The Definition of Happiness

Please note: the following post is long, confused, disorganized, and raw from my brain. I do apologize, but it's something I needed to say, and the best way I know how is to spew it straight from brain to screen.

Recently it was brought to my attention that I possess a crippling habit: list making.

I can't really be sure how this came about in my life. I used to abhor lists. Heather was always the one with the to-do list she was checking off. Maybe it was just the fact that I never seemed to accomplish as much as she did. Or perhaps she wasn't ever as detailed as I in list making. Where she put "clean room", I may have listed: "make bed, sort laundry, vacuum, etc". Who knows? I'll have to ask.

Anywho, at one time in the last couple of years I discovered the thrill of checking things off a list. Something about that tangible evidence that you accomplished something (even though you might be staring at the freshly scrubbed dishes or folded laundry, it's not the same unless you put a check mark next to that line). Hunger for that thrill developed into an obsession, and suddenly every aspect of my life went onto a list somewhere so I could proudly mark complete every visit to the bank; trip to the store to get ranch dressing (check), tissues (check), dog treats (check), flower pots (check), notebooks (crossed out because, turns out, I don't need another); and game prep completed for Wednesday classes.

I think it must have really started when I tried out that Day Zero Project back when I was sixteen or seventeen. At least in that case, it was all fun long-term goals I didn't really need to accomplish, but it was downhill from there.

Lately, I found that those lists were nothing more than a burden. They mocked me, especially when I forgot to turn off the notifications on the newly-discovered "Reminders" app of my phone: "walk your dog", "please put away that horrendous pile of laundry hiding your floor", "find time in your hectic schedule to tap out two or three hundred words so you don't fall behind", and on and on. Also, every Tuesday and Friday for the last couple of weeks, I've scribbled "BLOG!" on my daily list of things to do. Clearly I have a clear grasp of priorities. 

I also found I was relying on my notes for everything, particularly at work.

It hurts, guys. It's painful, like some terrible addiction I know I need to quit but can't bring myself to quit because it hurts. In her own subtle (or not-so-subtle) way, Mom intervened. (Love how I'm making this into a mock-drama of a drug addiction? You have no idea.) She casually remarked that, for goodness sake, I needed to quit writing notes for everything and just use my God-given (and God-ordained rather poor) memory like humans are intended to.

That's probably the most terrifying part: I'm so scatter-brained, without some sort of note to rein me in, I'm bound to forget something crucial at some point. But slowly I'm forcing myself to let go of that security blanket.

The lists are being reduced to taking notes from phone calls and to writing reminders for things I absolutely cannot forget at any cost (which turns out to be very little, really).

And now, I'm starting a new kind of list.

The idea started months ago, when one of the girls mentioned a challenge their youth group team leader had put to their group: every day, write something you're thankful for.

I have often found that I tend to focus on the negative side of life and don't stop to appreciate the bright side: I see the puddles and don't smell spring rain, which I love.

On the radio the other day, I heard something to the affect of "Instead of bashing the things you don't like, try promoting the things you do like". Which is something else I'm working on: not voicing rude things that come to mind when I'm in a bad mood, but smiling whenever I come across something that perked me up.

But back to that list: happiness.

When I force myself out of my own mental puddle and take a breath and a good look around, there are plenty of things that bring that smile to my face. My goal is to learn to appreciate those things rather than getting glum over their muddy counterparts.

Happiness is....

Sunshine

Fresh air

Home-cooked meals

When another driver lets me go first (unless, of course, their kindness results in me getting rammed into, but I've moved on)

Years ago, our youth pastor preached a message which has stayed with me. He talked about our personal levels of contentment, and I believe he used Philippians 4:11&12:

11) Not that I speak in respect of want: for I have learned, in whatsoever state I am, therewith to be content. 12) I know both how to be abased, and I know how to abound: every where and in all things I am instructed both to be full and to hungry, both to abound and to suffer need.

The idea was that we can choose how much good we require to be content with ourselves and our lives. We define our own level of contentment. If we can agree with ourselves that we can be content with three square meals, a comfortable house, and a car that runs, we will be happy when we have those things. Furthermore, anything about and beyond that measure will be received as a blessing.

On the other hand, if we convince ourselves that we will not be content until we have a car manufactured after the year 2000, a house with an extra bedroom, money to eat out more than once a month, and our favorite store's entire spring clothing line, we will probably never feel content even with the many things we do have.

I have learned to be content with the condition of my life: my poor beater car, our big drafty house, my amazing family, and a talent for making a meal out of practically anything. However, when it comes to the day-to-day circumstances, my personal happiness can flop like a broken pendulum every time someone walks by.

I have a hard time taking every throw in stride, both good and bad. It takes me a while to recover from a hard word, a mistake, or bad news. And yes, I am severely affected by the weather, and possible the lunar phases as well, but I am consciously working on that.

Last year something I dedicated a post to Philippians 4:5 (or at least I tried to, but looking back, that post was all over the place). Very often these days that verse comes to mind:

5) Let your moderation be known unto all men. The Lord is at hand. 6) Be careful for nothing; but in every thing by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known unto God. 7) And the peace of God, which passeth all understanding, shall keep your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus.

Brave the old post if you dare. In short, the idea is maintaining a steadfastness about your nature, not tossed back and forth from despair to joy as the wind changes; leaning on God, trusting Him with tomorrow (rather than borrowing its troubles today), and letting His peace reign.

Happiness is only part of the issue. Happiness is a temporal thing, measured and dictated by our current condition or circumstance, even when we struggle to be content with our lot. The real thing is joy. True joy is something only God can bring, and it is not defined by our outward condition. It's defined by our inward state and our identity in Christ.

I go back to Paul whenever this topic comes to mind. If you want to read about a man who took everything in stride, look at Paul. And after everything, when he stood before King Agrippa and was permitted to give an account of himself, this is what he said: "I think myself happy" (Acts 26:2).

He had suffered shipwrecks and stonings, betrayals and rejection, and now at last was brought as a prisoner before the king. Yet he found himself happy, because he was exactly where he wanted to be, with the king's full attention. Read Acts 26 sometime; Paul makes full use of the opportunity and lays out his testimony in full. Festus calls him a mad babbler, but Paul politely disagrees. He was confident in his work, knowing full well that he was right where he belonged and serving God to the best of his ability, and that was enough.

So maybe I don't have some "great calling" like Paul. I don't think I'd do too well with that sort of adventure right now, anyway. It's better that I bide my time, training myself to take every rude customer and bad day in stride and learn a lesson from each of them, the better to serve when the bigger opportunities rise.

Most of all, I'm learning to be content exactly where I am rather than longing for one more thing, dreaming of a bigger adventure, wasting my time wishing I was doing something else. I'm right where God needs me. I just have to be open for Him to use me in the ways I can't yet see. 

I Must Confess....

I know, I know, it is neither Tuesday nor Friday. Evidently I will need a little while to adjust to that self-imposed schedule.

In the meantime, I can say with all certainty that I would rather not dwell on this week. It's been one humdinger of a month, really.

The highlight was yesterday. I got out of work on time. I was driving home with planning the new game I was going to introduce in game time that evening. I had to make a stop at the drugstore for some much needed allergy medicine. Said drugstore has two entrances, and accessing the most expedient route home from either of those requires turning left.

In short, I pulled out in front of some cars which were graciously waiting for me to go and right into the path of a car that was switching to the turn lane.

I registered a brief squeal of tires before impact and spun into the far right lane.

Neither driver was so much as bruised, his car had a dented fender and a cracked light, my driver door will no longer open and the passenger door on that side is dented, and we traded paint. Blessedly there was an officer just pulling out of the parking lot from which I had made my exit, so we could get the whole business over with that much quicker.

I had a ticket and some car repairs to pay for, and that's all I'm going to say about it. That and: good grief, but I am sending out my teenage years with a bang.

I don't mean to seem like I'm brushing it off. By all means, that's what I wish I could do; but one of my worst faults is dwelling on my failings.  For whatever reason, I have an issue with learning from my mistakes, great or small, and letting the rest go. Somedays I live in the land of "What If?" I'm working on it, believe me, but it's not as easy as buckling into a plane seat and holding on for the ride.

So on to brighter things! (You'll get the joke in a moment.)

Ladies and gentleman, my name is Amber, and I am a heliophile.

*collective gasp of horror from audience*

Yes, yes, it is true. I am in deep like...with the sun.

(For those of you not trained in Classic Mythology and etymology, "heliophile" is derived from "Helios, Greek god (Titan?) of the sun", and "phile", meaning "lover of, enthusiast". Proof that Percy Jackson encourages learning.)

But I'm not kidding when I say I love sunshine. Sure, starry nights are great, and I know how to appreciate a good lighting show. One of my favorite ways to fall asleep is to the sound of rain on the roof and thunder in the distance. But my favorite weather of all is sunny.

The only downside of our new house is that it has a grand total of two east-facing windows: one in the living room and one in the downstairs bathroom. Whenever we move, I look for the bedroom with the east-facing window. I had to settle for south, which is second best (oddly preferable over west). I have my room arranged so that when I'm laying on my bed, my head faces east. Probably something to do with how many Disney movies start with morning sunshine on someone's face. Deep down, I bet I do it hoping I'll wake with a smile and a contended yawn like those obnoxious princesses (minus Anna, who is now my morning hero).

Unlike most of the United States at the moment, we had a bit of a weather break yesterday involving sunny skies and temperatures above freezing. Up until I got out of work, I was having a great day daydreaming of springtime. I'm actually getting quite desperate for it.

Allenna and I went to the library last week, and on the way home, I decided I needed to stop by the nursery near our house. Just walking into a room bursting with greenery and the smell of growing things made me happy. When one of the employees came over to ask if I needed anything, I said I was just looking and admitted I needed a vegetation fix. She smiled and told me she'd already met several people who had said the same thing.

People who have known me a while may be a little surprised when I say how much I enjoy being in the sunshine. As a kid, I was more often pale from lack of sunlight as opposed to tan. What can I say? I lived voraciously through others as a child. I'm mostly over that now.

Maybe it's weird, then, that my favorite season is not summer, but spring, when we're more likely to wake to rain clouds than sunshine and birdsong. I think part of my deep appreciation for sunlight comes from missing it during the cloudy months. 

And I'm rambling now. I'd better scoot before things get completely boring.

How I'm Slowly Coming to Grips with Adulthood

I'm sitting in another coffee shop this evening, polishing off some hot chocolate and contemplating the wrap and pie I just ate, which almost filled my meal budget for a week.

Yes, it was delicious.

Per usual, I don't really have much to say. I'm trying to work myself back into the blogging rhythm. Bear with me. Or, conversely, come back in a month and see how I'm doing.

In a month, I'll be 20. Yikes.

I'm not ready for that, guys. Mostly mentally, though a little emotionally as well. 12-year-old me was sure I would at least have a boyfriend by now and be halfway around the world on some grand adventure, or autographing my latest best-seller.

I miss childhood. The world felt so much bigger then. Now I'm settled into my adult job, doing my best to budget and dealing with the responsibilities of maintaing my own car, buying my own clothes and food, and not having to run every social engagement by my mother for approval. (Seriously, she is insisting I be the independent little adult she raised me to be and plan stuff without her ok. It's weird.)

Most days I struggle with my lack of time management skills. I get the feeling this may be a life-long practice. Bother it all, but I am bad at it. Once upon a time, I was that little girl in the corner stuck in her book with a bag of chips. Now I only snatch enough time to read right before bed or in the morning before work. It hurts.

Also, I forgot to mention that over the winter (starting in September, really) I went on something of a health kick. Suddenly I found myself enjoying hummus (which I once swore I would never eat), buying essential oils at the health food store downtown, craving organic granola, and snubbing potato chips and pizza. What? Part of it can be attributed to the fact that by September I had been working a real job for a year. A job that required me to be on my feet and moving around. Turns out what I wanted during my beautiful childhood was a little more activity and a little less curling up to read. Much as it pains me to admit. (Come on. One fencing class made up the whole of my school sports career.)
When I switched to my desk job this September, I had a small moment of panic. Suddenly I was back to sitting for most of the day.
In short, I'm more conscientious of what I eat now. I'm even contemplating a membership at the gym. (Please contain your shock.) But I'm still learning, still adjusting. I'm slow like that. My biggest struggle right now is the feeling that I'm just spinning my wheels. I can't quite explain it, but it's like I just can't manage everything in my life, like I'm missing something in the chaos. Not that I have a lot going on, but I'm trying to figure out how to arrange everything so I can still do the things I love, the things that matter.
I think part of it is this horrible weather. Usually I love winter, or at least know how to endure it, but this one is making me feel a little stir crazy. I'm daydreaming of my garden this year. We didn't get one in last year, and that was rough. Which is silly, because before then I had a grand total of two years as a gardener. I put in a load of bulbs around the front of the house, and I'm eager to see how they will look. Mom is making plans for the vegetables we will have. Mostly I'm happy that the chickens will be contained to their run and I will be able to enjoy the fruits of my labors in peace without worrying that someone's beak will destroy them for a snack.
I'm also hoping to get into a good walking/running habit with Sasha. She's been driving us all a little crazy lately with her boundless energy. It's embarrassing what a terrible dog owner I turned out to be. Live and learn, right?
The beauty is that I can only imagine the ways God is going to use all of what I'm learning. I'm just trying my best to make the most of it while I'm here. My inner child whispers that somewhere there is a lesson that could save my life one day. That annoying mature, practical part of me groans.
I came here tonight with Mom, who had a Search and Rescue group meeting. Wanting to meet the people she and Dad always talk about, I joined them in their separate room for a while. It got weird when I choked on a bite of lettuce and realized if I showed signs of distress, I'd have half-a-dozen people jumping to offer assistance. Wesley and Heather know how well I handle the suggestion of CPR. I carefully and slowly swallowed that lettuce and soon left. And now I'm waiting, because I didn't expect it to take this long.
At least here I don't have the distractions I'd have at home. Like chores and a dirty room and a cuddly puppy and one of Allenna's shows on TV. That's the problem with me and time management: I have time, but worrying about how to manage it leaves me tired and I end up wasting my time.
And I'm just rambling. I should probably go. I will say, before I do, that my goal is to blog Fridays and Tuesdays as often as I can manage. I never realized how much of a stress relief blogging is to me. (Well, the stress mostly came from guilt that I wasn't blogging, but....) So until Friday, I hope!

In the Wake of VBS

So that plan didn't exactly work. To be fair, it's been a long week; and, for me, the week can't even begin to be wrapped up until today is over and done and I'm curled up in bed with my breathing and heart rate back to normal.

VBS was phenomenal! Even though myself and my amazing assistant teacher were tucked up in a hot corner room where half the time the food workers forgot about us and the other half of the time they were avoiding us for the sake of their well-being, I enjoyed my job. (Plus, I got to play dress-up as a cowgirl all week. No complaints there!) I've had plenty of practice teaching memory verses thanks to Mom and Dad, and despite the fact that the kids were far more interested in their food than in me, I think we accomplished something. And I had enough wonderful, angelic, attentive kids to almost outweigh the not-to-good ones. Almost.

I'm not sure if the fact that every night but one we had to call in the reserves for crowd control is a testament to my poor ability to handle children, or testament to poor judgement with placing kids on teams. I was ashamed.

There were deadly dog-piles and the handing out of "men" and children whose vocabularies were temporarily reduced to "no" and "why", but we survived with our sanity only slightly damaged and some fun memories. And I reminded myself that it doesn't matter if it feels stupid; sometimes I need to play along and laugh at myself, because the kids will love it.

Yellow Team won the overall points for the week. And that's historic at our church. Yellow has had a losing streak for longer than my family has been attending, I think. Some years they may have won third instead of fourth; once I think they got second. But I've never seen them whip everyone else like they did this year. Even though my own Green Team fell in third, I was happy. Even better was the amount we raised in the penny offering for some beloved missionaries of ours. I think we're finally getting the hang of the penny offering.

One of the youth workers, who's more like the "All Youth Activities Director, Supervisor, and Supreme Overseer" at church, is not only brilliant, but I think a little crafty. Our verse for last night was Colossians 3:23: "And whatsoever ye do, do it heartily, as to the Lord, and not unto men." I explained to my kids what "heartily" meant: quickly, happily, and with excitement, the way your parents want you to do your chores. I also reminded them that the verse is saying it doesn't matter if man praises you; man's opinion doesn't matter. All that matters is doing right because it has to be done.

When the Supreme Overseer pointed to a vacuum parked in the middle of the sanctuary and said, "That's yours", that verse rang in my head, and then this sneaking suspicion developed: I bet she picked that specific verse for tonight as a reminder to the workers who get stuck cleaning in the aftermath. Halfway down one row of pews and three banged knuckles later (have you any idea how difficult it is to vacuum between church pews?) I was convinced. Smooth.

I like getting recognized for my work. Who doesn't? And I try to make sure I recognize others for their hard work and when they are honestly putting in an effort. Which is why I incorrectly used the box of candy given to me for prizes in class. The candy was intended for kids who could say all four of their verses. When the head Cowboy for the week came in and suggested a quiet seat prize, I jumped on it. I can do bribes, too. In my last class, I extended it, and all eight of the kids left with candy in their hands (except one who, for reasons I still can't quite figure out, gave his piece to another boy because "I know you worked really hard on your verses"). I had four problem kids in that class, and the last night they all worked harder than I could have hoped, and most said at least one verse. Victory!

Anyway. People did tell me "thank you, Miss Amber" (what is with this "Miss" stuff? Boggles my brain, I tell you) and I sang back over the whine of the vacuum "You're welcome!" But I kept telling myself that, though the praise felt good, I would have put in the same effort if everyone else had all gone off to bed or (because few people my age make a habit of going to bed by 10) out for ice cream. Right? Of course right.

In short (because I have to get going for the longest day thus far in my career), I learned a lot this week. And I'm convinced I'll need every lesson down the road, from child care to knowing the right balance of discipline and bribery to doing what needs to be done simply because it needs to be done and there's a vacuum standing in front of me, even though some silly person will probably come along in 10 minutes leaving behind a trail of dust and garbage. But it's okay.

If I'm still alive and sane, I shall see you...probably next week. Tomorrow is going to be a long one, too.

Changing Gears for Summertime

I think a personal summer challenge should be to write more than three posts a month. Even that will be a challenge with the way our summer is shaping up.

It isn't really warming up, that's for sure. We're somehow still in spring mode, weather wise, including the rain. We don't even have our garden in the ground yet because of all the rain and cloudy days. No corn this year.

I'm trying to think what happened in the last couple of weeks. Well, for starters, I came home one day by bus, skipped up the front steps greeting the chickens, and was met at the door by my grim-faced mother. 

"Before you come in, I need to tell you something."

Naturally, my first thought is, "Great. Who died." My bus driver no doubt saw the shift in my demeanor. I know my shoulders drooped and I tensed up.

"What?" I asked cautiously.

"Sasha was hit by a car."

Commence meltdown.

Most of you already know the end of this story. Mom had warned me because Sasha was in miserable agony and on edge. I came in quietly and knelt beside her where she lay on a towel spotted with blood. Mom explained that she'd just put Sasha out and was painting when she heard a noise outside and looked out to see a dog lying on the side of the road across from our house. Some older lady had been driving a van (which hadn't reached the speed limit for our stretch of road, as evidenced by the fact that my dog was still alive) and Sasha, who had mysteriously escaped from her run, had darted in front of the vehicle. Mom went out calling to Sasha, who didn't respond at first, and the lady turned around in a neighbor's driveway and came back, hysterical.

"Is that your puppy?"

By this time, as I understand it, Sasha had stood up on her own and dragged herself into our yard. Mom got her inside and called the vet. They said it wasn't safe to sedate her in order to x-ray her while she was so alert and still so much in shock. Mom was afraid her leg was broken.

I'd heard the nasty stories of people with broken bones, and how sometimes you can see the broken parts pressing the skin. Sasha's right front leg, the injured leg in question, didn't look mangled or twisted or unnaturally positioned in any way. She also had a cut lip (as in you could see how her tooth had bit right through it) and a few small-ish open wounds on her other legs. She was quiet and still, which in and of itself is startling. Mom said when she'd first brought Sasha inside, Sasha had been hyperventilating and thrashing around.

A little while later, Sasha started that back up, and I about broke down, wondering why on earth we had to wait for tomorrow morning to help her. We couldn't give her any sort of human pain meds in case there was internal bleeding (which, Mom warned me, the vet wouldn't be able to deal with).

However, as the day worn on, Sasha started rolling onto her back to encourage me to scratch her belly and even hobbled a bit when I carried her outside. She didn't drink much and wouldn't eat, though.

Fast-forwarding to the vet visit the next day:

Thankfully, no one else was there. Sasha's last vet visit was a nightmare, as you may recall. However, miraculously, Sasha didn't turn into a slavering beasty when the vet and his assistants appeared. She just maintained her miserable appearance. The vet had me walk her around (I'd carried her from the car and up the steps) and decided her leg wasn't broken or fractured, because no dog would walk on a leg in that condition (although, this is my dog...). Then he took her into the other room.

I cowered in a corner, afraid of the moment when Sasha would snap and show her dark side.

She growled darkly for a while as Mom stood beside her and the vet checked (or tried to check) her mouth. Finally, the vet asked Mom to step outside. Like children, animals act differently when their "parents" are around. He said a soothing owner reaffirms an animal's suspicions that the situation merits fear and retaliation. Good to know. If I want my dog to behave, I'll just step out of the room.

Fast-forwarding again: in the end, the diagnosis was bruising and nerve damage on her right leg and shoulder and some cuts that would heal on their own. Huzzah!

For the next few nights, while she still was having trouble walking, I slept in the living room with Sasha. She wasn't supposed to get excited (and for that we had medicine, which turned Sasha from her hyperactive self to a semi-normal dog). Oh, and we were warned that "in rare cases some dogs will up and die a few days after an accident as a delayed reaction from the shock, even though they looked healthy. I don't want to worry you, but I have to warn you." Comforting, no?

So my obsessive self eyed my dog nervously for the next few days, wondering if, true to character, she was one such rare dog. I know: morbid. I don't know what to tell you.

And that was that. She's still hobbling, but her spirit is back.

Mom thinks her mysterious escape ("mysterious" because she didn't break any part of the lead or her collar) was brought on by the presence of a certain rooster who had been stalking our house for the past week. No one will claim the stupid bird, and he kept strutting up crowing like Peter Pan and attacking our chickens to assert his authority. He even had the ducks scared. He plucked poor Presley's head feathers and chased some of the others under the cars. It took days, a lot of rocks, gardening tools, and other flying projectiles and eventually Dad with a disc to convince him that this was our territory. We haven't seen him since.

Our own roosters (and we have at least six, and one crowed once at me but which Heather still believes is a hen) are starting to work on their crowing. Rex (formerly "Arexi", the little Bantum) is the loudest. He's still by far the smallest, though one of the Polish (Elvis, the girl) is close, but Rex knows how to strut his stuff and crows defiantly at anyone or anything who questions his authority. The ducks are bigger and still as nervous and clique-ish as ever. We had some friends over a couple days ago and the girls wanted to catch one of the ducks. At one point Heather was following them and they came around a car not knowing the ducks were there. One of the ducks was so startled that he fell over like a fainting goat.

I can't think of anything else right now except for VBS, which I am helping with this year. (I haven't attended or helped with VBS in a while.) It helped me make up my mind that the theme is "The Great Western Round-Up". I am working with the kids on the Green Team to memorize their verses each night. While they eat.

Do you know how hard it is to get hyper, excited, hungry children to pay attention when there's food in front of them? It's a study in patience, I will say. And I think I may already be losing my voice.

The kids are split into three age groups after the opening assembly and penny offering. The groups rotate throughout different activities and classes before returning to the main auditorium for a final lesson, songs, and a couple group games. We were all singing along and I was repeatedly poking the shoulders of misbehaving children in front of me when one of them turned around and informed me that I had "the voice of an angel." And I don't think it was a compliment. 

I'm just trusting that someday I'll be thankful for all my voluntary work with children. I'm already thankful for past experience. I only uttered one dangerous word (being "butt", as in "those workers are busting their butts *cough* to get you your food, so please be nice to them") and I don't think I really lost my cool, though I was almighty close.

We return again tonight. I wore my only decent Western outfit last night (and it turned out better than I'd hoped). I might go into town later and check out some thrift stores, it being my day off. Can you believe I only have one decent denim skirt? Me, the former homeschooler. I know.

Oh! We also had our annual BBQ Fundraiser Dinner. I forgot about it because it wasn't the usual tiring day for me. I worked the money table. Well, before that Mom and I and a lady from church spent all day baking 45 cakes at the church. We had a decent turn-out, and I always love helping. 

Well, I need to go. Hopefully I will return tomorrow....

April Fool!

I've never been one for April Fool pranks. Or any other pranks or practical jokes, for that matter. I always feel kind of guilty for making other people freak out and then laughing at them, and I can't say I really enjoy being laughed at most of the time. I think the worst prank I ever did was refold an empty gum wrapper, stick it in the pack, and offer it to someone. (I know. Homeschoolers. I can't tell you how much pleasure my 7-year-old self derived from that "trick".)

Today I saw people on facebook posting about April Fools Day pranks, but wasn't really worried to be the recipient of any. I spent my day in innocent bliss: washing dishes, playing with the chickens (oh, we got four more....), giving Sasha a shower, and pining for sunshine.

Around 4:00, I remembered that I'd been meaning to check my library account because I had some books coming due. I got on and saw that I had quite a few actually overdue. Snap. Since I had to be to work in an hour, I figured I'd better get moving so I could drop the books off at the library.

As I was cramming things into my purse (I really need a better catch-all purse), my phone rang. Work. Now what?

When I answered, one of my co-oworkers asked if I was almost there. Not understanding at first, I asked her to repeat the question.

"Um, no. I'm not in until 5:00."

"No. You're scheduled for 4:00."

Cue panic attack. Psychological pranks are possibly my least favorite. So I'm freaking out, Mom is freaking out, and I somehow end up on the floor. Then my co-worker starts laughing, and I hear more laughter in the background. (Yes, she had it on speaker.) Through the laughter, she choked out, "April Fools!" I proceeded to huff about what a brat she was. And then I chuckled and hung up. Right.

I left soon after, and my run to the library didn't take as long as I thought, so I ended up getting to work early anyway. And for the rest of the night, we were all on edge. I really hate this "holiday".

In other news, we got four more chicks a couple days ago. Mom, Heather, and I set out for an hour-long drive to a hatchery with the intention of getting the much-desired Silkies. Unfortunately, there'd been some miscommunication somewhere along the line; the Silkies were all gone. Turns out they're in high demand this year. A little disappointment on Heather's part, and then we got three Polish chickens and a Brahma. They could be either hens or roosters, but they already have names. The Brahma, Heather's concilatory/Easter gift, is named Ginger. And she (though it may be a "he") knows she's exotic. And she has some attitude. On the other hand, the Polish chickens are pretty quiet and easy-going, so they get picked on (quite literally) by the others. They are Elvis, Presley, and Aida or Aidan. (Yes, Elvis and Presley. I tried to convince Mom that if the one she dubbed "Elvis" turned out to be a hen, she could call it "Presley" because it sounds more like a unisex name, but the next day one of the others was Presley.)

We're getting quite the collection. 23 chickens and 2 ducks. The oldest ones are starting to hit the "dinosaur stage", where they lose their baby fluff and start getting their adult feathers. When we went to get the last four chickens, we saw some ducks in this stage, and they were, quite frankly, ugly. As Mom put it, they looked rather like they had mange: fluff half-gone and feathers poking out all over the place.

I'm starting to think it was a bad idea naming the chickens; at least the Buffs. They're becoming kind of hard to distinguish from one another. Lobelia is still the lightest of the older set. I just keep an eye on her so I know which one she is. It helps that she's the most daring. She likes sitting on people's hands and arms. Mostly, she's trying to escape (and she can get some good air when she flaps her wings) but in that regard she's nicer than the rest.

Anyone getting bored yet? I know it's short, but I think I'll end here for the day. I'm still working on my Easter post. Maybe tomorrow....

Retreat! I have tea!

I sat down to blog this morning and, for some reason thinking next week was Easter Sunday, that's what I started talking about.

I almost finished the post before I realized my mistake. So that will be posted next Wednesday. Then I had to figure out what on earth I'd write about instead, and I remembered I never talked about the retreat!

Short story: it was fantastic. Great teaching (hard to call it "preaching" when it's 30 people crammed into the lounge section of a hotel suite), good fellowship, lots of fun and craziness, and even a mini birthday party in my room the first night.

The entire time, Jessi and I were marvelling over how we survived an entire week like that during youth conference. Because I felt dead by noon on Saturday.

We went to the mall, where there's a Teavana store, but I only bought a tea canister for some tea I already have at home. (My friends know me very well, because tea is also one of the gifts I got.) The only other thing I got was a scarf to match a bubble gum pink skirt I picked out when Wes, a friend and I went to our mall before leaving for the retreat.

We played laser tag Saturday night. 3 rounds, and I think they were each 15 minutes long. The group was split into two teams and it was a free-for-all getting the colored vests. Jessi, myself, and our roommate managed to grab green, which was the team with all the hardcore gamers like my brother. We won all three rounds.

No thanks to me. My maximum accuracy was 29.7% and my highest rank out of 27 people was 11. I mostly helped guard the base and provide a human shield of sorts so Jessi wouldn't keep getting hit and deactivated. One game, she got second. Yes, I'll take my credit.

By the end, my thighs were killing me from crouching on an angle and leaning around corners like a wannabe commando. And who knew leaning in and out could be so intense and sweaty? I was getting pretty good by the end of it. Definitely something I can enjoy. So long as my team has people on it who know what they're doing to make sure we win.

I learned afterward that black tea to me is like someone on crack. Who knew?

Here's what happened.

The first night we went to a restaurant. Their main thing is BBQ, but I got a salad and soup combo. And sweet iced tea.

I haven't had black tea in a while. I prefer green or herbal. However, I was kind of craving it. I ended up downing three full glasses (and they didn't go overboard on the ice like some places).

By the time we got back to the bus to go to the hotel, my head was buzzing and I felt dizzy. I wasn't sure why; I figured it was fatigue or something.

Then, of course, we had a service in the hotel suite. Still thinking the light-headedness was me being tired (I'm usually settling into bed by 10), I just wanted to go to sleep.

Then we had the mini party. That was fun. Next time, I need to insist my friends not get me something that I actually really want. Maybe it'll avoid homeschool awkward me from cropping up. I mean, come on, I'm 19. It wasn't that bad.

Around that time, I realized what was wrong with me. (The dizziness, I mean.)

"Jessi, I had sweet black tea."

"So?"

"So...that stuff has caffine in it." (Like it's a drug or something.)

(Starting to laught.) "Yeah?"

"And I haven't had black tea in forever. I haven't really even had soda in, like, two years."

I told Wes later when I wandered down two floors to say good night. (Unlike youth conference, our whole group was neither all on the same floor or on two adjacent floors dividing boys and girls. I felt so grown-up and lost.) He just gave me his, "Really? You're kidding me," look.

The next morning, I wanted to try out my new tea. I decided to skip the black tea flavor and go with a pomegrante one instead.

That's about all I have to say without rambling, and it's almost time for church, so I'll leave you with this: have you ever noticed that the clouds look darker when you're standing under the sun?

No, I don't know what that's supposed to mean. Just one of my poetic observations.

Bark, bark here and a cluck cluck there....

I'm back. That's all I have to say on that point.

Not much in the way of news around here. Except for this:

We're getting chickens.

Yes.

Chickens.

Chickens.

No, I don't have anything against chickens in general. I love the edible side of the picture. It's the fact that we will be raising the creatures themselves which puts me off.

I have a (in my opinion not all that irrational) strong dislike/borderline fear of chickens.

There. I said it.

Because what little creature with a sharp mouth, pointed toes, and beady eyes can really be trusted? (Although I loved our cockatiels.)

This hate/fear goes back to a visit to my grandma's years ago. I don't remember how old I was then. Maybe...11 or 12? Grandma had chickens - hens and roosters. I thought they were funny, ugly, rude little monsters. I loved throwing bits of moldy bread into their pen and watching them all scrabble to get a bite. Rather like seagulls, now that I think of it.

On this particular day, I was wandering along toward the backyard, where everyone else was hanging out, when I spotted Grandma's rooster stalking my way. I must have heard something about how mean this fellow could be or perhaps seen some demonstration previously, because I was instantly on guard.

And I learned that chickens, like most other creatures, can smell fear.

The rooster made a beeline in my direction, taking very deliberate, firm strutting steps and eying me maliciously. And silently. At first I tried to pretend it wasn't happening and continue on my merry way, telling the rooster to back off. But he kept coming, and I was overwhelmed by a sudden fear for my well-being.

I do believe I may have been crying or very nearly by that point. I was downright terrified as the rooster continued to advance. I was also struggling to keep an eye on the evil thing without making eye contact, knowing that animals feel threatened and are more likely to attack when you make eye contact with them. (And at that point I didn't care whether or not the rule applied to mean old roosters.)

All my efforts to will the rooster to leave me alone and let me pass were in vain. He charged.

I screamed. My first (and so far only) blood-curddling scream of the terrified and life-threatened.

I don't think any part of the rooster actually made contact with my body, but I was too busy trying to run on legs that had suddenly gone weak, shielding my eyes from wildly flapping wings.

And then Wes came racing around the corner of the house asking what was wrong. I was crying at that point, and I had trouble telling him what had happened.

Though I can't guarantee it because shock gave me a poor recollection, I'm sure Wesley laughed at me, and proceeded to tell Dad that Amber got attacked by a chicken and was now bawling like a baby.

So I think my distrust of chickens is at least well-founded, if a little...well, irrational? I stand by my instincts, though.

Then there's the part where I read a book about a girl in the 19...40's? whose family owned chickens, and the chickens abused her and pecked at her incessantly and were all around monstrous. That's pretty much the only part of that book which has stuck with me.

Mom's been researching all sorts of chickens. She's set on getting Buff Orpingtons. (And I only know that's what they're called because she said, "I want Buff Orps" and Dad said, "Oh, buff orcs?" and proceeded to display his biceps while saying, "Those are the orcs that are..." *flex flex*. I laughed, Dad chuckled, Mom glared.)

I've made my opinions very clear on the subject. Perhaps I've been rude or childish about it. Mom just shakes her head. She has assured me that she's only getting hens because she only wants the eggs, and Buff Orps are "docile and gorgeous".

As if a fat feathered fowl could be called "gorgeous". Granted, they have a nice russet coloring and aren't horribly built as far as chickens go....

And I'm totally going to demand we call one "Buffy". (Get it? "Buff Orpington?" Maybe we should give one a Lord of the Rings name in honor of Dad's quip. Galadriel? Merry? Or that evil female cousin of Bilbo's?)

Much to my confusion, I'm almost excited about the whole notion.

So that's the deal with chickens. And pretty much the only news in our household at the moment.

You know the drill. I was going to post this last week, when Mom declared, "We're getting our chickens next week!" but never got around to it. I have another post I'm planning based on Pastor's sermon last Sunday morning, but I haven't sorted it all out.

Next on the agenda of my uneventful life: my birthday!

Also the day I leave for a weekend single's retreat. Which I was convinced I'd never ever do.

I also said I would never abide chickens, and here I am picking out names.

While Mom plots out places to put the chicken set-up, I'm plotting my garden. So psyched! Beans, peas, squash, cucumbers, tomatoes, peppers, onions, corn.... Most of which I don't eat. And then there's the flower garden(s?) I'm planning. I wish we could have taken the rosebush from the old house with us. I loved that thing. I tried getting a cutting from it to get a new bush, but that failed. And like as not the new tenants will tear it up because they're allergic to or against roses or something.

So I'm hoping to get roses, lilies, irises (maybe), some little annuals....

And I'll spend my days weeding the vegetable garden and tossing overripe tomatoes to Buffy and Lobelia. (That's the name of the grasping relative. Yes, I just googled it.)

How I Run Errands (and don't manage my time properly)

I meant to post yesterday. Don't get me started with the excuses. In short, I lacked inspiration. However, I ran some errands before work yesterday and found my inspiration. Which means you won't get a rave about my new mint plant. Consider yourselves fortunate.

A little backstory of sorts (or is it a preface?):

I don't know if it's the new house, the season, or something else, but the dogs - especially Sasha - have had dry skin issues lately. Sasha has licked herself red in some areas. I found some comfry salve Mom bought at an Amish store a while ago and decided to try it on Sasha's stomach. (Of course, first I googled "can I use comfry salve on my dog".)

What does Sasha do (after I finally manage to get her on her back so I can rub the stuff on her)? Lick it. Seems she likes the flavor. That, or it's just another sign of my dog's overall general.... She doesn't think. She just puts stuff in her mouth for the sake of it.

You know that thing about dogs being like their owners?

Yeah.

Anyway! So I asked Mom if she thought some tea tree oil would help. From personal experience, the stuff is potent. I never actually had to taste any, but I'm sure I'm not the only one who's guessed a thing's flavor based on it's smell. That's half of how we get our sense of taste, anyway.

Turns out we didn't have any tea tree oil on hand, so I said I'd run by a local health food store on the way to work.

Another side note: I'm still practising good time management skills.

This health food store is on Main Street. Don't start imagining anything huge. The buisiness part of our Main Street is about four blocks of Mom 'n' Pop shops, bars, cafes, and the like, along with historic buildings like the courthouse and banks and human service buildings. Doesn't make for a good tourist attraction, but it adds to that "small town" feel the city for some reason seeks to maintain.

So the whole scheme of one-way streets always confuses me, especially when coming from the direction of our new house. I only had a vague idea of how to get where I was headed. I failed. Missed my turn, had to go three blocks to the correct one-way and do a big circle.

Then there were no angled parking spots on Main.

Parallel parking.

I haven't done it since my road test.

Sue me.

I wandered around for a couple blocks, almost turning the wrong way on a one-way and finally finding an empty parallel spot on a slight hill very near my destination.

Yet another side note: if anyone decided to trail me, they might decide I am dangerous. Either to them or to myself, I can't say. When I get turned around, I usually go out of my way to set myself right. I won't guarantee it's...the best method.

I totally blanked on how to parallel park. I started out fine, but somehow became self-concious (I was absolutely sure the driver parking the SUV across the street was watching and laughing) and went too fast. Commence repeated backing up, cranking the wheel, and pulling forward. Bother.

Trying to shake off that blond episode, I made my way to the health food store. One expensive bottle of tea tree oil and some local honey later, my mission was accomplished. Now to Wal-Mart!

Do you ever watch people in passing vehicles? (Maybe it's the fact that I do this that makes me so self-concious?) I was at a stop light right after pulling out of my parking spot. The car across the intersection had their lef turn signal on. There was a woman driving and a man in the passenger seat. The man said something, gesturing to their right, and the blinker went off. After a moment of hesitation, the right blinker came on. Then the driver leaned forward and looked both ways, also gesturing, and the blinker went off. Good to know I'm not the only one who can manage to get lost in a certain small section of city blocks.

I had to grab some things at Wal-Mart and refill our water jugs (we get the reverse osmosis water). Here's where my time management, or lack thereof, comes into play. (Though I'm inclined to blame poor road planning downtown.) I forgot just how long it takes to get 16 gallons of water! 2 5-gallon jugs and 6 1-gallon. I have this dark fantasy about some poor soul during a zombie apocalypse in search of water. So long as they don't have any undead following them, all they need to do is go to Wal-Mart. Forget single bottles (though those do help). Of course, in the event of their being pursued, they might only have time for a few quarts.

But I digress (again).

By the time I'd filled all my jugs (getting many a curious glance in the process) I had to quick step across the store to get dog food (we're trying a half-wet/half-dry diet for the dogs) and allergy medicine (also for the dogs).

On the way, I passed two girls in their mid-twenties. One of them made said, "Oh, it's Friday" and her friend laughed and started singing that ridiculous song***. I had to laugh, because the same thing had immediately started running through my head.

I knew I was late. I resigned myself to the fact, berated myself for the fact, and kept speedwalking (which is hard to do when pushing a cart filled with 16 gallons of water). However, on the bright side, the cashier was really nice and his voice was Josh Turner-deep. Which is just cool.

Skip through a long 6 hours of work/driving home. I ran through the nightly routine with Sasha and headed to bed. I made Sasha lay down on her side (which she hates being forced to do) and applied more comfry salve followed by tea tree oil.

It was late and I was tired, but Sasha wouldn't settle. She kept sniffing around and pacing, and somehow couldn't connect the strange odor to herself. I finally convinced her to lay down. She likes to curl up, but as soon as her nose came near her stomach she was on her feet.

This routine was repeated a few times, combined with sniffing her blanket (which apparently also smelled a little). I finally had to move a different blanket to the top of her "nest" before she collapsed, mostly out of just being tired.

And look! A picture!

 

 

Sasha and Mr. Teddy (plus a sock, my library basket, and a mess spilling out of my closet)

 

So the salve/oil worked. A little too well, it seemed last night. Trial and error, I guess.

By the way, happy March! It felt kind of Spring-y yesterday with sunshine and mud. We've had warmer days where our driveway becomes a muddy mess, and then cold days where the ruts freeze. While I've enjoyed the snow, I'm anxious to get started on my garden. Big plans for that!

 



*** Use caution when clicking this link. Wait. You already clicked it, didn't you?

The title of the last post could also work for this post. Or: "New Glasses"

I got glasses when I was 15, during the week of fireworks tent. (Or around that time. I always remember fireworks tent.) Since then, I've considered them a necessary evil. I have hereditarily poor vision. (Is that a word?!) And, yes, I do like to blame most of what makes me me on my family: my sense of humor, my creativity, my preference to country living, my green thumb, my poor vision and teeth.... You name it, it's their fault. (All you biology buffs are sitting there going, "Um, duh? You think?")

But I digress.

Glasses! For a while now I've been kind of needing to get a new pair. My left eye is considerably worse (I'm telling you, it's all this time I spend in front of a computer screen blogging), to the point where the glasses don't really even help that side of my vision. Not significantly.

Mom's been planning on getting the family in for eye appointments, but we hadn't yet because there was no pressing need and then we were in the middle of moving.

Then I created a pressing need. All by myself.

By the way, my habit of misplacing things is also hereditary.

It happened last Thursday....

 

*cue "back in time" theme and imagine everything is hazy and wavery*

 

I was minding my own business, checking up on...stuff at the old house for Mom between work and errands before babysitting. Out of necessity, I removed my glasses and set them on the kitchen counter, next to my phone and keys. I finished my work and returned to my car. I'd forgot to grab my keys and had to return inside to get them from the counter. I was almost to the end of the street when I realized I didn't have my glasses. I turned around in the last driveway on the left and returned to the old house and the kitchen counter.

My glasses weren't there.

Cue 20 minutes of huffing and puffing and using the strongest language within my homeschooler vocabulary (which amounts to "stupid", a gross insult and very severe when I stoop to using it).

Let me digress briefly again.

My body's natural vent for any form of extreme emotion - be it fury or joy or frustration or sorrow - is tears. I'm ashamed of the fact, and whenever my body decides that it must resort to such a method to ease its suffering, I get more frustrated and cry more. The only emotion that doesn't result in a waterfall is a very specific sort of fed-up anger. In that case, I bite my lip and glare and huff like a mad bull. I think some people call this "fuming".

Back to the story:

So after ten minutes or so of checking every possible location in the house - and I hadn't gone far - and not finding my glasses, I called Mom. Who was out of town.

She told me to calm down. I cried that I was calm. Very gently, she asked if I'd checked my face. Blubbering and laughing at the same time, I confirmed that I had. I'm accustomed to discovering that the things I've misplaced are often in plain sight, so I checked my face and head with my hands and in my car mirror when I went out there to see if I'd actually brought my glasses with me in the first place.

Mom ran me through every possible solution. I checked in drawers and cabinets, under the stove and fridge, in the bathroom, in a couple boxes sitting in the entry waiting to go to the trash. No glasses anywhere. I ran my hand all over the counter in case my eyesight was worse than I thought and my glasses were right there in front of me. No luck.

In the end, Dad had to come bail me out. He'd been on his way already, but he came a little early and put his new training to use by doing a whole and systematic sweep of every area of the house I'd been in, and then up and down the street.

My daddy is my hero. Even though he didn't find my glasses.

So he had to drive me to and from babysitting. "Corrective lenses" are required for me to drive. I cried a little on the way, calling myself an idiot and the whole situation ridiculous. On the way home, I laughed miserably, but my tears were spent. And I felt oddly bereft. Mostly bereft of my liberty, because now I once again had to rely on someone else to take me where I needed to go.

Mom set up an eye appointment for me for Monday, and I waited.

On Saturday, Mom and I went to the house to do some last minute touching up. I was bent over a spot on the wall, paintbrush in hand, when Mom said, "Oh, look. What are these?" Instantly, I knew what she was talking about.

My glasses. On the windowsill.

How? I have no idea.

Long story short, we had to reschedule my appointment for Friday (as in, yesterday). Mom and I went in the midst of more errand running.

I did the little preliminary tests (that evil glaucomoa test...). Then Mom and I went searching for frames.

Apparently I'm not daring enough.

I wanted some color (my current frames are a dark maroon), but there wasn't much to choose from. I'd been thinking blue. The only blue available was a pair of what I call "bug-eye" frames. You know, the big round ones? Yeah, it's rude of me to say such things, but I can't stand that style. Just on me, mind you. Some people (like my mom) can pull them off, but I can't.

Mom insisted I at least try the pair. I didn't even look in the mirror.

I'm more of a squared, small frame kind of person. And no animal print or thick plastic frames. My current frames are wire, with the frames on only the top half of the lenses.The pair we settled on are wire, dark purple. The bows (as they are evidently called) are a light green between sage and olive and are kind of wide. Different than my first pair, but not drastically so. As daring as I cared to be.

After some more sitting around, I finally got to the actual eye exam.

Far better than how I remember the first one being.

There were countless "A or B" style questions while he flipped through pieces on that funny-looking instrument, and me trying to breathe as quietly and shallowly as possible while he waved his little light in my eyes and leaned in less than an inch from my face. (So unnerving, and something only a doctor could get away with.) Then, while he told me what he was "seeing" based on his tests, I couldn't see anything except purple spoltches, so I squinted and blinked and spoke as little as possible.

The doctor confirmed that my right eye was about the same but my left was worse. Then we were done.

I haven't got my frames yet. The lens technician (or whatever she was called) was out on lunch, so they didn't know if the frames I needed were available or if it'd take 7-10 business days to get them.

And, yes, I'm oddly excited. And thus concludes the tale of how I came to get new glasses.

I don't know about the rest of you but, aside from the glaucoma test, I prefer the eye doctor over regular doctors and the dentist. What about you?

Someday, my prince will come?

My cousin is getting married tomorrow.

She's the first grandchild on Mom's side of the family to get married. It's a tinny bit bittersweet, since Grandpa died this May. That's where Mom and Wes are. They took a train! Of course, it was in the middle of the night, but still. A train! I'd take that over a plane any day.

Meanwhile, I'm home alone. Again.

Well, not entirely. Dad's here, just at work. By now, I'm pretty used to this routine. Possibly too used to it. I had Hershey pick the movie last night. And then I cried through the movie. ("Ms. Potter", if you were wondering.) And then I watched "Push", about superheroes. Well, superhumans. And ate macaroni pies. Which I made while listening to Christmas music.

I was going somewhere with this, I know it. I think it was going to be deep and thoughtful. Somehow.

Oh. Right. Weddings.

And, no, I'm not going to talk about my wedding dreams. (Oh, goodness! Last week I had another. Well, it wasn't the wedding exactly. And the guy had a face! But I digress.)

Years ago, when I was, like, twelve, I fantasized about being married by the time I was 18. Probably in part because that's when Mom got married. I've always been in favor of marrying young. (Not absurdly young, mind you.) As I got older, I waited and waited for "the ONE" to magically appear and sweep me off my feet.

Is it because I read too many fairytales? The only romances I like are the old classics, like Pride and Prejudice, where there's more to the plot than just the romance.

Anyway. Obviously, I'm even in a relationship yet. And whenever I consider the fact, I feel begrudingly grateful. I doubt I would have been ready emotionally for a relationship even 6 months ago.

Mind you, I don't agree with the whole attitude of "waiting till we're ready", because my experiences with life have proven that things never line up the way we imagine. That's life for you.

As time went on, I found more and more people and books talking about having contentment in singleness. For a while, I agreed with my mouth but not with my heart. Somehow I figured God would agree with me and toss a shiny knight into my path just because my heart said I was ready.I built all my dreams around it. I spent my time staring off into the distance, waiting for Mr. Right to crest the horizon, wondering if maybe his horse threw a shoe on the way over, and generally pining away for something I'd read and fantasized about and about which I still have no clue.

Finally, I got jogged on the head hard enough that it clicked: singleness is a stage of life, not a transition. Life doesn't run childhood-transition-marriage-happily ever after. After the big mental/emotional growth spurt, when we start realizing what life is about, is a new stage. Where I'd been spending all my time waiting for the next stage to arrive, thinking of it as being what my life was all about, I was wasting valuable time.

Singleness is an opportunity, just like every other stage. It has its own challenges, its own chances to grown and learn and do important things. It's to be embraced, not endured.

Some of you might be rolling your eyes. "Yeah, duh. Is that what you've been thinking all this time?" Give me a break. I take a while to catch on. I'd actually welcome a helpful slap every once in a while.

Here we go again. Another thought I can't quite put into words. Bother it all.

Okay, fairytales. Most of those ditzy princesses and scullery maids had one goal in mind: find the prince (or otherwise exceedingly dashing, witty, chivalrous, well-built, man) and fall in love-at-first-sight. Subconciously, I'd made my role model more like Ariel the dreamer (sorry, Jessi) and Snow White, the whistful maid singing into wells and listening to her own voice echoing obnoxiously. In fact, it's supposed to be more like Rapunzel (the Disney one): reading, painting, learning to cook and play guitar and make candles, and carrying on lengthy conversations with a sarcastic amphibian. You know, not wasting her time gazing out of windows thirty stories in the air. She wasn't even thinking about being resuced by a dashing rouge with what, frankly, I think is a ridiculous smolder.

Okay, so maybe not quite like Rapunzel, but I hope you get my meaning.

Yes, I really just wanted to try to make a comparison to Disney princesses. Then there's Belle, who sees the true man behind the hideous face.... Ah, I give up.

My point goes back to my ever-present theme of making the most of every moment; something I still fail at quite regularly. I spend my days waiting for the perfect man to come along, and all the while I'm not working to grow into the strong, spiritual, helpful, smart woman he deserves and is looking for. I have at my fingertips everything I need to grow into that person. Or - deep breath - I may never get married. (I hate considering that alternative, but this is reality.) Either way, God has a plan for my life, and He's shown me the kind of person I need to be in order to be the most effective, with a man at my side or all by my brave, adventurous self. I'm the same person either way. I know what I need to do, and instead of wasting time waiting for God to take my advice and just give me the guy and expect it all to work out beautifully despite my lack of efforts to prepare, I should be doing something. Anything, really.

It's an attitude I have to force myself to adopt every day. It's painful and itchy and two sizes too small for my silly day-dreaming heart, but it's the goal. I've been laying out all my dreams like the plot to a fairytale. Have you noticed they don't usually get far beyond "I do" and the happily-ever-after spiel?

Fact is, it's still life. It will still have its challenges, and I still have to be ready to meet them. A kiss doesn't magically solve everything.

So here I am, 18 and...more than a half, and learning to make the most of it. Or trying. And I'm starting to realize that, unfortunately, we never stop growing. Maybe growing up, yes, but not growing. Again, that's life. Why does it have to be so confusing?

Just "One of those days"

You know "those days" you have sometimes? Where it's just one thing on top of another, and eventually you either go to bed early or brace yourself and ask, "What's next, while I'm ready?"

Yeah. I have plenty of those days. Sometimes I have those weeks. Once, I was convinced it was one of those years.

Usually, "one of those days" is Thursday. Don't ask me why. Last week, things kept building up. Not dangerous or even directly impacting us for the most part. Just things like having to stop at the gas station more than twice for various reasons, seeing emergency vehicles and accidents all over the place...that kind of thing.

Today was "one of those days". Big time. (Okay, maybe that's hyperbole....)

Whenver I need to be up and moving by 9, 8 always seems to come too early. I go through stages; sometimes I'm happy to be up by 7, and other times I'd rather sleep until 9, despite the fact that I always go to sleep about the same time. Maybe it has to do with the weather. It's been getting colder and it's also been rather rainy lately.

In any case! I had a slow morning where I shambled around the kitchen, took a shower, and almost waited too long to leave for work.

Work itself was fine. Actually, the poor weather didn't discourage business very much. Twice in five minutes the electricity blinked off. Wasn't that fun!

After work was when things really started happening. Nothing huge, like a car wreck, but the little things that build up until I'm like, "Okay, really? This too?"

Mom had me run home to grab something and drop it off at the church for her before I went to babysit. Sasha and Hershey thought I was home for good, so when I ran them out and then went toward the door, they freaked. They make me feel like such a horrible human.

So I ran to the church, dropped off the stuff, and climbed back into the car. Moving around, I knocked the steering wheel thing (you know, the thing to which is attached) and suddenly the hazards were flashing. What?

And what do I do? I start slapping at the steering wheel trying to turn them off, of course. The button is on the top, so how I turned on the hazards in the first place is anyone's guess. Meanwhile, I was running short on time to get to babysitting, which only made me more frustrated. Commence grumbling/shouting in the harshest words I can manage. (Which aren't much beyond "stupid", but still sound severe in a low tone.)

Finally, I realized I was trying to move the little switch in the wrong direction. Without knowing it at first, I nudged it in the right direction. It took me another 30 seconds or so of unintelligible muttering to notice. Then I was off.

When I got to the house where I babysit, I was in a rush and didn't make sure the seatbelt retracted. (It has an issue and likes to droop where the driver leaves it.) I shut the door, seeing as I did that it would hit the seatbelt but not much caring. Smooth, Amber.

Babysitting didn't last long. When I arrived, the kids were having nap/quiet time, so I did  little writing. When they woke up, we read some, played some, ate some, and then I was off!

I had to run by Wal-Mart for dog food, because we were completely out. (It's like Sasha knew I gave her and Hershey the last of it this morning, because she devoured it in near-record time.) Wal-Mart is only about five minutes from where I babysit, which is good. About half-way, I noticed a windy sound coming from my door. I hit the lock button, but had a feeling it didn't matter. I would have clung to the door, but I was driving 30 MPH on one of the most winding sections of road in this city.

And then, right on the curb, the door started to open.

I'm proud of my level-headed reflexes in situations like those. I caught the door, tugged it closed, and gripped the wheel with my other hand. Wal-Mart was in sight!

There's a sort of turn lane into the parking lot, angled and with a sharp turn. Here my door pulled as if to swing open again. I got through the turn and stopped to try to close the door. It wouldn't close.

I hunted down the closest parking spot (well, sort of, because I wasn't parking in the sticks) and turned off the car, then confronted the door.

I had some vague memory of this happening before to Heather's car when the seatbelt gets caught in the slamming door. I knew the latch needed to be fixed, but I couldn't do it. So I called Mom. She was also at Wal-Mart!

However, my loving mother who never fails to encourage me to do things on my own told me to take care of it myself. Yeah. Love you, too.

There was a guy who had walked to his car, parked next to me, about the time I pulled in. He was sitting in it, probably waiting for me to deal with my issues and move. Admittedly, I made a bit of a show of grumbling at the car while I knelt next to the door and tried to fix the latch with a key. Eventually, my damsel in distress act worked.

"Are you having a problem with your door?"

Yes! Oh, yes, yes, yes!

Of course, he fixed it with no issue, and behind him I'm fist-pumping in joy. I thanked the man profusely and skipped off to get dog food.

I'll admit: I thoroughly enjoy the occassional reminder that I'm the "weaker vessel" and deserve a little sympathy, a little patience, the door held open, and to go first in line. Why would any girl want any less? In moderation, of course, but it was just what I needed to help me cool down after the frustrating door issue.

I called Mom just before leaving to ask her something, and she told me to take the back way home like normal because there was an accident near the other way out of the mall area. I soon saw proof of this when the winding-most road in the city was backed up with traffic. Thankfully it cleared quickly, because I hate leading a pack of cars driven by frustrated drivers, and that's the situation in which I temporarily found myself.

Okay, so now that I've reviewed it all, I guess it wasn't truly "one of those days". Maybe it was more like a "you had to be there" kind of day?

One more thing. On the way to Wal-Mart, before I really noticed the door issue, I saw a little toy monster truck sitting right in the middle of the road. My immediate reaction was pity for the poor little kid who lost their toy car. That kind of thing (abandoned objects in strange places) always makes me wonder how they came to be there.

A Life with Dogs is Never Dull (at least, when it's my life)

Recently we've been forced to put bark collars on our dogs when they go outside. I'll admit Sasha has a bit of an attitude bark - where she barks at anything that moves, just because she can. For Hershey, it's whenever he sees a squirrel, deer, or other dog. No matter the size of the dog.

Anyway. We have an old one from when we just had Hershey, and Wes had to replace the batteries. Hershey had been wearing that one, while Sasha had a new one, but the old one didn't seem to be working, so Mom suggested I switch around the collars.

This morning, I went to put the dogs out. This is a serious process now. Sasha doesn't sit still, especially when it's morning and she really has to go. When I do get her to sit, she tilts her head back to eye me so I can't get the collar on. And then, because it's the old one and was set to fit around Hershey's neck, I had to adjust it. Then the new collar isn't snap but buckle, and I think Hershey does something to his neck muscles to keep me from making it tight enough. Rather like a horse and their saddle.

Finally, they were ready. I had the leashes twisted all around my right hand so I could use my left to open and close the door and kennel gate.

And then Sasha spotted a squirrel. She isn't so into them as Hershey, but it's something moving, which means she should chase it. And then Hershey noticed. Commence dragging Amber across the yard.

When the dogs want to go at something, they dig in like they're pulling a sled. I'm surprised my arms are still so wimpy with all this pulling against the dogs. I grabbed the jumble of leashes with both hands and muttered at the dogs. Just past the kennel gate, I managed to pull everything to a stop and start my own dragging. Sasha's ADHD is actually very helpful in these situations. I called her to come to the kennel and she came. She figured she could watch the squirrel just as well from there.

When Hershey gets to pulling, he chokes himself. Then he has to stop and cough and gag for a minute. He was doing this while I was detangling myself and undoing their leashes. And then he coughed hard.

I knew what happened immediately, when he froze. Then, without a sound, he bolted for the gate.

I grabbed him on his way out, trying to console him. Any rough throaty noise the dogs make leads to being zapped. It's happened before when Hershey has coughed. Now, apparently, he'd associated the kennel with the shock, because he didn't want to go back in. He wanted to go to the house.

Meanwhile, ADHD puppy thought it was a new game. I think her brain goes like this: "Look! Something moving! Let's chase it! Oh! That annoying girl is yelling at me again! Okay! Let's go! Hey! The stupid dog is leaving, and the annoying girl is, too! Let's go!"

Out the kennel she runs. I didn't manage to grab her in time, and in a second she discovered her freedom and realized what it meant. She didn't bolt, but sort of trotted off happily to discover things.

Meanwhile I'm yelling at Hershey to stop being an idiot and just get in the kennel. Finally, he's in. I close the gate and call to Sasha.

Naturally, anyone would chase after the little creature who got away, but if any dog gets the game of keep away, it's Sasha. You run, she runs. If you're chasing her, she runs away. If you're running, she's chasing you. Actually, the rule is that if your dog is loose, start up a game and run away from them, contrary to natural impulses.

So I called her. She was casually sniffing around past the garden, starting to move off our property. She looked up, tail wagging. Would she come. I slapped my legs to emphasize my point, and then spun and raced toward the house.

Instinctively, I knew she'd followed. ("Oh! Annoying girl running away! Play!") Before I'd reached the door, she was skidding up alongside me. Now I just had to hope the second part of keep away wouldn't start: where, just as she's within reach, she runs away and makes me chase her. She didn't.

Praising her all the way, I led her back to the kennel.

Sometimes, I think she's like the dog on "Over the Hedge". Of course, Wes says she's the spitting image of Scrat from "Ice Age", including how she acts.
I know, the next post was supposed to be about the blog title. Oh, well.
Before I go, I had one more dog-related anecdote. From yesterday.
I was getting ready to leave for work. I can't remember why, but I'd brought Sasha in from the kennel and left Hershey out. Actually, I think I was just bringing Hershey out and Sasha looked cold, so I let her come in. In any case, I was rushing around making sure everything was set. Then I went to get Hershey, right before I had to go.
The gate was open. I'd left it open.
Yes, I've done this before. Out of habit, when I bring a dog in, I leave the gate open. Hershey has got out before. Luckily, we always have a good idea where he'll run off to. So I got in my car and started up the street.
I'd planned to head to the next street over. There're so many dogs around here and Hershey likes to flaunt his freedom in front of them. However, I wasn't five houses up the street when I saw him sniffing around in a yard.
My windows were already down, and I said the one thing that will get his attention no matter what: "Hershey! What to go for a ride?"
Once you say that, his brain is committed to "car ride". He raced over to me and paced around the car until I opened the door.
I'm not supposed to drive with the dogs in the car. We're all too easily distracted. However, for Hershey's sake, I drove most of the way up the street before turning around and heading home.
And...yup. That's all I got. Hey, at least I posted! But I plan on returning tomorrow. It's just that I really need to wash some dishes before routes.

Adventures of an Abnormal 18-Year-Old: the "living alone" test and a new job

I'm back!

Quite a lot has happened since I last posted, but I'm not going to talk about most of it.

Two things: I have decided that I like the whole "single living at home" part of my...life description? For a while I fantasized about living on my own, but no more!

I determined this when I dog sat for some friends. Thursday evening to Monday morning. I stayed at their house the whole time, except when I went church Sunday morning (not that night, and my excuse is the deer running rampant on the roads between their house and church). 

All alone all day with no internet. Just the dog, a bunch of movies, and my spazzy computer. I set off with the wild idea that I would spend my time writing. Ha! 20 movies later.... Not hardly.

And I about went mad with loneliness. No human interaction at all, all day long, was depressing. I'm not a huge fan of humans on the whole, especially in large groups, but being a human myself, it's only natural I need a little human-to-human socialization. As good of listeners as dogs tend to be most of the time, there's a point where I've talked enough and want a response. In English.

So when I got back and Dad asked how I liked living alone, I snorted, rolled my eyes, and said "Hate it". No hyperbole. I didn't feel as epic and daring as I thought. I just felt pitiful.

Of course, I wasn't working then. Now...I am!

And y'all already know that.

Yup. That's the second thing. First day was yesterday. Boy, I was sure it was going to be one of the scariest moments of my life. Surprisingly, it wasn't. While part of the reason for that is probably because I jumped right into the lunch rush, I think most of it is because I actually took time to do my devotions and pray about the day before starting it. Yeah.

Dad asked what I learned. I didn't really have an answer. So much, but at the same time, very little. This was because every other employee trains the new guys. Which means I got as many opinions on how to do every little thing as there were workers.Ah, well. I didn't make any deathly mistakes, I didn't make any huge messes, and none of the smoothies exploded in the blenders. I only worked a few hours (got off early), but I actually enjoyed it. And then I had to help Mom and Heather deliver the paper routes we're subbing, and my sense of elation deflated.

I worked again today. By last night, I felt very tired, and I didn't want to get up this morning. I loafed around, didn't walk Sasha (because it's that transition between warm and cold and I hate it!), washed a load of dishes, and headed out.

New faces today. Good thing each has an accompanying name tag. I got to jump right back in again. Yesterday, one of the women described working the smoothie line as a dance. I'm not even a dancer and I'm figuring this "dance" out. Points for Amber! Of course, with a thousand and a half recipes to memorize, I'm slower than everyone else. Good thing I just make the smoothies and usually someone else works the blenders. I hate that part. Invariably, every other smoothie will refuse to blend, and then it's stop the blender, shake the smoothie, put it on a new blender, run it for a few seconds, take the lid and pound the blender cup, stop the blender, shake the smoothie, put it in a new blender, etc. Yuck.

All I do mostly is the smoothies. There's also food (wraps, flat breads, sandwiches, etc.) and the register (yikes!) but I think it will be a while before I get to those. Thank goodness. When I'm not working (orders come in in cycles, it seems, and then there are the boring breaks between each) I'm restocking or cleaning. Or cleaning. Or washing dishes. Apparently my non-OCD self is in the minority among the employees. Maybe their obsessive habits will rub off a little. We all know I could use just a little.

Again, I was let out early when we hit a lull and everything had already been scrubbed. I stepped outside to sunshine and a rather chilly breeze, and noticed it was also raining. On the way home, I mused about what that sunshine/rain combo should be called. "Sundrops"? "Rainshine"? But it turns out "Sundrop" is a soda and "rainshine" is everything from a farm to diapers.
My musing was interrupted when, at the stop light by our house, I noticed steam coming from my hood. Only then did I recall Mom's earlier warning about the radiator overheating. No light on the dash, though, just a funny smell and a little steam, so I begged the red light to turn green.
It took forever, and when it did I only got to our street before I had to stop again. For a school bus.
I've been dreading my first encounter with a school bus since school began. So far, I've been lucky. I've only seen one, and I was four cars behind it. This time, I was in the turn lane right by it. But I survived. Another stupid fear relieved.
Of course, while I was waiting, my car started steaming again. Grrr! Move it, you sad little public school children! Stop looking at your phones and get off the road! I have come to believe that this so called "distracted walking" phenomenon exists.
Finally, the road was clear, the bus was on its merry way, and I could go. When I pulled into the driveway and parked the car, I did what any loving car owner would do: I popped the hood.
I think it was only for some personal need to feel like a normal person. When I finally found the latch that released the hood, I just stared at the engine and hemmed and hawed for a couple minutes, leaning around to look at nothing in particular from every angle. And then I took that long to figure out how to put the hood back down.
Right. Sense of self-importance and general intelligence: not satisfied.
So now I'm writing this. When I have a boatload of laundry to sort and fold and sort and put away, dogs that probably should be walked, if only for their sakes and not mine, and my real life to get on with. Namely, working that silly little hobby I still dream of making my real job.
Up next (being...by Friday, if I'm good), I'll continue to discuss that notion of changing my blog title. I have given it more than a second thought over the last few weeks. I even started to blog about it at Grandma's, but never finished. Big surprise.