Put This In Your Pipe And Smoke It

Okay, so I'm thisclose to being done with my first semester of grad school. Tomorrow night is my final final (heheh) and praise be to Jesus my Shakespeare final was cancelled on Monday night ne'er to be rescheduled. I'm totally okay with that. Aye, forsooth.

In preparation for this final paper I'm writing, I have to read an article and then comment on it. The article discusses a typological approach to the Bible, specifically the Old Testament. That is to say, most stories in the OT can be seen as symbols or 'types' of other stories. So, the story of the Exodus, for example, could be a typological representation of the story of how Jesus came to save us all and set us free, et cetera.

The thing that blew my mind was her discussion of Joseph. As a refresher, Joseph was known as the dreamer. He had the coat of many colors, was seduced by Potiphar's wife, son of Jacob, blah blah blah. Anyway, the author of this article suggests that Joseph can be seen as a typology for the text itself. Stay with me because I promise it will blow your mind.

Joseph's story was one of forgetting and remembering. He grew up with his brothers, was sold into slavery and was forgotten. Likewise, the creation of the Old Testament resulted from a series of events occurring and then being forgotten and then being remembered again. Remembered and then written. Eventually, Joseph's brothers remembered him and he rewarded them with sustenance. The result of the stories of the Bible being remembered is that we, the readers, have spiritual sustenance.

Now, think about Joseph's life in between the time that he was forgotten and then remembered by his brothers. He was sold into slavery and was imprisoned. While he was in prison interpreting dreams, what was the one thing he asked the prisoner who was set free? Remember me to Potipher. And what did the prisoner do? He forgot him. So, again, Joseph was forgotten and then remembered. It was a pattern for him. But, during those times, he never stopped dreaming and interpreting.

With the Word, it's the same way. The events that are written about in the Old Testament were created from someone's memory and interpretation of those events. It's up to you whether or not you believe the final product is divinely inspired. I happen to believe it is. But that doesn't make the process any less magnificent. These events, in between the time of their being forgotten and remembered, were constantly being interpreted, like Joseph's dreams.

Joseph's story ends with him being remembered by his brothers and the reward that came from that. The formation of the Bible is the same way. The stories were remembered, transcribed, and then divinely transformed into the Word of God, which, I'm sure you will agree is a reward for anyone who ravishes it.

man. that's some coooool shiz if you ask me. Hope it made sense.

I Seriously Had No Idea

Do you all know what this is???




Because I always thought it was a very artful, bohemian sketch of a man or woman dancing among some flames. See just there where the leg looks like it is bent and his head looks tilted?

Well, it is no such thing. When I told my roomate the other day that "I just love those artsy decals I see all the time on pickup trucks" she informed me very politely that they were, in fact, deer heads. Profiles of heads of tiny baby deers. Hunted tiny baby deers. Hunted tiny baby deers that are probably laying in the back of the trucks that used to contain the artful people I so admired. :(

To-Do

I'm ever so sorry for not blogging much lately. I have the following to accomplish before the end of the month:

1. A 10-page paper on whether or not Jesus was illiterate (I chose this topic)

2. A 5-7 page paper critiquing an article on the existential life of Joseph in the Bible (I did not choose this topic)

3. A three-page critical or creative commentary on Antony and Cleopatra

4. A three-page critical or creative commentary on The Tempest

5. A 5-7 page critical response to some aspect of the Shakespeare plays I've read this semester (there are 5)

6. A 20-page paper on the History of Thomas Hardy's renowned classic, Tess of the D'urbervilles.

I really do believe in miracles, you guys. And, it's a good thing because it's pretty much going to take one to get all this done. And, is it wrong that I'm crying right now? No, seriously. Weeping. Crocodile tears....which, incidentally, is a phrase we get from an ancient story where the crocodile is said to have wept phony tears for the victims it was about to devour.

Welp, see ya later!

Why I Pray For Ugly Betty

It's a good day. And not just because my beautiful friend has delivered a beautiful baby boy or because the weather couldn't be more perfect if it tried or because I've been listening to The Beatles for the past sweet forever and I'm like moved. Like moved in my soul. It's just because of the Lord. Pretty simply, that's it. And I'm not gonna start talking about how I saw the face of Jesus in a wildflower on my way to work or how the clouds seemed to form a cross as they drifted over my shimmering and ethereally glowing head as I did a Bible study in the woods yesterday. (totally didn't do a Bible study in the woods yesterday, unless it counts that I did one in my bed last night and I haven't shaved my legs in 2 days. gasp!).

It pretty much all has to do with how much I love being taught. Let me rephrase that. I love knowing things. Being taught that which we should know is often very painful and annoying. Lessons in the Lord are no different than numerous brutal hours of being taught the difference between sine cosine and tangent. Oh sweet heavens, I just threw up in my mouth a little.

But it seems like once you have a knowledge of something, you're pretty grateful it's there. Especially when it's useful. For instance, I love the fact that I can quote passages or ideas from certain books that I love or that I can provide random and fascinating information on virtually any current popular television series. (Karen Filippeli, from The Office, is TOTALLY the daughter of Peggy Lipton and Quincy Jones)

It's pretty common to hear that knowledge is power. So, wouldn't it stand to reason that the more we know about the Lord the more powerful we become? Of course.

I've been growing in my knowledge of the Lord, specifically my faith. Not faith like religion. Faith as in faith. The fruit of the spirit. The means by which we are saved.

I'm surprised at how much I didn't know about the intricate nature of faith. I always assumed faith was just a character quality that someone either possessed or didn't possess. To actually learn that faith is an action is something I feel I should have always known.

This past week, specifically, I have been more conscious of the ways that I allow faith to affect my life. My prayer life has been more intimate because I have opened myself up to freely praying for whatever is on my heart (which, last night, was the entire cast of Ugly Betty for some freakishly odd reason...I love that stupid show)

A foundation is laid through prayer. A foundation that opens us up to God's character so that His qualities can gently creep into our lives and words and actions. When we and others see evidence of this, THAT is what increases our faith. So much so that we can't abide the idea of it slipping away, which hopefully leads us to cling to the fragility of faith and cradle it and nurture it so that we never know anything but how good it feels to be in love with the Lord.

Thursday Night Football

I'm a football fan, something I never thought I would be admitting to when I think of all the times my mother forced me to watch Sunday NFL football for the majority of my formative years. But, now that I'm a grown woman with adult decision making capabilities, I find myself unabashedly addicted to the players and their sometimes wildly attractive coaches (hi, Chuckie).

So, you can probably understand how proud it makes me that all three of my little brothers are playing football this season. Luke and Ben play for Bishop McGuinness and John plays his little heart out for the CHA Crusaders. And, frankly, I love going to their games. Last night, John played at Mount Saint Mary's, and since it's my Fall break right now, I didn't have class and got to head over there to watch him play.

I realize I should be going into great and wonderful detail on what a great job he did and how the game was really close and exciting, but I can't get out of my mind the random comments I heard from the parents during the game and how funny they seemed to me.

First of all, I would just like to say that it took me a good sweet forever to find the football field at Mt. St. Mary's, a school that seemed like it would be a really good place to film the video for Pink Floyd's The Wall. So, once I finally got to the field, I felt greatly rewarded. I went to sit by my dad and grandpa and knew it was going to be a fun night because grandpa couldn't stop talking about the delicious stew he had made the day before. Old people are proud of their stews, guys. Seriously proud.

Here are some of the things I heard during the game that made me laugh:

"Make it a good threesome!" Now, this was shouted by my father. I realize he was talking about the formation of the men on the field, but it still struck me as awkward.

"Grab his sack!" I'm pretty sure I heard this incorrectly. Certainly, the parental unit who said this said something more like "go for the sack." But, really, is that any better? I can't imagine any of the players being too thrilled about anyone going for or grabbing their sacks. Just an opinion.

"You're running around like a chicken out there!" I know this doesn't sound very funny, but let me assure you that it left me in stitches as it was immediately followed by my grandpa's subtle remark that he had, in fact, put chicken in his stew.

"You need to handle your balls a little better!" I don't necessarily feel like this one needs an explanation.

"Come on guys! Let's go for the touchdown!" Again, this one is not very funny, but I'm just letting you know that this is what was yelled by my father just moments before his giant elbow whacked me upside the head. I was just sitting there minding my own business, when my father jumped to his feet behind me and delivered a fierce blow to my cranial surface. I turned around and looked at him like he'd just shot my kitten and it was decided that his excitement would be better contained in a vicinity that was not shared by my head.

They ended up losing the game. I blame the constant discussion of the stew...or the violent display of temper that was demonstrated on my poor head.

Why I'm Better Than You

Okay, so school is really hard. And I don't mean hard as in my brain can't figure it out. I mean hard as in I finally found something I can't b.s. my way through. (yes, I just ended a sentence with a preposition. eat me.) And even as I type this, something deep inside tells me that grad school was never intended to be easy. But I never thought I would be THIS humbled THIS quickly. I thought I would at least be able to sail through my first semester on my ability to compose an arguable thesis on something as trivial as a car owner's manual.

But, seriously. I'm at a point where I'm mystified by the fact that my best efforts aren't always met with academic success. In years past, if I did poorly on a paper, I could attribute it to the fact that I started writing it five minutes before class or the fact that I had never read the book about which the paper was supposed to be written. But now I feel like even my most meticulous and well-prepared assignments are deemed average.

Which makes me wonder...am I just fooling everyone? I mean, honestly. Isn't anyone with any sort of academic prowess just a slave to another man's thoughts? All the information I have stored in my brain has come from books and data sheets and intricately composited philosophies. So, it somewhat bothers me that I feel like I'm sitting on the ignorant side of stupid about ninety percent of the time. When all I really want to talk about, quite frankly, is the condition of humanity or God or why I'm the only one who seems to think there is no such thing as too many bottles of shampoo in the shower.

I'm not going to quit grad school. Mainly because I'm not a quitter. But as I sit there and listen to my "colleagues" discuss the feminine opposition and schizophrenic nature of King Lear, I can't help but wonder if this is really what I'm supposed to be doing in life. I love learning and I love being taught, but I feel so wildly inferior to so many things that I almost think I don't belong there. And, please don't view this post as a cry for help or sign of depression. I'm actually quite happy at this particular juncture in life. It's just that today I feel like I fell out of the stupid tree and hit every branch on the way down. But, don't worry. It's nothin I can't b.s. my way out of. (yes, I just ended with a preposition again...)

Panera is Rated R

This morning, I met my friend, Lindy, at Panera for a Bible study. It's always such a nice place to study the Word because of all the BREAD type situations. Bread bread bread. Bready bread breadness. Okay. I just really love their bread.

We sat down with our selected bakery items and cracked open our B-I-B-L-Es. About ten minutes into our conversation, a guy came and sat down about two tables away. The tables in Panera, if you are one of the 4 people in the world who has never been to one, are fairly close together, so we figured he could probably hear what we were saying. Which was fine because, in all honesty, we were pretty much talking about going shopping this weekend for new dresses. So, it's not like we were, you know, OFFENDING anyone with all our speaking in tongues and slaying each other in the Spirit and stuff.

However, after a decent amount of time, our new dining patron decided to make a phone call. I know this is going to sound awfully eaves-droppy of me but when someone in close proximity is on the phone and speaking loudly, I'm pretty much going to listen to the conversation. But, in this instance, I was truly disinterested in what he was talking about...until I heard the word 'cuddle.' I immediately looked at Lindy and felt a strong need to begin a conversation about whoknowswhat in order to disguise the fact that I was about to slide across the booth to him, put my elbows on the table and my chin in my hands so I could listen to him tell me all! about! the! cuddling!

But Lindy and I just stared at each other because the conversation had only just begun. From what I understood, this particular gentleman had apparently had sexy-ool relations with a young woman who was "possessive" and "like a stalker, dude." I heard such lovely phrases as "Come on, man, what was I supposed to do? She was lying there naked on top of me" and "I'm going to be known as the cuddler." It was all very appalling to my ears, frankly, and I'm pretty sure Jesus was a little disappointed in this fella's sexcapades and the fact that they TOTALLY distracted us from spending time with Him. But Lindy and I thought it was about the funniest thing we had encountered in a while.

And when we were getting up to leave, I stood up and stretched my neck and loudly exclaimed to Lindy, "Dang, girl! My neck hurts! I think it's from all the SEX." He stopped talking long enough to laugh at my comment. I'm hoping he learned his lesson, cuz ain't nobody wanna hear about no sex at 8 in the morning during a Bible Study. Can I get an Amen? Hallelujah one time.

To Purr or Not to Purr...

My cat no longer wishes to be alive. As you might be able to tell from this expression:



And I've tried for oh so many hours to figure out why on earth she thinks her life is so wholly unimportant to herself. But, alas, I can't understand it. She has a lovely home with plenty of soft things to curl up on, i.e. my laundry that I haven't put away since I did it back in 1754. There are ample opportunities throughout the day to find a patch of sunlight to curl up and go to sleep in. I haven't vacuumed in a sweet forever so I'm sure there are leftovers of some sort of delicious human food product dusting the carpet in various places. Aaaand, I hug her lots of times. In fact, every day when I get home from work, I swoop her up, hold her like a baby, and tell her how much I love her, Tickle Marie Pruitt, you cute, furry thing. So, I'm baffled.

But please do not mistake the issue here. She's been doing several things lately which have me in the clear understanding that we are thisclose to having to wrap her wittle paws in bandages. You know, because she's tried to slit her wrists with her pointy cat teeth.

Here's what happened: Ever since we moved into the apartment, Tickle has been enamored with the balcony area. Every time I go out there, she races right up next to me so she can enjoy the outdoor weather and the sunshine and the birds! look! those birds that make me do weird things with my mouth and eyes! Watch me catch one and eat it and then vomit it up to you as a present! So, I was understandably nervous at first because, hello, I live on the third floor and that's a mighty far fall for a little kitty. But she's always been very good at not testing her limits in that area, so I quickly let that worry subside. Mistake.

My roomate, Carrie, and I were hanging out visiting late one night and I noticed Tickle wasn't around. So, I looked for her and didn't find her but just assumed she'd climbed up on my bookshelf as she sometimes does. Naturally, I continued with the conversation. But then I nervously started to worry that something might be wrong, so I went out on the balcony to pray. Okay, I didn't go out there to pray, but I also didn't want to admit to myself that her little body could have been on that balcony at one moment and then hurling through the air on it's way down to earth the next. But, I had to know for sure.

So, I went out there and called her name and looked over the edge and didn't see her. But I called her name again and this time I heard a very low, very terrified meow. I almost leapt over the balcony at that moment, but I was able to rationalize that I would have died if I were to do that, so I called to Carrie to KEEP AN EYE ON TICKLE! SHE'S FALLEN! OH MY SWEET LORD SHE'S HURT AND DYING! CARRIE!. All of this was frantically shouted as I flew through my living room, out the door, and down the stairs to my stranded feline below. I ran out onto the grass calling her name and she pranced right over to me and I swooped her up and she looked at me all 'what was that all about' and I kissed her and spanked her furry bottom for taking ten years off my life. But she's fine, gang. She's completely and totally fine. And I'm also considering enrolling her in stunt school. Here's her latest trick:



As if the flying leap off the balcony wasn't enough, Tickle attempted suicide once again a couple of nights ago. I was in my study mode...pajamas, candles, pillows, school books...all strewn about me like collegiate confetti. So, I wasn't really focused or aware of my surroundings. As I was hovering over my Shakespeare book reading Twelfth Night (out loud in an English accent) I began to smell something burning. I looked up and over at my nightstand where I saw Tickle staring at me with a 'dude, I just woke up' expression. What she didn't realize was that her fur was hanging over my candle and therefore on fire. She had no clue. I pushed her off of my nightstand with the same ferocity I exhibited in running down my stairs after she fell off the balcony and she looked at me as if I had just stabbed her in the eye with the toe nail of a mouse I've been thinking of trading her in for. Again, I picked her up to examine her body and, again, she was just fine.

Needless to say, I've had to keep a pretty close eye on her lately. Keep her in your thoughts and prayers. I sure do wish she wanted to live. It's so much fun sometimes.

In a completely unrelated note - on that particular day of studying, I decided to finish off my night by reading my US Weekly (mindless entertainment for the mindfully aware). I was reading an article that started off with the word "chisled" and I swear to high heaven I sat there for a good 30 seconds trying to figure out the pronunciation of that word. "CHIS-lud" "Shiz-LED" When I finally realized that it was a basic word that probably a four year old iguana could pronounce, I decided to turned off my light and go to sleep, where I was fairly sure I couldn't do any more harm.

Beauty, Truth, and Love

Webster's dictionary defines BOHEMIAN as "a person (a writer or an artist) living an unconventional life, usually in a colony of others." Except for the part about the colony (because it sounds too much like a bunch of ants), I've always considered myself to be rather bohemian-esque...okay, I shouldn't say always. Mainly, my self proclaimed status of artisan extraordinaire came about when I saw Moulin Rouge. Have you seen it?!?! Oh my gosh it's soooooo good! I TOTALLY related to those in the movie who wore scarves and carried pencils behind their ears and randomly burst into song because, let's face it, the essence of bohemianism warrants at least three to seven musical outbursts per day. And I take care of at least half of those before I make it to work.

And as the true bohemian ideal upholds the standards of beauty, truth, and love, I consider it a joy and an honor to wrap myself and others in those credos like a heated towel scented with sandalwood. Mmmm...sandalwood.

And doesn't even THINKING of the words beauty, truth, and love just kind of make you wanna never walk anywhere ever again? Instead, maybe we can just use these principles to elevate us off the ground once in a while so that we waltz from place to place instead of meet the earth heavily, step by step, with our impatient feet.

I know I'm losing some of you at this point. And, actually, I don't really have a purpose in writing all this gibberish. I pretty much just like sandalwood and wanted to mention it in a blog.

Oh! And you might please think of me before your little head hits your little pillow tonight or lots of nights from here on out because, you see, I've been seriously considering looking at teaching a Freshman Composition course at UCO this Spring which means, hello, I'd be a college professor. Okay, actually I would just be a Teacher's Assistant, but I'd get my own class and my own curriculum and audio visuals! And students! Students I can assign papers to! And then grade them! And say things like "my office hours are blah blah blah." And faculty parking! Weeeeeee!

So, yeah. I'd appreciate some prayers in this area. If anything just to calm me down. Thanks and please remember "Chewing TWO pieces of Trident White sugarless gum after eating and drinking helps prevent stains, strengthen teeth, and whiten teeth in as little as four weeks." I don't care who ya are, that's dope.

Observations, Heroes, and Ballroom Dancing

OBSERVATIONS:

In my Research class that meets on Wednesdays, I have carefully established my station in the back of the classroom. I do this in all my classes because I like to observe people and, on the rare instance when I decide to participate in class discussions, my back-of-the-class location inevitably forces people to look up as if they've just heard the voice of God...and, let's face it, when I offer up my brilliant wisdom in relation to bibliographical methods, how could it NOT sound like the voice of God? But that's divinely beside the point.

In this class, I happen to sit behind a very lovely foreign exchange student from Japan. Every day she comes in and smiles at me and the rest of her fellow classmates and then proceeds to take her seat at the desk in front of me. I am amazed at her determination to be successful in this class because Bibliography and Methods of Research is very complex even for those who speak Amurrican. But she never exhibits signs of frustration and if she doesn't understand something, she will just type it up on her electronic translator and continue the process of patiently enduring the lecture.

But, just when I thought this adorable little Japanese girl couldn't get any cuter, I noticed the guy who sits in front of her. He's an American and a Film Studies Major. On the second week of class, he decided to engage in conversation with the foreign exchange student asking her questions like "where are you from?" "what's your major?" The basics. Then, he proudly announced that he had taken a few semesters of Japanese, so I immediately decided that these two should get married and have lots of pretty Japerican babies together. It's such a treat every week to get to come to class and watch these two awkwardly interact. He follows her with his eyes, desparate to think of something to say, hoping to capture her attention with his interest in her culture. If all goes according to my plan, I'll have them translating each other's 'I love yous' by the end of the semester. La la la la...

HEROES:

Obviously, we all have a preconceived notion of what we think a hero is. When we were asked 'who is your hero?' as an essay question in fourth grade, we usually put 'my daddy' or 'my crazy Uncle Lou' or 'my dog, Milfred.' But as we get older and encounter more people, we see that heroism can take the shape of the most unlikely people. Today, my hero is one of my little brother's 13-year-old friends. He's the most awesome kid and he always has a smile and always runs up to hug me when he sees me. But what's so great about all of that is he is smiling and hugging and loving despite the fact that his father had a massive stroke a few months ago and this little boy's entire summer vacation was spent in the hospital with his family. Kids have very naturally selfish needs at this age, but his have been put on hold and I have never heard him complain, not once. He just started playing football this fall and at their very first game, his dad managed to come in his wheelchair to cheer on his son. And my brother's friend ran over to him with such enormous pride and shed tears over his father's effort to be there with him during this moment that he had managed to carve out for himself. I just love this kid so much which is why I'm thrilled that we get to take him with us on vacation this year at Christmas. He will get an opportunity to reclaim a part of his adolescence and hopefully will spend an entire week being a selfish, spoiled, 13-year-old boy.

BALLROOM DANCING:

On Thursday nights, my Heroes and Heroines of the Bible class meets at the downtown public library. For those of you who haven't been to check out the newly renovated building, you need to go see it. It's precocious and full of wonderment. They have all sorts of classes that meet there and a cafe that has menu items named after famous authors. Adorable. "I'll have the Chaucer on rye, please." So, last night as we were discussing the life of Jacob, a sudden flood of classical dance music poured into the room. I looked out the window of our classroom and noticed several couples moving and flowing in the room across from ours. They were teaching a ballroom dancing class. And, friends, there was just something terribly romantic and gratifying about knowing that while I was sitting there learning, there were people not 50 feet away twirling and gliding and spinning and smiling. It was great. And the whole time, I couldn't stop thinking about certain images that come to mind when I think of daaaaaaancing...twirly twirly dip...

Dance in the City by Renoir (this is how every lady and gentleman should look when they're dancing)



This is how every girl imagines dancing when they're 7




This is how I look when I dance...




And, finally...this is how we dance when handsome boys come and kiss us to wake us up...

My New Favorite Thing

When I was a little girl, I took a variety of dance classes that ranged from tap and ballet when I was super young to gymnastics and jazz when I got older. I always thought I had a lot more skill than I actually did. But thank goodness I recognized that at an early age because, you see, now I KNOW how I look when I dance and I can take every sort of precautionary step to avoid having any one witness said embarrassment. However, all my efforts to keep my dancing prowess to myself shall not and will not limit my ability to sit back and observe those who unfortunately have not been warned of their inability to dazzle on the dance floor.

Now, there are a rare few people who can actually pull off public dancing. They fall into the following categories:

1. The "Who Cares" Dancer: I got to witness a WCD last week at Baker's Street. The gentleman (Jed was his name, I later found out) walked in and immediately set his body to the beat of the music. He did the typical confident, casual room promenade, pointing his fingers like a gun at the many people he recognized. I was immediately captivated by his suaveninity (made up word) and was even furtherly (another made up word) delighted when he got out on the dance floor. Friends, he was an acrobatic genius. His ability to grind up next to a chair has forever changed how I look at dining room sets, lawn furniture, and bar stools entirely. He was fabulous and I secretly hoped he would grab my hand and lead me into his world. But I'm pretty sure it was more fun from my angle.

2. The "Look at My Body" Dancer: Also known as the "I'm Gonna Dance With A Group Of Girls and Playfully Demonstrate What I Will Do With You Later" Dancer. These are some of the most entertaining people to watch because it usually takes about 4 1/2 drinks of alcohol to get to this point. Usually the LAMBDs are surprisingly skilled at placing themselves within viewing distance of every man in the room. Unfortunately, that might be the only thing they are skilled at. The level of alcohol in the LAMBDs system generally forces their eyes to roll back in their heads while the rest of their body parts perform some sort of tribal mating call which looks alarmingly similar to a vomiting kangaroo or an epileptic water moccasin. Soooo entertaining.

3. The "I'm So Drunk I'm Accidentally Dancing Really Well" Dancer. These dancers are almost always couple dancers. In some rare instances, when a certain level of intoxication is reached, a man and woman will magically collide on the dance floor and you all of a sudden feel like you are watching a Cirque Du Soleil performance. The alcohol forces their inhibitions to depart from their extremities and the result is quite magical. I got to see such a couple on Saturday night. I was watching another typical guy and girl drunken dance routine when all of a sudden he hoisted her in the air like a figure skater and then performed three to five fluid motions of twirling her around, dipping her toward the ground, and then magically bringing her to her feet again. It was terrifying slash awesome. For a moment, I thought he might drop her, so I started to get up from my chair in case CPR needed to be performed but in the end the only necessary response from myself was a heart-felt round of applause. I would soooo vote for them on So You Think You Can Dance.

And, for your viewing pleasure, here's a guy who can really groove. He reminds me a lot of Jed. Dear, sweet, suavalicious Jed. Enjoy!

Cox Cares

I was walking to my car the other day when I noticed a Cox van parked among a row of vehicles. What I also noticed was that this Cox van had orange cones all around it. Which brought to mind that I don't think I've ever seen a Cox van parked somewhere without orange cones around it. I'm so amused and perplexed by this. I mean, do they pull them aside in Cox Communications Van Driving School to explain to them that they are not allowed to park anywhere under any circumstances without putting orange cones next to each of their tires? And what if someone forgot their cones at home? Then what? Do they have to put their old McDonald's trash next to each tire or would a simple note on the windshield be sufficient: "I regret to inform all of you who are walking within viewing distance of this sign that I have unfortunately left my safety cones at the warehouse and now have no form of protection for my vehicle. Please don't steal anything out of this van and/or allow your car to come within six inches of any Cox Communications tire...but if you have to, I understand because it's my fault for forgetting the cones."

And do they still put the fearsome cones of warning next to their tires when they are, say, out in the middle of nowhere? When they step out of their van and hear rattlesnakes and see dust flying around, noone within a 20 mile radius, are those cones still a necessary agent of protection for their vehicles? It seems a little exaggerated to me, Mr. or Mrs. Cox. In fact, it really makes me want to pick all of those cones up and stack them on the hood of the van. And, if I were a boy and had the appropriate equipment and maneuverability, I would probably pee on your wheels.

The overuse of cone protetion by the Cox Communications Company vans reminds me a lot of this:

The Bob Oblaw Law Blog...

"This is what the Lord says: 'When seventy years are completed for Babylon, I will come to you and fulfill my gracious promise to bring you back to this place. For I know the plans I have for you,' declares the Lord, 'plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future. Then you will call upon me and come and pray to me, and I will listen to you. You will seek me and find me when you seek me with all your heart. I will be found by you,' declares the Lord, 'and will bring you back from captivity. I will gather you from all the nations and places where I have banished you,' declares the Lord, 'and will bring you back to the place from which I carried you into exile.'" Jeremiah 29:10-14

Well, thaaaaaank goodness. I love this reminder. Love it so much I wanna walk down the aisle in a white wedding dress toward it. Love it so much I wanna go off to war and write a love letter to it. It's good. Very very good.

Life is very interesting for me right now. I've been hesitant to write about personal, emotional things because I don't like taking myself too seriously and I also have a really strong desire to keep things light and simple. But there is nothing simple about my world. There never has been. And, frankly, I'm pretty thrilled at the fact that God made me so intricate.

So, here's what's been going on: For the past few months, I've felt like a sheep wandering back to her shepherd. But, I wasn't just a sheep playing down by the river a few feet away from the rest of the flock. I was off off on another hill, facing a different master. Through a series of different circumstances, I've managed to turn around and wander back over to where I was supposed to be. I know I'm heading in the right direction, but I'll be darned if the journey isn't about to do me in.

The seasons of our lives, I'm learning, are so interesting and emotional and tragic and beautiful. We hang onto a dream so fiercely, make it our god, and then have to suffer the pain of shame and loss and regret because it turns out it wasn't what we were supposed to be serving. People and ideas and virtues float out of our lives like balloons and we are forced to stand there in gravity, trying to hold onto the last little bit of it, crying like children because we can't go with it, finally coming to terms with the separation and praying that it gets to where it needs to be without imploding under the weight of the atmosphere. As we suffer the trauma of the loss, our daddy grabs our hand and, as he lifts us up onto his shoulders, we pass quickly by his face and see the knowing smile there and in our confusion we somehow manage to believe that it will be okay. More than okay. We can finally look at the sky and see things other than the balloons we lost.

It's a tiresome journey, this returning. As I wander back alone, I'm forced into intimacy. I see flowers along my pathway and name them patience, and faith, and hope, and truth. These are the things I'm being schooled in right now. It's an uncomfortable lesson sometimes, but it's building a virtue in me that is so strong even my self-doubt can't penetrate it. Growing and maturing in the Lord is humbling and vulnerable and there's a reason why tears are salty. So that through our pain and brokenness we can still taste Him. He tastes goooood.

And here's a picture of Tickle because, well, she's the one who lays beside me on a pillow when I cry and looks at me like I have 22 heads.

Why I Love My Daddy

Yesterday in line at Pei Wei Asian Bistro of Love and Deliciousness

Katy: So, Dad, how's grandpa doing? You talked to him lately?

Mark: He's doing okay. I just love my dad.

Katy: I know you do.

Mark: You know, I was actually lying in bed the other night praying about him and asking God for ways that I can bless my dad and spend more time with him. Something where we don't just sit around and talk but where we can both actually get out of the house and do something. Then, it came to me. God gave me the perfect solution: Mall Walking.

One Of The Funniest Things I've Ever Read

I wish I could provide you all with an original writing, but all my creative energy has been re-routed to papers on Shakespeare and The Bible and Methods of Research. I'm hoping my creativity will not be permanently put on hold this semester, but who the hominy knows?

Meanwhile, here's a sample from the McSweeney's website that I found to be absolutely hysterical. I have a link to McSweeney's over there to the right called "My Favorite Website" (see! see it right over there! right there!) Okay, enjoy:


FUNNY LETTERS FROM SUMMER CAMP AND THEIR NOT-SO-FUNNY RESPONSES.
BY MIKE SACKS
- - - -

Dear Mummy and Daddy:

Camp is fun and I'm eating a lot of candy!!! Kevin today caught a frog and it climbed into his shirt!

Todd

Dear Todd:

Mummy and I are getting a divorce. Will give you specifics when you come home. Tell Kevin's frog we say hi!

Mummy and Daddy
- - - -

Dad and Mom:

Yesterday I went swimming for six hours and when I got out of the water I was all wrinkly!!! Zach my bunkmate threw up after eating a whole pizza. Before lights out yesterday we all sang "101 Bottles of Beer." I fell asleep before it was done!

Chris

Dear Chris:

It's funny you should mention "throwing up" and "beer," sweetheart. Mommy won't be visiting this weekend. Do you like this special hospital stationery? Don't get too wrinkly now or you'll turn into a prune!

Daddy
- - - -

Dear Mom:

Yesterday wait two days ago I got into the best adventure in my entire life! We started off running to the springs where we ran around and around and ate lunch. And then I climbed a tree and then I killed a bug with my shoe and then we went back and had dinner. I won the skit contest. It was the best day of my entire life! I will never ever ever ever ever forget it!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Kim

Return to sender; no forwarding address.

- - - -

Dear Mom n Dad!

4got to send U a letter bee-4. R U having as much fun as eye am having? Wink.

Katy

P.S. Do U get it?

Katy:

UR brother is dead. He 4got to put on his motorcycle helm8. C U very soon, K8y!

Mom and Dad

P.S. Of course we get it. Why wouldn't we? The joke was obvious, really.

Where's Bob Dylan When You Need Him?

I don't know if any of you have turned on a radio lately. If you have, then I'm writing this to you. I'm rallying the troops to fight against the horrific noise that has been accumulated into a powder puff of cultural indignity which has left me bewildered and disoriented after each painful blow to my central nervous system.

For the record, I don't intend to focus my writings on the things of this world that disgust me or cause a general disenchantment with society that is so profound I often find myself wandering off to a vacant corner three times a day so I can rock back and forth while holding myself, occasionally bursting into hysterical sobs.

But this is a situation I can no longer ignore. This cultural travesty affects the reputation of music as a whole and therefore must not be taken lightly lest the spirit of rocker legends gone by rise collectively from their graves and threaten to take back all that is good and true from the lyrics and melodies and songs and souls they provided. I'm not willing to let that happen.

So allow me, please, to raise the red flags of warning and cry 'Traitor!' to the following "songs" that I have recently had the not-so pleasurable experience of listening to on the radio. Wha-oh-oh-oh on the radio.

Candy Kisses. As the song starts to play, we are romantically whisked away to a world of lullabies and fairy tales with its clever use of the triangle chime. You know the triangle chime...that instrument you always wanted to play in 4th grade music class because, hello, it looked like a triangle and all you had to do was hit it with a metal bar occasionally or, if you were really daring, you could run the metal bar all around the inside of the triangle at a rapid pace so as to illustrate your extensive musical talent. Okay, so that's the image this song sets up for us in the beginning. Eventually, the singer commences the lyrics and we recognize immediately that she's going to sound like every other nasally 18-year-old female singer on a rocket ride through the pop charts. Great. But the part of the song that has me the most confused is the demon-possessed stalker/serial killer guy who is intermittently singing about these wonderful candy kisses. It begs the question...are these kisses really full of candy? Or are they kisses of death bestowed upon an unsuspecting victim who just happens to enjoy singing about touching someone else's lips with their own and it reminding them of a Starburst Fruit Chew? It's hard to tell based upon the Satanic quality of this gentleman's voice. Triangle chime + nasally 18-year-old musical stereotype should not, in my opinion, equal the Angel of Death quality this song possesses. Picture with me, if you will, Jack Nicholson's character from The Departed singing "I've got your candy kisses on my mind" while tucking your child into bed. Awk-ward.

A Bay Bay. This song is by a young man named Hurricane Chris. His name is appropriate considering the amount of destruction he has caused and how he has somehow managed to obliterate fifty years of quality music with one incomprehensible phrase. A Bay Bay. What does it even mean? I'm so perplexed by the level of horror that is this song. Let me just let you see for yourself:

Ay Bay Bay(Ay) [X3] (I don't get that it's X3...four times...)
Ay Bay Bay(Ay) [X3]
Ay Bay Bay(Ay) [X3]
Ay Bay Bay(Ay) [X3]

You Wanna Know Wat We Say In Da Club (Ay Bay Bay)
Whites Folks Gangsta And A Thug (Ay Bay Bay)
Stink Wit It,Stink Wit Dem Duh (Ay Bay Bay)
Ridin' In A Lac Wit A Mug (Ay Bay Bay)

Im In Da Club Hollerin'
Ay Bay Bay [X2]
Ay Bay Bay [X3]
Im In Da Club Holerin'
Ay Bay Bay [X2]
Ay Bay Bay [X3]
Im In Da Club Hollerin'

When I Holler Ay Bay Bay
I Finna Get My Groove On
Its So Hot Up In Da Club
Dat I Ain't Got No Shoes On
Im Holdin' Up A Big Stack And Dem
Hundreds In A Rubba Band
Girl Don't Ask Me For No Cash
Cause Im Not Dat Other Man
Everybody Trippin' Cause Im Limpin'
When Im Walkin' And Im Pimpin' When Im Talkin'
I Don't Trick On Chick Dats Talkin'
Dem Boyz In Da Back Dey Be Rollin'up Dey Doughdy
Then Dey Blow It Till Dey Chokin'
Dats Wat Godly Came Out

When I See A Bad Chik Im Hollerin Out(Ay Bay Bay)
I Hope Yall Ain't Wit Ya Boyfriendz
Cause I Don't Care Wat Dey Say
And I Don't Care Wat He Say Or She Say
Im In Da Dj Booth Takin' Pictures Wit Da Dj
You Wanna Know What We Say
When Clubs Get Crunk (Wat)
Ay Baybay Let it Play
Dats My Song Turn It Up [X2]

You Wanna Know Wat We Say In Da Club (Ay Bay Bay)
Whites Folks Gangsta And A Thug (Ay Bay Bay)
Sting Wit It,Sting Wit Dem Duh (Ay Bay Bay)
Ridin' In A Lac Wit A Mug (Ay Bay Bay)

Im In Da Club Hollerin'
Ay Bay Bay [X2]
Ay Bay Bay [X3]
Im In Da Club Holerin'
Ay Bay Bay [X2]
Ay Bay Bay [X3]
Im In Da Club Hollerin'

Now If You Lookin' For Me Baby You Can Find Me
Bangin' In Da Chevy Candy Painted Swingin 9 Deep
Saint Card Creep Wit My People Right Behind Me
I Showed Dem My Chain Now
She Hollerin Wat U Buyin' Me
I Show My Mouth Piece
To Dem Freaks Now Da Hirin' Me

Oh You Got A Problem Well I Hope You
Tryin Me. Throw Them ....Park
Then I Reach Under My Sit
Hop Out With My Hand Under My Shirt
Dats Where Dey Hirin Me
Yellow Bone Chirpin' Me
She Trying To See Where Imma Be.
You Gonna Let Me Get Up In
Your Mouth Well Dats Where Imma Be
I Don't Pop Trunk Wit Lights Dats
Where Dey Choppa Be. Straight To The Hotel
All Da Bad Chick Followin' Me
I Know You Like My Style, I Ain't Trippin
Im Just Tryin' To See, Girl Is You Drunk
Well Tell Me Why You Leanin' All On Me
And If You Thinkin' Imma Stink You Trippin
I Pull Up In An Expedition Wit Da Roof Lift

Im In Da Club Hollerin'
Ay Bay Bay (2x)
Ay Bay Bay (3x)
Im In Da Club Holerin'
Ay Bay Bay [X2]
Ay Bay Bay [X3]
Im In Da Club Hollerin'

Im In Da Club Hollerin'
Ay Baybay Let it Play
Dats My Song Turn It Up
Im In Da Club Hot,Crunk,Sweatin, Burnin' Up
Im 'bout To Do The Crowd
Bumpin And Hollerin Wats Up
I Done Fell Out In Da Dance Floor
And Now Bring It Up
Js On Your Feet But You Cant Get These
You Wear Wats Unbrown White, And Yellow
Till You Breeze
Ill Go To Saint Louis Let My Chain Hang Low
Con Every Yellow Diamonds Mixed Wit Rozo
I Shy Real Bright In Da Light Because Im A Star
8 Shots Of Patrons Now Stannin'on Da Baw
Probably Get Drunk Wit A Scum And Put Da
Keys In Da Wrong Paw

Is this song even in English? I mean honestly. What is 'Keys in Da Wrong Paw?' And why don't he "Pop Trunk Wit Lights Dats
Where Dey Choppa Be?" It is physically impossible for me to unfurrow my brow in this moment. Seriously??? This is what we've become? If someone were to actually come up to me and say "A Bay Bay" with the same emphasis and shrill inflection that Hurricane Chris uses, I might reasonably be compelled to commit an act of murder. And who could blame me? Sheesh.

Mercifully, there are some songs out there that are romantic and poetic and it's probably the praise I should be handing out rather than the criticism. I just wanted you all to be aware of what passes for "popular" these days. Bob Dylan once said "Him not busy bein born is busy dyin." Artists, of all people, should know all about reinvinting themselves in a new light, so why is it that we still have the same five songs being rewritten over and over and over, sucking all the passion out of a powerful lyric and leaving a life-changing melody writhing in the gutter?

Firtht Day of Thkool

I started school last night! For those of you who don't know, I recently decided to pursue my Master's Degree in English Literature at the University of Central Oklahoma. (Man, that was a lot of capitalized words.) My first class was last night. Shakespeare. Aye forsooth.

I've never denied the fact that I'm a super nerd. But sometimes I completely amaze myself at the level of nerdiness that I exude. For instance, my class last night started at 7:30, but I left my house at 6 so I could get to school early enough for an entire NFL football game to take place before my class, should such an instance need to occur. Also, if that wasn't nerdy enough, I actually stopped at the public library on my way to school to pick up some books to read while I waited around for Room 219 of the Liberal Arts building to become vacant. Thank goodness I left the pocket protector and suspenders at home. Sheesh.

So, I sat outside my class and read for a good lengthy time. When I was finally allowed to enter the room I set up my note-taking perch on the back corner desk. Since there was still about 20 minutes to class time, I took out my sharpened pencils, my clean notebook, and my text book, and set them all in the top left corner of my desk, the home of every diligent student's classroom necessities, then proceeded to read some more.

When the professor finally arrived, I was thrilled to see he was the embodiment of every delightfully quirky Lit professor I've ever had. Complete with a "Whoa" (a white man's afro). Aaaaaand, to make the situation so much more wonderful, he brought the whole class Diet Coke and baklava. Now, I have no clue what either of these food items has to do with Shakespeare. I mean clearly grapes, bread, goblets of wine, and spiced meat from an Igloo cooler would have been more applicable sustenance, but I don't usually turn down free food or drinks, so I happily consumed the Diet Coke he offered.

And as people were slowly filtering into the classroom, he kept calling them by name and welcoming them to the wonderful abyss of Shakespearean goodness. I was so impressed that he knew so many of the students and I was also slightly jealous that he didn't know who I was...until he frantically turned toward me, pointed, and shouted "Are you the famous Tracy Hastings???!!" I didn't know what to say! I was so tempted to say "Yes! Yes I AM the famous Tracy Hastings! Please, remind me again what I'm famous for and if you are in the habit of giving As to this famous young woman!" But, my sheer panic led me only to the boring truth and I nervously shook my head no. He didn't seem too disappointed so I felt confident that Tracy may not have been the best person's identity to adopt at that particular moment. However, if he would have said "Are you the famous Angelina Jolie?!?!" clearly I would have indulged him.

Eventually, everyone got settled in and the professor began discussing the expectations of the course and I felt my pulse race with excitement as every paper assignment was mentioned and every due date handed out. La la la la. Then, he handed out our first assignment: Read Julius Caesar by Wednesday. Great Caesar's ghost! Is he serious! Reading a Shakespeare play involves so much more than two days. My heart was beating even faster at the challenge. I wanted to stand on my chair and shout "Friends! Countrymen! Lend me your ears! I WILL have this entire play read by Thursday...O pardon me thou bleeding piece of earth!" And I'm halfway tempted to wear a toga to class, but I'm not ready for them to see how completely zealous I am about getting an A just yet. I must pace myself.

Toward the end of class, we watched some of the 1944 version of Julius Caesar which stars Marlon Brando as Marc Antony. Not a bad person to see in a toga, that's for sure. And as we watched the famous murder scene when Caesar looks at his betrayer and friend and stammers "et tu, Brute?" I couldn't help but think of the other day when I gave Tickle a bath and she gave me the same look that Caesar gave Brutus and I swear if she could have talked she would have said the exact same thing..."Et tu, Katy?"

Why I Love My Mama

On the phone with my mother:

Katy: I'm almost finished with it.

Mom: It's a really good...OH MY GOSH HER BOOBS ARE HUGE...

Katy: Whose boobs?

Mom: This girl's on the street...they're huge! They're like Morganna's.

Katy: Who is Morganna?

Mom: She's got the biggest boobs in the world. Google her.

Katy; Mom, I'm at work. It'll probably take me straight to a porn site.

Mom: Yeah, probably. Do it anyway.

Airport Hugs

I went to pick my grandma up from the airport last night and had the beautiful honor of watching the people from the flight before hers come out and greet their loved ones.

Now, I'm not trying to get all sappy, but I think airport reunions are the most soul reflecting moments in our world. I don't care who you are, whether you have made plans to be picked up or not, EVERYONE hopes to be greeted by a familiar face when they get off a plane.

So, as I stood there waiting for my grandma, I melted and made up stories about the people I saw:

Carl and Francis. Carl and Francis were just returning from visiting their daughter in Sacramento. She moved out there about five years ago with her husband and three daughters. Usually, she's the one that comes to visit her parents, but this time Carl surprised Francis with a trip to see their daughter, in honor of their 47th wedding anniversary....not an anniversary that holds any special epic reward except for the fact that he's still madly in love with her. So much so that he carried her purse as they descended down to baggage claim, his hand resting on her back as if it felt more comfortable there than hanging idly from his arm. They didn't expect anyone to be waiting for them because they had already shown up for each other.

Tina, Wade, and Cheryl. Tina and Cheryl are sisters. Cheryl just flew in from Washington with her husband Wade and their four year old daughter, Chrissy. Tina waited anxiously for their arrival while holding her own four year old child, Braydon, in her arms. It's been only six months since these sisters saw each other, but Grandpa Darren's funeral was hardly a reason for celebration, so this visit was going to be sooo much better...just what they needed. Upon arrival, Tina feverishly grabbed her niece and Cheryl dramatically swooped up her nephew as if they were clinging more to the reminders of their sisterhood as it had been in their youth than the children their adulthood had produced. Wade stood by, knowing better than to get in the way of women and sisters and children and all of that. Cheryl held Braydon and Tina now had Chrissy as they went off to retrieve the bags that Wade would no doubt be left to carry.

The Porter Family. Mr. and Mrs. Porter found out 10 years ago that they would never be able to have children. After two years of mourning and 45 marriage counseling sessions, they decided their love for children was not meant to be withheld due to this minor setback. So, they started to look into adoption. Mr. Porter was anxious to begin the search for a tiny infant they could raise as their own, but Mrs. Porter felt strongly that the children waiting for them were in another country and were already past those first developmental years. It took some time for Mr. Porter to be in agreement, but eventually he knew that his wife was right. These children deserved homes, too. So, they showed up at the Will Rogers Airport at 7:45 p.m. on Monday August 13, 2007, with a red balloon, a white balloon, and a blue balloon. The next fifteen minutes were spent on tiptoes as they craned their necks to see her coming. And when they finally noticed Sung-Li, they hoisted their signs that bore her name above their head, and waved furiously. An unapologetically American wave. Sung-Li, shy and insecure from the circumstances that made up her nine year old existence, humbly bowed her head and allowed herself to become liquid, bending like a question mark as she melted into the arms of this new family that chose her. She accepted the patriotic balloons and wondered quietly when she would get the opportunity to embrace them again.

It was such a great privilege to watch these reunions and that last one honestly made me choke up. Not tear up. Choke up. I was choking on tears because it was such a delicate, human moment. And then I felt dumb for crying because come on. Who cries at the airport??? Oh wait. Lots of people...

Then, my grandma wheeled around the corner. I gave her an "airport hug" and we went and got her bags and went home. And the parking was free! Yay!

A Letter to the Horn in My 2002 Honda Civic LX

Dear Horn of my Honda,

It's a good thing you weren't the only thing standing in the way of me and death the other day when that guy pulled out in front of me. I mean I could understand your lack of enthusiasm if I used you on a consistently regular basis, but I clearly only utilize you once in a great sweet while. And, more often than not, when I use you it's because I REALLY need you to get some point across that a simple hand gesture or hateful facial expression will not take care of.

I don't understand you, Horn. Isn't your sole purpose as a fixture in my vehicle to serve and protect? When one thinks of the essence of who you are, it usually conjures up images of fear and respect...but when I think of you, I picture only the worthless piece of garbage that you are and how every time I use you it's more like I'm presenting a three headed tiger at the circus rather than a loaded reminder that someone has clearly violated my rights as a responsible driver. *insert festive circus music here* "Look ladies and gentlemen! Katy's using her horn! Isn't it adorable?! What will she think of next?!!!"

People talk about you, you know. I've had people get in my car, put you to the test, and then practically laugh themselves into oblivion because are you serious? that was your horn? Who are you trying to scare into submission with THAT thing? These embarrassing presentations of your less than satisfactory abilities have often left me feeling reasonably insecure and ashamed.

I'm very evidently disenchanted with you, Horn. I think it mostly has to do with the laughable responses I get when I put your abilities to the test. I'm fairly certain that most of my fellow drivers half way expect balloons and confetti to fly out my car when I use you because you quite obviously sound like you would be more willing to announce the arrival of a giant purple dinosaur than save my life. I mean I guess I understand. We all have our priorities. I would just love it if my overall safety was one of yours.

Thank you for your time.

Sincerely,

Katy

Day -o- Fun

Welp, I just thought I'd share my day with the one or two of you that actually read this thing.

It was a modest day. A day of nothingness, really. And when I am presented with a whole reasonable span of time that involves no personal plans or pre-set agenda, I tend to get a little excited and life suddenly starts to look a whole lot like a Rogers and Hammerstein musical with festive choral entroits and choreographed musical numbers. *twirl twirl twirl* NO PLANS!! *bell kick bell kick bell kick*

So I thought, for organizational purposes, I would take a picture of everything I did today and then explain each item so you can be as thrilled as I am with the sheer nothingness of my day.



I woke up at around 9am which was largely due to the fact that I actually went to bed reasonably early last night after deciding I would rather go home and sleep than meet up with my roomate at City Walk. The first thing I did when I woke up this morning was grab my lap top and start watching disk two of Smallville Season 3. It's always great to start off each day with a superhero. Ain't nothin wrong with a little Clark Kent in the mornin, y'all.

I watched Smallville for a bit, then took a shower and cleaned my room. I left my apartment at about 12:45 to go down to my grandma's to feed her cats while she is visiting my mom in Ohio. While at my grandma's, I managed to spend the next 4 to 5 hours watching The Hills on MTV. Which, for those of you who don't know, is the most assinine show in existence, but so incredibly delicious I couldn't possibly change the channel. I mean, what if I like missed something really important like Heidi dumping buttface Spencer or like Whitney making head intern at Teen Vogue. Like, duh.

However, you will be pleased to know that I alternated reading two Christian non-fiction books during commercial breaks. Lies Women Believe and When Jesus Came to Harvard. So, while I was filling my mind with the attrocities of measuring up to the superficial existences of random twenty-somethings living in Beverly Hills, I was also counteracting each negative thought by reading books that reminded me that the Lord is in control of my emotions and I shouldn't live with an "I'll be happy when..." mentality. My brain was downloading so many conflicting thoughts that I'm pretty sure my house might have looked like the cottage in Sleeping Beauty when the fairies were firing different colors from their wands and the mayhem was shooting out the chimney for all the world to see. Yes, that's right (she says with an evil eyebrow raise)...my brain waves were so fiercely active, that my thoughts were atually launching from my brain and escaping through my grandma's chimney. In which case, you might have seen them if you were flying over SW 68th between the hours of 3:30 and 5:30pm.

After sufficiently warping my mind, I left there at around 6:30 and headed home. I borrowed my grandma's Dyson vacuum and decided to do some more intensive house cleaning...superhero house cleaning, if you will. And may I please just say that this was my very first experience with a Dyson vacuum. And please Sweet Lord of Mercy and Goodness, don't let it be my last. That thing was AWESOME. I don't want to go into too much detail lest another choreographed musical dance number ensue, but the sucky hose thing on the Dyson could quite possibly be the most life-changing thing I've ever experienced. You have to be careful, though, because it will literally suck up any and every thing that is put in it's path. I accidentally vacuumed the following: two bobby pins, a necklace, my white shabby chic shower curtain, half of a hand towel, and two bottles of perfume. No, seriously. I did.

After the Dyson dance number, I decided to play Boomer Sooner on my recorder. There was nobody here to appreciate it, but it's the only song I know how to play on my recorder and they always say that if you don't consistently play your instruments, you will forget how to play them, and, well, I just can't let that happen. After playing Boomer Sooner (twice....heheh), I settled in for some more Smallville lovin. But I was way too wired to just sit and stare at my lap top, so I grabbed a magazine and some scissors and my notebook and I made a prayer collage, which is an idea I got from my friend, Kim, where you cut out things in magazines that remind you of someone and then pray for them based on what you cut out (I think). It was a fun and artistic endeavor with results that made me feel more like a maniacal serial killer than a prayer warrior, but whatever. Here ya go, Kayla. I prayed for you/plotted to kill you tonight:



And, well, after creeping myself out with my very first prayer collage, I colored a pretty picture in my Princess coloring book! Yay! And painted my nails pink! Yay! Then, mercifully, before the night got REALLY out of control, my roomate got home and we chatted about the Lord and our lives and how completely ridiculous it is for us to spend more than 24 hours apart from one another. Giggidy. (That's for you, Carrie)

The Quintessential Luke

Well, Luke. You turned 16 yesterday. I still can't believe it. I still can't believe you've been on this planet for a long enough period of time that the government somehow believes it's okay to hand you a license allowing you to operate a moving vehicle...that moves...and drives...on roads n stuff. I can still remember when I was told that I would be a big sister. I was 8 years old and thought I would be the baby of the family forever. Then you came along.

I was so in awe of you. I remember the phone call I got from dad at the hospital when he called to tell me you had finally been born. I was thrilled. I learned quickly how to scoop you up in my arms and change your diaper and make you smile. You weren't really a person in my world. You were more like a new toy. Something I could carry around and put outfits on. And you were spoiled. Being the first male child of the family and the newest baby in almost 8 years, everyone pretty much thought you hung the moon.



We all wanted to be the ones to feed you and put you to sleep. We fought over who would get to push you in the stroller and who would give you a bath. But, in the end, I think I won....You see, Luke, I don't think I ever told you this, but I used you as my fifth grade science project. It was a brilliant project that had a lot to do with raw vegetables and your reactions to certain foods. The details aren't important. Mainly because I was never good at Science. And you turned out fine, so no worries. Just please stay away from corn fields in July.



After the wonder of babyhood wore off, we sort of started to not get along, you and I. In fact, I loathed and despised you for the second and third year of your life. It might have something to do with my infamous competitive nature and the fact that you stole all the attention right out from under me. Or it might have something to do with the fact that pure evil invaded your body for those two years and directed all its hate and malice towards me. Whatever the case may be, let's just say you got away with a whole lotta crap while I got blamed for it. Thanks.




But we grew up and started to kind of like each other. I started to feel a strong connection to you when I realized your eyes were gonna stay blue, therefore making us the only blue-eyed children in the family. I also grew to respect your fondness for reading and your fascination with little plastic army men. Luke, you had army men everywhere. There were army men floating in the toilet at one point, I think.

Then, it seemed like over night you changed into this little man. You developed all these wonderfully human characteristics which, unfortunately for you, are almost identical to our father's. You have such a great talent at being at ease with the world. Nothing affects you too greatly. You show such amazing kindess to others and I've always believed you have this innate sense of rightness that is just forever imbedded in your character. You make it impossible for anyone to ever be mad at you. Frustrated to the point of delusion, yes. But mad, no. Your brothers look up to you and I think you have done a pretty good job of setting a strong example for them.



But the coolest thing is that you've managed to teach me some stuff over the years, too. If there's one thing I admire about you, it's your bravery. You are always very honest with yourself and that takes a lot of strength of character and wisdom. You are determined, but not in a conventional way. You are determined to be yourself which is more than a lot of people can boast. Most of us are too busy trying to fit in.

And even though it scares me to pieces that you are going to be behind the wheel of a car that's too big for any sixteen year old to drive (don't get me started), I know you will do your best to have fun while maintaining integrity. And if you start to drive like an idiot, I will sooooo bring up the resentment I've supressed from the years you were Satan to me and I will kick your ass. Don't think I won't.



Love you, bubba. Happy 16th.

Anonymous

Chapter One:
I walk down the street
There's a deep hole in the sidewalk
I fall in
It's not my fault
It takes a long time to get out

Chapter Two:
I walk down the same street
There's a deep hole in the sidewalk
I see it there
I still fall in
It's not my fault
It takes a long time to get out

Chapter Three:
I walk down the same street
There's a deep hole in the sidewalk
I pretend I don't see it
I fall in
I must be a victim
It takes forever to get out

Chapter Four:
I walk down the same street
There's a deep hole in the sidewalk
I walk around it

Chapter Five:
I walk down another street.

A Superhero Power I Didn't Really Want

Well, over the weekend, my left eye started bothering me pretty badly. On Sunday morning it felt like I had something in it and I wondered if maybe my contact was torn so I took it out, but it looked fine, so I put it back in. Logically, I should have left my contacts out and worn my glasses, but I hate/loathe/despise/abhor/detest myself in glasses, so I decided it wouldn't be any big deal to suffer through some mild irritation for the day.

By Monday morning it was pretty unbearable. Again, like a blessed idiot, I kept wearing my contacts. All day at work I suffered in anguish as I slowly became a cyclops, ignoring the frightened screams of my coworkers as they passed by my office door. (There may have been some growling and drooling on my part that I was not aware of.)

Tuesday evening, my ojo was watering quite a bit and itching like bonkers. So, I took my contacts out..hahaha...noooooooo I didn't. I left the durn things in and slept in em. I have the kind that you are allowed to sleep in, but I'm pretty sure my symptomatic distress should have prompted me to, I don't know, buy a vowel...'u'...'e'....I'd like to solve the puzzle...CLUE!!! Vanna White sadly shakes her head...Poor Katy and her incessant need to prove that stubbornness really is a fruit of the spirit. I'm just sure it is.

Wednesday morning, I woke up and realized that I wouldn't have to be squinting any more. My eye was already doing it involuntarily on it's own. It was as if a little super glue fairy had come along whilst I slumbered and applied her glue to my lash line so that my eye would stay shut for all eternity. Ick. So, I went to my bathroom mirror and pried open my eye, using my fingers as mighty forceps. There it was. My poor little ojo. I couldn't see any obstruction, so reached in there to (finally!) take my contact out. But as soon as the offending finger made it's way to my ocular cavity, my eye started filling with blood. With. Blood. Now...if you know me, you are probably aware of my irrational fear of anything that has to do with things going into or coming out of my eye. I kick and waller like a hooked catfish whenever I have to put eye drops in my eyes, so you can imagine the horror on my face when I saw the blood spilling from my eye. I mean, I've been trying to be a lot more like Christ lately, but this just seemed to take it a little too far. You see, we build up to weeping and sweating blood.

Anyway, I panicked. I walked around my bathroom pushing my head as far away from my body as possible. Since heads are clearly attached to bodies, I was really just bent at a 90 degree angle with my neck extended at it's fullest length, like an ostrich. This position also allowed for some pretty efficient dry-heaving as well because gag! there's blood coming out of my eye!

So, I did what any normal human being would have done. I called my mommy. Who lives in Ohio. We decided it would probably be a good idea to go to my eye doctor. Who offices in Moore. So, I called up there and they told me to come right in. I finally got the bleeding to stop, so I felt confident in driving. And this has nothing to do with anything I'm writing about, but it was just so random...on my way to Moore, a bird flew into the side of my car. I didn't really notice until after it happened. I just heard this thud, looked over and saw the bird kind of bounce off my passenger door and I was all like 'what the hell, man'...and the expression on my face as I was holding kleenex over my eyes was one of mild irritation because, come on, I have an emergency here. Go play kamikaze bird gang initiation games on someone else's car.

I made it safely (which is more than I can say for the bird) to my eye doctor and found out that I had torn my retina, but no eye patch would be needed...sorry, all you pirate fiends. I'm wearing my glasses for now which is fine. I'll take it. I'd rather wear glasses than have my eye fill up with...I'm seriously gonna vomit if I have to say it again...

Here's my eye...all better now...

3P

Yesterday, July 28, 2007, my brother John turned 13 years old. He's the baby of the family, the youngest of five and we've always had such a special connection. I think it has something to do with the fact that we are the babies of both our genders and so we both feel like it is our right and responsibility to entertain not only each other but our entire family with our astounding wit and ferocious attraction to life.



From infancy, John has been my very special soul mate. I was a year younger than he is now when he was born, and I took on a very tender role with him and was very protective over his little life. He was always a happy baby and since I don't like sad crap, we got along pretty well. My favorite thing about John when he was a baby was that it seemed like I was the only one in the world who could put him to sleep. One of my fondest memories is of when we went to Colorado during the summer when John was just under a year old and I would take him off away from the family and I would sit with him in my arms at the foot of some great big mountain and I would hold him swaying and singing to him until he fell asleep.



But after John would fall asleep, I couldn't wait until he woke up again. He was always laughing and we could tell at a very early age that he would have a remarkable sense of humor. In his younger years, it became very apparant to our family that John was, believe it or not, perfect. In fact, he quickly earned the nickname "3P: The Practically Perfect Pruitt." It seemed like everything he tried he was good at. This started when we realized his talent for sports (enter enthusiastic dad as future coach of all John's sporting activities). Any time anyone asked what he wanted to be when he grew up, John would always say "a basketball player" or "a baseball player." And I'm pretty sure none of us have ever questioned his ability to make it as a professional athlete. Not because of his talent, but because of his sheer determination to excel in all he does.



That's what I love most about John. His attitude of excellence. As the youngest member of our family, he also happens to be the tidiest and wealthiest. I think we've all gone to John to borrow money at some point. And, uh, I'm not talking about 10 dollars here or there. I'm talking hundreds. The kid saves everything he keeps (well, he did...until he broke dad's window with a baseball...) I remember one summer when we all went to Washington D.C. and we were each given an allowance of about a hundred dollars. By the end of the trip, John had about $120. Everywhere we went, he didn't think about buying food...he would just charm his way into someone's french fries. And he didn't worry about buying things for himself. He would rather save...or sell the things he had. That's how he ended up with extra.



I love the bond that John and I share. We are both music fanatics. He's learning to play the guitar and he's very very good at it. We both love to laugh. It's our favorite thing. And, for some reason, the kid thinks I hung the moon. Every time I see him he doesn't stop telling me how beautiful I am or how much he loves me or how funny or cool I am. If I've had a bad day, all it takes is a look or comment from John and it reverses every negative thing. He has provided me with so much joy and happiness in my life and I'm honored that God chose ME to be a sister to such a fantastic and wonderful boy. Happy birthday, Bubba. I love you.

I acquired something today. Something extravagant and dainty and flowy and wow...



It was $300. Now, before you jump to any judgmental conclusions about what an unnecessary expense this was, I would just like to inform you that I didn't pay for it. And before you jump to the next judgmental conclusion that I'm a spoiled little brat with Daddy's credit card, I would just like to inform you that he didn't pay for it either. Neither was it purchased by any other member of my family. Or a friend. It was, however, bought for $300 for me on this day by a person who intended me to have it. So, let's play a little game I like to call 'who's blessing Katy with frivolous party frocks?'

First Guess: My Pimp

Granted, Dante DOES purchase most of my social ensembles. However, most of the stuff he picks out for me to wear costs him around twenty dollars and some change. Also, it's a standard requirement that any outfit obtained by Dante for me to wear must be of the leather textile family and must be one of three pre-approved shades of black. And besides, Dante and I aren't speaking right now on account of his failure to disclose to me my most recent client's wire hanger fetish. So, no. He did not buy me the dress.

Second Guess: Harvard University's Fertilization Clinic

Harvard has been trying to contact me for quite some time concerning their desire to purchase my unused eggs for fertilization research. Based upon my excellent intelligence, high cheekbones, strong calf muscles, and the ability to jump rope my own arms, Harvard has offered me $20,000 for the essence of my reproductivity. It seems that women of my caliber are pretty hard to come by these days and their persistent flattery has enticed me to at least consider their offer, but I have not proceeded with any further plans with them. So, no. They are not responsible for my new dress, either.

Third Guess: Oprah

We all know that Oprah is a pretty generous lady. And I have a very strong feeling that if she were to have been in town today with a camera crew, her best friend Gail, and footage of me dropping out of school to take care of my 25 orphaned brothers and sisters, she probably would have bought me this dress. And maybe a few Sonic gift cards. But, friends, Oprah was indeed not in town today and I have a pretty good feeling that her random acts of kindness aren't so much random seeing as how they are scripted, scheduled, and syndicated all across America. So, really, if you think about it, Oprah's pretty selfish and, damnit, who does she think she is! Great...now I need a tissue. Oprah really does make people cry. Bitch.

So, yeah...none of these guesses were correct and, well, I'm sorry to say that I am absolutely not going to disclose how this dress came into my possession. I'll just let you wonder and come up with some clever possibilities on your own.

And, while you're pondering, think about this little critter and how cute and invisible she thinks she is in my dress hanger upper bag...

TV On DVD: The Greatest Invention Ever

My ridiculously overwhelming schedule has never really afforded me the time to watch my favorite television shows in their designated time slots. And, since I don't have TiVo (gasp!), I've resorted to watching all my favorite shows on DVD...for hours and hours at a time.

Unfortunately, this has posed quite a problem for me as a fully functioning member of society. You see, when I start in on a new series, my world seems to somehow evolve into the show I'm watching. Let me give you some examples...

Smallville. I've only just recently become a viewer of this show. For all you Smallville obsessed people, please don't get angry at me for only having viewed the first season. I'm still a fan, I'm just not as far along as you. And if you tell me anything that might ruin some excitement for me in seasons to come, I will literally hunt you down and throw fiery acid darts at your knees.

Okay, so, when I started watching Smallville, I noticed changes in my behavior toward society. It was pretty gradual at first. For example, I would just HAPPEN to notice a leaf shaped like the upper left bicep of Clark Kent's arm...or a rock shaped remarkably like the meteor that brought him to our planet. But, it was within a very short amount of time, that my life became CONSUMED with projecting Smallville into my own world. This last Sunday night, I had a conversation that went something like this:

Katy: You know, if something bad were to happen, I'm really worried that Clark Kent wouldn't be able to come and save us.

Concerned Friend: Why?

Katy: Well, you see those lights over there? They're glowing green. Clearly, there is kryptonite embedded in those lights. Clearly, we're doomed if the singers on stage decide to eat us all.

And the sad part is that I really sat there for a good, sweet forever contemplating all sorts of dark scenarios in which Clark Kent would have to battle the anguish of the crippling kryptonite to save our lives. And I'm not even gonna TELL you how often I get mistaken for Lana Lang's character. Seriously, you wouldn't believe me if I told you...

Oh precious Lord. Thank You for sending us this show. Quite possibly the most clever writing I've ever seen on a series. And, just like the other shows I watch on DVD, I got pretty consumed with evolving my world into one giant episode of Arrested Development. I even starting looking through phone books for charities whose main cause was fighting the practice of circumcision, but alas, H.O.O.P. (Hands Off Our Penises) is just a fictional organization.

And, at one point, I started driving toward the Oklahoma County Jail because I was just sure my dad would be there waiting for me in an orange jump suit, waiting to tell me what incriminating documents I should shred back at the office. Then, fortunately, I remembered that my dad is not a criminal, so I headed to work instead.

I think the most clear indication that I've watched too much of this show is my evident propensity to call everyone "Hermano" or walk up to someone and say "Hey, brother" while attempting to massage their shoulders. Mostly, I just get a lot of weird stares. Whatever.

Oh Jack. Sweet, beautiful, perfect Jack. My big, brave Jack. Out of all the shows in all the world, this one has changed my life the most. Not only am I now the type of American citizen who trusts no one and questions everyone, I am also very proud to go by the nickname of Chloe when I'm at home by myself. And, whenever I'm at work, I'll just say random things like "I need a level six clearance for the cartography images we've got posted back at headquarters! Almeda, I'm going dark! I may not make it out alive! Call Kim and make sure she gets out of the city! Damnit!" And, sometimes, when I type letters, I will include ransom notes down at the bottom for fun. Mostly, though, I just refer to everyone as Almeda, because Tony Almeda was my very own personal hero. He even saved me one time while I was trapped in a hotel after a terrorist had released deadly, poisonous gasses into the air vents. It was awful. I even lie awake sometimes at night and wonder what Jack Bauer is doing at that moment.

And, well, here's another image, because sometimes I live in this fantasy world too....

White Trash Bash 2007

Well, gang, it's that time of year again. On Saturday, July 14, 2007, Oklahoma City was blessed with its fourth annual celebration of all things white trash. Praise Hoseanna. Now, personally, I've never even heard of the first three times they did this thing, but apparantly it's pretty important...well, maybe just important to those named Jedediah or Lurlene. (two lovely, classy names, by the way)

Actually, my friends and I just went out there to hear a local band play (Ocean, check 'em out. They're great), so we were quite dismayed at the $20 cover charge. Well, I wasn't so much dismayed as completely perplexed because, well, when has anything that has to do with any form of trash ever cost more than a dollar fiddy at most? But, apparantly, it was an all you can drink/eat type deal, so MAYBE $20 is reasonable. I didn't have to worry about it for too long, though, because my elite connections got me in for free. Again, hallelujah.

The only way I can describe my reaction to what I saw when I rounded the corner is to say that I felt like Charlie looks when he walks into the chocolate factory for the first time. It was a mixture of awe and wonder and disbelievablity and 'I want an oompa loompa/jello shot now!!!.' The shnozberries tasted like shnozberries! It was wonderous to behold. There was an array of scantily clad men and women. The ladies donned the ever-popular cut-off shorts with the visible thong in the back. And one gentleman in particular donned his own pair of wildly trashy cut-off shorts with an attached blow-up doll tied suggestively around his never you mind. Everyone looked like they had been sprayed down with a water hose after makin mud pies at the crick. Beer was the only known hair product. (the only KNOWN hair product...). And, honestly, beer is quite healthy for the tresses, so no wonder we don't mind having it lovingly thrown on us by a 300 pound dude named Earl. And, Earl, you should probably just spit on our eyelids too...it's good for fighting wrinkles.

But the highlight of my night has to be the dreamboat wearing the high school jersey with the number 2 on the back. Oh, number 2...you melted my heart. I'm telling you all, I have never seen such eloquent air guitar playing since that fateful summer I took a 6 hour road trip with my dad during his Guns N Roses phase. Bless it. What I loved about Number 2 was his wild uninhibited desire to display his dancing talents. Either that or he was just REALLY trying to air out his crotch. And, sweet Lord love him, I just wanted to pluck him up and collect him to my motherly bosom when he started to grind up on the sign in front of the stage that clearly read "Fight Menengitis." I'm afraid that's not how we fight it, son.

I'm fortunate that Number 2 came up and talked to me afterward. I really got a chance to see his heart and how much he loves the music. We congratulated him on his dance moves and he walked away feeling pretty proud of himself. And if I can make a difference in one po white trash life, well, then Jesus can come on and take me home. I've clearly done my job.