foot Amish Man statue that we came across at the Hershey Farm.

Sarah and me in a cart by the Amish man.

Even giant Amish statues like to high-five!

Sarah’s about ready to rip the pitchfork out of the Amish man’s hands and attack me with it for taking a ton of pictures of her.

His feet were ginormous!

Stay tuned for my next post about farm animals…and yes, there are pictures!

Whenever I went to a gathering–a picnic, church event, whatever–I always had the same question for my parents, “Will there be other kids there?” Otherwise, for me, what was the point in going somewhere to watch a bunch of adults talking about boring stuff (and if we went to a private home and the people didn’t have kids, then pets were a necessity). Besides, I was and still am an only child; I savored opportunities to play with other kids.

Generally it didn’t matter who the kids were just so long as there were other kids. Perhaps it was going to day care (which I loved and was a great opportunity for me to socialize) or the fact I’ve been a social butterfly from the cradle, but I’d play with just about anyone. Obviously, kids who hit, screamed, didn’t share, and were otherwise bad influences were not at the top of my “to play with” list, but even if they were acting with civility they were invited to join in the fun. Race, gender, and religion really didn’t matter to us when we played kickball or blew bubbles or ran around enjoying a rousing game of tag.

Amazingly, it didn’t even matter if you knew the names of the children you just happened upon at the playground or if you ever saw them again. You were sharing the wonderful joy of the swings or balancing a see-saw or digging with a stick in the dirt. Ah, the good ol’ days of youth!

While my observations aren’t earth-shattering or even all that original, I still don’t understand why we as adults find it so hard to play with others. I’ve started to realize how I want to connect with people but make certain I don’t actually have to do any work– like I wait in my car until the other guy who just pulled up gets out and goes into the apartment building so I don’t have to say “hello”. Or when I make eye contact in public, and I turn away from a stranger instead of offering a cheerful smile. I mean, really, does a smile and/or a hello inconvenience me that terribly? Or at all?

Lately I’ve been thinking about the risks I don’t want to take because I might get rejected or because I’m scared or sad or this or that. But what kind of life is that? Someone once told me, “There are worthy risks and there a foolish risks; wisdom knows the difference but fear keeps us from both.” I’ve decided that there are worthy risks (that aren’t even terribly risky) I need to take to live a more complete human experience. While it hasn’t been “hard” yet, I know it will be, but for now, it’s pretty dang fun. It’s like living life for the first time…like I had my eyes closed for a few years. Then again, maybe I did.

Today I was at the pool with my BFF, Sarah, and it was a relatively calm day despite the heat and humidity. The day was gorgeous and the water temperature was perfect. Plus, I dived right into the water and only spent 30 seconds worrying about how I looked in my swimsuit (score!) After about an hour, a family of eight came into the pool (a couple moms, aunts, kids, and so on). They livened things up a bit with their laughter and playfulness…but it only added to my joy.

Sarah decided to get out of the pool and I followed her to the stairs when a game of pool volleyball break out in the shallow end. I told Sarah I wanted to play, and she told me to go ahead. I felt like a little girl walking up to new kids as I asked, “Can I play, too?”

“Absolutely!” replied a guy in his late 30’s who had cool dreads. I informed everyone that I was terribly uncoordinated but I would try to be encouraging and witty to make the experience more enjoyable. They assured me that they were also terrible.

So there we were Mark the dreadlock guy, Marie and her 12 year-old son What’s-His-Name, What’s-His-Name’s friend Rene, Marie’s sister Lisa, and me. The best part is that they were all black (except for Rene, who was of Indian descent) and I’m about the whitest white girl ever. But you know what? It didn’t matter one bit. We had a blast playing terribly, missing the ball, overshooting it, undershooting it, chasing it, and getting bonked in the face. We laughed and joked and teased like we were old friends. Midway through the game, Lisa asked me, “What’s your name anyway?” It was then that we exchanged introductions. The truth was that we were already friends and names just seemed like a formality.

After about 40 minutes, the game broke up for a bit and I bid adieu to my new friends of varying ages (we also decided that we were forming an Olympic Team, so look for us in the 2012 Summer Olympics) and we promised to meet up again. Since we all live in the same apartment complex, it shouldn’t be too hard to find ‘em again. Besides, 8-10 black folks in a complex of mainly white folks do tend to stick out (not that a freckled plus-sized blond girl doesn’t…we’ll be able to find each other!)

I’m glad I asked if I could play because so often I don’t. I want to do something but I don’t actually e-mail the guy I met at the concert or call the old friend I want to catch up with or smile at a stranger or jump in puddles because I don’t want to get my shoes wet. It all started when I jumped in the puddles like a silly girl a couple of weeks ago (read here), dared to e-mail people I never dreamed of e-mailing, smiling at strangers regularly even when I didn’t want to, calling old friends to catch up…and playing with others even when I’m not sure if they’ll let me play, too. I’ve already been let down, lifted up, disappointed, and laughed so hard I cried. Such is the nature of life.

I know every experience won’t be like today. Some people won’t let me play and other people won’t call me back and my heart will be broken. But it’s been so long since I’ve even been willing to take the risk; it’s been so long since I’ve allowed myself to live with dangerous wonder.