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.