Things I Don’t Do: Return Phone Calls

Tags

Cold War Kids, communication, distance, friends, friendships, geography, letters, love, mail, pen pals, phone calls, post office, relationships, voicemail, writing

Note: See other items on a list of Things I Do or Things I Don’t Do here: Cook Dinner, Watch TV, Make the Bed

The conundrum of the phone call situation is that I do actually have the mathematical time to return them. But, considering what it takes to return a phone call: the geography, the headspace, the time commitment, the concentration to conversationally catch up, the mathematical time isn’t a great quantifying measure.  Returning phone calls is up there with serious commitments like getting married. So when I say I don’t have time or that I’m too busy, I don’t mean in minutes; I don’t mean that I’m flying around with my jet pack strapped to my shoulders on the run all day. What I mean is that I can’t sacrifice all that it takes to commit to a phone call. Or, to be real and raw, I won’t.  I value the now too much; phone calls don’t feel like right now to me.

It’s part of the reason I tried so hard and for so many years to brand myself as a letter-writer. Everyone knows. Everyone who knows even a little knows this about me. And they don’t write, no one does (Yes, Strongs, except for you). So I feel, even self-righteously (I’ll admit), totally justified in my ignored voicemails, when my mailbox is empty of your letter.

With a letter, I can choose my geography and a comfortable headspace. I can start the letter on the train, where the cell phone towers can’t reach, and stop when I arrive at work with minutes to spare. I can finish when I get home, listening to Cold War Kids in my stereo speakers and eating an apple at the desk. I can take a walk while I deliver your letter, I can make an appointment, or call my mom (my mom does get calls back; don’t fuss, it’s different). I enjoy writing in a way I do not enjoy the labor of calls, especially calls back, when I’m on the guilty end of the exchange, so stuck and jailed by my phone call obligations. If these nuances could just be public about the weaving and knitting inside of me, I would never have personal, only professional, voicemails.  In the meanwhile, I make no sincere apology about this thing I do not do.

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Things I Do: Watch TV

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Christina Applegate, comedy, drama, entertainment, hobbies, life, love, Mulder, Mya Rudolph, relationships, Scully, television, The X-Files, travel, tv, Up All Night, Will Arnett

The last time I watched a television series, I was in high school. I watched The X-Files alone every Sunday night because none of my friends were remotely interested in the Fox drama. Clearly–I was so brilliant to understand the paranormal investigations and subtle humor, and they were so remedial to find the expertly designed one-hour drama uninteresting–clearly.

And so, with pride, I asked my secretary (Mom) to hold my phone calls, and make no plans (my schedule was pretty open at 9pm on a school night) during the airing of The X-Files. I watched for maybe four seasons, keeping track of the character development, noticing the ways Mulder was always, unbelievably, right, yet Scully’s skeptical and logical opinions were necessary and balancing for Mulder and for the show. I was definitely obsessed

I’ve never been, not now, not since, much of a television junkie. I don’t often get caught in front of the TV for hours, or mesmerized with a channel, watching show after show. No Oscar watch-parties for me, no DVR recordings, and a lot of HBO-based conversations that I’ve faked my way through.  I just can’t think of a time since The X-Files when I planned any part of my life around a television show.

On the plane ride home from our honeymoon, my husband and I had pretty much exhausted our onboard resources. We’d finished our books, read the in-flight magazines, finished a crossword puzzle, nibbled on the snacks I’d packed and listened to our ipods. The television was showing 30Rock, which my husband thinks is very funny so we plugged our headphones into the armrests. Afterwards, a new-ish show came on with Christina Applegate, Will Arnett, and Mya Rudolph; lots of names we knew, and a catchy roll of opening credits which kept us plugged in until the landing powered us down. I laughed aloud on the plane, embarrassingly, watching this young couple try to be cool parents.

And, simply, this is the way it goes now. Up All Night is our show. We don’t have need for a cable package because we can watch Up All Night on the internet (for now) without any illegal activity (thankfully). Wouldja loogit that…we have a TV show.

(a) Eyw, we have “a show” or (b) Yay, we have “a show!”  (not sure which to choose)

My adult self has never had a show, but I think I’m happy to have this one. It’s about a couple roughly our age, in roughly our stage of life, having hilarious arguments not unlike some that we’ve had, feeling things I know I’ve felt and laughing about it in the end, because they are oh-so-in-love, also, like us. Yeah, yeah, yeah.

Embarrassingly, we also have The X-Files, because my sweet thinking-about-me husband purchased the first season on DVD and has been enduring it with me. It’s so nineteen-nineties, of course, but I still like the plots and the Mulder-is-always-rightness of it, just like I did a decade and a half ago.

We have two shows. (Woot?!) I value them. I will make time for TV. Wow—the things you thought you’d never say.

Things I Do: Cook Dinner

Tags

chicken, cook, dinner, enjoyment, food, garlic chicken, life, love, marriage, New York City, NYC, relationships, things i do

Someone should tell me that myspace isn’t a trendy social network anymore (see below).

It’s not even that I’m oh-so-totally-obsessed with taking pictures of myself. I have no emo photos with sultry eyes at the camera, thick gray eyeliner drawn to my ears, bangs in my face, bathroom mirror in the back, bra strap curling off my shoulder. Eyw, gross. It’s just that there’s only two of us and I want life to be frozen and framed like only photographs can.

I hate “welcome back” posts in the blogosphere. I just realized that I actually hate the word blogosphere, too. Eyw. We shall focus on the positive. I do, apparently, enjoy the blog more than I recognized. Catharsis, practice, brainstorm—something about it just works.

I like to do a lot of things. Herein begins a list of things I do, which is really just acting as a footbridge to cross to the more important list of Things I Don’t Do. A Shauna Neitquist book that I’m reading piecemeal, leisurely, has me talking all this inside out list-making nonsense.

And thus, I cook. We cook. We eat dinner (obviously…like you). Fish and chicken, beef stew, tofu. We let the crockpot simmer all day, we cook dessert before dinner, we eat while we heat, do dishes and play, grind vegetables and fruits to a glass full of of juice (and do dishes again).

The night we made garlic chicken and sweet potatoes from an internet recipe, I bought a whole chicken because I’m usually pretty great at following directions. The recipe never said anything about a head. It said whole, but it didn’t say head.

After defrosting the chicken, the visible breasts, thighs, drumstick legs, and wings, I lifted it from the sink and the head flopped down from it’s neat little place tucked under the chicky. The chicken hit the sink with a splat when I let it loose from my hands. I ran from it (in case?) like a tiny little girl.

I guess I’m not great in high pressure situations. When the smoke alarm went off a few weeks ago, I ran around the apartment, flapping a towel furiously overhead and shrieking “What do we do?” in what was once a whisper. You can imagine how helpful that was for clearing the smoke. Much like opening a window would have been.

Chicken heads and smoke alarms included, we shall continue to cook. Beware. (…or come over?)

Our Hydrangeas

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choice, city, communication, faith, flowers, gift, hydrangeas, life, love, plants, relationship

Here we stand.                                               

We disagree

talking about potted plants                

splitting trees

balconies strain my eyes,

stretching as far as I can see

you still don’t see, I’m still me.

We disagree.

 

The hydrangeas grow

too tall for your front yard

Don’t survive

thrive on city windowsills

But still

you offer gardens of color

For us—the excommunicated

Lovers.

Silence and Space

Tags

communication, life, love, people, tangible love, words

With our voices, we wield power. With our words we draw out hope. We crush dreams. We give direction, build identities with a’s and b’s. With words or arms we wrap our whole selves around another in embrace. Or we give silence and space.

the celebration [5/5]

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community, engagement story, journey, lifetime, love, marriage, party, proposal, relationship, series, storytelling, wedding

Previous posts in this series include:

the waiting

the clues

the ring

the cowboy

And today, to complete the series: the celebration

At the Post Office, thrilled to have just mailed our WANTED poster invitations

Love Is…

Tags

Christian, hypocrisy, Jesus, life, love, real, reality, tangible, thoughts

I want so deeply to be a lover, not just a collection of holy words in sandals or sneakers. I want to be real to people of all kinds. I want to change the way people receive the word “Christian” because of having known me. Positively.

I want to speak without arrogance and learn new things with passion, without agenda.  I hope to share boldly about belief and the few things I know, but keep quiet more often and hear all the things I’ve never heard.  Can I learn to ask questions with grace and sincerity, seeking to explore the layers beneath the person we are usually comfortable knowing?  This is love.

I find myself regularly agreeing with my friend and peer, Andy Marin, and his thoughts on what love–at its core–actually is. What is this love that God gives to us and expects to see holding us together, the lines between people? Take the time to read Andy’s thought here.

Feel My Love

Tags

God, gospel, love, loving others, purpose, theology

Bob Dylan’s brilliant lyrics, Adele’s beautiful voice.  Make You Feel My Love.  He may have had a point, Dylan, when he suggested that there were things we had to actually step out and do in order to express this thing we feel and choose.  This…love.

Sean McConnell, lyrics and vocals, taking the narrative stance of a creator God. Madly In Love With You.  God plainly does things to show His love.  In a grossly simplified gospel, He sent His son to earth to live among his created people in order to show how He loves us, to show how to love others, to show what love actually looks like, what it needs to do in order to be made real, tangible.

If making you feel my love doesn’t matter, if your perception of feeling legitimate and valued isn’t important–then I signed up for the wrong gospel.  Jesus made a ministry out of making sure others felt loved by him.  Where would I get the idea that anything else is okay?

Saving Face, Washing Hands

Tags

beach, camp, children, counselor, fear, life, love, reputation, sacrifice, summer, swimming

I had a camper once, a little girl who’d been assigned to my cabin. Her name may have been Rebecca, but I don’t remember. She was nervous when she first came, younger than the other girls, trying hard to make friends. She had little brown bangs that stuck to her forehead when she ran around on the beach, her skin wetting with perspiration. When I took photos of the girls, she put one hand on her hip and opened her mouth in a toothy grin. Such a ham for the camera. One hand in the air or a tennis shoe on a tree stump, eyebrows to the sky. She made me laugh. Always wanted to hold my hand.

My cabin was full of eight and nine year olds, but maybe-Rebecca, she was only seven. Once, on the volleyball court the girls were supposed to be ready to head down to the beach after catching and throwing the ball over the net. They, too small to play volleyball by standard procedure, kicked up sand and squinted into the sun during their version of the game.

Maybe-Rebecca held my hand and wanted to go back to the cabin before beach time. I didn’t quite have the time. The beach was open on my clock, being the waterfront director, as I was. Couldn’t the potty wait? She pleaded with almond eyes and I hurried back to the cabin with her to visit the bathroom.

My waiting outside the bathroom became lengthy. Everything was not alright in there. I could hear her sniffling. At age seven, it was sometimes alright to offer help in the bathroom in such scenarios. In maybe-Rebecca’s case, her sniffles were due to a not-so-standard bathroom accident. It’s the number you’re thinking it must not be and it was sitting comfortably in the recess of her swimsuit, down now around her trembling ankles.

She knew her friends were swimming and she was terribly afraid of being left out. This was her only suit and to go down to the beach without it would be to tell the entire camp that she was only seven.  That she couldn’t stay away at camp like a grown-up junior camper. Her little heart was breaking to pieces on the bathroom floor. And so while she stood nude, wrapped in a towel I immediately-after washed, I hand-washed her soiled suit in the sink with a mild detergent and dried it with my blow-drier. I was repulsed by my hands sharing sink with the details of the situation, but didn’t let on. I dried her tears with clean hands, because she was going to be just fine, slipped her right back into her salvaged swimsuit, pulled a fresh towel off the hook and walked down to the water holding her hand tightly. No one knew. No one ever had to know.

the cowboy [4/5]

Tags

adventure, cowboy, engagement, history, love, marriage, relationship, restaurant, story

the waiting                    the clues[2/5]                    the ring[3/5]

I met him in a bar. Neither of us were there looking for phone numbers. I wasn’t just one young lady with a cocktail, in a bar where he was buying drinks for women until he took one home. That kind of beginning isn’t our kind of beginning. Still, he wasn’t mine for a long time.

I met him in a bar. He was the bartender. I, the waitress. He thought me too loud, dare I say obnoxious. I thought him haughty, conceited even. But then I caught a better glimpse. A striking young man tossing limes in the air, spinning while they slide onto the lip of the glass in his hand. He laughs with his whole body, his smile stays on his face a while after what was funny. When he speaks to customers, he crouches down at the table or leans comfortably over the bar rail; it makes everyone feel like they’ve known him for years. Like he’s charming and he loves them more than as a customer. He says he gets it from his dad.

And not only that from dad.  His middle name, too, which I took to using frequently, months into our slow-paced, casual courtship years ago. His full name is not Bradley, as I once imagined or expected it to be, but just Brad. Brad Alan, like on the disc covers I printed for him once, before studio days, and like he uses on posters for his solo shows in New York City.

When I wasn’t sure how to proceed, I learned most about how he would treat me, the way he was falling in love with me so tenderly. Bursting at every seam, cheeks aching from laughter, we filled sunrise to sunset with adventure and jokes, exploring our Midwestern city creatively. I pretended we were only friends, pretended no one knew I’d fallen for him. He never stepped where I didn’t let him go.

We didn’t make every decision with perfect precision. I could’ve drawn some of our lines with invisible pen, I reckon. But the history of us is something I’ve come to love. For years, I’ve been adventuring and exploring with this cowboy. We’ve dreamed so many dreams together. For years, figuring what makes him tick, dissecting the world together, asking questions, loving the mystery of life.  Only the very beginning of these next forty years.