What're you lookin' at? | Ramblings from a self-proclaimed yada yada yada...ist

Send me on my way

Yesterday, for the first time in over a year, Luke and I went to church.

Our hiatus wasn't intentional. We went once with Kara last Easter and fully intended to start going regularly until BAM!, knocked up again, and the morning sickness came with a vengeance, and it was all I could do to make it to work on time, let alone pursue "optional" activities like praising Jesus beyond the confines of my home. When we moved into our house last fall, we discovered a darling little Episcopalian church not ten minutes from our subdivision, and after reading more about the parish online we talked a good game about going, but we were overwhelmed with settling in and I was ginormously pregnant and then soon I had Nathan and excuses excuses excuses. I finally decided that if we waited to go until we were ready, we would never be ready. So after breakfast, I told Luke enough is enough. We quickly showered, wrangled the kids into the car, and arrived a few minutes into the first reading (a freaking miracle for us these days).

Sitting in the pew, Nathan strapped to my chest in the baby carrier (now that I've conquered my fear of all the straps and buckles, I am in love love LOVE with the baby carrier and use it all the time for walks, shopping trips, etc.) while Luke held Kara on his lap, I couldn't help but think about how far I've come in my spiritual journey. As a child, I hated going to church--the low lighting put me to sleep and I spent the majority of the time checking out neighborhood boys--and even as a young adult it often felt like a chore, going through the motions to pay tribute to my faith and/or trying to fit into the mold of the customized tradition I grew up in. It's taken me twenty-nine years, but I'm now in a place where I gravitate to God not out of fear or obligation but from a place of gratitude and an eagerness to learn more about my place in this world. The pastor gave a wonderful sermon about trimming the fat from your life, and she said something that deeply rang true for me. "There are two ways to get enough," she said. "You can gather more, or you can desire less." That's what I want to strive for, embracing the whole "less is more" concept; to live a life mostly devoid of clutter and outside noise and focused more inward. I want friendship and outreach and plenty of time for rest and reflection. (Clearly there is room to grow in this area.)

Can I do all this and still subscribe to regular date nights with my DVR? Only time will tell.

But I digress.

After the service, Luke and I were approached by several members of the congregation and given a brief tour of the facility. We saw the nursery where Kara can hang out during Mass if we so desire, and we learned about various ministries and received pamphlets spelling out the church's kid-friendly programs, and by the time we made it back to the car, we were hooked. I've already requested christening information because Nathan will be four months old soon and the former Catholic in me can't help but think we should have closed the deal on him a long time ago. But God gets it. At least, that's what Luke said when I commented on his opting out of the kneeling parts of the service to keep Kara at bay. "He has lots of kids. He knows what it's like," he said.

Now that Nathan has cleared the newborn stage and Kara is continuing to blow our minds with her quirky little-girlisms, I'm nervous but excited to venture beyond our comfort zones to become more community-oriented. On Friday night we had one of my new coworkers over for dinner so she could meet the kids, as she'll be watching them when Luke and I see Billy Joel and Elton John next week, and on Saturday we test-drove a Gymboree class for Kara, and amidst all the activity I started feeling a little sad because for the longest time it's just been Luke, me, and the kids, perfectly content to hole up and remain separate from the outside world, quietly enjoying our family. Now as we welcome more people and activities into our lives, we'll have to lose a little bit of the intimacy that goes along with doing everything on your own. Luckily, we'll lose the loneliness, too.

Also, maybe some pregnancy weight.

(OK, so that one's all me. But I can't complain too much when the end results are so damned cute.)

 

 

Jesus loves me this I know, for my baby slept during the entire composition of this entry

Holy crap, has it really been seven days since I posted here? I'd like to apologize for the lack of updates, but I always hate it when bloggers do that, like, do you think I've got nothing better to do than refresh your site? But then again, before Kara, I really didn't have anything better to do than refresh your site, and what the hell was going on in your life that you couldn't take five seconds out of your precious day to let me know you're still alive? You can appreciate the dilemma, no?

Anyway, things are going much better. In my last entry, I talked about how Kara had suddenly altered her schedule to accommodate less sleeping and more crying, to the point that her mother was crying because oh my God, if you aren't hungry and aren't wet and don't like your bouncy seat or transportable swing or the rocking chair or just bouncing around with Momma throughout the apartment, that's it, kid. There's nothing more I can do.

Now, though? I can take her restlessness in stride without taking it personally, and I've even figured out a few more things we can do together, like looking at blocks dressed in primary colors and reading picture books and paying more attention to tummy time. Don't get me wrong, half the time she fusses through those things, too, but there are moments in which I can see her actually paying attention, reaching for one of her blocks or following the duckie rattle with her eyes. She turned four weeks old yesterday, and I already feel like she's a completely different person from the one Luke and I brought home from the hospital. She's so much more expressive now, experimenting with various smirks and (gassy) smiles and working her hands together while she takes everything in. She also sleeps more predictably through the night, albeit in patches, but it's still enough that between ten and six I can hoard about five hours of sleep, which is more than enough for me to get through the day. This may sound silly, but I almost feel like the newborn stage is over, that she's already taking the appropriate steps to become her own little person and shift into some sort of routine. Time really is flying by.

Things on the pumping front are...almost nonexistent. My quality time with the Ameda is down to just once or twice a day, and I'm only producing embarrassingly tiny amounts of milk each time. I have a feeling that by the end of the week, Thelma and Louise will be all dried up and we'll be solely dependent on the makers of Similac and other formulas for Kara's nutrition. Oh, well. I'm proud that she received the benefits of breastmilk for four whole weeks and that I gave the whole boob thing my very best shot. Maybe my best wasn't as good as some of yours, but we all do what we can.

This past weekend was crazy for us, as we celebrated Kara's baptism at the Episcopal church we've been attending intermittently for the last year and my family was finally able to make it to Indianapolis and love on the baby. There was much chaos as Luke and I frantically tried to clean our apartment and get our daughter ready for her longest trip away from home. Sundy morning, we left the complex armed with individually packaged amounts of formula, two bottles of water, six diapers, two back-up outfits, a pacifier, and prayers to God that Kara would make it through the ceremony and luncheon without waking up the dead. And she did! She was a perfect angel, sleeping through almost the whole service and all of the pizza party we had afterwards. Auntie Samantha and Uncle Dan, her godparents, bought her a beautiful christening dress, and as Luke and I changed her into it minutes before Mass, I couldn't help but tear up because she looked so lovely and grown up and I was so proud of her for not pooping in her pretty new clothes. Also, she's not even a full month yet and already I'm losing my baby and thank you, God for blessing us with such a wonderful gift waaaaaah hiccup sob.

But enough from me. It's picture time! Hopefully they'll hold you all over until I'm able to post here again. (At least you've got my Parents blog to tide you over, though, right? In case you haven't been keeping up, I posted my birth story there. All four parts of it. You're quite welcome.)

(Also, thank you for the birthday wishes. My January 9th introduction to the ripe old age of 28 was marked with presents from Luke, wailing from the baby, and an episode of Deal or No Deal. I swear, NBC must've aired it just for me.)

I know I'm her mother, but honestly, this child is the most photogenic baby on the planet. For real.

Kara with three of the four members of the Lost A Sock family. No, Molly, you may not take her home.

Grandma and Grandpa Ma'Ayteh checking out their first grandbaby.

Auntie Samantha, Uncle Dan with Kara in tow, Momma, and Daddy. Now would be a good time to tell you that my sister is pregnant with her own bundle of joy, who's due in August. How awesome is that?! Everyone's got the baby fevah!

Kara getting smooshed by her fabulous aunties.

"I don't care what the law says, love is not limited by gender!" (Or: Kara with Uncle Geo and Uncle Dan.)

Look! Kara and Grandma Dunscombe match! Also, if I were just two inches taller, I totally could've captured the smile she flashed at Daddy D.

The guest of honor with her grandmas and grandpas. How lucky she is that all four are around to spoil her.

Kara giving that creepy girl from The Grudge a run for her money. Atta girl, sweetheart.

I think I saw Greg's wife on an episode of Murder, She Wrote when I was wrapping presents last week

Talk about a productive Sunday! Luke and I kicked things off by going to church for the first time since Easter and initiating talks with the pastor about baptising Freka in the Episcopal tradition. Long-time readers will remember that we come from different faith denominations (Luke grew up Methodist and I was raised Catholic), so neither one of us were sure how to go about preparing our baby for life in another religious community. The pastor was very easy to talk to and promised to get in touch with us sometime this week, which is good, because I can't stop obsessing over whether or not we're supposed to designate godparents for our child. Does anybody know how Episcopalians feel about this?

However, we did learn that the church's next scheduled baptism is January 13, so apparently we can get a head start on our invitations. Yikes.

This evening, I finally downloaded Suze Orman's will and trust kit (will share more details when I post my next Project Freka update, presumably this Wednesday), and Luke and I decorated our apartment for Christmas--nothing fancy, just the tree, stockings, and a festive tablecloth, but the place already has a much warmer feel. Holiday CDs have been dusted off, we're already going through half a gallon of eggnog a week, and my VHS copy of A Very Brady Christmas is ready for a spot in our rotation of seasonal movie staples, which currently include It's a Wonderful Life and Elf. Luke is less than eager to witness Mike and Carol spend perfectly good vacation money on plane tickets for the kids, their spouses, and their spawn, not to mention their poor treatment of Alice, who they allow to serve them breakfast in her FREAKING UNIFORM, even though she's no longer pulling in a paycheck.

Valid points, yes, but I still say bah, humbug. He clearly hasn't consumed enough eggnog.

What? It's Technically Still Wednesday

Geez, with only sixteen minutes left to Weight Loss Wednesday, you'd think there was bad news to report. But actually, I did myself proud.

LAST WEEK'S WEIGHT: 138.2
CURRENT WEIGHT: 137.2
POUNDS TO GOAL WEIGHT: 12.2

Not bad, right? I'm not sure how it happened, really, since not only did I move forward with my plans to indulge in a big, heaping bowl of spinach dip this weekend while my beloved was out of town, I did it TWO NIGHTS IN A ROW. Once on Saturday night while enjoying my long-awaited Sex and the City marathon, and once the night before at a quaint little pub with Jessi, a blog reader who works and attends law school in Indianapolis. I was so nervous about meeting someone whose sole perception of me was based on meticulously crafted entries and goofy pictures that almost always involve Photoshopping some of the acne off my cheeks, so afraid I'd look like an asshole when referencing something from my blog, as if I assumed people had nothing better to do then commit my archives to memory, but the minute I laid eyes on her happy smile outside the Aristocrat in Broadripple, I immediately relaxed and let myself be carried away by good conversation. Which lasted two hours. It was that awesome.

Plus, I felt a little like a rock star when we would delve into a new topic and she knew exactly what I was talking about, like when we were swapping stories about old boyfriends and I'd said only a few words about my second one before Jessi was like, "Oh, when you were Trophy Frema?" And I was like, "Oh, yeah!"

(How many of you have met other bloggers/blog readers? Did you have a similarly awesome experience?)

In other news, I can't deny my feelings any longer. I miss All My Children.

The Bible reading is becoming harder to keep up with, despite my intentionally leaving the Good Book in plain sight on the nightstand instead of tucked away on a shelf halfway across the room, but I still manage to get my time in more often than not. And I still enjoy it and feel like I've learned a lot. However, the absence of AMC from my daily routine is almost impossible to bear. No, I haven't cheated, thanks so much for your faith in me, that is, unless you count desperately flipping through soap mags in the check-out aisle at Target as cheating, which I don't, because I totally didn't learn anything about whether or not Krystal's had her illegitimate baby, Tad knows his own son is (unknowingly) (of course) playing daddy to the long-lost daughter he once thought died in utero, Babe's fake death has been brought to light, or Kendall is still carrying hottie Zach's child. Easter Sunday will indeed be a glorious day, because in addition to celebrating the resurrection of our Lord and Savior, I'll also be reprogramming my VCR to record channel six every week day at one o'clock eastern standard time. Let us rejoice and be glad.

On a related note, Carrisa asked me last week why I decided on AMC as my Lenten sacrifice, which was a perfectly valid question; after all, boycotting daytime television doesn't eliminate disease or help the poor or even make a difference to anyone but me. I really wanted to pick something, though, that hit me where it hurt, and if you had any idea how much time I spent catching up on episodes, lurking on message boards, and combing through character bios, you'd know that by the time Lent rolled around this year I was on the verge of obsessed. For my own peace of mind, I wanted to know that I wasn't as dependent on such a shallow form of entertainment as I thought, and when times got tough, I tried to remember how insignificant my sacrifice was when compared to what Jesus did for us, even though it was an insanely important part of my life. I love the history and the characters and the laughable plots and the inappropriate wardrobe choices made for Susan Lucci (how many times did she wear strapless dresses in November, girlfriends? How many?) and the guilty-pleasure escapism provided by the great and wonderful land of Pine Valley, but I had to prove to myself I could take a step back when that love got out of control.

How about the rest of you fellow Lenten observers? Are you happy with the choices you made regarding your own Easter sacrifice? (If in fact you gave anything up in the first place; I know not every Christian denomination does this.) How did you do? What did you learn?

P.S. Both Bethiclaus and David have decided to take the WLW plunge. Let's show 'em some love, shall we?

Life-Is-Good Wednesday

Seven days in and already I love March. The sun is out longer, there's less ice to scrape off the windshield of my car, and current temperatures are leveling out in respectable double digits.

When it comes to Weight Loss Wednesday, though, I much prefer negative numbers.

LAST WEEK'S WEIGHT: 135.6
CURRENT WEIGHT: 135.8
POUNDS TO GOAL WEIGHT: 10.8

OK, so I didn't lose the pound and a half I vowed to in last week's update, but I'm still impressed because, point-two pounds? Please. That's the (eight) handful(s) of M&Ms I scarfed down over the weekend. It's the fudge pop I had while watching The Departed last night. If I'd kept away from both, I'd be at 135 even. At least.

When it comes to eating, weekends at home are the epitome of temptation. Flipping through the pages of Marie Claire is more interesting with a package of Fig Newtons, and it's incredibly difficult to watch television without feasting on some sort of delectable treat, but I'm getting better. The biggest change in my habits this past week has been my recent befriending of the water bottle, which gives me something to grab on to when I don't know what to do with my hands and keeps the urinary tract sufficiently flushed as I strive to reduce the frequency of my UTIs. We go everywhere together, though his countless attempts to score during our trips to the bathroom have been unsuccessful. He's a fresh one, that bottle.

 

My new, sexually-aggressive BFF. I think I'll call him Wilson.

I'm ready for spring. I'm ready to hit the trails of our state parks and get moving after four months of sitting like a blob on the couch. Our annual pass has been purchased, the gym shoes moved to a more prominent position in the closet. It's time.

Since Weight Loss Wednesday and Ash Wednesday fell on the same day, this time of the week always seems most appropriate for filling you in on my Lenten commitments. Still AMC-free, though I did read yesterday's update in the paper and was surprised to learn Zach and Kendall have come face-to-face with Alexander Cambias, Senior, aka Zach's presumed-dead father, aka Pine Valley serial killer, and my first reaction was to rush to my desktop and pull up the soap's message board to get the full scoop. I didn't, but boy, did I want to. I'm still not sure what I'll do come Easter. I love my show, but I enjoy my newfound free time. Luke certainly doesn't miss it. We'll see.

The Bible reading continues to be one of the best parts of my day. It's a peaceful way to wind down before lights-out, and I'm constantly (re)inspired by Jesus's words and teachings. Challenging myself to put them into practice is another story, but at least I'm thinking about people and things in a way that I wasn't before, even going so far as to seriously contemplate repairing one of the family bridges that was burned a couple of years ago (even though the other person totally started it) (apparently the eight-year-old in me is not competely on board yet). Which raises a question: when you decide to forgive someone, do you have to let them know? I mean, I'm sure she isn't spending her waking hours gazing out the kitchen window, secretly wishing to be part of my life again. I don't even know if she's aware of how much she hurt me. Maybe it's enough to internally put those feelings in the past and plaster on a happy face the next time I see her, which might very well be years away.

On the other hand, I could've behaved more gracefully, and Jesus does talk about "making peace with your brother before offering your sacrifice."

What are your experiences with forgiveness? Have you ever had to forgive someone for your own peace of mind? Has anyone ever forgiven you when you didn't expect it? Or, when you didn't think there was anything to forgive?

This isn't how I imagined ending this post, but now I'm curious. Bring it on.

Oh, What a Beautiful Wednesday

Oh, what a beautiful day!

LAST WEEK'S WEIGHT: 137.8
CURRENT WEIGHT: 135.6
POUNDS TO GOAL WEIGHT: 10.6

I knew a loss was coming. After pledging to stop binging for Jesus exactly seven days ago, I've been stepping on the scale every other morning in anticipation of Weight Loss Wednesday, looking for proof that my efforts weren't in vain. Apparently my Lord and Savior is a more effective motivator than being able to button my pants.

There's so much to talk about, and I've been meaning to blog every day since Monday, but for some reason the words aren't coming like I want them to. I've been pleasantly surprised at my ability to exert self-control, to step away from that bag of salt-and-pepper potato chips, box of Git 'Er Done™ chocolates received from well-meaning neighbors, and coveted package of Thin Mints before doing serious damage to my waistline and self-esteem. (This is good news for Luke, who gave up cookies for Lent. Poor Luke!) (Also, how evil are the Girl Scouts for scheduling their deliveries after Ash Wednesday?) The progress hasn't been huge--turning down a third slice of pizza is grand, but it's still pizza, and dude, two slices!--but I'm happy. To make my ten-pound goal more attainable, I'm setting several mini-goals to help me get there. For example: next week I'll aim for an even 134 on the scale. If I'm successful, I'll have lost my first five pounds since moving forward with this whole "Fitness Schmitness" attitude last November. (Well, it would've been five pounds; either way, I'm counting it as a big deal, seeing as my lowest weight thus far's been 135.) And if that happens, there will most definitely be a picture, which might be scary for all of us, seeing as I'm three weeks overdue for a hair cut. March 10th can't come fast enough.

In regards to my Lenten commitments, I've been doing well in that department, too. Last Tuesday I deleted the Monday-through-Friday recording of All My Children from my VCR and took my New American Bible down from its dusty spot on my bookshelf, placing it on top of the cheapie plastic filing cabinet next to my nightstand (on top of Christopher Pike's Spellbound, which I found at Half-Price Books for a quarter and am just now reading for the first time, OMG) so that I'm more likely to pick it up before bed. So far I've touched on the first couple of chapters in Genesis and the beginning of Matthew's gospel (including the introduction), and for the first time, I feel like I'm really thinking about the life Jesus lived and what he went through before he died. Also, with all the religious exploration I've done in the last year, I'm more interested in studying this Good Book as a historical text. I used to think the Bible was just the Bible--one universal table of contents, one agreed-upon translation--when really each denomination embraces a particular version and all of these versions have nuances unique to their sect and oh my gosh, it's a miracle Christianity survived when we all can't even agree on the same damn manual.

Anyway, let's move on to the AMC thing, which, let's face it, is probably what you're really most interested in. Logistically speaking, the not-watching part of it hasn't been hard; since I'm not taping it, and I don't have cable, and not having cable means not having SOAP NET, there's no way to cheat on that one unless I make the twenty-five minute commute back home to plop on my couch and catch up on Zach and Kendall's progress with the Satin Slayer (seriously one of the dumbest storylines this show has ever done but I still want to see Alexander Cambias, Senior brought to justice) in real time. And since making two round trips to work five times a day would put a serious damper on my gas budget, there you go. No AMC.

Giving up the message board, however, hasn't been as simple. Before last Wednesday, I was checking that puppy at least three times an hour, reveling in the latest batch of spoilers and enjoying discussions on controversial plot points, like whether or not Krystal carrying Tad's baby and passing it off as Adam's is just as detestable as her helping Babe keep Bianca's baby for ten months, allowing Bianca to believe that Miranda drowned in a river minutes after her birth (close, but the "your baby's dead" thing still wins). I enjoy reading episode threads maintained by various posters and the lively commentary they provide. Those people have no idea who I am, but lurking on that site has been a fun way to stay connected with a show that in 2004 fast became my favorite form of escapism.

As fellow AMC junkie Dawnie can attest to, committing to a daily program is no easy task; forty-five minutes a day isn't too bad, but when you miss Monday's episode, you spend the length of a movie catching up on Monday and Tuesday. Miss Monday and Tuesday and you're going to start your Wednesday two hours and fifteen minutes in the hole. "I'll just skim through the scenes with JR and Babe and Tad and Krystal and ignore the rest," you think, but suddenly it's twelve-thirty in the morning and you're wondering what the hell happened to your evening, and hey, at what point did your husband go to bed without you?

So this boycott, it's been a good thing. Though I was flipping through the entertainment section of the paper yesterday and accidentally glanced at the weekly soap update. Nothing was revealed I didn't already know, but still, it was enough to peak my interest. AMC, what have you done to me?

In other news, today is the last day of the first month of Luke's and my new budgeting system. More details tomorrow.

Double-Duty Wednesday

I was pretty sneaky last week, huh? Going on about my teenage years and former flames, parental trials and tribulations, basking in the afterglow of the Internet's sympathy, all the while ignoring the white elephant that was Weight Loss Wednesday.

I didn't skip out completely--I did submit myself to the unforgiving nature of the scale, and I was neither pleased nor surprised with the one-point-two extra pounds of insulation I seemed to have accumulated watching all those DVDs from Blockbuster Online.

Things aren't much better this week:

LAST WEEK'S WEIGHT: 138.2
CURRENT WEIGHT: 137.8
POUNDS TO GOAL WEIGHT: 12.8

Apparently skipping out on my after-dinner ice cream indulgence last night was just enough to register a loss this morning. Go me.

After work yesterday I abandoned the business-casual khakis I wore to the office and slipped into a pair of my favorite NY&C jeans, and I was horrified to realize how tight they felt in the thigh. I could still button them without cutting off circulation to my brain and legs, but it wasn't a comfortable fit, and I didn't make it further than watching Monday's episode of Heroes before I was rummaging through my dresser drawers, searching for my favorite draw-string pajama pants, pants that probably deserve an Honorable Mention in my hypothetical top five, so often are we together.

As I mull over another week of missed opportunities to become a stronger, healthier person, I also remember that today is Ash Wednesday, the first day of Lent, the first of forty days (forty-six, actually, thanks Wikipedia!) spent in preparation for Jesus's death on the Cross and subsequent resurrection. I can remember going to church after school with my mother as a kid to receive my yearly thumbing of ashes, contemplating a suitable sacrifice to show my thanks, which usually turned out to be something like cookies or chocolate (Chips Ahoy products being the ultimate tester, Mom loved to keep a package in the freezer) and I never made it past week two. Since stumbling blindly into adulthood, I can't remember making any Lenten offerings, but this year, in light of all that's taken place in my spiritual journey and how truly blessed I feel to enjoy this stage of my life with such a wonderful person, I think I have a special responsibiltiy to do something outside of myself, something to show God how appreciative I am for everything He's given me, which includes the body I spend so much time picking apart.

I complain and complain and complain about my rolly-polly belly, my alarmingly round face, my flabby back fat, and yet I continue to gorge myself on cookies and candy and handfuls of shredded cheese when I'm supposed to be washing pots and pans. I'm not thirteen pounds overweight because of a slow metabolism or gestating baby, but rather a lack of self control, and I've been so angry with myself for caring more about snacks than the importance of maintaining a healthy weight. It's not right, especially when I have an actual condition to control. In addition to wanting to be around for my husband and our future children for decades of years to come, I have an obligation to God to make smarter choices with this body He created specifically for me.

So, during this season of reflection, every time I reach for that bag of Keebler Fudge Stripes, every time I think of diving into a mountain of berry rainbow sherbet, I will remember what God has done for me and and treat my body with more respect. I will think before I open the pantry door. And I will remember that my spinach-dip recipe doesn't really need a full cup of Parmesan cheese. (Ah, cheese, both friend and foe!)

I am also giving up All My Children. What, you didn't think I'd take the easy way out, did you?

Since I've been dragging my feet over the weight-loss thing for such a long time, and since it's actually a personal benefit to slim down and eat better, it didn't seem right to offer my harmful caloric intake to God. I thought it would be more of a sacrifice to cut out a vice, something I genuinely love and encounter on a regular basis but doesn't add to my quality of life. Luke suggested spinach dip, but since I only pig out on a batch once or twice a month, that didn't work, either. Then he suggested my blog, and I laughed hysterically. AMC it is.

I also wanted to make a positive commitment during this time and settled on reading some part of the Bible every day. I like hearing scripture readings during church services, and though I studied scripture in high school and college, I don't remember a lot of what I learned, so I'm looking forward to reaquainting myself with the Good Book.

There's still one week to go before March, but already I'm experiencing a new beginning.

Football and Churches and Ducks, Oh My!

First things first: Did anyone watch either one of the two AFC games yesterday? Because oh my God, the Midwest is having a collective heart attack: for the first time ever, the Chicago Bears and Indianapolis Colts will face off in Miami at this year's Superbowl. While I'd never describe myself as a football fan---it took me twenty minutes to figure out what the hell AFC even stands for--but as a Chi-town native and current Hoosier resident, the anticipation over "the battle of I-65" has inspired me to save both the front page and sports page of today's paper in order to document this historic moment for my future offspring. Next thing you know I'll be wearing team jerseys and chugging copious amounts of Miller Light from a plastic hat. And I don't even drink beer.

It was a good weekend. I did file my work samples into three-ring binders and plastic sleeves and tossed out two garbage bags worth of trash and dusted and vaccuumed and almost orgasmed from the cleanliness of it all. On Saturday night, Luke and I rented Little Miss Sunshine and Snakes On A Plane. One of those movies had us guffawing and crying and celebrating the acting chops of one very talented Office actor. The other also induced tears, but for vastly different reasons. I'll let you determine which is which.

We also went to church.

Since the start of the New Year, I've been thinking a lot about how it's time for us to start searching for a parish of our own, one that provides a strong foundation for the core Christian beliefs we both share. With the Frema-Useless Clutter household currently subscribing to a complicated mixture of Methodism and Catholicism, our research revealed we might both feel most comfortable in the Episcopalian faith. We visited an Episcopal church together last spring and had a good experience with the Mass, though I was intimidated by the grand scale of the architecture. This time around, we chose a church in a neighboring town a little closer to home, on a Sunday when the streets were filled with snow and the plow trucks were nowhere in sight, but we made it, and our appearance was received in a manner similar to Howie Mandel at the Golden Globes, which is to say very, very well, or at least it would have been if I'd been stalking the red carpet.

Because of the snow, there were only a handful of parishoners in attendance, so we basically stuck out like sore, spiritually lost thumbs. We were bombarded with outstretched hands during the offering of peace and personally encouraged to take communion from one of the ushers. At the end of Mass, one of the priests invited us to have coffee and doughnuts in the church's kitchen, an invitation we originally planned to decline, so overwhelmed were we with all the warm welcoming, but the song in her voice was like an imaginary hand gently guiding our footsteps to the room where lukewarm Folgers and supermarket pastries awaited consumption, and soon we were visiting with other families, making small talk about the weather and how we found ourselves in Indianapolis.

All that to say we really liked the parish and plan on visiting again, though we still might check out a few other churches before commiting ourselves to any one place. I could feel those old feelings of sadness bubbling up inside of me again as I sat next to Luke in the pew, just like last time, at the idea of saying good-bye to the faith I'd grown in for so much of my life, and once again I reminded myself that the God I talked to and prayed to and wept with and thanked in the Catholic church was the same one waiting for me in this new Episcopal one, and I wasn't saying good-bye to Him, just worshipping with a new group of people who really weren't as different as I thought they'd be. At least, not in the ways that mattered.

After church, Luke and I went for breakfast and did some shopping. When we finally came home, we noticed this sight in the pond across from our unit:

We didn't think much of it until Luke peered out the window a couple of hours later and saw that the goose was still there, perched in the exact same spot. Figuring the poor thing must be stuck, we marched outside and tossed some stale bread crumbs his way, hoping the promise of food would provide ample motivation to free himself. When that didn't do the trick, Luke hurried upstairs to grab a broom with the intention of breaking through the ice with the handle. Before he could pierce the surface, though,the goose must've questioned the validity of our plan, because he made a clean break for the sky, leaving behind chunks of Market Pantry whole wheat bread as a tribute to his courageousness.

Since we still had three or four pieces of bread left, we circled the pond looking for other feathered friends with which to share our feast, partly against my better judgement. The ducks and I, we have a history, you see.

It started out calmly enough, with the whole flock keeping a respectable distance in the pond, perfectly content to eat crumb after crumb in the water, until they decided they needed to experience their snack up close and personal.

The farther away I walked, the braver they became. Which made me quite nervous. I hastily abandoned a half-piece of bread in the snow, hoping to distract them, but it only left them hungry for more.

I thought walking in the street would instill some fear, surely put them in their place. It didn't, those brazen bastards.

At that point, after many pictures were taken to document my fear, Luke (finally) came to my rescue. Thank God.

 

He makes it look so easy, doesn't he? Not scary at all!

And then the ducks blew him kisses of gratitude, and I began to feel a little silly.

But not TOO silly. After all, I did see Snakes On A Plane. For all we know, the ducks are just biding their time.

On the '06

My senior year in college, one of my professors said that with every choice you make, you become a little more free, as all the questions and doubts and fears once associated with that choice are now obsolete. This train of thought has always resonated with me but became even more meaningful the day I married Luke. Gone are the days where I wonder about our future, my ability to love another person both unconditionally and romantically, his ability to take all my idiosyncrasies in stride. This year we made the decision to love and honor and cherish each other for the rest of our lives, and doing so has enabled us to move forward and tackle new questions--harder questions, probably--but ones that acknowledge our past and honor our future. Instead of pestering Luke to move in with me and propose already, I get to nag him about making a baby and prepping ourselves for the responsibilities of home ownership. I'm definitely OK with the trade-off.

But getting married wasn't the only big thing that happened to me this past year. In reviewing the chain of events that occurred in 2006, I realize these last twelve months have shaped me into a different person: someone more independent, more emotionally adventurous, who isn't waiting for a family member or friend or Joe Schmoe on the street to validate her feelings.

I took a good, long look at my religious foundation and answered some hard questions about which aspects enriched my life and which ones I could've done without. I learned that pigeonholing God into limited definitions and avenues of grace doesn't help anyone, and his miracles aren't confined to a single denomination. At the same time, I learned how important the concept of community is in my faith and how deeply Luke and I want to pass that tradition on to our children. Nobody operates in a vaccuum, whether you're talking about religion, family, or society at large, and to live life ignoring your impact on all of those things seems naive. I severed a couple of once-important familial relationships last year, so even I don't measure up to my own standard of maturity, but who's perfect, right? I'm just proud of myself for not abandoning my convictions and refusing to sweep my hurt feelings under the rug. If that means I have to forgive others and myself for the results, so be it.

I finally grew the balls to say my online writing is important enough to take to the next level and I took it to the next level. I cursed and cried and beat my head against the PC monitor when I realized how much work it would take to meet my expectations, but I did it and now it's done and I'm so happy with the end product. I'm no longer disappointed in myself for admitting I don't want to write the next Great American Novel, that fiction isn't my bag, baby, and scribbling my thoughts and feelings on the Internet is the best use of my passion. I'm not ashamed that blogging is an insanely significant part of my creative identity; it forces me to put a name on my emotions and sort out my feelings, and it helps me connect with others without worrying if my new acquaintenance is paying more attention to my ideas or the zit that just started growing above my upper lip. I learned how to feel comfortable in my own Internet skin.

At the tail end of 2006, I also wet my pants in excitement over unique career opportunities. I've already been asked to conduct a one-hour workshop on blogging for a writing conference at Saint Joe this September, and if the stars align properly, I may even teach semester-long course in the fall. Blogging, it has been good to me, and I am so, so grateful.

While there was great joy in 2006, there were sad moments, too. One of my mother's sisters passed away after a long fight with brain cancer, and just when you think the grief can no longer touch you, you receive a Christmas card with three signatures, a Christmas card that once featured four, and you're reminded of the tangible effects of loss. My favorite aunt received a double whammy this spring as she was diagnosed with both breast cancer and brain cancer, a whammy that ushered her into chemotherapy and radiation and a horrible fear that she wouldn't live to see her eight-year-old daughter grow up. Today, she's almost cancer-free, something nobody in my family expected, but it's happened, and I'm grateful for that, too.

There's no way to predict the course of 2007, but there's no harm in working towards the following:

• Paying off our Cobalt three years ahead of schedule
• Finding a church to call our own
• Continuing to take our health and physical wellness more seriously
• Creating a financial situation that allows me to care for a child without the burden of a nine-to-five
• Counting our blessings, every one, every day

Happy New Year.

The Reason For The Season

During this morning's commute to work, the local pop radio station played an interview taped yesterday between the morning show's program director and one Robert Marley who, along with his brother Kevin, is staging a campaign to "save Christmas." His beef? That while retail stores all across the country take advantage of December holidays to peddle their wares, many of them are refusing to acknowlege that people purchase those products to commemorate a religious event, whether it be Christmas, Hanukkah, or Kwanzaa. "Merry Christmas," "Happy Hanukkah," and "Happy Kwanzaa" have been replaced with a generic "Happy Holidays," substituting a religious sentiment with a secular one to promote an increased level of commercialism. He reports some employers have even threatened their staff with termination if such greetings are uttered in their stores.

Robert Marley believes our country is under the attack of a secular progressive movement, a movement that is slowly eliminating any traces of religion--particularly Christianity--from our everyday lives. No prayer in school; no "Merry Christmas" displays in stores that nonetheless deck their halls with red and green decor, pine trees, and images of a jolly fat man whose original roots can be traced back to a Catholic saint. They don't support Christmas, but they have no problems using Christmas paraphernalia to make a profit. These thoughts and more are posted on his Web site.

However, the program director also posed some tasty food for thought as he argued for the plight of the retailer, pointing out it's not Corporate America's job to promote any religious denomination. In his eyes, attacking a secular money-making powerhouse for not promoting religious ideals is the same as yelling at a dog for not pissing in the litterbox. (Or something a little more eloquent.) He also said those religious groups have allowed their holidays to be taken over by mass consumerism, and if Robert Marley wants to fight for anything, it should be removing the gift-giving component associated with these events altogether.

Though I agree that businesses often exploit religious beliefs for financial gain, I find myself aligning more closely with the program director's stance. Maxing out credit cards and waiting outside Super Target at three o'clock in the morning to get a copy of The Notebook for five dollars doesn't and shouldn't encapsulate what the holiday season is all about, and whether or not an employee says "Merry Christmas" as you exit the premesis with a plasma TV in tow is the least of our worries. The world, our country, our cities and towns have homeless people. Hungry people. Abused and neglected people. Developmentally and educationally challenged people. (And many of them are children.) The idea of adopting a project to save a seasonal salutation when there are clearly a number of more significant issues to take on in Jesus's name is laughable. It's as if Marley believes those words are the only means of expression Christians have at their disposal. He's forgetting that when it comes to religion and morality, actions speak louder than words. They will know we are Christians by our love (by our love!), not the greeting we choose to use one month out of the year.

What do you think?

Contraception and Religion: Good Alone But Better Together

OK, so I've already failed my Recommitment to Emptying the Junk in My Trunk plan, seeing as I didn't make it to the gym in time for tonight's hip-hop aerobics class. (Will I ever make it to this class?) Instead, I came home and prepared the barbequed roast beef sandwiches as directed by my online dinner menu, courtesy of Betty Crocker's famous red cookbook. It turned out pretty well, and I was delighted to see the recipe categorized as both fast AND low-fat, though I still prefer the trunk-friendly Sloppy Joe.

But enough of this nutritional nonsense. There are more important things to talk about than what's simmering on my stove. For example....

(Per Silly Hily) What is one thing that Luke does that drives you nuts and he knows it, but he still does it b/c that's "just him"?

Before I answer this question, let me be clear on one thing: when it comes to pitching in around the house, Luke is The Bomb. He cooks and does laundry and scrubs mold out of the grout in the shower without making a fuss, runs spontaneous errands without blinking an eye, and packs a lunch for me every day. I know any questionable housekeeping tendencies he might keep are due to unintentional oversight or ignorance of their existence.

That being said, he tends to splash water everywhere whenever he washes up for bed, and when he engages in his weekly hair buzzing, those hairs somehow end up on the walls, in the sink, around the ring of the bath tub, etc. Perhaps they become invisible once they're detached from his scalp. Maybe they sprout minds of their own and embark on treacherous journeys from the garbage can to the previously listed destinations, just to the spite the bitch who's trying to bring them down. Who's to say? I've spoken to Luke about this, but apparently it's a mystery to us both. He also has a bad habit of spilling coffee grounds on the floor near the garbage can.

I'm going to stop now, lest my husband reveal to the Internet any of MY bad habits, like my resistance to showering after returning home from the Y because when I wake up my hair is clean, yes, but flat and bent at odd angles, so why bother taking a shower when I'll just have to take one again in the morning to combat it all?

Whoops.

Are you on birth control now?

That's the million-dollar question right there. Many of you will remember the freak-out I had over Very Mom's post about possible effects of The Pill. I had been happily subscribing to this method of birth control for approximately eight years, and it only took twenty-four hours for me to swear off chemical contraception for the remainder of my reproductive years. Some might view my stance as overboard, but it's what allows me to sleep at night, so there you go.

Luckily, Very Mom's post also offered information about natural family planning via Taking Charge of Your Fertility: The Definitive Guide to Natural Birth Control, Pregnancy Achievement, and Reproductive Health. It's similar to the rhythm method in that it encourages women to watch for internal signs that ovulation is about to take place, but it differs in that it dismisses the conventionally held truth that women's cycles are typically twenty-eight days, a truth perpetuated by many doctors even today. (I'm a thirty-four dayer myself, thank you for asking.) After discussing matters with Luke, we decided to purchase the book and use condoms while I gave myself a crash course in the significance of waking temperatures and cervical fluid.

In the last seven months, my "crash course" has translated into devouring exactly fifty-two pages, two of which are dedicated to detailed graphics of male and female genitalia. Meanwhile, we continue to pump hard-earned dollahs into the convenience and protection offered by the latex industry.

I'll be the first to admit the situation's less than ideal. Condoms are for teenaged prom queens who want to safeguard their chances of pledging to an Ivy League sorority, not college-educated, properly wed DINKS with the financial means to support a child. Right? I was never fond of physical barriers to intimacy before I was married. I certainly didn't want to implement them with the man who's promised to love me for as long as we both shall live.

Here's the sticky part: As much as I desperately want to have a baby, I also have expectations I desperately want to follow in terms of child rearing. Meaning, I don't want to have to utilize daycare, which admittedly has more to do with my own needs than the baby's. I know plenty of little ones thrive in structured environments where they're regularly introduced to other children and adults besides their parents. I don't think a woman's role is serving her husband barefoot and pregnant, and I don't think a mother who works outside the home loves her children any less. My friend Gina recently opened up her own dance studio, and during our last phone conversation I remember thinking, "If I had a job like that, there's no way I'd want to leave it." Though if I did, the whole dilemma would be moot because I'd be the boss and as such could keep my offspring at my side all the livelong day.

As a writer, I'm lucky. My current job, boring as it may be at times, offers a lot of flexibility, and good thing, too, because between Luke and me, I make more money, so if we received a surprise package from Mr. Stork, and it was necessary for our well-being to do so, I could definitely work from home, even though the idea of juggling newsletter deadlines and screaming babies on a full-time basis is less than appealing. I want to change the diapers do the feedings read Beatrix Potter stories dance to Baby Mozart anytime I want to, because babies are only babies for a short time, and I don't want to miss any of it. Not one single minute.

Until we can make that happen, until we're in a place where we can bring a brand-new person into the world and raise him/her in the way we're most comfortable, I don't want to take any chances.

(Now, I could have spared you all that drama and simply said yes, we use birth control, but what fun would that have been?)

Have you and Luke found a church or a common ground in that area?

Another happy topic! Last time I mentioned this, I gave the impression of freeing myself from the perceived restriction of religious labels, opting instead to embrace all the practices in which my relationship with God can be strengthened. Today? Luke and I agree that our family's spiritual formation will most likely take place in the walls of a Protestant church, and we agree we want to have them baptized as infants in said church, but that's been the extent of it because I'm terrified of the day I can no longer call myself a Catholic. There's no other way to say it, and I'm still not sure how I feel about it. I know Luke is the man I want as both a husband and father (not my father, you sick bastard), and I have no doubts that God put him in my life to fulfill those roles for me. Therefore, I imagine He's counting on me to find a way to make it all work. I haven't yet. And that's all I have to say about that.

Did you watch Sex and the City? If so, which character are you most like?

At last, a serious question. I was beginning to think Hilary wasn't interested in who I am as a person.

According to this survey, I take after Miranda, which I'm pretty happy about because she has the snappiest comebacks, hottest husband, and the ability to deal with an unplanned pregnancy. However, her reputation is slightly tainted in my eyes due to the name she chose for her son. Sure, it was a nice gesture to give the kid Steve's last name, but by the end of the show they were married, and even if she kept her maiden name, what about the boy? Did he remain Brady Hobbes, or did he become Brady Brady? Seriously, if anyone can shed some light on this very important subject, you'll be rewarded with dreams of furry kittens and gobs of raw cookie dough.

Of course, if you made it to the end of this post, you pretty much deserve that, anyway.

Keeping The Faith

A big thanks to everyone who had kind words to say after my last entry. I've been so caught up in which religious label to stamp on my soul that I forgot to ask why it was so important to stick to just one. No matter what church Luke and I choose to attend, there's no reason I can't take along all those aspects of Catholicism that have made a wonderful impact on my life. Which brings me to my next point: in no way was I trying to bash the Catholic Church or those who consider themselves practicing Catholics. First of all, I'm not so naive as to believe I'd be participating in such an uncomfortable process if my husband* were Catholic. Second, while there are teachings I don't agree with, there are many I still hold close to my heart. Just because I'm considering a membership with a Protestant denomination doesn't mean I'm eliminating the Hail Mary from my prayer ritual, rejecting the Sign of the Cross, or renouncing the saints as strong models of Christian life. There are also countless beliefs I was introduced to through the church that, while not exclusive to Catholics, have instilled in me a pride and fondness for my childhood faith: the sanctity of life; the inherent dignity of every human being; our responsibility to those less fortunate; the importance of family. For those and many other reasons, I will always consider myself Catholic. I will always be proud of where I came from.

I will also use this experience to teach my children how important it is love and honor God in a way that best encourages them to follow His ultimate teaching: to love Him and His people. They will not be intimidated into faith with threatening tales of demons tearing through the earth's surface to snatch bad little girls who fought with their sister before 10:30 Mass. They will not be afraid to sleep with their feet outside the covers because the devil might take it as a sign of their willingness to cross through the gates of Hell. If they're gonna be afraid of anything, it'll be Mommy's unforgivable habit of exploiting Private Moments such as our first sex talk on the Internet.

* Look at me, bein' all casual and nonchalant about the fact that I HAVE A HUSBAND! HOORAY FOR ME!

Twice The Drama Of An AMC Episode Minus All The Sex

So, after two glorious posts about wedding hoopla, I decided to drop off the face of the blogging earth. I've been reading your sites and commenting 'til the cows come home, but when it came to composing sentences for this here thing, I've been lost. Part of that's been due to Luke and I still working through "administrative" issues like bill paying, apartment cleaning, lease renewing, insurance subscribing, and name changing. However, it's also because this issue is once again plaguing my brain. And reading these entries--as well as the comments--have been wonderful signs that I'm not the only blogger confused as to how religion will function in my life.

What bothers me even more is WHY I've been so bothered: my "old-school Catholic" grandmother. Some of you might remember her as the one who scared me with Devil stories and sent my sister chastity literature for her 24th birthday. Now, she is also the woman who, according to reports from reliable sources (read: my sister Ryan), spread hurtful rumors that Luke and I were married in a pagan ceremony. As conservative Catholic as she is, though, I think her thoughtless comment has less to do with how we were married and more to do with not being invited to our wedding.

Some brief and possibly useless backstory: She and my parents had a falling out last year because she didn't believe in waiting to receive invitations for two-week visits from Arizona, and despite trying to keep the peace by sending her an invite to Samantha's wedding shower, I was still slammed with a three-page letter that tore my parents to shreds. If she was trying to get a rise out of us or instigate some sort of Family Hysteria, she picked the wrong granddaughter to air her dirty laundry to, because after relaying the letter's contents via phone to my parents, I did some shredding of my own. That's not the kind of heirloom you hope to pass along to your children, and anyway, I had more important things to worry about, like whether or not manicure sets were sassy enough prizes for Bridal Bingo and whose interests I was truly catering to when I selected the spinach dip appetizer.

After I had transformed her self-indulgent testimonial into a pile of confetti, I didn't give it another thought, except to think my grandmother was going out of her way to burn a lot of bridges, and the person really getting shortchanged in this scenario was Samantha, who'd had a great relationship with her until then, and maybe she would benefit from reacquainting herself with The Catechism of the Catholic Church, to search for the passage where it states writing hateful things about your son and daughter-in-law and sharing them with their oldest child via chicken scratch earned you free admission through God's pearly gates.

This year, when it came time to submit a guest list for my own shower, her name was purposefully absent. I had better things to do with my time then subject myself to more of The Crazy, and since she still hadn't contacted Samantha about her wedding, I figured she'd written us all off for good, anyway, so imagine my surprise when, a week before the shower, we heard my grandparents "just happened" to be in town. Curiouser and curiouser, as one Alice in Wonderland might say. But I refused to budge. For cripe's sake, her husband called Ryan on Christmas morning to send warm holiday greetings from her "ex-grandfather." I wasn't about to pretend all that $#@! and more never happened.

Seven days after writing about the big event, I received the following comment from an anonymous poster, probably my godmother, who told my father that if their mother wasn't invited to the wedding she would boycott it altogether, and who also played the starring role in that whole china incident:

Why was there a Grandmother leaving chicago, boarding an air plane in tears? Did it not seem odd that she just happened to be in chicago on this special day?

My answer somehow got lost in the deleting of "Anonymous's" post, kind of like the point of this entry, which was to originally talk about how badly my grandmother's remark hurt my feelings and how I've let her narrow beliefs color the plans Luke and I have for integrating our faith traditions in a way that'll provide a strong religious foundation for our family. However, I think it makes more sense to be honest with myself as to where these issues come from: my grandmother's and even the Catholic Church's viewpoint that worshipping God outside the perameters of Catholicism doesn't count--at least, not as long as you're Catholic--and my occasional, irrational fear they could possibly right. Luckily in those instances I recall the simple mantra our good pastor shared with us in our first premarital counseling session, "God can handle it," and remember that religion was created for God, and not vice versa. It's then that I experience peace.

Doesn't Your Pastor Have a Blog?

I mean, really.

Check it out, peeps.

Also, random AMC update: Dixie is alive! And Tad knows! And is engaged to her half-sister! Who's been hiding Dixie's whereabouts for months and met Tad by posing as Dixie herself! Very exciting. Know what else? Dixie's portrayer has a blog, too.

Spirituality and daytime television. I swear, if trapped in a burning building with instructions to only rescue one, I don't know what I'd do. How they speak to me!

An Easter First

I didn't go home.

Originally that was the idea, even though Luke and I hadn't figured out how it was going to work, because this was also the first time we've been together for Easter. Before he moved in, our roles in each other's lives during the holidays were constantly being negotiated. The first year we dated, I was a senior in college, and I remember us saying our good-byes as I prepared to leave town for my week-long Thanksgiving break. There he was, holding me, telling me he loved me, and then suddenly wishing me a wonderful gobble gobble with my folks back home. I remember standing with my arms around his shoulders, trying to blink my tears away before he had a chance to see they even existed. I was hurt because I'd assumed we'd be together, even if only for part of the day. Same thing that winter. It was Christmas Eve morning and I was moping at the kitchen table, trudging through the first Harry Potter and not feeling particularly impressed (anyone else agree that one kinda dragged?) when Luke called to talk about his activities for the next couple of days. Only after my shrill "Aren't we going to SEE each other?" was any kind of game plan established. The early days of a relationship are so hard, when you're with someone but have no real claim on his time. You've made a commitment, but it's delicate, one with lots of love but no track record, one that has yet to prove itself worthy of superseding all others.

As we became more serious it became more important to work our relationship in on major calendar boxes, but it was still difficult, as my roots were in Chicago, and his in Merrillville, a good forty-five minutes away. Plus, I worked for a Catholic college that was very generous with its vacation schedule, which included "soft" holidays like the Friday after Thanksgiving, Christmas Eve, New Year's Eve, Good Friday AND Easter Monday (and I left why exactly?). Luke was a reporter and thus had to be at work more times than not, so while he could get away for an afternoon with his parents, anything more than that wasn't doable. I often left family functions early to see him in Indiana and then drive back to enjoy the last few hours of the day with him at his apartment.

Once he moved in with me, everything changed. Holidays were no longer about fitting into a greater familial whole; rather, it was about re-evaluating whether or not our individual traditions were conducive to the new life we were making for ourselves. This year, we were all gung-ho about making the drive up north for Easter, even though Luke was tired from working nights and I was tired from going to bed at twelve-thirty because he was working nights. By Thursday night, we were both ready to drop and decided it might be better to simply stay put. It's a big step for any couple, to say what you have in each other is all that's necessary for a successful holiday. I'm proud we were brave enough to make it.

But the weekend wasn't family-free. My sister Ryan and her boyfriend, Jason, stopped in on their way to Chicago and slept over to avoid the rain and hail that seemed to remain about ten miles ahead of them. They also brought along some special guests.

Meet Bunny, Whose Official Name Is Sox But Is Only Referred To As Such. Ryan fell in love with him as he was hopping around her apartment but tried to tell my mother, who was afraid of catching Rabies or other stray-animal diseases, that she rescued him from Bloomington's National Wildlife Society. On Friday night she explained that she attempted to pass him off to a local animal shelter but was informed Bunny had been away from his mother too long to survive on his own. She's taken that as her free ticket to indulge him in carrots, lettuce, and Cheerios.

Spades, our second non-human houseguest, is Jason's dog and was actually adopted three days before he was scheduled to be euthanized. As you can tell from this picture, he's a frisky fella, and fond of the biting, but neither Jason nor his wrist seemed to mind. I also feared he might be fond of Sox, but Spades was content munching on the pepperoni slices from our late-night pizza.

Saturday and today passed by in a sort of peaceful blur. There was breakfast at my favorite pancake house, a trip to the zoo, two mediocre movies (the latter redeemed only slightly by the two glasses of wine), a walk on our favorite Indy trail, and an Easter service at a nearby Episcopal church, which laid the foundation for another first: receiving communion outside the perameters of Catholicism. Standing in line waiting to partake, I felt like a virgin all over again, only it wasn't my sexual innocence I was losing. It was something less tangible, less able to be defined as right or wrong. I knew Protestants invited all baptized Christians to take the Eucharist and Catholicism restricted it to those baptized within its church. But what about "away games"? Were Catholics allowed to participate with other churches? And did these rules even apply to me, a heathen who dared to think salvation could exist for a Catholic in the walls of an Anglican church? Was my soul clean enough to receive the host at all?

The closer we got to the altar, the harder it was to keep my legs from shaking. But I couldn't turn back. I can't explain it any better except to say this was the only way to validate my recent choices and revelations regarding spirituality. How could I say all denominations were equal in the eyes of God but refuse an invitation to his table because I was afraid of being chastized by a religion I didn't fully embrace?

I'm glad I did it. I cried from the minute I left the altar to the moment my knees bent to pray, but I'm still glad. It freed me in a way my Idiots' Guide to Christianity never could. For the first time, I was taking my relationship with God into my own hands.

I may not have gone home, but in that moment, home came to me.

Brenda's Ability To Do Good Hair: Denied!

By now, everyone who reads this site knows I heart Brenda, my Chicago hairdresser, because apparently stylists in Naptown can only shape and color celebrity styles for the likes of Eighties Madonna and Severus Snape. One of the first things I did when Luke and I got engaged was to make salon appointments for my bridesmaids, flower girl, and me, so there was no chance in hell that Brenda wouldn't NOT do my hair. I was on it like flies on that stick-paper thing my parents leave in the basement because, well, they don't like flies.

Guess what? Brenda's not doing my hair.

It's tragic, actually. On Friday the 13th, she broke two bones in her right hand, her magic hand, the hand that gives me bouncy layers and the side bangs I love so much. She's at work but limited to answering phones and sweeping up hair for the next four to six weeks. It's like having Mariah Carey pre-Charm Bracelet wipe spittle from Hilary Duff's microphone at the Grammys.

I called the salon yesterday and transferred my upcoming Saturday morning appointment to Kasia, a stylist with a great reputation for updos, and the other person scheduled to help Brenda with my wedding party, and there's still at least a slight chance she'll be in tip-top shape come May 12th, so all should be well. But I'd like to take this opportunity to brag about Gina, one of my very awesome bridesmaids, because she is the only reason I discovered this potentially life-changing information. Seeing as I discovered Enve through her seven years ago, she became aware of the situation at her own cut-and-color and immediately contacted me so alternate arrangements could be made. It's in instances like these that a wife-to-be truly needs her bridesmaids. Don't fuss over silly things like bachelorette parties or finding something blue. Just let me know if my hairdresser ends up in the ER.

This weekend will be a busy one, as tomorrow Samantha and my family are throwing Luke and me what is sure to be a beautiful wedding shower, and Sunday we have our first pre-marital counseling session with the pastor who will marry us. One of the subjects will be religion, which I really am feeling much better about these days, as Luke and I continue to talk openly about what kind of church life we want with and for our children. I also broached the subject with my mom last night, something I was pretty nervous about because I never want my parents to think that I'm unhappy with the way they brought me up. I didn't want them to become defensive of their choices, especially since they made some really great choices, and to be totally honest, I was also afraid they'd think I was ruining my chance at Eternal Salvation by even considering converting to a Protestant denomination. For better or worse, whether I get it or not, I will always seek their approval.

The conversation I had with my mother proved (once again) how little credit I give my parents sometimes. She reminded me about the similar faith journey she took around my age that brought her to Catholicism, years after she and my father got married. She said Luke and I are going to do the best thing for our family, and as long as we believe in God, everything will be fine. Well, that and infant baptism, which we do, so it's all good. For the first time in months, I'm at peace.

Note: the SVH contest will run through the weekend, because I'm leaving for Chicago today and don't want to make such a difficult decision in such a short time frame. So if you want a book, it's not too late to beg for one. And I promise not to give Luke any special consideration. Really. It's anybody's game.

Booked. Also, Slightly Less Freaked. I Think.

Two rooms at this hotel for the Sunday and Monday night after the wedding, with additional plans to stay over in Michigan that Saturday and Tuesday, to break the eight-hour drive up a little. Today I received permission from my boss to take a week-and-a-half break from work beginning with the Wednesday before the wedding, which allows me some time to sort through last-minute reception details and also have one week where Luke and I can simply enjoy our new married status. As I look at the calendar, I realize by this time in May I'll have been Mrs. Useless Clutter for almost two weeks. Wow.

And I'm feeling good. We've been doing a lot of reading on different Christian denominations, attempting to pinpoint our non-negotiables. It's harder than you think. For example, Catholicism believes in the Assumption of the Blessed Mother--that her physical body was transported into Heaven in addition to her soul. It teaches she was a virgin throughout her life, despite being a married woman. There are prayers for Mary, special devotions and stories about her appearing to St. Bernadette of Lourdes, the children of Fatima, and other faithful Catholics around the world.

However, in the Protestant tradition, Mary is regarded simply as another saint in the communion of saints. The "foremost of saints," according to this Web site, but Luke didn't learn the Hail Mary. He never prayed the Rosary. For him, there was no Assumption, no perpetual virginity on her behalf, because there is no basis for either one in scripture. And if there's no basis for this in scripture, why is the church teaching it? Where did these ideas come from? Church officials? Those who saw her? While we're asking questions, do I truly believe these miracles took place? If I do, how could I not raise my children in Catholicism, if it turns out no other denomination of Christianity supports them? And if I don't, how could I not leave the church?

I'm working ideas out even as I type this, so obviously I don't have any answers. For the first time in my life, I'm taking the time to question my beliefs and how they came to be regarded as truths by the Catholic church. Can you believe I got through parochial high school and college without knowing the whole perpetual virgin thing? I may not have given anything up for Lent, but I don't think it's a coincidence my religious exploration is taking place during the same time Jesus was dealing with some difficult issues of his own.

And throughout all of these hard questions, questions that might lead to answers that surprise us both, Luke still wants to be my husband. Despite my recent tendency to subject our relationship to the unforgiving glow of the pre-marital microscope, he's not once doubted his decision to make a commitment to me that will last the rest of our lives. "Are you sure you want to marry me?" I say after filling our apartment with post-sloppy joe flatulence. "Are you sure you want to marry me?" flys out of my mouth after sharing that I can't really consider other religions before I've thoroughly investigated my own. But no matter how many times I ask the question, no matter how many ways I ask, his answer is always the same. Yes. Yes. Yes. Words can't express how grateful I am that he continues to have such faith, in himself, in me, in us.

Even more earth-shattering than my personal spiritual journey is that we were able to enjoy drinks, steak, and ribs on Saturday night courtesy of Vibes Music, which shelled out EIGHTY DOLLARS for two stacks' worth of used CDs, the titles of which escape me now. I can, however, tell you what they *didn't* take: The Best of Piano by Candlelight Volume 2. Jamiroquai's Synkronized. Lenny Kravitz's Five. The Spice Girls' appropriately titled disc, Spice. Thus, I'll spend at least part of this week hunting down alternative sources through which my questionable musical taste can be savored by the masses.

Lastly, in regards to the SVH contest: forget about another quiz sure to stump friends and family alike, because I just took the damn thing again as "Frema" and only scored an 80. Apparently when I made the quiz last March I was still high on Spider-Man 2 and thought Toby Maguire had more sex appeal than Kiefer Sutherland; now I'm seriously wondering where my brains were at because who doesn't agree Kiefer Sutherland and his urgent scratchy voice are the hottest things ever to grace the Earth? If I had a list like this, he'd be number one, hands-down. If I had one. Which I don't, Luke. Just saying.

ANYWAY, the contest. Let's try this: Why don't you tell me about an important lesson you learned from Francine Pascal's endearing-yet-often-simplified-and-over-the-top series? Like, I just reread Forbidden Love, where Maria and Michael get engaged even though they're not supposed to be dating because of some Romeo and Juliet type feud their parents are involved in. They have to do this project for history class where they pretend to be married for two weeks and manage a budget and deal with problems facing their imaginary children. Michael learns that Maria doesn't want to be a housewife and Maria learns that Michael is comfortable using "belt therapy" to correct their son's juvenile delinquency. In the end, they break up, the families reunite, and Maria ends up dating Winston Egbert.

The lesson? Who cares? I still can't get over Sweet Valley High sanctioning the teaching of marriage and family values in history class. But you'll do a much better job than me. To the best answer, the spoils.

There Are Various Possible Titles For This Post

So Far Nine People Are Coming To The Wedding, Not Counting Me, Luke, the Pastor, His Parents, My Parents, Our Brothers And Sisters, Their Significant Others, The Bridesmaids, The Groomsmen, The Flower Girl And Her Mother, Who Also Happens To Be My Aunt And One Of My Favorite People, And Random Strangers Because We're Holding It At A Public Park

What Happens When Luke Works Nights

The Wakefields Made Me Do It

But first, a word on my hiatus. Things have been shakin' in the Frema/Useless Clutter household. In a nutshell, the freak-outs, they're getting worse. A couple of weeks ago a discussion about blogs turned into a discussion about Dooce, the Internet's most well-known blogger, which turned into a discussion about marriage, which turned into a discussion about clinical depression, which turned into a discussion about whether or not clinically depressed individuals should bear children, which turned into me crying actual tears because Luke will surely want to divorce me when I am diagnosed with clinical depression.

Last Wednesday I came home sobbing because my recent submission to this Web site led to frantic searches on the Internet about interfaith marriages and a train of thought that concluded Luke and I can't get married because he doesn't make the Sign of the Cross or believe in Purgatory. I'm not even sure that I believe in Purgatory, but one can only assume my old Catholic-school uniforms will prove equivalent to a "Get Out of Hell Free" card on Judgment Day.

When confessing all of these tidbits and more to Lost A Sock during a four-hour Steak-N-Shake marathon on Friday night, she shook her head in amazement and said, "What does Luke do when you say all these things to him?"

What does he do? He listens until I'm done, says something Calming and Insightful about God loving all people, not just Catholics, reminds me that we'll work it all out, and sighs, "I wish you would talk to me first before you get yourself so upset." And then he rewards my honesty with a trip to Wendy's, which is probably the best reason to marry anyone.

This weekend, though, was not about the freak-outs. It was about receiving the first RSVPs for our wedding. Watching our pastor and his new wife exchange vows in front of God and an entire congregation. Holding two babies two days in a row and kissing a nose that was only three days old. (Congratulations new Auntie Brooke and second-time Grandma Betty!) Looking through pictures with my mother and thinking about how brave my parents were to make such adult decisions before they were even old enough to drink. Digging out boxes from the basement to find the cases to my CDs, a dusty but necessary action in order to sell them for cash. Along the way I stumbled upon collections of books gathered during high school and college, the majority of which I'd obtained from a former English professor who would leave old books outside the door to his office, free for the taking for those interested in owning their very own copy of The Left-Hander’s Guide to Life. So I decided to sell them, too. My mother was slightly suspicious, as if a lack of funds had possibly forced us out of our apartment and onto the nearest highway exit ramp panhandling for change. "You guys are OK, right?" she asked. "You have food and everything?"

She would've been reassured tonight, as I used the $22.25 earned from selling my literary treasures and twelve dollars of my state tax refund to purchase a pair of old-school Nancy Drew hardcovers, two Christopher Pike books, three Choose Your Own Adventures, and sixty-nine installments of Sweet Valley High.

In my defense, Luke began temping again on Monday night and it's been very lonely and the Sweet Valley High books were only a quarter a piece. Plus, I want to share them with my own little girls, because any daughters of mine and maybe even sons will be required to know who the Wakefield twins are, which one is older, and what their dress size is, because these three facts are drilled into your brain by page five of every book in the series. Plus plus, their characters never engaged in premarital sex, used the Lord's name in vain, or subjected themselves to illegal drug activity—well, except one character. Regina Morrow, the deaf girl who dated flirtatious playboy Bruce Patman and was a kind and loving person until she found out Bruce was dating Jessica's best friend Amy behind her back. Blinded by Heartbreak and Betrayal, she attended a party where she was introduced to cocaine, had a rare adverse reaction to the drug and actually DIED. Then SVH had a memorial service where Elizabeth gave a Deep and Moving speech about Regina's life, and her parents took the day off work and the twins' older brother came home from college to talk about Why Drugs Are Bad but also The Importance Of Communicating With Your Parents If You Ever Feel That Drugs Are The Only Answer To Your Problems. If you're interested in sharing these lessons with your own children, you owe it to them and yourself to read Number 40: On the Edge and Number 41: Outcast.

To top things off, I said "Screw frugality!" and spent four ninety-five on a personal pan cheese pizza and five breadsticks from Pizza Hut.

Three fast-food splurges in a seven-day period. My doctor and my bank account must be so proud.

The. Freakin'. End.

Off to the Races

Last week, I knew Luke being sick would guarantee I'd sport some physical ailment before Monday, and whaddaya know, I left work early on Friday to become a permanent fixture on the couch for a majority of the weekend, except when the two of us ventured outside the apartment on Sunday for two meals and a trip to church--a significant moment for us, as it was the first time we've been to God's house in Indianapolis since I moved here in May. Actually, the subject of religion in general is a big topic, since I'm Catholic and he's Methodist and neither wants to convert but both want to raise our children under some sort of Christian umbrella.

When I was younger, I never even considered this as an issue for relationships; in my pre-teens, when life didn't exist beyond the boundaries of Hoyne Park and the local Jewel, I just assumed everyone was Catholic and of course I would meet a nice Catholic boy and of course we would raise lovely Catholic children who would have godparents and go to CCD and live in fear that taking the last pack of fruit snacks without asking would no doubt secure your seat on a one-way train to Hell. Then, after I actually started dating, I thought every man I'd meet in the future wouldn't be Catholic but in fact, an athiest, because the only type of guy I seemed to attract was one who thought religion was for those too afraid to face their own mortality. Those same guys also wanted to smoke pot and wear flannels with holes in the arms and own every issue of The Punisher; the flannel thing alone should have given me pause, but I was a late bloomer, so really, I was just relieved to find members of the opposite sex who weren't turned off by my holding-on-to-the-eighties bangs and who were willing to make out with me in the alley behind my parents' house. Good times.

Anyway, now I'm an adult and realize that 1) the world is not overrun with Catholics and 2) Luke and I will eventually have to decide whose faith our children will inherit, something that unlike eye color or sexual orientation, we can actually control. A baby step towards that was taken on Sunday, when we went to a Catholic church a few miles from our apartment, knowing that we'd be in Merrillville this weekend and therefore attend a Methodist service with his parents. And so on and so on. This plan of action will hopefully allow us to become more acquainted with the values and rituals associated with the other's faith, which will hopefully help us to make a decision when the time comes, which will probably be when we get engaged, because we'll have to decide who will marry us, and if you're married in the Catholic church, it is understood that any future children will be raised Catholic, and that's that.

Basically, this means that our religions are now in competition with each other, poised at the starting line, each bearing a paper crucifix attached to their tank tops, vying for the title of Who Will Get The Blame For Screwing Up the Lives of Frema and Useless Clutter's Offspring, because in the end, no matter what religion you are, somebody's going to attribute your math handicap slash bra size slash tendency to only eat Tic-Tacs in even numbers to which version of the Bible you read.

It's for that reason that, in the end, we're less concerned with denominational hats and more focused on making sure our precious, darling Amelia doesn't have nightmares about the devil taking the form of a rooster and ripping a hole through the earth's crust to capture little girls who are too fond of fruit snacks for their own damn good (thanks, Grandma).

And they're off.

Stripped - Part I

OK, since I received quite a few questions from Wednesday's meme, I'm going to break this up a bit. I'll answer Becky's, Painting Chef's, and Anonymous's inquiries today and the rest sometime over the weekend. That is, if I can find the path to my computer among all the boxes that will surely be cluttering my--er, I mean, Luke's and my--fabulous space.

And now, we delve into the depths of Frema's psyche.

From Becky:

1. If spinach dip were no more, how would you take to filling the void in your life and diet? That is to say, is there anything on the menu of Frema's Favorites that is comparable to the revered spinach dip?

Big fat YES to that one. I adore bacon sandwiches--not to be confused with a BLT, because I don't like lettuce and I prefer the tomatoes on the side. On the side is a very big thing for me. But I'm never good at actually cooking the bacon; my smoke detector usually goes off at least once each time I make it, so I'd probably just stock up on ice cream. Favorite flavors include Ben and Jerry's Chunky Monkey, strawberry, and cookies and cream.

And this is why my gut hangs over the belt of my pants.

2. What if you had one of those beds that sits directly on the floor? Where do you think the Devil would hide if he was driven out of his former home underneath your bed?

Silly Becky, he would have no choice but to burrow his way through my wall. When I was younger, I used to have a recurring dream in which I was sitting in a high chair (or is it height chair?) and the Devil came bursting through the wall and pulled me down into hell, chair and all. I drew from this experience to write a short story for my an undergraduate writing class and again as a grad student. (Since we're being honest here, I actually just took the undergrad version and made a few changes to it for my grad fiction class, so that "Cecily's" nighmares were really a way to deal with the sexual abuse she suffered from at the hands of her father. Had to make it fresh, you know?)

3. Every potential writer has a fantasty about what kind of writer he or she one day hopes to be. What kind of writer do you one day hope to be?

Throughout my life, I have defined my writing dream in a number of different ways. When I was nine, I wanted to be a writer with an audience. In the height of my authorhood, my third-grade teacher would set aside about twenty minutes after lunch two times a week and let me read my latest masterpieces to the class. Classics included Jane and the Lion, Playing at the Park, and A Collection of Fairy Stories (which really turned out to be just one story, so I had to mark up my pretty cover to reflect the singular). As I hit my teens, I pictured myself traveling the world, autographing copies of my books outside the local Jewel, and giving book readings of Love, Betrayal, and a Baby (BOTH parts!) in my old neighborhood, and people from my past would come to see me and marvel at how my words stirred their very souls.

Then I went to college, and it all went to pot.

Not really, but I did learn that my fiction days are over. I'm not good at making up plots, fleshing out characters, or even just giving the story a damn point. Did you not just read that I turned devilish nightmares into symbolism for sexual abuse?

It was in graduate school that I realized non-fiction was my niche. Still wrestling with that three-week bulimia stint from seventh grade? Write about it. Sad about the kind of relationships you once found yourself in? Write about it. Depressed because even a normally built woman shouldn't have a pouch? You get the idea. The source of material and the opportunities for growth are endless. And I still enjoy having an audience, because I'm vain like that.

So, to answer your question, the writer I hope to be is a writer who never fails to see the humor in her everyday experiences, and one who is always willing to share them with others.

From Painting Chef:

1. What three movies will you watch over and over and never get tired of them?

What a great question! But only three? I'll do my best.

When Harry Met Sally. My all-time favorite movie and one of the most quotable films out there. In fact, I've already quoted it once in this entry. Bonus points to those who can find it.

High Fidelity. I love that this movie deals with real-life issues that have nothing to do with sleeping in Seattle or getting mail or any of that other typical romantic comedy stuff. I love watching Rob go back to the women of his past and see why those relationships failed, and him consequently seeing why he is in danger of losing the woman he's with now. This movie speaks very honestly about the problems and power of love. And also the TRUE significance behind making tapes.

The Wedding Singer. I love that this movie deals with PG issues that have everything to do with sleeping in Seattle and getting mail and all of that other typical romantic comedy stuff. Also very quotable.

Honorable Mentions: Austin Powers, International Man of Mystery; While You Were Sleeping; Chasing Amy

2. Was there a teacher from your childhood who had a lasting impression on the person you became?

Mrs. Erber was the third-grade teacher mentioned in my response to Becky's third question; she really did let me read my dorky stories out loud after lunch. In fourth grade, Ms. Socha would place my stories on the reading table in the back, so that students could choose my story to read during recess. She also humored me when I wrote stories and turned them in for a grade, even though they weren't required for any actual assignment. (Of course, she gave me As.) In high school, my sophomore honors English teacher kept a plastic sword at her side during the reading of Beowolf, and when we read it out loud, she would raise the sword and sang his name each time it appeared.

I had great teachers who fostered my creative side and deepened my love for literature and overall just let me be me. I was very lucky.

3. What's the worst you've ever screwed someone over?

I don't think there's one definitive act I've done to another person that makes me recoil in horror. However, in the beginning of every relationship I've ever had, there is a horrible track record of me pretty much abandoning my family and friends to bask in the glow of infatuation. Kind of typical I guess, but not acceptable. I blame it all on my first boyfriend, the one who would go for weeks at a time without calling me. From then on, I was always secretly afraid that if I wasn't at the beck and call of the guy I was with, he would leave. And I wasn't comfortable enough in my own skin to deal with being alone.

From Anonymous (Auntie Betty, is this you?):

1. Would you ever consider changing your religion if you had the chance?

This is something I have given a great deal of thought to, as I am Catholic and Luke is Methodist; in the end, though, the answer is no. Not because I think the Catholic Church is The Right Church, or even because I am fully practicing Catholic, but because for better or worse, the Catholic experience is part of my identity. Also, I think that if I switched churches, I'd just be entering another situation where I held faith in some of the teachings and questioned the others. Religion is a man-made institution, and as such, there will never be a perfect one. Therefore, I'd rather explore the good, bad, and the ugly of Catholicism while loving God and doing my best to follow The Golden Rule instead of worrying about what spiritual label I should wear.

2. If there were no more Red Apple Jelly Bellys, which will be your second choice?

Oooh, another soul-searcher. How lame would it be for me to say Green Apple?

3. Which comes first in your life, true love or money?

Well, the love of my life is currently unemployed, so obviously, money.

* For those of you who made it this far, mad props. More to come soon.

Musings on How Johnny Depp Took Over the World

Warning: This entry has nothing to do with Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, which I did see this weekend but did not very much enjoy. Gene Wilder will always be Willy Wonka to me.

At some point in my childhood, I began to dream about Judgement Day--that wonderful event where God determines if you're naughty or nice, worthy of Heaven or destined for Hell. How it happened varied; sometimes, all the lights would blow out and everyone would gather in their backyards, where lifespans of mistakes would appear on a huge TV for all of humanity to see. Others? Well, I can't remember others. Last night, though, I had a new version involving Johnny Depp and the Super Target near my house.

I think we knew it was coming. Luke was there, along with This Gal, Reggie from All My Children (apparently a good friend of mine), and dozens of other shoppers, all of us attempting to stock our refrigerators with supplies. Maybe in case It happened and we weren't armed with enough ho-hos to make it through the judging part. I was in the chip aisle (which of course is right next to frozen foods) when a huge wave of water suddenly flooded the aisles and started carrying people away. But it was a selective carrying away. The first wave went over everyone, but only certain people went with it. This Gal was one of the first to go (sorry, This Gal), and all I could was watch. Didn't reach out my hand or anything. Reggie? No more acting jobs for him. Luke was one of the last. We were holding on to each other when the water pulled him in. At that point I started to pray, but then it was over and only a handful of individuals were left. Then, suddenly, Johnny Depp. Coming up to me, holding on to me, his demeanor making it clear he was the cause of the water and the reason I was now alone.

His tone of voice was seductive, his eyes piercing, his sense was familiar. Not sensual, but hypnotic. Not what I expected of the Devil. He knew I was upset when he said I needed to go home with him, and he knew I was trying not to show it, though I did ask if it was OK to cry. He didn't answer. I didn't cry. I tried to act brave by pulling out bags of chocolate and peanut butter Nestle chips and eating right out of the package. I went home with him. Chris visited us. I remember wanting to escape and hoping he didn't feel it. And then I woke up.

My subconscious is constantly bringing to life the scenarios I am most afraid of. During the day, I do silly things like will for dolls to blink or smile at me, daring them to reveal their evil selves. In my dreams, I do these things and they happen. Last night it happened twice. One doll was as big as those life-sized Barbies popular about five years ago, but she didn't catch me. It also happened with a doll made of flannel. Luke grabbed her hands, and she didn't come to life until I started cutting her with scissors. Go me.

WHY do I freak myself out like this? Because my grandmother taught me I could go to Hell at any moment? I'm unsure of what God really wants? Early exposure to bad movies? If you have any ideas, feel free to pass it on. Or just say something funny so these images won't be burned into my brain.