Archives for August 2006

So I haven’t written much about Elise the last couple of weeks because since a lot of y’all know what happened, I almost feel like if I mention her at all on the blawg I have to be all solemn-like and refer to her as Elise-one-of-my-best-friends-whose-husband-just-died.

Which practically rolls off of the tongue. And CERTAINLY is what she prefers to be called.

But the truth of the matter is that this morning I had a delightful exchange of emails with Elise-one-of-my-best-friends-whose-husband-just-died and several other friends. The whole thing started because Melanie wanted to know if anyone was planning to be in Baton Rouge for the MSU / LSU game in September, and well, yes I am, but as Melanie pointed out, the game is at 11 in the morning in THE HOTTEST PLACE ON EARTH, and quite frankly I’m not sure my delicate constitution (ahem) can handle that kind of heat, not to mention the scorching power of a thousand fiery suns.

Long story long, I ended up emailing the girls a tale of a long and pointless – though somewhat entertaining – dream I had about Elise last night, and suffice it to say that the dream reveals a great deal about the state of my (admittedly disturbed) mind, the history of our friendship, not to mention the deep and lasting emotional scars that are, I feel, a direct result of prolonged exposure to and experimentation with the fashions of the late 1980’s.

And the dream made E. laugh. That’s a mighty good thing.

So anyway. Our email exchange was a great way to start the day, and right before lunchtime I got another email from E., one I assumed had something to do with All The Wackiness of the morning. But instead, it was a story that will get forwarded and FW: and Fwd: until it’s just worn out, bless its heart. But because it came from Elise-one-of-my-best-friends-whose-husband-just-died, and because she hasn’t been emailing very much lately, I paid attention. I read the story.

And after I finished it, I knew exactly why she sent it:

“Tomorrow morning,” the surgeon began, “I’ll open up your heart…”

“You’ll find Jesus there,” the boy interrupted.

The surgeon looked up, annoyed. “I’ll cut your heart open,” he continued, “to see how much damage has been done…”

“But when you open up my heart, you’ll find Jesus in there,” said the boy.

The surgeon looked to the parents, who sat quietly. “When I see how much damage has been done, I’ll sew your heart and chest back up, and I’ll plan what to do next.”

“But you’ll find Jesus in my heart. The Bible says He lives there. The hymns all say He lives there. You’ll find Him in my heart.”

The surgeon had had enough. “I’ll tell you what I’ll find in your heart. I’ll find damaged muscle, low blood supply, and weakened vessels. And I’ll find out if I can make you well.”

“You’ll find Jesus there too. He lives there.”

The surgeon left.

The surgeon sat in his office, recording his notes from the surgery: “…damaged aorta, damaged pulmonary vein, widespread muscle degeneration. No hope for transplant, no hope for cure. Therapy: painkillers and bed rest. Prognosis…” – and here he paused – “…death within one year.”

He stopped the recorder, but there was more to be said.

“Why?” he asked aloud. “Why did You do this? You’ve put him here; You’ve put him in this pain; and You’ve cursed him to an early death. Why?”

The Lord answered and said, “The boy, My lamb, was not meant for your flock for long, for he is a part of My flock, and will forever be. Here, in My flock, he will feel no pain, and will be comforted as you cannot imagine. His parents will one day join him here, and they will know peace, and My flock will continue to grow.”

The surgeon’s tears were hot, but his anger was hotter. “You created that boy. He’ll be dead in months. Why?”

The Lord answered, “The boy, My lamb, shall return to My flock, for He has done his duty: I did not put My lamb with your flock to lose him, but to retrieve another lost lamb.”

The surgeon wept.

Later, the surgeon sat beside the boy’s bed; the boy’s parents sat across from him. The boy awoke and whispered, “Did you cut open my heart?”

“Yes,” said the surgeon.

“What did you find?” asked the boy.

“I found Jesus there,” said the surgeon.

I cried a whole bunch when I read that.

I think it’s one of the sweetest things I’ve ever read.

And E., I love you very much.

Okay. I’m trying to pick out a digital camera.

I know nothing – NOTHING – about fstops or apertures or whatnot. In fact, I’m only somewhat certain that those are actual photography terms, in which case the usage of those possibly pretend terms would be an enormous step out on my part.

Anyhoo.

I need to be able to point and shoot, but I want enough megapixels so that I can print 8 x 10’s or bigger and they’ll still look crystal clear and not all pixellated-y. Which I believe is an official photography term. (Faith, back me up.) :-)

And no need to tell me that I can’t live without some form of EOS blah de blah blah, because you know all those little things on a lens you have to move around in order to make good pictures? I don’t have any idea what they’re for. All they enable me to do, really, is to look like I know what I’m doing when I take pictures. But then I see the actual pictures and remember oh yeah, I’m not really a photographer after all, or else I wouldn’t have all these blurry shots of people’s feet.

In short, I want a digital camera that will enable me to take pictures real purty-like and then make real purty-like prints. In the past I’ve enjoyed a brand that rhymes with SHANNON, but I’m not terribly brand loyal.

Suggestions? Do you have a camera you love? Or one that you DON’T love so that I know what to avoid?

Hello, how are you, I bought you a blouse.*

First of all I should probably come clean and tell you that I didn’t TOTALLY unplug. I read some things. Some blogs. Several blogs. Okay, I read many, many blogs. But I didn’t comment. Except on Jeana’s. Because NOT commenting on this post of Jeana’s would have been like hearing a preacher totally get after it and then leaving him hanging without a single “amen.” So I commented. ONCE.

(By the way, one day I’m going to grow up and be all smart like Jeana. And I will offer my opinions convincingly and intelligently and y’all will be all “oooooh” and “SNAP.” But until that happens, I’ll just keep talking about catfish and bacon and poo. Every blogger has her niche, you know.)

So, other than my brief comment at Jeana’s, I didn’t put any pressure on myself to “interact” with people – I just enjoyed what I was reading. And, as a result, I was able to read a whole bunch of stuff over the course of about 45 minutes, which I think is a pretty, you know, normal amount of time to spend on the computer every evening. Because the interweb hours that I’ve been logging lately? A little bit more than 45 minutes a night.

And then! You won’t believe it!

I actually TURNED OFF the computer when I watched television, and I didn’t write anything at all for 24 hours. That might not seem like much to you, but for me it’s a record as of late – if I don’t write SOMETHING every day I start to feel all fuzzy in the head. I even talked on the phone (Robin, are you proud?) and cleaned like crazy and washed clothes and made many, many PlayDoh creations with the little man. And I got the house back to the point where it feels like a home for our family instead of a repository for wayward toys.

So the break, it was good.

I even made up with the voicemail.

Leave me messages! Leave me many messages! And I will listen!

More later today….

*Do you know the movie? If you’re family or Todd, I KNOW you do – so let the other bloggy friends guess. :-)

Every once in awhile I rebel against technology. That doesn’t mean that I boycott it totally, because HOW WOULD I LIVE if I did, so instead I direct all my techy frustration toward one particular thing. I’ll decide for awhile that I’m not interested in checking email, or I’m not going to carry my cell phone, or I’m not going to surf the internet. Or, in the case of the last couple of weeks, that I’m not going to check my voicemail.

Voicemail is really, really on my nerves.

Because I feel pulled in about 65 different directions right now, voicemail is something that I feel like I can control. I can look at the blinking red light on our phone at home – AND IGNORE IT. I can pull out my cell phone, see the words “New voice mail” – AND IGNORE IT. I’m not saying that it’s a practical solution. I’m not even saying that it makes sense. But it makes me feel better.

Now please don’t misunderstand – I don’t know many people who love techy things more than I do. I can spend hours tweaking my blog template, answering emails, writing blog posts, talking on my cell phone, clicking through the TiVo. I like things that beep. I love pushing buttons (literally – not so much figuratively). But every once in awhile I start to feel so “connected” that I have to pull the plug on something. And for the last couple of weeks, that something has been voicemail. (I am returning people’s calls, though, because thanks to caller ID, I know who called even when I don’t listen to messages. Lesson: there’s no escaping the phone.)

D. and I had a little, um, discussion (read: argument) this morning because he feels like it’s irresponsible of me to not listen to messages. He says that there could be a message that someone died and we wouldn’t know – and while I think that’s probably a little extreme, I see his point.. And maybe it IS irresponsible of me. However, I think we can pretty conclusively deduce that, whether it’s a result of irresponsibility or, you know, STRESS, I’m feeling a little overloaded right now. OTHERWISE I WOULDN’T BE IGNORING THE VOICEMAIL.

All that to say: I’m going to unplug for a few days. From everything. Except for my family.

And in the irony department, this morning I pulled my cell phone out of my purse – and I had six (!) missed calls and three new messages. One message was from Bubba, with whom I’ve been engaged in a record-setting round of phone tag, and two messages were from Emma Kate, who was concerned that 1) I hadn’t answered her email from earlier in the afternoon and 2) she hadn’t talked to me all day and was wondering if everything was okay. I couldn’t help but laugh.

So yes, I’m okay. And yes, I’m unplugging. I’m sure I’ll make some phone calls; I’m sure I’ll do some writing; but I’m taking the fact that my husband and I had AN ARGUMENT ABOUT VOICEMAIL to mean that things may be a little too tech-heavy in our house right now. I’m thinking that maybe voicemail won’t stress me out so much if I take care of some of the things in my house that do not beep and ring. Like furniture that needs to be dusted and magazines that need to be read and food that needs to be cooked. You know, Ye Olden Hobbies.

And in the meantime, if you’re looking for something to do around here, the archives over there in the sidebar are chock-full-o-posts. I’ll even recommend a few:

The One That Reflects My Current State Of Mind
The One That I Need To Read Right Now
The One That Reminds Me That Blog-Wise, I’m Fit As A Fiddle
The One That Reminds Me What Really Matters
…and, finally, the one that has changed how I feel about the word “Vlasic” forever…
The One With The Misunderstanding

See y’all in a few.

Banner by Kelly
Thirteen Posts I’ve Enjoyed A Whole Bunch Lately
This list could’ve gone on…and on…and on…

1) Toni’s post about a trip with friends

2) BigMama’s post about her friend Gulley’s grandmother

3) Barb’s post about her addiction

4) Kelli’s post about some challenges that she’s facing

5) Diane’s post about how and why she blogs

6) Antique Mommy’s post about a trip to Tuna

7) Mary at Owlhaven’s post about sending her oldest to college (grab a tissue. or two.)

8) Robin’s post about why caller ID alone just isn’t enough

9) Lauren’s post about blogging breaks

10) Shalee’s post about forming community via blogging

11) Melanie’s post that is the essence of All Things Southern

12) Addie’s post that contains the funniest line I’ve ever read in my whole life ever (see the meme)

13) And of course I could link to Sarah and Shannon, but I think every single person who reads here also reads them. So you’re probably all caught up with them, but if you’re not – GO.

Seriously, I could have listed 20 more posts – I rattled this list off the top of my head (I HAVE AN ADDICTION, SIR) – so look for part 2 next Thursday…for real. :-)

Lately I’ve had a few email conversations about The Whole Blogging Thing. And inevitably, the question of books comes up – not what book we’re reading, mind you, but if we want to write a book of our own.

It’s an interesting topic to me for several reasons.

But before I get into why it’s so interesting to me, I want to be very clear: I have no intention of writing a book. I am not a book writer. It’s hard for me to even describe myself as a writer, period, because I still have that very graduate school-esque notion of how a writer spends her day: sitting in a coffee shop, typing like a madwoman, sipping on a no-fat soy vanilla latte, wearing lots of flowing (hand-knit) scarves while trying to contain her long, naturally curly hair with a clip that can’t possibly hold all the lustrous auburn ringlets, constantly pushing hair off her forehead, trying to finish chapter 9, eagerly anticipating that in two hours her musician boyfriend will pick her up on his motorcycle so that they can go drink wine and admire the sunset from her spacious but cozy beachhouse that she’s in the process of remodeling.

Not that I’ve created a stereotype in my head. Or anything.

Now I realize that it’s not an accurate perception on my part…I know that there are lots of women who work on their writing while simultaneously taking care of their families and shuttling their kids around and holding down a full-time job outside of the home. And I would most definitely consider those women – who have ambition and purpose connected to their writing – as writers. I just don’t consider myself as one. Remember, I am annoyingly literal, yet I realize that the sentence before this one is probably fodder for an entire day of therapy, because obviously I DO write, and obviously I DO put what I write “out there,” yet I would never, ever, ever ever ever describe myself as a “writer.” Ever.

Okay. Anyway. Here’s the part that fascinates me (she says, diverting attention from her strange curious psychological make-up).

I know there are a lot of bloggers who are hoping to get published. Who are working on novels. Who are in the process of editing novels. Who go to writers’ workshops. Who stay in contact with publishers. I think all those things are wonderful – and I have great admiration for women who can juggle all that they do and still make time for Serious Writing Business.

And I wonder: is blogging, for you, a means to an end? Is it a way to get exposure as a “for real” writer and ultimately get published? Can you be a “for real” writer if blogging is all that you do? In other words: is blogging in and of itself enough for you? Would you be disappointed if, say, three or four years down the road, your blog is functioning just as it is right now?

Keep in mind that I’m asking myself these questions, too – because the truth of the matter is that if I didn’t like for people to read what I’ve written, I could very easily keep all my silly little essay-things in a Microsoft Word file, store them on my hard drive, and call it a day.

But I don’t.

I write stuff (BUT I’M NOT A “WRITER” OH SWEET MERCY NO). And I put it on the INTERNET. Where people read it. Which makes me think that I’m kidding myself, just a little bit, if I try to claim that this blawg is just something I do for family and friends. I think it’s gone a little past that with me.

Does anyone else wonder about this stuff?

And if you think I’m crazy, please don’t tell me. The whole “writer” label has me in enough of a tizzy as it is.