The Write to Rant

This:
Article That Illustrates the True Ignorance of Our Society

Makes me write this to Kyle:
Read this article. Dumb parents and even some dumb teachers think that PENMANSHIP shouldn't be taught to their children. Hello?!!?? It's like a BASIC SKILL and allows a person to THINK and ORGANIZE without the use of a COMPUTER. American leaders want to turn us all into robots. And you know what? Parents and teachers are LAZY. Any parent and/or teacher who doesn't want their children to learn how to WRITE BY HAND is exceptionally lazy because THEY are the ones who have to TEACH their child to WRITE BY HAND and THEY DON'T WANT TO. What if their child needs to leave a sticky note on the refrigerator? They won't be able to do it WITHOUT RUNNING TO THE COMPUTER AND TYPING SOMETHING UP. It's the stupidity, the RELIANCE on technology and overall laziness that infuriates me. OUR CHILDREN will without a doubt learn how to HANDWRITE before they learn how to type.

In other, more relaxed news, Melissa brought this to my attention: a six-word memoir.

I think mine might be: "Excuse me, you cut in line" or "Scoff. Mine's only five words" or "Can my words have footnotes, please?"

This is fun.

When a book changes a life

A long time ago, far, far away in Hartford, Ark., there lived a 6-year-old who fell in love with window seats. Why did she fall in love with window seats, you rightfully ask? Because the book "Poinsettia and Her Family" spoke to her innocent heart.

Poinsettia was a tiny pig with big dreams: She wanted to merely read her favorite book, but she had many brothers and sisters who occupied her favorite reading spots! And, as you -- adept reader -- might have already surmised, one of her favorite spots was the "buttery leather" of the window seat.

The young girl, the one reading the story, realized that small things, like a window seat, can become something invaluably precious. She hurried to her room and tried to sit on her windowsill, but alas, it was no buttery-leather window seat. The sun did not spread through her window, warming her body and her heart, and the sill was hardly sit-on-able.

But the young girl, like her heroine Poinsettia, found big dreams as well: She knew that when she goes into debt and purchases a house of her own, that her home would have a library and a leathery window seat, her own niche of refuge, where the sun would spread onto her like butter.

Then the young girl, when her grandfather let her choose one of his baby bovine for her own so that when he sold it at the cow auction she could have the money for her savings, named her chosen calf Poinsettia. It was only fitting, for Poinsettia represented all her tender hopes and dreams, dreams that she would deposit into her memory bank in the same way in which her parents deposited the $700 from Poinsettia the Cow.

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To see how "Poinsettia and Her Family" has influenced other children, click here.

Vroom vroom

Here's for all my numero tuno fans. (Numero tuno is English-Spanish for "one and a half." It doesn't matter if you don't get it. I was cleaning the bathtub and amid the mildew I thought, "Here's for all my numero tuno fans," and I liked the sound of it.)

Today I met John Schneider. As in, duh, The Dukes of Hazzard. I think I heard him sing when I was 8 years old at the Arkansas-Oklahoma State Fair. He touched my hand, and if I were middle-aged at the time, I would have swooned. But I didn't, because I was 8. I just wanted to know where he got his flying orange car. Anyway. Now Mr. Schneider is Mr. Jonathan Kent on Smallville. Father of Clark Kent, Superman. He apparently traded in the flying car for a flying son.

I stood in line for 2 hours, waiting to meet Johnny. See, there was a car show in town, and several Dukes were there signing auto-graphs. I call them "auto"-graphs because of all the cars.

I held in my purse Smallville: Season Two. My brother loves Smallville, and I wanted to do this because I wanted to win the Best Sister in the World award. The "good deed" was fueled solely by selfishness, not gasoline.

Thirty minutes into the wait, I decided that all these Dukers and Dukettes were weird. I mean, the show was ages ago (1979-1985, in case you were wondering). Do you really think your toddlers are going to care about these old men signing the fake orange cars for them? (I know little Tommy is tired right now, but he'll be glad he did this one day.) They're not, Tommy's not, and your little children are just taking up MY precious time. I have some chicken that must go into the Crock-Pot.

Now, this particular day, I had made a vow to be nice to people. I have seen my friendliness and humaneness slide down a sarcastic, cynical slope. But I realized such an attitude is not conducive to "getting along" with others, nor is it proper human conduct. (Just ask the lady at Wal-Mart who wouldn't help me with the bridal registry.) So I decided today that I need to get the "cheery Amy" back. So here I go. I try to make conversation with Hazzardites, who are chatting in line ahead of me.

"I'm not even here for Dukes of Hazzard," I say perkily to the people in line in front of me. "I'm here for Smallville."

It's here that I realize that people are rude, and I remember why Cheery Amy has been a little stifled. Sure, I hadn't taken a shower in two days and my hair is a little too greasy, like the grease in an engine, or motor, or wherever grease is found in a car. Sure, I just exposed myself as an imposter. But do you REALLY have to flash me one of those squinty-eyed fake smiles, where you're trying to pretend like you're being friendly but you know good and well that even I know you're not trying too hard to be friendly because you know good and well that I am detecting your Scoff?

I mean, Hazzard People, we're all here because of Schneider, and if I'm here for Schneider, and YOU'RE here for Schneider, that should be good enough, right? It's like Michael Jackson sang: "We are the world. We are the children. We are the ones who make a brighter day."

So, numero tuno readers, let's vow to indeed make brighter days. Life shant be full of hazards.

Spoil me, please

Growing up in Hartford, Ark., which for most of my days sat at population 721, led me to believe that rich people (by "rich" I mean millionaires) were out there, but that they were few and far between. Like, they lived in a little colony and gave birth to little Richies who all went to a boarding school together out on some island in the Pacific. They learned things like which fork to set on which side of the plate and how to walk with a book on top of their heads, so, no thanks, I'll keep on living at the foot of Sugarloaf Mountain. We were comfortably middle-class, and I thought that was sufficient and allowed me to be spoiled but not spoiled brat.

Then, through the making of various acquaintances at college and through the stepping into the real world without any money, I realized that rich people – or those who pretend to be rich and thus accumulate massive debt – are everywhere.

Now, I am not anti-money. I really wish that I had money. (And any bitterness I have toward money is really because I've been developing a disdain lately for the business world and those who function solely on greed.) Anyway, it all boils down to this:

According to Cost of Wedding.com, on average, couples in my city will spend $16,219.10 on their wedding. This does not include cost of honeymoon, engagement ring or wedding planner.

I don't want to spend that much on my wedding. I am incapable of doing so. So, in short, I am perturbed with people who spend that much on weddings, setting such a high standard for us middle-of-the-road folks.

My future father-in-law recently said: "At my wedding, we served punch and peppermints, and we're just as married as anyone else." I guess he has a point.

One crazy, two crazy, too crazy?

A couple days ago I saw KBC take the papasan-chair bowl off the papasan stand, put it over his head and then lie on the ground. Like ... a turtle. But his head was inside the shell. "Flush! Flush!" he yelled, from deep within his cave.

(Insert proverbial arm-pinch here.)

Flush then circled the turtle, jumped over the turtle, banged his wagging tail against the wall and finally gophered his way inside the shell to "find" his owner, who, yes, is still bellowing.

At this point, I was ... dumbstruck. I was struck by dumbness. It's like ... I already have a maniacal dog. I had tried to tell myself that Kyle wasn't bonkers, but then he got inside a papasan chair to hide from a dog. You can't really argue with that. Trust me, I tried. So, do I stay or do I go now [to the loony bin]?

"Was that funny?"
"Oh yes, it was funny."
"Like, really funny, watching Flush try to get me?"
"Yes, really funny."
"Oh man, I wish I could've seen it," Kyle said, looking really eager.

Thirty seconds later: A more feminine but no less absurd and a bit muffled "Flush! Flush! Come here little fella!"

No, it wasn't me. It was Amy-Lou.

Elise tagged me to do this survey, and I can't let her down:

Three things that scare me:
Caves. I will never go spelunking. Why would anyone want to go underground when their little entry tunnel could collapse?? They would have to live with bats, and I guarantee cannibalism would ensue. Gross.
People. Yes, I am afraid of the human race. I am afraid of being attacked, kidnapped and taken as a prisoner of war.
My sense of direction.

Three people who make me laugh:
My younger brother, Adam. He is just the goofiest guy. His wit makes me laugh, his actions make me laugh, the way he'd charge me interest when I'd borrow $10 from him when we were kids makes me laugh. What a fun guy.
Kyle. This means I've had to laugh at myself, since he always makes fun of me. But boy, can he wisecrack!
Roald Dahl. J.K. Rowling. And there are two other childhood books that I remember made me laugh and laugh. At like every sentence. I don't know if they're still funny, but here they are: Jennifer Murdley's Toad and Buffalo Gal.

Three things I hate the most:
Housework.
People who are naturally neat and tidy.
People who can't take care of other people's belongings. For example, when I was in the fourth grade, everyone would borrow my crayons. But, they would return the crayons half-used! Half of the crayon would be gone. They completely misused their privilege. So, I started making an indention on the crayon with my fingernail, and I would let the other children borrow the crayon as long as they didn't go past the line.

Three things I don't understand:
How some people keep their homes clean all the time, effortlessly.
Water. How is it together, like a solid, but not really?
Dinosaurs, and what happened to them.


Three things I'm doing right now:
Watching the clock.
Not eating candy from the candy basket. I know, I know, my will-power is amazing. Thank you.
Yawning.

Three things I want to do before I die:
Go white-water rafting.
Meet Ernest Wilford.
Win two fantasy-football leagues in 2007.

Three things I can do:
Rapidly spell words backwards.
Nag people into doing things. I'm an exhorter.
... drink my coffee black? I am pretty proud.

Three ways to describe my personality:
Aloof
Go-getter
"You've got champagne taste and beer money."

Three things I can't do:
Sit at a desk for eight hours straight without going crazy. Which, incidentally, is exactly what I do Monday-Friday.
Simultaneously be late and happy.
A cartwheel.

Three things I think you should listen to:
Crickets.
Your stomach.
Alarm clock.

Three things you should never listen to:
Business executives and those who aspire to be business executives.
Those pants, when you can't fit into them.
Your significant other when he tells you that you can't be Chloe on 24.

Three things I'd like to learn:
How to make my dog obey me.
How to take failure in stride.
Karate.

Three favorite foods:
Crunchy breadsticks.
No-bake cookies and coke cake
Nachos! (with cheese, refried beans, hamburger and garlic)

Three beverages I drink regularly:
Water
Gatorade
Coffee

Three shows I watched as a kid (in addition to the Flintstones, Jetsons, Cosby Show and Married With Children -- thanks, Dad):
Saved by the Bell
Growing Pains
Who's the Boss?

Three people I'm tagging (to do this):
Hannah because she needs to warm up to this whole blogging thing.
Kyle for the same reason.
And Devi, but I don't think she'll do it.

Join the club

This is where I talk about my tormented elementary-school days. These are the days in which I wore, as the fiance calls them, coke-bottle glasses. These are the days in which I wished I was a boy, because boys didn't throw stagnant water on you at recess or tell you that you're not invited into their invisible club. One day I told a bunch of girls that boys were nicer since boys "get mad but get over it like 2 seconds later." I think I was met with a lot of girly looks, which sort of proved my point.

When I took the Meyer-Briggs test in high school, I was proud that I had the same personality as my dad. After we divided the test-taking group into "feelers" vs. "thinkers," I stood proudly with the guys while the girls stood across the room, arms around one another and crying. I took the test again in college. When I answered the questions honestly and discovered I was now a "feeler," I grabbed a Kleenex and excused myself.

Because of all the emotional scarring, I enter friendships cautiously. Once I decide to commit to the friendship, I'm committed. End of story. Let loyalty begin. When a friendship sours, though, I wonder if it was all my fault -- if I just wasn't a good friend -- and then I worry about my callousness. After a few offenses committed by the other party, I have little problems mentally throwing that person out of my club.

A close girl friend told me this today when I was pondering my hard heart: "It seems like you are letting go of a friend that has, by her actions, already let go of you."

So maybe it isn't always me, and I guess this is life from now on. Perimeter friends pick up and leave, and hopefully there will be others to take their place. At 23-going-on-24, I'm pretty confident that certain friendships now are solidified, since we've already changed together and survived my lack of correspondence.

It's also funny, too, that as I say good-bye to certain people in my life, I'm saying hello to a future in which I'm vowing to stick by a husband's side, whether we'll always feel like it or not. We won't have to worry about being kicked out of the other's club.

Thank you, life, for coming equipped with equilibrium.

CSI: Church Seeks Imagination

Among my pet peeves are:

1. Slow drivers in the left lane. If you want to drive slowly, fine, but there is a special place for you: the right lane. (See Pet Peeve No. 2.)

2. Drivers driving at the same speeds in the right and left lanes, thereby preventing accelerated traffic. For goodness' sake, Person in the Left Lane (the fast lane), just drive 3 mph faster for 30 seconds and scoot over to the right lane so that the person on your tail can then scoot past your slow, self-absorbed, perhaps paranoid, self.

3. People who sashay two steps in front of the person behind them, and then look over their shoulder and see that they are only two steps in front of the person behind them, and then come upon a door and open that door and then allow it to close right in the face of the person behind them. "Oops, too bad for you that I'm a dumb loafer," the door-closer would think -- if he were capable of thinking.

4. People who talk while I'm trying to watch a new (emphasis on "new") episode on TV. If I'm watching a new episode, it would be because I want to watch the new episode, and if it's on TV, I can't simply rewind and rewatch. No, I don't have TiVo, but if the said episode is on DVD or has been recorded, the interrupter is allowed some leeway. Exceptions to the rule are emergencies and/or crises.

5. Overuse of exclamation points. An exception is made for the individual who knows better but uses the marks for literary or sarcastic effect. A person who merely thinks that exclamation points are cool appears ... very junior high!!!!!

6. Food fights, eating contests (aka Glorified Gluttony), Loud Eaters.

Finally, we come to this one, which is the worst offense:

We have church-related activities, groups and sermons that proudly don monikers like this: "Snakes in the Plane and in the Church." The creators think they are being very in-tune with pop culture and will attract the hip crowd. My church, which I love dearly and continues to be a blessing, does this all the time. So I realize there are good intentions behind a sermon series called "DreamWorks" or behind Vacation Bible Schools using the Survivor logo.

To get into the culture -- influence the culture -- Christians should be ahead of the trends and be innovative -- be a people whose talents the culture can appreciate, instead of appearing to be unthinking Xeroxes that bask in the shadows of Hollywood/Apple/TV.

Think ahead, and please, please, please quit being iRip-Offs and American Idles.

What's "easy"?

Kyle and I were dating for maybe two weeks when I met his family. And by "family," I mean family. Family, as in: immediate family + extended family + friends who are like family. It was Thanksgiving. I'm not an outgoing person, and all of the aforementioned people are outgoing. Needless to say, I stayed in my comfortable shell and observed, and then doubted my personality.

Excuse me, God, can I trade this in for something more ... ESTP?

Anyway, when I went to my room one night, my self-esteem boost was Psalm 139. Reading about my fearfully made self reminded me that listeners and introverts are necessary to maintain some kind of order in this world. I felt content, peaceful and, well, loved.

The problem with maintaining this sense of contentment is that it requires me to sloooow down. Take a breather. Spend some time with my brain; figure out what's going on in there. This is when I feel closer to God, like he's giving me a hug. Some people feel refreshed staring at, like, mountains. Not the case for me. I learn more about my creator when I decide to face this me that he created.

Like I said, the problem with this routine is the slowing-down part. Taking a breather. Not cleaning or checking my e-mail compulsively or clipping bridal hairstyles out of Martha Stewart Weddings.

And, despite the fact that running 3 or 4 miles no longer makes me want to cut off my big toes, running is difficult because it forces me to slow down. Slowing down in the sense that I have to clear my mind, stare at nothing but a road or 5-year-olds playing soccer, and put up with myself. I get impatient.

Regardless, I ran this evening.

Just let me enjoy running, pleeeaaasse.

Finally, I just ran. And thought. I enjoyed being, and it was good.

'Refinement, please' or 'My Name's Matte'

My URL is quite clever, I thought. I told someone I thought it was a hoot. I thought, "Oh, tadpolish! I'm one-fourth Polish, and I'm still a free-swimming youngster with a lot of growth left in me." And I thought about all the areas in which I DO need growth -- like spiritually, emotionally, relationally, mentally -- and how being tadpole-ish is a declaration of humility and whimsy. Plus, when I was a little girl, I loved catching tadpoles, hoping they'd grow into big frogs.

(Sad moment: I had about as much luck with that as when I'd put fireflies into a jar to make a lantern or when I "saved" the baby Mr. T. turtle a few months ago.)

Then, last night, I looked at the genius URL again and saw this: tad polish. Note the lowercase "polish." It's a "polish," like "pawlish," like the stuff you use to make your shoes sparkle. I use polish to make my toes the color of My Chihuahua Bites by OPI. Some people polish their teeth. Others might say that my manners need polished, and as a copy editor I polish newspaper articles. That polish is NOT what I intended.

On the bright side, where I make lemonade out of lemons and stew out of leftovers: Maybe I do need to be a bit polished myself, and maybe this name isn't so bad after all. Maybe we all need to be a little more polished, a little more refined. So I guess I can go with "tad polish," which is clever in its construction since, if I am trying to say that I need to be a tad polished, then the name itself needs to be a bit polished since "tad polish" should really be "tad polished." There, that makes perfect sense.

I might need to be sophisticated, but I refuse to be glossy.

When time stalls

The men's bathroom is about, I don't know, 40 feet to my right. Sometimes when I glance over my shoulder, the door to the bathroom is open, and I see a man standing at the sink washing his hands. Sometimes the said man will turn around at that exact moment to walk out the door, and he sees me, and our eyes meet, dragging out this split-second moment into what seems like a lifetime of embarrassing agony for myself. I mean, I don't know what to do when this happens. I'd like to tell him that I was merely glancing around out of boredom, that they need to move the sinks from right in front of the doorway. Instead, we share a grossly intimate moment traced with furtive glances, and I'm the creepy copy-desk youngster.

So, bathroom-makers of the world, do me a favor and stick bathrooms into little office crannies and make them with entrances/exits that have little corridors so outsiders can't look in. Thanks.