Life Size is the Super Size.

Five Chapter Mini Book Entitled :Why it is hard to take life too seriously:
Non-Ficition, written by Jessi and Beatka, purely auto-biographical.


Chapter 1: Dating

How was your date last night?

With who, cookie?

With the guy with the little hand.

Oh. You mean the crippled?

oh wow. don't say crippled. say "handicapped".

....(pause)....OH! oh yes! I SEE now. makes the sense. because of his HAND.
yes, HANDicapped man was very nice.


Chapter 2: Office Drama

cookie, LOOKIE! there they are, there are da grrls!

yikes! The Barbie Army! quick. hide your chinese food! hide it!

wha? why!

because! they always give us that look like we are the fat misfit dental assistants.

cookie.

what?

we ARE.



Chapter 3: dreams and aspirations

Beatka.

cookie.

we have to get out of here.

someday cookie, OOH how about to the Paris!, they have better croissants than this place i thinks.

no, i mean we have to get out of this coffee shop

why? i just got the tea, Cookie
HAH, tea cookie, like you are a tea cookie! get it?

beatka, LOOK at my SHIRT. i am COVERED in espresso here.
we NEED to GO.

oh my. that was dumf.
that what you get for being so round up in there.


Chapter 4: Advice on life.

Maybe I just should relax a little bit.

Cookie, it like I told you. No matter where you go your back be still your back.

Wow. That was really profound actually thank you.

Yes. And also, the mice never mind the bricks.

Hm. maybe you should have stopped while you were ahead.

No sense?

No. not really.

Mm. Ok. I tried.


Chapter 5: Heart to Hearts

Cookie. I has to tell you somfink else.

About my butt again?

No...but that still big.

Ok, then what. Hit me.

You will not going like it.

I've developed a thick skin. go for it.

Ooh the kay....your lips are vurry FAT.

You told me that last week already.

Oh. I did?

yes.

Oh. nevermindz then. carry on mys little dunkey!

Ps. 34:18

"The Lord is near to the brokenhearted
and saves the crushed in spirit."

Stand.

I cannot stand you.
Everything about your actuality.
From the way you move, to the way you speak, to the way you work.
And the thing I have realized after all these years…
Is that you cannot stand me either.
Everything about my potential,
From the way I can choose to move, to the way I can choose to speak, to the way I can choose to work.

To the way I can choose to walk out of your classroom.

Perhaps not without a few parting words?
I am, after all, to speak my mind, aren’t I?
I am, after all, to establish myself as superior, aren’t I?
I am after all, to hate the enemy, aren’t I?

Aren’t I?

Only this time, I speak against YOU
Only this time I stand above YOUR weakness.
Only this time, I hate the REAL enemy.


When this all started, I was ignorantly unaware that you would use the things I clung to the most to bring about my own seduction- my connection to story, my affinity towards words, my struggle with pride, and my tendency to want to fix the broken. Into this bittersweet wine, you silently poured your poisons, and I drank them all.

I remember:

Yellow peeling wallpaper, and ads of headless women selling products with their bodies. I remember discussing sculptures of female bodies in cages, and songs and lyrics all lamenting captivity. I remember evaluating political events, historical events, and religious events: “Where are the women where are the women where are the women? They are sick and trapped and being forced to submit”.

End of year one: The story of women’s enslavement. Class is dismissed... not yet convinced.

I remember:
The word “they” and the chasms that were divided with this simple pronoun.
The chasm of us vs. them, of ME vs…MEN. I remember statistics of harassment, testimonies of sexist decisions, and articles of injustice. I remember reading “the impossibility of uttering a female word, when all language is male dominated”. I remember the juxtaposition of feminism and femininity, where we are called to see the same root word and then deduce that they are interchangeable.

End of year two. The worlds of words. Class is dismissed…"enlightened", but not quite enthralled.

I remember:
Being told of my talents. Being commended on how I can view the world in ways no one else can. I remember being praised on reading into a metaphor differently than my male counterparts. I remember guidance towards the potential to be a spokeswoman, to regain steps that have been lost. I remember the warm feelings that accompanied a simple textbook answer, feelings of “Here I am, here I am knowing the answer to this question and responding more articulately than you…maybe the warnings are right…”

End of year three. Pride cometh before…everything. Class is dismissed. ahh yes...am starting to "see"...

I remember:
“You cannot call yourself a Christian and NOT be a feminist”. I remember being put side by side with the Jewish nation, with those of African American decent and with the gay community. Being told that I, just like them, have suffered insurmountable hardships, have been stripped of my dignity, robbed of my freedoms, and demeaned for my sexuality. I remember verses of Christians protecting the widowed and the poor. I remember being told that choosing to be a feminist was choosing to see an end to oppression of every variety, and wouldn’t I like to join and fight?

End of year Four. Superwoman Strength = Godliness. Class dismissed. I have crossed over.

Transformation complete.

Just in time to walk across the stage and receive a piece of paper celebrating my educational achievements-
Celebrating a transformation you brought about so seamlessly that I could not see the shadow it cast over the years to come. Over job positions, over church leadership, over community, over family, over relationships…

So.
Now is the time when you ought to start being nervous.
Because now I will tell YOU to sit down and to listen to ME.
Brace your wicked white hands on your mammoth black desk,
Because I speak as one who is free now. I speak as one who was lovingly lured back to stand on the pillars of Faith with which she was raised, and not on your columns of lies.

Once upon a time, there was a woman, and she was deceived and she was oppressed, and she was exiled. But her un-doing came from turning away from the Truth, Truth that you belittled. You tell countless stories with the antagonist in the form of a man, in the form of all men, and you do it skillfully enough that we actually overlook the real source of turmoil and instead, eagerly sacrifice the scapegoat and call this murder of our fellow man,( the men whose stories we are called to support and admire and uplift) all in the name of “standing up for ourselves, and taking back our voice.” Also, do not think that I have forgotten the most important part of MY story, the part where I offered Him my life in gratitude for His. The theme of that narrative being that I am NOT in fact my own, and that I rely on the author of salvation as my mediator.

As for words. No more dissecting meanings to the point of non-existance. How absolutely absurd to equate feminism with feminity. There are countless of definitions in the scriptures, countless examples in my family line, and countless ways in which the Holy Spirit teaches what it means to be feminine. Fighting for a voice, fighting for a spot, fighting to be right, are not included in any of these. And as for the argument of degrees, degrees of feminism… There is no such thing as a little bit of feminist. This is as ludicrous as a German soldier saying, “I am just a little bit of Natzi. I don’t believe everything I follow…just parts of it.”


Your creativity when it comes to preying on an individual’s pride, is, I must say, extremely lacking. However I suppose we have made this a very easy mechanism to use against ourselves, so I won’t harp over this repetitive “teaching tool” you seem to rely on. What I do want to make very clear is that what you call “self actualization” is really a self serving, self seeking, self establishing root, that left unchecked has the potential to grow to insurmountable proportions. Were it not for Christ, were it not for Him protecting His own, I could have very easily gone years without being aware of the sickness within. The pride you aroused within me, a type of Spanish Moss- a gray gothic looking foliage feeding off its host, causing malnourishment, stripping its strength, and ironically rendering me unable to provide the quiet beauty and gentle growth to which I was called for.


Lastly, the appeal to the “savior complex”, the appeal to a woman’s heart for the hurting, and the way in which you turned this God-given capacity for healing into a harm. It is true, there is a call to assist the widow and the orphan. But this offering of love, of sacrifice, ought not to be put in your camp. To call benevolence “feminism”, is a contradiction of the highest degree. To take an “ism” that only looks inward, and say it can be applied across the board to help others and to look outward, is absolutely impossible. There is a battle going on, but not one in which we are called to fight, at least not with screams and fists and man against woman. The battle I am told of is NOT against flesh and blood, not against the gender I was designed to adore, to follow, and to respect.

So as I leave your windowless classroom of falseties and slander,
You ought to be aware that no matter how many times my “education”
may rear its ugly head and cause the war within to re-surface once again.
I will not remain victim to its lies, and I will not forever be enslaved in its prison.

Because
I cannot stand you.
Everything about your actuality.
From the way you move, to the way you speak, to the way you work.
…
and I know that the feeling is mutual
From the way I choose to move, to the way I choose to speak, to the way I choose to work.

To the way I choose to walk out of your classroom.

And I do.

Now as she goes,
Look,
Behold,
the old is gone
He has done a new thing.
Yes,
He has done

a new thing.
Because now she is thinking:
she would exchange all the learning of all her years, just to be here,
yearning to reflect His light, and dancing in it throughout the day.

A new thing…
Because now she is praying:
Lord , if it be your will, bring me a man to serve, someone who seeks after you and who I may in turn seek after. Lord let me raise a family with Him and follow lovingly where he leads. And, Lord… if that day never comes, please give me silent strength and discernment, and allow me to honor my earthly father until you take me home to serve at the feet of my Heavenly Father.

A new thing…
Because now she is rejoicing
at the beauty of her Designer,
and at the beauty of her design.

Airplane Observances

During my alphabetical jaunt from FL to IL,
something...happened...
Yes.
See apparently one need not carry merely explosives to be a threat to passengers on a plane.
Oh no. I seem to be able to hold my ground sans weaponry.
Now I have never prided myself on being the most coordinated person, however I usually try to keep my gravitational and
directional disabilities to a low murmur on the rictor scale.
So for the following events, the blame shall be placed on cabin pressure.

Enter "heroine" of story. A seemingly innocent young girl, walking slowly down airpline aisle, gripping her ticket
and counting rows quietly to herself one by one. She reaches her designated seat destination and hurredly gets her things in order so the masses behind her can continue on their merry way. She holds her duffle over her head and proceeds to try to squeeze her small bag between two oversized suitcases. Nothing budges. She looks to her left and further on down the way. All overhead bins are filled exept for the small space above her spot. "Come on...just get in there", she whispers nervously under her breath, and then proceeds to give three Wheaties sized shoves. On the last round, victory is achieved, however, the extreme force of her bag jammed between two mammoth carryons, causes her (newly retrieved phone) to catapult out of it's side pocket at hurricane wind speeds, send itself rocketing into middle aged man's balding forehead, and then procedes to ricochet all the way down the aisle as if in some kind of sick, cell phone pin ball machine. Quick reflexes of embarrassement cause our culprit to LUNGE for her electronic device, however as she quickly bends down to retrieve the coma inducing communicator, she stands up a litle too quickly only to knock her own skull into the unyielding armrest of seat 28B. Wincing our character sheepishly makes the long trek home seat 7A ( with the mocking eyes of Memphis upon her). As she awkwardly steps over her flight buddy for the afternoon and smiles sheepishly at the man across the way who is now sporting a Nokia sized welt directly between his eyebrows she offers up an olive branch: "Hey, I am really so sorry about that, I am so sorry. Do you need some ice?" He assures her he is fine. Simply thankful it was a cell phone and not a laptop.
To which she agrees. Wholeheartedly.

Oh Northwest airlines. It was nice while it lasted.

Distractions of the nice variety.

Dear Season #3,

I very much cannot wait to fall into you and your orange spice afternoons.

I have all my sweaters out, ready to catch you and wrap you up.

We'll have naps on your sweet plum piles of leaves, under your bright blue covers of sky.

And we'll take walks, lots of cherry cheeked walks-maybe talking and maybe not.
But mostly not. This is my favorite.

I know I always ask you to stay longer than you are able...

to stick around and make things a little better for us,
a little more brown apple cidery for us,
but you never do...

This year they say I should not be surprised.
They say I have passed GrownUpped-ness 101.
where we learn:
that anything falling is very shortlived.
from falling prices to falling in...

love,
the girl who secretly thinks you really are season #1.

P.S. yes but i don't know...
perhaps this time it will be different...

P.P.S. I knitted you a yellow lemon drop scarf while you were away.
But don't try to eat it! :)

Don't forget.

Beata is talking to her parents on her way out the door.
When I ask how they are and what they are doing today,
she tells me that they are off to pick mushrooms at the base of the hill.
She tells me this as we cross bumper to bumper traffic and wearily make our way downtown,
still exhausted from the previous day at the office, from the previous week at the office, from the previous month...

Their kind of simplicity seems foreign to me so early in the morning...here they are walking slowly ,in and out of the shade, an occasional spider-web strand brushing against their cheek, spotting items for their evening supper.
Meanwhile I am a dissonant chord of to-go coffees and buzzing trains.

Yet I find I am yearning for their afternoon as if
as if it were something I have already experienced.

Is that possible? To know of a time or a place without actually knowing it?
To know of their forests without ever having traveled over the ocean?

I look at Beata, who is on the verge of screaming Polish profanities at the woman in front of us.
Just the night before she was in her red long john pajamas, doing cartwheels in the living room
and distinguising the roll of toilet paper that was for people and the roll of toilet paper that was for cats.
and just an hour ago, serving us breakfast of fortune cookies, chocolate, 1/2 a granola bar, a quaker oat cookie and homemade espresso.

How easily it is to forget.

Then I am reminded of a verse...
"The Lord is your shade at your right hand."
Such comfort in this, that He is:
Always. Constant. Close.

And so I think "yes".
rather, I know "yes."
That it is possible.

Because while I maybe not know the shade of the pines that tower above her parents as they reach to the ground and
feel the cool wet dirt on their hands...there is a shade, a peace, that is sweeter than any laundry- line Monday,
the source of all things simple and good. The source of Goodness itself.

And so I breathe deeply, and offer up a prayer of thanks.
That I won't be here forever,
and that while I am He will remind me of His prescence,
remind me that somday we will walk in forests together,
"far from these crowded streets".

Cat nap dreams and breathing under water.

Tonight she is swimming.
Leaving the
Sidewalks,
Stop signs and
Traffic lights,
leaving it all with
T-shirt,
Shorts,
and Sandals.

Tonight she is swimming,
Holding her breath just below the surface level
just Silently
just Respectfully
just Thankfully:

! that thuh roolz$ cant' reech hur uhn-der whahter


and as she floats to the surface on her back and smiles simply up at the moon...
eVerYthing ElsE
sinks
to
the
sand...............................................................


tonight.
tonight she is swimming
and letting her mermaid hair
wave it all away.

Perspective

What I would say to her:

"Your fashion doesn't get much better.
You'll get a little taller, and a little rounder. Your face however, will look the same.
You will lose your hidden grove of trees when you are 10. They will build a house there instead.
A really ugly one.
You won't be a marine biologist. But you will like going to aquariums allot.
You will still like books too, just as much if not more, but you will have less time to read them.
Your sisters will get married before you. Yes. It's true. And you'll be ok with it. Most days.
You get your own cat! But he will be your ruin.
You stop telling secrets to stuffed animals.
Instead you write them on sticky notes and hide them in journals.
Your God will sustain you. You don't know what this means now, but you will learn.
You will stop being shy.
You will start loving people.
You will still smuggle chocolate and still get in trouble for it.
You will manage to escape having blood drawn at least until you are 25. You will take great pride in this.
You will have more amazing people in your life than you could ever know.
You will miss an amazing person more than you could ever want to know.
You'll go on a trip with your grandma.
Your parents will still be there for you.
You'll meet a crazy polish woman and she will re-introduce you to something wonderful: your imagination.
You won't like cars or bills or olives or herring.
You stop listening to Raffi on tape.
You start buying albums your dad would like.
Your softball career never really takes off. But this is a good thing.
You'll be really restless for the majority of the time.
You will worry about not doing enough
and suffer for trying to do it all.
You will like writing letters, not just licking stamps.
You won't know how to say goodbye before Grandad dies.
You have to start wearing deodorant and a bra.
You will still have trouble falling asleep at night.
oh, and you will actually look forward to naptime."


What she would say to me:

you are wierda future girl....
let's play and
THEN,
mAC AND CHEEZUH!

Really?

Rainboots are great because not only are they clunky and colorful and nostalgic etc. etc.
and they also serve a less glamorous yet necessary function of keeping socks dry.

What most people are not aware of is that not only do wet socks lead to the obvious pitfalls of head colds, foul smelling feet, and wrinkled toes...but this condition also has the distinct and powerful ability of catapulting damp electrical chills towards the brain. This in turn short circuits the cerebrum and performs a wet sock shock labotomy of sorts, impairing judgement and the ability to deduce things sensically...forever.

I have put extensive research into this and hypothemalized a great deal, as all good scientists do. (Ah yes, father, I have decided to be a scientist now, to just forego words entirely and take a stab at equasional numbery puzzles instead. I hope you will not be too disappointed).

Back to the theory at hand. I have come upon this conclusion by a simple act of reasoning, along with some empirical evidence.


Act of Reasoning:
There are alot of stupid people in the world.
Alot of people in the world do not wear rain boots.
Therefore, not wearing rain boots makes people stupid.

Still skeptical?
Well WHAT ELSE explains a conversation like the following?
(Note: While this may appear to be eavesdroppery, I beg to differ, and rather categorize the following documentation under "field testing".

Two rainbootless subjects walk into Algerian cafe and sit down at booth adjecent.
REPEAT: Neither wearing rain boots...and it is raining. Both subjects also have goatees.(aside: If rainboot hypothesis proves to be dead end, consider goatee a secondary culprit...). Subjects then order fruity crepes and discussion about "rage" ensues.

1. My numberology says that I don't belong to anyone and yet at the same time I belong to everyone.

2. I can most definately see this.

1.My zodiac and my instinct confirm it. And this is why I have these out of body experiences of anger.

.2 It makes perfect sense.

1. It totally does. Because spirituality is the ultimate practicality.

2. Yes, but on the same token hand, there is alot of power in rage.

1. Oh yes, most definately but i am working on being more assertive with it. Part of me can't really be blamed though.
It is all part of the polar shift that happens every 25,000 years.

2. Right, you know the birds are getting lost now in their migratory patterns.

1. Oh yes, I do. You know what that means. It means we need to really focus on perserving our energetic cycles together,
which is so ironic because I don't even care a give a &*%$ about moments in time anymore. I am so over time.

2. Ah, so you have been meditating more then?

1. Yes, most definately...mother father sister daughter brother. It all comes back to this. I have just been blown open lately and I can't get enough of the happy sadness....Ah! I remember now, 20 1/2 ration of those magnetic shifts.

2. Geez, that's gonna be crazy. Just like the Mayans disappeared those million years ago, and now we are next.

(silence)....

1. whelp, better eat up here. Oh wow, this is absolutely ethereal, you have GOT to try this, it will rearrange your chi.

.....................

Ah yes. All you doubting Thomas' of the sceintific field. I accept your humble apologies and am simply grateful to have been the vessle to expose this cultural problem as well as offer up a solution so quickly with minimal government investment and very few back lash.

Rainboots for all, please!
Rainboots...
For...
.All.

...warning: if the previously notated conversation was clear and logical...Target has a sale going on right now. in all sizes, of all colors.
It is never too late to start the healing process.

rediscovering paint

Monday events.

Am sitting watching pigeons under the L tracks heating lamp.
(For some reason Davis street's are operating)
The pigeons, as usual, are all crowded together, avoiding the rain.
They move around in struts and spasms,
but talk to each other in soothing tones.

One ventures out past the warmth.
The others stop and stare.
He approaches the cliff just above the tracks and then suddenly his claws grip the edge.
Teetering precariously over the electrical currents beneath him,
he flaps his wings...
and then flutters back from whence he came.

The others are hysterical. Gawking around repeating to each other,
“thank goodness, that was a close one!”
....

But you are birds! There is no such thing as close ones.

Ah, yes. The rain. One can understand the desire to stay grounded this evening...
but then what is your excuse every other day?

I contemplate walking over to discuss a few things with them.
Get down on their level. Eye to eye.

" Ahem. Don’t you know, there is more to being a bird than this, there is more than scraps of donuts and wild children bounding into your midst. There is more than this station and there is more than wires. Why, you winged things, do you banish yourself to the city walls and back alleys?
There! follow that road, at the end is the lake.
And there, follow that steeple, up there is the sun."

But they won't listen, They are perfectly content with buzzing electric heat lamps,
and the safety of the street.

...
it feels a little ridiculous judging birds-
flapping things without souls.
but it feels even more ridiculous upon realizing...
that perhaps,
perhaps i have a few heat lamps of my own.

Mind over Matter.

How many nights does she wait by the water
with her handful of hope,
the little that is left of it?
She says you left without saying goodbye.
She says that is what they all say
and she scolds herself for recycled lines, despite their truths.
The Truth.
She says she thought she was brave enough to beat it.
But the fact is, here she sits with a skyline of sail boats and electric clouds,
ones she says she knows you would love
only love without saying.

How many times has she tried to say goodbye from this shore.
She says, always, just when she thinks she is through,
the waves wash in one more memory to lie shining at her feet.
She says she scoops them up and foolishly names them "faith",
pocketing each one as though they are rare shells.

How many nights does she spend in quiet confusion?
She says she wishes for a shipwreck of news.
She says she is looking for something to allow her to be done
but instead all she finds are these nights and these days,
this silence and solitude
and always the empty, unanswering horizon.


*photo copied from flickr.com/photos/ 96127391@N00/2587665389

Portrait of need.

There are some days,
when for a few hours,
and by choices most likely not of my own,
the blindfold of selfish pride is removed
and He shows me where I have been walking,
and who I have been missing all this time.

"Here, look and see. See these women walking into the church basement, weary and hungry?
They are here every week with burdens you know not of...but looking for the answers that you do...
along with food. They need food...

and here, here is a 14 year old child. She goes to youth group because she is hoping someone will offer what she doesn't think she deserves. She is used by boys twice her age and is so calloused by neglect that she cringes at compliments and laughs when she admits to a lie....

and here, see the man on the street just before you run up the stairs to your train? He has lost hope. He doesn't ask for money like the rest. He sits in a pool of his own urine and wastes away for lack of food...but mostly for lack of love. He is one block from the church doors...and a mere arms length away from your hand."

And so nights like tonight I walk home,
blinded now instead by tears,
grateful to have been shown,
but overwhelmed at the work to be done,
confused by the state of it all,
wondering where He is in all of this,
but pleading to remain aware,
to let Him use what He can,
and take what He needs,

so that in time,
with His provision,
these stories will read differently.

Any thoughts, Audrey? Me neither.

Working on essay entitled "Generation i ", but no where close to ready. ("Scholarly" essays are a pain...)

So this instead, for a break and to buy some time...and because rain tends to make us all ask the WHY
questions.

Why I Write:

Because no one asked me to.
Because I sing very very badly.
Because it makes me appreciate silence and tolerate noise.
Because paper is cheaper than oil paints.
Because it goes with coffee.
Because I like the way a pen feels in my hand.
Because I am still searching for my voice and sometimes get to hear a note or two in a paragraph.
Because it was my first love.
Because it helped me get over my second.
Because it helped me figure out my third...
Because I like dancing and writing is footwork on paper.
Because it gets my mind off numbers.
Because it doesn't cost me anything.
Because when I don't, I get mean.
Because when I do, it hurts.
Because it reminds me of what matters.
Because sometimes if I am lucky, He shows up, and I learn something new.
Because it teaches me to hear the things I see
and to imagine the things I don't.
Because it doesn't give me lung cancer.
Because it helps me sleep better.
Because it keeps me up all night.
Because i might still be able to do it when I'm 90.
Because it is the least expensive way to travel.
Because it gets me in trouble.
Because it sets me free.

Also,
Can I just say, Jane Eyre is an incredible book.
For women in particular I think...or maybe just single girls.
there are many themes to be explored, but a small one that I appreciate is how
she addresses the paradox of dealing with an independent mind but a dependent heart.
So there. that is my plug for the evening.


...and now I think my living room might be being flooded...
should probably go "check up on it" as Beyonce would say.

Take your Fish to Work Day.

Excercises in Voices not my own:
(mom, emphasis on NOT, this has absolutely nothing to do with me,
it was just an experiment....thought i should make that as clear as possible.)

"Say Grace".

When you sit down for supper tonight, in your Pier 1 dining room and pick up your silver spoon to eat your chilled tomato bisque, make sure you look up and smile at your white toothed wife and concentrate on how perfectly perfect it all is at that moment.

Lock eyes... because if you don't, the color of the vintage Merlot in your fine cut crystal will catch your gaze and remind you of the color of my blood on your monogrammed, beige towels, the ones I grabbed when I cut my knees shaving. And once you remember the beige bloodied towels, then it will all come back.

The microwave meals, the orange velvet couch that smelled of cigarettes and old spice, the cat hair on your suits, the tantrums, the Doors, the trips, my finger nail clippings on your nightstand, shared spoons and unwashed dishes, the bobby pins, the missing money, the bottles, my midnight dances, thunderstorms, the leaky roof, not showering, always bathing,
my obsession with peeling your burnt skin, your obsession to stop me...

Lock eyes. Make sure you look at your cilicone wife with her palstic breasts and colligen smile. Make sure you stay focused on her and all that she brings you....

Because all it takes is one sideways glance ...for your wine to taste like my sweat,

and suddenly you'll remember how much you loved hating me,

and your whole, Whole foods meal will make you miss me your whole life.

Amy Grant almost got me evicted...

"The most wasted of all days, is one without laughter." e.e. cummings* (Father, note, lack of caps is not mine on this one).

1. Oh Amy.

With today being a national holiday
the beach here gets extremely packed and we have an influx of all KINDS
of people making all KINDS of noise,
espcially in our courtyard.
Everyone is grilling out and laughing,
the dogs are barking, the music is playing etc.
just an all around grand ol time in the RP...

Well, I was making lunch with my ipod on shuffle in the background
and who should come on but
Amy Grant singing about her baby baby...
which therefore clearly meant that i had to turn it up.
(I mean let's be honest here, Amy Grant was not meant for Vol. 5.
She is certainly a level 13, if not higher.)

Now usually I am pretty low key when it comes to music in public places.
If I have headphones or am driving, forget about it, my ear drums are toast,
but around other people I am much more conservative and considerate.
TODAY however, well today EVERYONE was doing EVERYTHING loud,
so I figured I didn't really need to feel any form of guilt over cranking it to the roof.

Right?

Wrong.

1/2 way through the day her heart was put in motion, I heard
furious POUNDINGS on my door.

I quickly deduced that it was not my next door neighbors wanting to borrow a cup of sugar,
so I shut off the music and did what any brave female would do in the middle of peanut
butter and jelly concoction. I dropped to my knees, hid behind the
garbage can and waited, trembling.

I didn't have to wait long.

"Turn down the ________ song!"

And then footsteps...and then pause...and then footsteps down the stairs.

At first I was too stunned to move and then a little bit paralyzed by guilt.
But that regret quickly turned to rage because low and behold at that very moment I heard Hanson's MMMbop at
top notch from just across the way! And yet no one had bothered to rain in on THEIR 90's pop parade!

Dah! The injustice of it all!!!
So I did what any confident female would do in a predicament like this...
I slapped on my headphones and continued on with lunch in Vol. 13 peace.


2. Could we BE owning any more limes?

I have always heard it said that communication was the key to any lasting relationship.
And while I think that there are a few other keys necessary, I agree with this statement wholeheartedly.
Espcially after the following incident.

Now limes are undoubtedly a common summer necessity. They can be put in limeade, guacamole, Coronas, key lime pie...the list goes on.

However, while limes may indeed spell out fun in the sun there is absolutely no reason why this conversation should ever take place between two people

Beth: Hey...where are you?
Jessi: I'm in WI, what's up?
Beth: Oh...nothing, just cleaning the fridge...and well I was just wondering if you bought any limes lately?
Jessi: uh...yeah, I think I bought a few yesterday actually. I think we were running out and I didn't know if you were going to pick any up.Why? Do we need some more?
Beth: Um...maybe... if you and I are planning on starting our own fresh market.
Jessi: Oh, do we have a few extra?
Beth: If you would consider 27 limes "a few extra" then yes. Yes we do.
Jessi: WHAT?? How is that possible??
Beth: Well I pick some up occasionally too!
Jessi: OCCASIONALLY? It sounds like we both have been stockpiling for Lime2K! For crying out loud!
Beth: Yeah...so...maybe we might want to consider checking with each other first...as well as checking the actual produce bin...
Jessi: Good idea.
Beth: Thanks.


3. Ponglish.

Beata speaks a little bit of what I have termed "Ponglish". (I know, not rocket science concoction of a word here, but it fits how she talks, often mushing things together and creating meanings-Polish and English = Ponglish.

Anyways, work has been extremely busy this past month and I have found myself with little time to inquire the meaning of a newly coined phrase she began using on a regular basis. Throughout the day I would often hear:

That person is RETIRED.

Oh my gosh, talk about retirement.

Are you keeding me? i think you are retired!


Well she used this word again on our last lunch break and curiosity got the better of me.
I had to know what she meant-was she intending to mean that someone was out of work? older? moving to Florida?
What????

So I asked her. "Beata, what do you mean when you say retired?"

to which she replied, "Cookie, you are retired for asking me what retired mean. DOR-UH"....

silence while I processed...

"Beatka, do you mean "retarded"? as in someone who has a learning disability?"

silence while she processed...

"well shure, that word too, Cookie. yes, that is what I said! Retirded!!!!

Oh boy.
And now as I write this I am wondering if maybe I shouldn't have corrected her on this one.
She would be wrong, but at least she would be far outside the confines of being politically incorrect....