No Time

Wedding rehearsal: 5:30
Our location: Just 1 mile from church

It's 5:03, and Kyle is napping on the bed. I rouse him, telling him that it's 5:03. He says OK and that he's just going to sleep for 3 more minutes. I'm not quite sure how he's going to wake up in exactly 3 more minutes, but I don't feel like dealing with it and don't plan on playing the role of mother until I absolutely have to. Fast-forward to 5:15, when I wake him again. "Kyle, it's 5:15!!!" He looks startled, perplexed. Now I'M perplexed because I don't know how he can justify perplexity at this point. "Oh. ... Oh!!! ... Oh boy. ... I must have fallen asleep."

"I MUST have fallen asleep"? Tell me, someone, how to muster up empathy?

Blast From the Past

Way back in August, Elise tagged me in the "Eight Things Meme/Survey." I was honored and told her, "Hey, I'll most definitely do the survey [because I don't use the word "meme"]! Promise. Just you wait." And then when I didn't do the survey, I became a liar. But now I AM doing the survey, which makes me an un-liar ... which begs the questions: Was it ever even a lie since I never gave Elise a time frame for the completion of the survey? Would the lie have only come into effect upon my death -- at which time it would have been a certainty that I'd never get around to doing the survey? Because right NOW I am fulfilling my promise ... a mere seven months later. This makes me very trustworthy, dependable, and one whose word is golden.

Here are the rules for the survey:

"Each player lists 8 facts/habits about themselves. The rules of the game are posted at the beginning before those facts/habits are listed. At the end of the post, the player then tags 8 people and posts their names, then goes to their blogs and leaves them a comment, letting them know that they have been tagged and asking them to read your blog."

The fun part of this whole scenario is going to be when I have to go inform eight six people that I have momentarily risen from the blog underworld and have tagged them to complete a survey that they themselves probably completed seven months ago.

But, pushing fears aside, here we go! Eight things about me.

1. I've lost one of my W-2s. I haven't really looked for it, though, because the thought of NOT finding it, ever, makes me very squeamish and I'd rather live with the unknown for as long as possible. In fact, I know NOTHING about taxes. Zip. Nothing at all. This in turn makes me feel childish and immature.

2. Despite being very immature and young for my age, I have recently purchased a house. I didn't really know what a mortgage was until a couple of years ago. Oh, Journalism degree, why did you fail me in the world of finance?

3. I love math. In fact, in college, I had a friend prepare little math quizzes for me during Photography. I often wonder why I didn't pursue a life of accounting, or some other math-dominate occupation. Then I remember that if I HAD done something of the sort, I'd wish I had journeyed into the land of words.

4. Apparently I am wishy-washy. I like to take on hobbies and then immediately let them fall to the wayside. Like my road-biking phase ... please don't ask my husband about the road-biking phase ...

5. I've started running again. I recently went through the "invalid" phase where I couldn't really walk because of my back, and I had to sleep with a mountain of pillows beneath my knees. Then I got a tiny taste of the flu. But now I'm healthy, which I attribute to the fantastic weather.

6. Daylight Saving Time is one of my favorite days of the year. I wish that the marketing world would decide to transform it into a holiday like Valentine's Day, so that we could all spend tons of money on gifts and celebration!!

7. I actually LOVE Valentine's Day. Always have, coupled or not. I like giving people little random Valentine's gifts, just to have a reason to celebrate. Just to have something to anticipate! Just to look forward to the annual e-card from my dad.

8. I love my dad, and my brother, and my husband. They're my top-three favorite people in the world. They are all very different, and each fulfill separate wonderful needs in my life. This is why I want to give birth to sons, and only sons, and I want this to happen far, far into my future.

I tag Devi, Meredith, Esther, Jen and Then Sum, Girl From the North Country, and ... Elise (I think enough time has lapsed to validate a tag-back) ... and, well, that's it. Two short!

Hogwash

Not only does Harry P. not have to be out of my life forever, but I also have an incentive for having children: I can read them Harry's stories and re-live the magic all over again! Why didn't I think of this before?? Being a parent finally sounds like fun.

Forever young?

Kyle: "Yeah, he's really successful. He has, like, one of those trophy wives, and everything."

I'm not sure how his definition of success meshes with our long-term marriage plan.

Never fear

I love a good dystopia: Big Brother, barren women, bald Natalie Portmans and Brave New Worlds. Social restrictions stifle, and I quiver on the couch while clutching my Mexican blanket, fearful of doom and all its inevitabilities. My husband sits beside me, cheerfully eating Blue Bell ice cream.

"Don't you KNOW that the world is going to be one giant Oppression? Probably tomorrow? And that I won't be able to have CHILDREN?"

"You don't even like children."

"True, but the government is going to start watching us through our TELEVISION."

I'm not sure when I took on such a dismal mind-set, but working at a newspaper certainly heightens it, as does life in general, sometimes. For instance, even a lost, gentle golden retriever isn't enough to spur goodwill nowadays.

Who knows how long Macy meandered through our friends' neighborhood, gazing at neighbors with confused eyes and a wagging tail. And who knows how many of these good neighbors thought, "Oh, I have to get to my pedicure in 10 minutes, so Nancy down the road will surely help the dog, who looks like the epitome of tenderness." And so Nancy becomes Bill, who becomes Josie, who becomes Niles, who becomes the unforgiving Ford Explorer. Then a family mourns, and those who should be ashamed aren't.

One by one, neighbors become a bit more callous and scoot even closer to the center of their islands. Would I have helped Macy? I don't know, but I hope I would have.

Luckily for me, I live with someone whose life-giving optimism pushes through bleakness, someone who deserves to enjoy a big bowl of his favorite ice cream. He's the hero of the dystopia film, the human equivalent of this:

Sock it to me

Kyle and I are ALWAYS in a hurry, mainly because his sense of time is like my sense of direction, except worse. I can find my way around if a map's handy, but Kyle apparently never learned how to tell time. I credit this deficiency to two factors:

1. He used to simultaneously play and broadcast his own football games in his backyard, himself playing I guess 23 characters, thereby developing a world of his own in which he created generous time restraints, which in turn were probably influenced by No. 2:

2. His best friend as a young-youngster was literally his dog. And dogs operate on a different timetable from us humans. This is a very confusing timetable, mind you, because I Googled "dog years," and Wikipedia gave me some sort of graph that hasn't helped me figure out Kyle. This is unfortunate, because I don't know why when I say this: "Hey Kyle, we need to leave for X in EIGHT MINUTES." He translates it to: "Wow, that's enough time to shave, shower, dry a load of laundry and play hide-and-go-seek with the DOG." But Kyle obviously can't live up to this warp-speed mentality even though he THINKS he can, so we're about 52 minutes late to everything because my powers of persuasion don't work on those who are operating under the canine influence.

Combine this false sense of reality with a crazy-good ability to misplace things, and we're now about, oh, 90 minutes late to everything.

Like Monday. We're already, you guessed it, running a little late, and Kyle needs his cleats for his softball game.

"They're not in my truck [where they stay permanently]," he says. "I just looked. Where ARE they?!!!"

"They should be in your truck. That's where they stay permanently," I comment.

"They're not in there," he yells with his fists in the air. "I DISTINCTLY remember bringing them into the house, and thinking that that was a dumb idea, and then not paying attention to where I set them down."

I poke around the closet for a moment and then sneak outdoors, where I see that the cleats are nestled on the truck's floorboard.

I return indoors to tell him as much. "Do you have some socks?"

"They're in the truck," he says. "I just now put them in there when I was looking for the shoes."

OK. So I head back to the truck in good faith, trying to be a doting and supportive wife who trusts her husband's word above any other.

"Oops! I DISTINCTLY remember putting them RIGHT HERE," he points to the console and scurries into our yellow house to retrieve a different pair of socks from the ones he had previously planned to take. The others, at this point, are apparently still MIA.

I had forgotten about the lost socks till we got home that night and I glanced upward while heading for the bathroom:



That is where he stuck his socks. Wedged between the bathroom and the cat's bedroom, 1.5 feet below the ceiling. It is an absentmindness that's characteristic of a special breed. Maybe it isn't as bad as wrapping one's keys in painter's tape and tossing them into the woods, but at least I'm not alone.

Super clean

Tonight at Kyle's softball game that wasn't, all us wives were chatting, and the conversation veered toward dry-cleaning. This is where I tried to mentally check-out of the conversation, because my household's idea of "dry-cleaning" is throwing clean but wrinkly clothes into the dryer, taking them out and then sort of waving them through the air.

The moral of this story is that while our friends are attributing hundreds of dollars monthly to Comet Cleaners and wearing their freshly pressed suits to work, Kyle and I spend our evenings playing old-school Super Mario Bros.

Kyle, Kyle makes me smile

Me: "Gee. I sure wish I could be a model," while looking at The Limited flier showcasing a girl looking seductively professional in her too-tight suit. Yes, I do wish I could somehow look like that in a suit.
Kyle, very matter-of-factly: "You are a model."
Kyle again: "You're a model citizen."

Kyle's doing some work. I walk into the living room, where he's working, and say:
"Hey there, busy bee."
Kyle: "Bzzzzz. Bzzzzyyyy."
Obviously I have to use this as blog fodder, since I've already broken my two-week-long vow to blog, so I go to the hall closet to retrieve my computer.
I'm greeted with this as I walk back into the living room: "Bzzzzzzz. Buzzzzzyyyy Beeeeeeeee."

Hey, hey stupid

I'm going to be writing here every single day for the next two weeks. Maybe longer.

No, I don't really have much of anything to say, except that just when you're beginning to think that God dislikes you, that you've been shunned from his arms, and that you're perhaps the most negative person in his creation and that your chronic negativity and penchant for beating yourself up is probably exactly WHY you think God has disowned you, he whispers in your ear that, hey, I DO listen to you, I DO care about the desires of your heart, and, well, will you please start believing that?

And I humbly, nay ashamedly, say I'm sorry and crawl back into his arms. And it feels like home, because it is.

Catlike reflections

A couple days ago Meredith said that she thinks cats are "misunderstood." And then I connected with the Cat.

I've decided that my newfound love of cats (primarily the sweet new Carter addition, Fiona) is because I am LIKE a cat. I am selective when it comes to friends, and I talk when I feel like talking. I also bathe regularly. I am independent and don't have obedience issues. I also don't feel obligated to like a person just because he or she is a person.

And sometimes I'm a little scaredy (note Kyle's background vocals):

To have and to hold

Parking three blocks from my downtown workplace has many cons and only three pros: I don't have to pay the $30 a month to park in the lot across from my workplace, I get some exercise (you know how they say to take the stairs instead of the elevator? this walk is my justification for not taking the stairs), and I pass the Christ Episcopal Church Book Store.

Yesterday after work I was feeling particularly unspiritual, I needed a book to read to my new cat, and I like to buy things, so the bookstore sensed my vulnerability and gave a shout out. I knew that I wanted a Lamott book, for I was also feeling particularly unwriterly and wanted inspiration.

(All those things are important in their own right and deserve to be noted, but reading and writing really don't have much at all to do with my point. Shopping does.)

I like shopping because I like Things. I am a gifts person. I am tactile,
and I think I would pray more if I were Catholic, because of the rosary. I admittedly know nothing about rosaries, except that my Irish great-aunt who's a very short nun in France gave one to my mom and that I want it.

(Kyle and I are doing a "love languages" group study, and during the "gifts" week one of the leaders said that he believes Jesus was a gifts person. I felt quite smug; I take all I can get.)

When I spend a night alone, I sleep with my Bible, for extra protection. God is actually there with me, when I hug my Bible.

At the wedding of Kyle and me, I was adamant that the preacher not explain the unity candle. Symbolism speaks for itself, I said. Things can say a lot, if you listen.

So when I stood at the counter, paying for my new book with part of the $30 I saved this month, my eye was caught by a little basket of "angel prayer charms" that had little birthstones stuck right into their hollow chests and functioned like lockets. I picked the one that held a blue stone for September. I paid the man again and left.

Today at work I typed up a 9-point-font, sentence-long prayer and folded it neatly into the angel and attached it to my key ring. I sat it in front of me, beside my cell phone and red coffee mug.

When I look at that little angel -- as when I felt it in my coat pocket on my three-block walk to work this morning -- I breathe a prayer, and I know that Kyle is safe in Georgia. I just know it, and the tiny blue stone twinkles.

Bye-bye, buddy

In 11 days, I will say goodbye to a friend.

This friend has made my life substantially awkward, but that awkwardness is trumped by the good times we had. I learned the importance of individuality, and that has no doubt proven itself in the way I typically enjoy being a little different from others. I have embraced Atypical instead of Typical.

I also owe my spelling and phonetic abilities to this friend, who forced me at a young age to acquire a handle on the strange arrangement of letters. I've also developed a taste for strange sounds, which is maybe why I think that I sing well, and why I name my dog Flush.

Patience, while admittedly not my strong suit, does come into play when I am teaching people difficult tasks -- tasks that they may not understand at first command. I slowly and empathetically spell things out to them, step by step.

Words have been my confidante for all my 2.4 decades, and this buddy knows that well. My sidekick has long taught me that a word is more than a word: A word means something -- like, it could be Old English for "army building" -- and all the little words need attention too, the same as the weird ones.

My BFF also reminded me early that you can't lose your family, whether you want to or not, because the family bond is one that sticks out like a sore thumb, namely while that thumb is flipping through the phone book.

Yes, I must say goodbye to my dear, dear friend, who has defined me for years and years, who is a huge chunk of Amy.

I am saying farewell to my surname, Harbottle. No, not Hard-bottle, or Hard-bottom, but Har-bottle.

But, as Shakespeare (who I think still leads a misspelled rigor mortis life himself) said:
"What's in a name? That which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet."

So maybe I'll always be a little Harbottle, even when I'm Carter.

Source

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.

-------
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.