Almost Famous

If you are a regular at The Real Pretend, then you know how often I link up blog posts to writers Max Dubinsky and his new wife, Lauren Dubinsky. These two are awesome people who write such incredible raw truth. Lauren used to live in Ohio and Max used to live in LA. Then they got married in Colorado and decided to move to Portland, Oregon. Naturally, I was thrilled. What are the odds of them living in my state? 1 in 50, you might say.

On Monday I had the pleasure of meeting these lovely people, thanks to the cleverness of my dear friend, Natalie. She arranged a top secret lunch and wouldn't tell me the details. When I spotted Lauren in the restaurant, I immediately recognized her and gave her a hug.

Meeting Max and Lauren was almost as exciting as when I was 14 years old and got to meet the band members from Plus One. Actually, that's not true. Meeting Lauren and Max was better because I didn't have to wait in line, I got to see them for more than thirty seconds, and nobody was behind me screaming in my ears. Plus, neither Lauren nor Max had frosted hair or was wearing a muscle tee.

Natalie snapped some pictures of the special occasion, so I have actual proof that I met the couple.

Me and Lauren at lunch.

Lauren, me, and Max.

As if things couldn't be more awesome, Max actually mentioned me in the opening sentence of his most recent blog post. I never expected this. And okay, he got the part about waking up at 5am wrong, because I never ever do that. But I appreciate that he thinks I'm the kind of person who could/would wake up at 5am. You should go read the post.

Basically, this week has just been lovely and I give mad props to Natalie for making it happen.

Read Max's work at www.makeitmad.com and check out Lauren's writing at www.laurennicolelove.blogspot.com 

And if you live in Oregon you might be lucky enough to meet them!

DMV photos

My driver's license expires on November 12th (which is my birthday, so if you want to mail me a card or send me flowers, you have plenty of time to ask for my address). This meant a trip to the DMV. I would be getting a new photo taken, which I was excited about, on account of how I've been toting around an ID picture of me with triangle hair and a pink face for the past nine years.

My skin was flushed the day I got my driver's license because I did my test in July, and I did not put on the AC because I was really paranoid that I wouldn't be able to hear the instructor's directions well enough, even though I have really good hearing. So instead, the two of us sat roasting inside my car while I did things like parallel park and obey yield signs. If my sweat had dripped down from a smelly cloud, I might have created enough water to cause the car to hydroplane. So when it was time for me to get my photo snapped, you can imagine that I was as pink in the face as a grapefruit.

I spent a lot of time thinking about what I should look like in my new photo--you know, the one where I was no longer a minor. I contemplated wearing my new blond wig, because that way if I ever needed to be disguised, I would fully have a valid driver's license with a picture of a different looking person that was still essentially me, and I would have my passport which still features a photo of my 17 year old self with brown hair.

If the DMV employee were to ask me to take off the wig because it looked a bit fake, I had my reply ready. I would whisper, "I can't...I'm bald. I have cancer." And then they would let me leave it on. I also thought about wearing my credibility glasses, but they make you take your glasses off for your DMV picture anyway, so it would have been pointless. Instead what I did was draw a mole on my left cheek like Sydney Bristow did in the pilot episode of Alias.

My hair is now four times longer than it was in my high school days, and I wondered if I should wear it down, put it up, or wear pigtails. In the end I decided to wear it down, because in case I ever cut my hair really short again, I would have a memory of what it was like long. It's the same sort of concept as keeping a pair of size 0 jeans from your freshman year, because you are reminded that you were once that person. American women really like to dwell on who they were in the past, especially if that person was better looking than they are now.

I wore my favorite v-neck teal t-shirt, took time to apply all aspects of make-up (I left off the lip liner and fake eyelashes because this wasn't a drag show), and practiced my smile in the mirror like I was an 8th grader getting ready for school pictures.

I shouldn't have bothered.

I ended up having to add four pounds to my weight and zero inches to my height, pledge donation of my body organs to strangers, take a typical DMV photo, and   pay forty dollars to do it all. They really zoom in on your face nowadays, so none of my t-shirt made it into the shot. And my eyes are sort of crossed like I look really confused, which I guess will be okay if I am drunk and am trying to convince a bouncer at a bar that it really is me in the photo, even though I don't have that mole on my left cheek.

There is nothing glamorous about the DMV, and it's fact that the employees get paid more to take unflattering photos. I am pretty sure that even Julia Roberts has a bad photo on her driver's license. I am trying to console myself with being thankful for the photo I currently have, because the next time my license is about to expire, I'll probably have wrinkles and face chub. So this is about as flattering as it gets.

This is an exclusive shot of Justin Bieber getting his driver's license at the DMV. I bet he contemplated that purple shirt and striped sweater for hours.

Things to do when you are awake at 3:30 AM

It's 3:49am on Sunday when I decide to give up sleeping. I've already peed, so a full bladder is not what is keeping me from the zzzzzs, but I realize that my stomach is protesting. I think back to what I ate for dinner and realize, yes, the gummy worms and Rice Krispy treat leftovers from my dessert sushi experiment doesn't constitute a solid meal, and I should be hungry. What I do is trod out to the kitchen in my pjs, but I put on a pair of sunglasses before turning on a light. I hate bright lights, and I hate lights even more when my eyes have been shut for a few hours, and even more, I'm supposed to be producing melatonin at this hour but I'm not. Instead what I am doing is making peanut butter toast for breakfast.

I think to myself, Gosh it's a good thing Mandy isn't here. What if she were to come out of her room to use the bathroom, and she spotted me wearing boxer shorts and ray bans while eating toast at the kitchen counter? At four in the morning.

But Mandy isn't here, and since I cannot sleep, I decide to make my time productive. I clean up about half of my craft table, discover a bracelet that needs to be re-strung, and commence stringing said bracelet in the half-dark of my living room. Then I move my keyboard into the spare room (I'm trying to remember how to play....it's been like NINE years), file some papers, and organize the piles of items that need to be returned to various places in the house.

What I really want to do is cut the grass, because I didn't do it yesterday like I meant to. But you can't really mow the grass at four a.m., because it is dark. You might be like "and your neighbors would hate you for the noise" but you forget that I do not have a lawn mower but a 1950s style hand-pushed grass cutter. That thing is silent. I contemplate finding my headlamp and strapping it on so that I can go do yard work under the moonlight, but then I remember, oh wait, I don't own a headlamp. That is the second time this summer I've wished I'd had one. The first time was when I was exploring a water-filled cavern at Salmon Falls.

I don't dare turn on my computer, because internet browsing is the NUMBER ONE thing NOT to do when you are up in the wee hours of the morning. First off, I am sure I wouldn't be able to handle the bright, brain-washing glow of the screen. It would be like a trapped Chilean miner emerging into the daylight without protective eye gear after being stuck in a tunnel for forty days. Sure, I was already wearing shades, but my computer screen burns my retinas like the sun. Plus, on-line activity in the middle of the night is not peaceful, and it usually results in you Googling "What would I look like if I were black?" and then finding a photo manipulation site sponsored by St. Andrews that allows you to see what you would look like if you were five different ethnicities plus a manga cartoon character.

Two weeks ago I woke up at four in the morning and couldn't sleep, so what I did was read my Bible with a book light (one that did not attach to the head). How Christian of me, right? But I must say, it was time well spent, it was peace filled, and I slept well after reading 32 chapters in the book of Psalms. To be honest, I was kind of like "What's a book that will put me to sleep?" Because I didn't have my U.S. History book from junior year of high school anymore, and I yearned for slumber. Now, I'm not saying that I thought the Bible would put me to sleep (Well, Chronicles might), because I fully read first and second Kings recently, and I don't understand why no one has made a war movie out of some of the juicy, back-stabbing, land thieving stories that are in there. I was on the edge of my seat.

So it's about 5:12am, and since I can't go do yard work, I decide to try to resume sleeping. I succeed and begin to dream that I am back in high school, at the new campus, and I'm late for class but it's okay because I can run and jump up to the second and third floor of the school much like Mario on a mission, minus the mustache. I don't even wake up till 8:30, with the aid of my alarm.What a miracle! When I do get out of bed well rested, I think back to my secret hours in the night. It was like a bonus day. I accomplished so much. I think I might do this more often. But I need to get a head lamp first. 

I might be able to keep my mouth shut, but I can't keep my fingers off the keyboard

This didn't turn out the way that I expected. But then again, when did anything? I contemplated not writing this at all because of the outcome, then I wrote it and contemplated not posting it, but I thought about it some more and figured God deserved it. I want to show you how awesome he is, even if I haven't a clue where this is headed.

If you haven't read the post about how I resigned from my job as a teacher, maybe you should. It's right here. But here's the secret. Here's the thing I've been keeping my mouth shut about since April: there was another reason I had to quit my job. Instantly you think I'm going to birth a child. Not so. This isn't an article in Entertainment Weekly.

I am warning you right now that this is an extremely long entry, because my life from March to July was a lot more intensive than I let on. I hope you have enough stamina to read every paragraph and make it to the end. If you are really impatient then just read the orange paragraphs. There were parts of this story that I never told my mother, my sister, or my best friend. But everyone can know now.

The Further Explanation

Friends, I had to walk away from my job because the sacrifice had to be greater. I had to quit my job in order to do the job I wanted to do. My God asked me to. Let me explain the first part.

I knew that I couldn't do my job again next year. Was I meant to be a teacher? Probably. Was I meant to teach the way that the school district set it up? Absolutely not. While I have a heart for kids and for education, I couldn't do it the way that I had been doing for the past three years, because about 80% of it just seemed wrong to me. I won't get into that 80% here, but if you want to talk to me, I could probably blab to you for about five hours. So you know I wanted out.

Unless you live in the same city as me, you probably don't know the extent of the budget cuts the school district is facing for the upcoming school year. About 248 teachers got laid off. I knew the situation was serious, so I started praying for what most people never pray for: "Lord, let one of them be me. Please have me get laid off." My reasoning? I could walk away without being a quitter. I would collect unemployment.

I was three years into the teaching system, so the chances of losing my job were slim yet still possible. For the first three years that you are a teacher, you are on what's called a probationary contract. Basically that just means it's easier for you to get cut or let go. After year three you are pretty much golden, as you go to a permanent contract. I kept praying that I would get laid off. Then the day came when my principal thought he was bringing me good news. He told me that I had missed the cut mark by two days, meaning, I was hired on August 26th, 2008. People who were hired two days later on August 28th, 2008 lost their jobs. A second grade teacher in our building was one of them. Is this system of losing/keeping your job wrong? Basically. But that's not what we're talking about right now.

There I was, safe. After June ended, I would be considered a permanent employee. Job security. Health insurance. PERS. Paid sick days. Summers off. It sounds great to a lot of people. "Benefits" can be deceiving. None of it was worth it to me. Not for this job. What good is a summer off if you spend most of it trying to rehabilitate your brain, body, and soul from the damage it endured for the ten months prior?

The point is, I walked away from it. God made me choose. I wanted him to decide for me. I wanted him to say "you don't have to do this again, Joelle. You're laid off. You can't. Here's your unemployment check." But that's not what God did. He let me decide. He made me choose.

I had to either decide to keep my job and hope for lottery like odds that I'd enjoy round four, or I had to have the courage to tell my principal that I was finished. I hate to disappoint people. That conversation alone was going to make me bawl my eyes out. I would have to trust that God would take care of me, even if I received no unemployment check. I chose the latter, because the sacrifice had to be greater. I knew God was testing my trust in him.

But wait, there's something else I'm not telling you. Something else that I kept to myself during April, May, and June. I didn't tell my mother, my sister, my best friend, anybody. It was because I was having a battle in my heart and wanted to tell God NO to what he was asking of me.

What was he asking me to do? Give it all up. Surrender everything. I was sitting there on my bed with a notebook, writing out "Design a Dream Job," thinking of all the great things I could/should do. What's your biggest dream? my head asked. Be a successful published author and have enough money that I can afford to teach for free, my way. Immediately I hear, "Then why aren't you doing it now?"

Good point. If I wanted to truly write, I would be doing it. If I wanted to teach for free so that I can love on kids and give them a quality education like I envision, I could. Why aren't I doing it now? And okay, so I haven't exactly sold a novel quite yet. But I should be. Teaching was never my number one career aspiration. It was my second love, my second calling, and something that seemed safer and more stable than trying to make a living off of writing. Teaching was always plan B, and writing was plan A.

There I was, sitting at home with a notebook pad, knowing exactly what I had to do. It all came together in about ten seconds, and it was far from comforting. I needed to resign from my job at the elementary school, and then turn around and ask for it back in a different way. I could see it all. Me. Ten students who are two years or more below grade level. Teaching for free. Actually getting to teach and make a difference, because I had ten minds to mold, not thirty. I could actually build relationships with them and form a community, not a mob. Best of all, since I wasn't a contracted state employee, I could bring my God into it. I had very much learned that God was and is the only thing that can change the futures of the population I work with. Everything is so broken and so twisted and they are only nine years old. I wanted them to know the One who loved them unconditionally.

Teaching for free would give me more time to focus on my writing, because I wouldn't be camped out at school for twelve hours a day. Ten students seemed so much more manageable. A joy, even.

How would you survive? That's your biggest question. How would you live if you don't get a paycheck for at least ten more months? That's why this was a trust fall, people. I have some money I've diligently saved up for grad school, and I planned on exhausting that in order to live the dream. Plus, you know, God might send me a big check in the mail or something. Or rain down manna for me to eat.

My biggest fear was that question. If I told my family, they would say "How would you survive?" If I told my friends, they would say "How would you pay your bills?" So I kept it to myself and told God we'll just see where this all goes. No reason to freak people out unnecessarily.

Please keep in mind that I am not telling you this story because I want you to be impressed with my plan to sacrifice a year's worth of pay and teach for free. You're probably not impressed though, you think I'm insane. Which is fine. But please know, I am no martyr, no savior, no saint. That was the other reason I didn't want to tell people. I didn't want anyone thinking I was trying to be this amazing missionary in the ghetto of the city. I don't want you to look at me, I want you to look at my God. I am weak and I am selfish and I do anything to get out of pain. This story's not over yet.

Teach for free. That was the bottom line. Go back to the place where I had become broken and embrace it with love and joy and passion. No thanks, God. I think I'll pass. That was April.

May was a very exciting time for me because it meant that I could actually start applying to new jobs. I found a position to be a grant writer for a non-profit organization. I applied with hope.

On May 27th, 2011, this is what I wrote in my journal:

I know that God has just been toughening me up for the next battle, because he will ask me to give up more than I'm comfortable with...I say "God, why do you ask this of me?" Because I don't want to. But I want to do what is right, and it's like I don't even have a choice.


I might as well surrender now. Then everything that was meant to happen can just happen already, without any more delay.
A long wait later, I was invited to an interview for the grant writing job. My whole thinking was, if I get this job then I know God doesn't really want me to teach for free. So my conversation with the Creator of the Universe was still, "No God, please don't ask this of me."

I went into the interview, smoked it like a sausage, and left feeling like I had a good shot at being offered the position. But in the pit of my stomach it just didn't feel right. I a little bit found myself hoping I wouldn't get the job, because I was selfish for my hard-earned summer break.

When I learned that I did not get the position, my conversation with the Lord turned to "Fine, God, fine." If he really wanted me to teach for free, I would do it, because it was the right thing to do. I try really hard to do the right thing, even if it hurts.

School got out June 17th, and I secretly packed up all my personal classroom materials and hauled them to my house. It's not easy sneaking out four bookcases, seven boxes of books, and other teaching paraphernalia out of a classroom without anybody noticing. When I got it all into my spare room at home, I felt relieved for about a millisecond. Then I shut the door and didn't look at it again because I felt like work had literally followed me home for the summer.

During my first few days of vacation, I felt incredibly joyful, peaceful, and refreshed. It was over. I didn't have to go back. It was then that I started thinking about what it could be like to teach ten kids for free. We'd have our own little classroom, because two positions got cut from the school, resulting in empty space. We'd become a community, have team builders, and work hard to catch up to grade level. With only ten sets of parents, I'd be able to keep close communication with them. Their child would not be forgotten. They would know that they are incredibly wanted, because I picked them to be in my class. All my ideas got really exciting. "Fine, God, Fine" turned into "I hope I can convince my principal to let me do this." I actually wanted to start eating Top Ramen for dinner every night.

I prayed a lot. I needed bravery. I needed peace. Finally I arranged for a meeting with my principal. I'm pretty sure he thought it was because I was going to resign. I kept that news short. I handed in my official letter of resignation, then told him that was not what I was here to talk about.

I told him what I wanted to do, how I wanted below-grade-level students in a small, focused classroom. How I wanted to do it for free. I was ready for the question "How can you do this? How will you survive?" or "I appreciate your heart, Joelle, but I cannot let you do this to yourself." My prepared answer would have been "I trust my God more than I trust you." But it was never asked. Maybe my principal thought I had a sugar daddy to pay all my bills. I don't. Maybe he thought I was a trust fund baby. I'm not. I had not won the lottery, been given an inheritance, or any other thing that would leave me carefree about monthly bills. Yes, I had carefully saved my money, and I thought I could stretch it out. That was all. I was trusting God.

My principal was supportive of the idea, but said he needed to talk to HR because of the nature of the work. Teaching is very confidential, as we are privy to student files, medical records, family information, and all that jazz. I'm not going to go into all the details of what my principal and I discussed, but he was on my side and said he'd get back to me.

I left the building feeling relieved that I had finally done it. It was totally up to God now; I had done my part.

Three days later I was told that I could not teach ten kids in my own classroom for free. I could volunteer in the classroom with another teacher if I wanted, but students could not be assigned to me for an entire day, since I wouldn't actually be an employee. Technicalities. I was mad about it, but I accepted it.


In some ways this answer was both better and worse. It was better because I wouldn't have to teach for free and maybe could actually get paid to do something. That would be nice; thanks for understanding, God. It was worse because I was left with NO IDEA as to how to proceed. What now, God? I don't know the plan. It's one thing to not be earning a paycheck but be teaching children everyday, it's a completely other thing to not be earning a paycheck and be sitting on your couch all day watching Lost re-runs. I'd be lying if I told you I don't care what people think.

I never want people to think that I am a bum, that I don't work hard, that I am lazy or have given up. But I don't know where it goes from here. Not knowing is almost more unsettling than being told to give up a year's worth of pay.

You might think "God did not really want Joelle to teach for free, that's nuts." I am absolutely certain that God wanted me to decide. I HAD to ask to teach for free, and I HAD to mean it in my heart, because that is what God was asking me. Maybe it was a trust test. Maybe it's still gonna happen. I could get a phone call tomorrow from the superintendent telling me it's a yes and that I'd better start setting up my classroom.

The main reason I am posting this entry is because I want to boast in the Lord. I want you to remember this piece of my life, so that when God works his miracles, you will see how far it all came from. I have absolutely no idea where my life is going now, but I am certain that it is going to be good. God is going to bless me up the whazoo, I am going to trust in him even if I end up in a cardboard box, and I will be so filled with new-found joy. My God loves me and he's going to take care of me forever. 

Right now I've got  Isaiah 43:1-7  posted in my room. 

Love you and thanks for reading,

Joelle

Congratulations! You have finished reading this extremely long post, which contained 2,852 words. Research shows that children need to practice reading for at least two hours a day in order to make a grade level's worth of progress. Have you met your quota? 

CoffeeDateFilter.com

I have come up with the most brilliant business plan. I'm going to start a company called CoffeeDateFilter.com, and the tag line is going to be "where we do the filtering before you do the dating." Or maybe it will be "where we do the filtering before you take out the joe."

As you know, I no longer have a job, and this leaves me with a lot of time on my hands. I've been doing all sorts of world altering things like researching cancer and cleaning up beaches and reading Plato. But then, you know, there are times when I need to relax, and somehow I get sucked into cruising on-line dating sites.

I know what you're thinking. I'm desperate. I'm lonely. I'm trying to find a sugar daddy to pay all my upcoming bills. So not the case. I blame it all on Heidi, who forced me to create that Match.com profile which I promptly deleted the very next day. Searching dating profiles allows for the same sort of entertainment one might enjoy from reading the missed connection ads on Craigslist.

So let's just say I have been viewing profiles of various other on-line sites. And let's also say that it would be a complete waste of time for me to create a profile for a site that has this as one of their top candidates: Hey what's up! Haven't met anyone threw here yet but im not against it. Lets get to know eachother and see what comes of it! Message me if you want to learn more! Im outgoing, so feel free to hit up me.

Do you know this guy? If you are a single lady, he could soon be yours.

 This is what you must know about me: I am judgmental. Incredibly judgmental. If you do not use spell check, then I judge you. If you do not capitalize the letter i when writing, I judge you. Pushing the shift button is not that hard, people. If you can't use a period or if you over use them and just have ellipses...throughout...your entire profile...I judge you. I will let commas slide. Missed apostrophes on contractions is just plain lazy.

I judge the man who takes a photo of himself wearing a muscle tee in his bathroom mirror using his phone. I mean, at least be at the beach or something and make it look like you're not trying to show off your biceps. I judge the man who has Mickey Mouse wallpaper in the background. So what if it's not your room, why the hell are you in there?

This is the sort of photo I'm talking about. My lovely facial expression combined with my humble physique is what is really going to attract men. Profile picture, baby!

Nothing beats the quality of a blurred camera picture. As Tyra would say "look fierce."

I don't think I am the only woman in the world who forms opinions off of misspelled words and dumb pictures. I mean, men. Seriously. You are trying to attract a woman here. You should be trying to make your best impression. So maybe you've caught me spelling a word incorrectly here or there. Fine. Maybe you have seen some of the really stupid pictures I have on Facebook. Fair enough. I would just like to point out that that wasn't the first time you met me. If I were trying to score a coffee date with an utter stranger, I'd remove all those photos of me trying to drive/fly/row a cardboard box.

This is not how you attract a date. Unless of course, you are hoping that they also drive a box car.

My new dating site, coffeedatefilter.com, will put all prospective users through a test, similar to the one I had to pass in fifth grade. Single men and women will have to use spell check to correct words, identify where punctuation goes, and capitalize letters that need it. Additionally, a 100 word essay will be required. I will personally read all essays, and anyone who doesn't pass this 5th grade level test will be denied a profile on my dating site. Any men with exceptional skills will also be denied a profile, as I will be contacting them directly with a marriage proposal. I get first dibs. If they reject me kindly, then maybe I'll let them join the site.

I really think this is a needed service. Some people actually want to date others who care enough to differentiate between there, their, and they're. Am I wrong? I don't think my detective skills are so advanced that only I can see through people's profiles like a freshly Windexed sheet of glass. Surely you can also clearly see that the man with five "casual" muscle poses is desperately hoping that you will focus more on his abs than on his lack of wit or abuse of the apostrophe.

What are your thoughts? Would you like to develop my website? Are you offended because I just described your on-line dating profile? Do you think I'm going to die a lonely old cat lady? Do you want to buy stock in my company?

The biggest trust fall ever taken

It's been nearly four weeks since the school year ended, and I figured I might as well let everyone know what I've been privately telling friends and family members.

I've resigned from my teaching job and I have no definite plan. For me, this is the ultimate trust fall into God's hand. I've always had a plan. It was my plan, and I made it happen. I realize now how incredibly moronic that was. The only plan I can follow now is God's plan. Whatever it is, wherever it takes me, whatever I have to do.

 Maybe you are snubbing your nose at me. You quit your job during this economic crisis? Why can't you be thankful for your job, even if it is hard work? I am thankful, readers. I am thankful indeed. I am thankful that I survived 256 days of the most trying and shadowed time of my life, only by the mercy of God. I wanted to quit on Day 20. On Day 48, I wanted a Mexican gang to kidnap me and hold me for ransom in Tijuana so that way I wouldn't have to go to work. On day 62 I contemplated faking a pregnancy so that I could go on faux maternity leave. I say these things and you laugh because it's funny now, but it was not funny then. I was serious. I was insanely and desperately seriously wanting to be either kidnapped or in the hospital. That is not okay. Your life is not okay when your job makes you feel like that. Your soul is not okay when you wish you could spend some time in a Mexican slammer.

So thank you Lord. Thank you, thank you, thank you for this very tough and trying experience. I realize I cannot make it on my own. I realize I cannot count on other people to make it better. You alone are enough. I thought I knew that before all this happened, but I only knew it conceptually. I didn't feel it in my heart.

Friends, this is not me quitting my job. I have finished. I have reached the finish line, even if I had to crawl on my hands and knees with mud in my eyes to get there. God only knows what sorts of trials are up next. Maybe they are worse. In that case, it's a good thing I've been so practiced and prepared.

You might think I'm being dramatic, over-reacting, weak, or being too emotional. What was it like, you ask? It's like this: I am a fine bone china teacup. I get filled with instant coffee and get zapped in the microwave. I am offended, hurt, a bit cracked on the inside. That is me in every day life. Here is me for the past year of my job: I am a fine bone china teacup. I've been taken out to the pavement and a sledge hammer has smashed me into very tiny pieces. I've been run through the grinder so many times that I have become sand.There is nothing left for the old purpose of holding tea. I am now a powdery white sand, and I am ready for God to breathe new purpose into me. 

I would very much like a rest. I would like to find some comfort and peace, but I know I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me. Alone, I am sand, but with the Lord I am a warrior. So, to God I say "bring me comfort and peace," but to the world I say, "bring it." Because I know God's got me covered. Even when I am lacking in faith and think that he doesn't care about me.

Now I wake up early every day because I am so excited to get out of bed. I love life. This feeling of joy may be fleeting, and when September rolls around and I feel the hit of a missed paycheck, my feelings could very well change. But this is a trust fall. I'm falling, Lord, I'm falling. I know you'll catch me.

Readers, I am excited. I am thrilled to show you what my God can do. I have a feeling it will surprise the both of us.

My Sue Sylvester Track Suit

When I was in middle school I thought I could fake athleticism. I thought I could wear Adidas stripes down the sides of my pants and look svelte. Like maybe I really could run a ten minute mile, but I did it all the time so why prove it to you now?

Oh good gracious.

I was at the gym last week when the woman in front of me made me grin. She was wearing navy blue athletic pants and a navy blue top. Both had white stripes down the pant legs and shirt sleeves. It immediately launched me back to age 13, when I was trying to fit in. All I did was look like a moron. But that's okay. It built character.

This picture of Sue Sylvester basically is an exact replica of the outfit I had in middle school. Only my jacket was an actual waterproof jacket with a hood. And it was more of a navy blue. No wonder I had no friends.

Let me tell you the extent of my athleticism:
*Off an on again from age 7 to age 12: gymnastics. Only I have a total crap knee cap that likes to dislocate itself quite frequently, so I was out of commission every three weeks or so.

*Age 13: B string softball team. Only I majorly blew out my knee at practice one time and missed most of the playing season, since I was on crutches. It was basically a favor for my teammates. I played outfield and I can't throw.

*Age 9 to age 17: horseback riding. If you count that as athleticism, which I really don't. But boy does riding bareback tone your inner thighs.

*Age 15: I went to tennis camp for two weeks and realized it was all in vain. I have weakling arms, bad aim, and poor hand-eye coordination.

*Age 18-2: I went to the on-campus college "gym" a few times. Like maybe six times per term.

*Age 23-present: I actually have a legit gym membership. I kick ass and take names while I'm there. I went four to five times a week for two years, but the past eight months I have been slacking down to only twice a week. But I am not going to get into the bitter story about that. Chances are, you already know it.

I am hoping to venture in to my childhood dream of learning martial arts this summer. My mother would never let me. But one of my co-workers is actually a tae-kwon-do instructor down town, and she said she'd be glad to have me as an adult student. Chances are I could blend in with the 12 and up crowd. They'd never know I'm twice their age. Just gotta talk about Justin Beiber and wear Silly Bandz. Oh, and not wear a track suit.

An Epic Heist

The date was October 25th, 2006. I know because I have it documented in two places. It was a Tuesday night made of epic proportions.

I wanted to share this college story with you because a few weeks ago I re-capped it over the phone with my friend Elizabeth, who was with me that night, and I was reminded of the details of the most amazing prank pulled in RA (Resident Assistant) history.

Liz and I were both RAs on duty that night, which basically meant we had to walk through all of the resident halls and make sure college students weren't passed out from alcohol poisoning or drowning in their own puke. Or you know, constructing bongs in the bathroom showers. Going on rounds with Liz was probably the best time ever. We themed our trips. For example: one time we went through the halls we might only speak in Spanish or with an accent, the next time we might wear thug bandannas and carry large orange plastic baseball bats, or we might do something called "fatty rounds," where we would move quite sluggishly up and down the many sets of stairs.

While RAs are not required to wear anything in particular while on duty, my staff had these sweet foam trucker hats made, and sometimes we would wear them while raising hell.

Well, on October 25th, 2006, we planned a prank to pull on one of our fellow RA staffers, Adam. He was hanging out in his dorm room with the door open, and we made a plan to distract him and steal both his mattress and his favorite reclining chair. On the rounds we made prior, we stopped in and chatted, because that's what RAs do. They talk to everyone they see in the halls, and if the people don't talk back, we get suspicious and start following them instead. Anyway, we knew Adam was in his room and some of his residents were hanging out with him.

Liz and I conspired with two of his female residents, who lived on the floor above him. Our plan was to have them act like they really needed to talk to Adam about something important, and would he please come up here? Liz and I would split up, and we'd get my resident Jeremy to do all the heavy lifting.

So this is what went down: Liz and I go through all of the other halls first, saving Adam's floor for very last. I stay on the second floor and talk with the conspiring residents while Liz goes to the first floor and keeps her eyes on Adam's door, so that way she can keep it open when he leaves. Not that we didn't have keys to the place. RAs have a key that lets them into anybody's bedroom, not because we're creepers, but because freshman are constantly locking themselves out. We have to rescue them on a daily basis. However, there was something wrong to us about using our RA powers to steal Adam's property. But it seemed fine if we did not use a forced entry and just got there at the right time when he carelessly left his door open. You know, when we tricked him into leaving.

I call Adam's room phone on the duty cell phone, and I tell him that two of his girls seem really concerned and they want to talk to him. Could he please come up here? I wait with the girls while Adam trudges up the steps. Meanwhile, Liz is practically hiding in the bushes waiting to spring into his room with mega-muscles so that she can haul everything out.

Adam arrives and I briefly explain the girls' fake problem to him. They have a good relationship with him, so they feel like they can trust him and want him to help them work out the issues. Also, they are long talkers. As soon as I schlep Adam off to them, I go out onto what we refer to as "the catwalk" and look for Liz. She's already down there giving me the thumbs up, so I take the stairs and we make a break for the RA staff room in the main building before Adam has a chance to go back to his room and find out what happened.

In the two minutes that I was on the second floor with Adam, this is what happened downstairs: Liz sprung into Adam's room like a cat, and the other residents who were in on it started taking as much stuff as they could. Where did they put it? you might ask. Well, let me reveal to you the glory that is being a resident assistant.

Across from every RA's room is this storage closet, which is approximately half the size of a dorm room. RAs have access to the key to this closet, and most of us utilize it fully. Often times we keep supplies in there for programs. For example, if we are having an educational program on STDs and plan on offering snacks, we might store all of the soda, chips, prizes, and paper bags filled with free condoms in the closet until the day of the program. Or you know, the closet might be filled with your mother's china tea cups--no joke. On Valentine's Day the year I was an RA, I threw this super awesome Valentine's tea party, and my mom let me borrow a mass array of dishes. I had to store them somewhere afterward until I could return them to her.

We also stored other things of a more personalized value in the closet. For example, my friend Danny used to keep his golf clubs in the closet. That way they were not cluttering up his room.

Here is a tiny shot of me and Adam in the RA staff room. I am wearing an apron (that apparently makes me look bloated) because I just got done hosting my tea party in the lower lounge. This pic is 4 months after the fool forgave me for pranking him.

But back to the story. So across from Adam's room was his storage closet, and as soon as Liz got down there she unlocked the closet and the residents started throwing all of Adam's stuff in there. Of course they nabbed his mattress, his coveted reclining chair, all sorts of other items, and maybe even the tent that he had pitched in his room for about forever. Then Liz shut the door, which locks automatically.

It only took the two minutes to pull this amazing disappearing act, and we figured when Adam returned to his room, his jaw would drop. He might think that we put all of his stuff in the storage closet, or he might think that we hauled it into the room of the resident next door. The problem was, he didn't have a key to get into the storage closet across from him. See, all RAs have access to the key, but we don't have one just dangling from our key chain along with our room key. You had to use your staff room key to get into the staff room, and then you had to use your lock box key to get into the lock box, whereupon about 900 keys were safely stored, including said closet storage key. The point is, recovering Adam's belongings was not going to be easy for him.

There are me and Liz, totally losing it in the staff room. We are doubling over in laughter. About four other residents have joined us, and we are questioning how long it will take Adam to come and find us. Answer: not long.

About ten minutes later he walks in, his mouth drawn in a straight line. We act totally cool, like we did not just steal his mattress and recliner and shove it into the cobweb infested, stinky storage closet.

"Oh, hey Adam," I say. "Did you solve the problem with your girl residents?"
He has a slight grin on his face but manages to relay to me whatever BS they told him. And then he says, "So I want my mattress back."

Everyone in the room can't help but burst into hysterics, and we laugh about what just happened. But the funniest thing of all is that Adam still hasn't realized that his reclining chair is also missing. He totally didn't even notice, even though he sits in that thing at his computer desk every day.

"So, ah, just the mattress then?" Liz asks. "Nothing else?"
Adam gets a confused look on his face, and the rest of us pranksters are looking at each other secretly. Finally someone (maybe me) shouts, "We also stole your RECLINING chair. And you DIDN'T EVEN NOTICE!" Because now it's even funnier.

Adam is good about taking a joke, but he swears to us that he will get us back somehow when we least expect it, so both Liz and I now have to be on our guard for the rest of the year. Which, you know, is a long time considering it was only 1 month into the first term. We nicely went and unlocked the closet for Adam and helped him haul his stuff back into his room.

Our evening was epically made. And Adam never pulled a better prank on us either. Boy, I miss college.

From left to right, top row: Danny, me, Cat, Sierra, our boss Galen, Adam, Chris, Liz. Bottom row: Jessica and Ian.

Disguise-O Mug

I would have shown this to you sooner, but I couldn't risk my dad reading this blog before Christmas Day. So you get to see it now. For part of my dad's Christmas present, I made him this.

It's a mustache mug. I just got a white mug and painted a 'stache on it using paint made especially for ceramics. I had to bake it for 30 minutes afterward. The tag says "Evading the law? Need to spy on someone without having them recognize you? Change your look with this mug and its contents. Hand washing recommended."  I am fairly certain my dad has needed to evade the law a time or two, and he probably likes to spy on people also. That's probably where I get it from.

 Then I went to the Dollar Tree and bought things like hillbilly/thug teeth, a Sheriff badge, sunglasses, and glasses with eyes in them.

On the bottom I signed my love.

Takes the term "mug shot" to a whole new level, doesn't it?

Christmas Tree Acquisition

Before you read this post, you really should read this one. It will help you understand everything much better.

Part of today’s post is really epic, but we have to get through all the back story first. If you are really impatient and just want to get to the adventure part, then scroll through until you find the heading EPIC STORY.

So last Saturday, December 18^th, I found out that my parents still hadn’t gotten a tree. I wasn’t surprised, based on the fact that my dad really dislikes putting the effort in to get a tree to the living room. My sister called me, and we did a whole 4-way conference call and had everybody in the family chatting about the situation. Well, except for Travis. But he doesn’t count since he’s a fake brother. My sister said that maybe on Sunday she and Travis could drop a tree off on their way to a Christmas party. But we talked more and Dad said he’d get one somewhere. You know, considering the neighbors right across from my parents have a field full of Christmas trees.

Then Monday rolls around. My mom calls me and tells me that neither Jess and Travis nor I will be sleeping in the spare bed on Christmas Eve. You’d know what a big deal this is if you had read this post. She also informs me that they still don’t have a Christmas tree, and won’t be getting one either.

I’m kind of like “Okay, what’s happening?”

What happened was my parents spent about five hours at the doctor’s/hospital because my dad dropped a giant sheet of metal on his foot at work. And now his left foot is in a cast up to his knee, and he’s on crutches. Thus, he can’t do any heavy lifting.

The reason nobody can sleep in the spare bed is because all that is in that bedroom is the bed frame, since the mattress is still at our old house. And my dad won’t be going to the old house to lift the mattress into his pick up, on account of how he’s playing Tiny Tim on crutches for Christmas this year. He can’t get a tree either, since he’s all incapacitated.

I sort of had a feeling both of these things might happen. I was gonna have to sleep on the floor anyway, so I’m sort of glad Jess and Travis don’t get the bed now anyway. Equality is better. But the tree thing is sad. How can we have Christmas without a tree? What are we going to put the presents under? A twig? Jess and I have each managed to get trees put up in our respective houses, but to spend Christmas Day in a house without a tree? That’s just pathetic.

So Jess calls me Wednesday at eight in the evening. We talk about how we are going to get a tree. We’re both supposed to be at my parent’s house at four on Thursday, because some of our relatives that we never see are going to be there. Only Jess works till four-thirty. She wants to know if we should get a tree tonight and put it in Travis’ pick-up which she will then drive to work and then to our parents. Or should she drive the pick up to work and then I can help her get a tree at four-thirty when she’s done with work? Only then I’ll have to rudely leave the relatives to help her. We also aren’t sure if our parents are planning on reimbursing us for this tree or what. So we conference call them. We have another four-way conversation. I won’t share all the details but a lot went down, including some whining.

Basically, my dad (who claimed he was drug free and not on Vicodin anymore) said that we had two brains and we needed to figure it out. He’d pay ten bucks for a tree, not a cent more. Me and Jess tell them “it’ll be a mystery tomorrow whether or not we arrive with a tree” and hang up. Then Jess calls just me back and says let’s go look for a tree right now, even though it’s 8:42 and totally dark outside. So I put on my boots and wait by my front door for her to pick me up, because we live only two blocks away from each other.

EPIC STORY STARTS HERE

Jess arrives driving Travis’ pick-up. I ask her if she brought a flash light, because how are we going to find a good tree in the dark? She doesn’t have one, and neither do I, so we leave without one.

We’re driving down Lancaster and I’m like “The Church of the Nazarene used to have some trees.” And Jess says she saw a place down State Street. So we head down Lancaster first, and we pull into this practically barren lot. It’s all fenced in and there are two trees sitting there, along with a trailer. The light in the trailer is off and I’m guessing no one is there. We stare at the two trees on the opposite side of the fence. I spy a piece of paper tacked to the post.

“Let’s get out and see if that’s a sign,” I say. We jump out and find that the floppy sign (written on notebook paper with poor penmanship) says Free Trees. Well, it’s perfect, of course. Free is much better than ten bucks. The only problem is that the trees are fenced in. Jess tries to lean over and lift the tree up over the top of the fence, but it’s too heavy.

“We need somebody on the other side,” I say, and stare at her, because I don’t want to be the one who has to do it. “The gate is padlocked but I bet you could just climb over.”

So what does my sister do? She goes to the gate and fits herself through one of the slats. Then she goes to the tree and hoists it by the base and heaves it over the five foot fence. I catch it and drag it over. The truck is still running in the parking lot, it’s completely dark, and right now we’re nabbing a free tree from a fenced in field. I pray that no one thinks were criminals, because the sign fully said free trees. Like someone is going to stand around wasting their time just to sell the last two trees.

I start to drag the tree to the truck, and Jess squeezes herself back through the fence and helps me stuff it into the back of the pick up bed. The whole tree acquisition deal takes about five minutes total. We’re in the truck driving back to my house, and Jess tells me to call Mom and tell her we got a tree. I ask Jess wouldn’t it be better if we just surprised them tomorrow? And then we could tell them in person the whole story of how we nabbed a free tree in the dark from over a fence? So even though we are excited, we decide to wait and share the story the next day.

Jess drops me off at my house but calls me about fifteen minutes later.

“Yes?” I say.

“We could tell Mom and Dad the tree cost us ten bucks.”

I laugh, because she is totally like Dad. Out to make a profit. Our tree was free, but we could each make five bucks if we make Dad pay for it.

“If we do that,” I say “then we couldn’t tell them the true story of how we snagged a free one at night.” We weigh our options and decide that it’s worth five bucks to tell our parents the story about how we saved Christmas and brought them a tree.

The accumulation & loss of cool points

Maybe you remember reading "Nobody does detective work like I do," where I told you about how some major jerk backed into my car in the parking lot and fled the scene of the crime without leaving their contact info. So then I had to do extensive detective work, which I am quite proud of, though I had to stop my investigation due to lack of access to Walgreen's computer system and the refusal of Knife River Construction to hand over their employee roster.

I never caught the culprit, but my car is in the shop getting fixed. For 9 days. My insurance policy doesn't cover rental cars, so I sweet talked my sister into letting me drive her car. I normally drive a '98 Toyota Corolla, so I gained a lot of cool points driving this:

What I didn't realize is that this car has like, twelve blind spots. You literally see nothing but seat and black frame when you turn your head to look over your left shoulder to switch lanes. It's a miracle I didn't side-swipe anybody. When I drove this car, I parked as far away from other people as I could, because I knew backing up would be an issue. But I looked cool, right?

I was supposed to get my car back on my birthday last Friday and pay my $300 deductible to the shop. Happy Birthday to me, right? Well I called the body shop and they told me it wouldn't be ready until Tuesday. I informed my sister of the situation and she was getting upset since she was driving her husband's truck 40 miles to work everyday and it was being a gas hog. So what I did was call my mom to see if she could help me out somehow. She kindly suggested I drive my grandma's old station wagon, which my father recently acquired for $1000. Nobody was actually driving it, so it would work out great. So now I'm driving this:

I call it The Wagon, of course, and any cool points I racked up from driving the silver coupe disappeared when I sat behind the wheel of this thing. At first I was like "No problem, I've got loads of disguises I can wear while I'm driving it." Then I realized that all my disguises are still in the glove box of my car, which is still at the shop, along with both pairs of my sunglasses. Everybody should really keep a few disguises in their car, in case they need to elude creepers or mafia members. Or in case you're trying to get really close to Robert Pattinson when he visits Seattle, which I have personally never done. 

So now I'm driving The Wagon, which has like, zero blind spots because it's all windows, which means everybody can see who is driving it. It's like a fish aquarium on wheels. I'm trying to just embrace it. I drove it for the first time on Sunday afternoon. It was all dusty inside, and the lights on the dash don't work, so I never know if I'm putting it into drive or reverse because I can't see. Thanks a lot, daylight savings. Also, you should know that I heard rumors of a mouse nest in the radiator or something (but my dad cleaned it out).

But the really great part about driving this station wagon is that my grandma left her Swiss polka cassette tapes in there. So I'm currently listening to "Echoes From Helvetia," which is fine, because my dad's side of the family has a very strong Swiss heritage. In fact, Echoes From Helvetia was copyrighted in 1998 by the Grossen Family Band and The Helvetia Alphorn Trio, who are my dad's cousins. No wonder that yodeling sounded so familiar.

The actual alphorn trio. I found this image on Google, not the family photo album.

These people are fully my relatives. They're getting ready for the Swiss Parade.

 Another feature of this vehicle is the blue handicapped parking window hanger that came with it. If I'm ever in a pinch to park, I can display that. It doesn't even expire until 2016. 

There I am, feeling a bit goofy sitting behind the steering wheel, mostly because it is as large as the wooden wheel that a sea captain might stand behind. Plus, I could fit like, ten people in the station wagon if I tried. Probably more.

I was driving to school and I thought to myself "I wonder if this is what my boss feels like everyday," because he totally has a white station wagon. We're like twins right now. Except that I'm not over 40 or balding. But I'm wondering if he gets as big of a kick out of driving his station wagon as I do. He probably doesn't, because he's not listening to Volksmusikanter while he's driving.

How brilliant I am, (in a sarcastic sort of way)

I'm at Home Depot, buying some Insta-Grass-Magic* and some nuts/bolts to fix my brand-new lawn mower, when I open up my purse to take out my silver debit card. The pocket of my wallet that it usually nests in is decidedly empty. It's then that I think oh shit. Because I was at the drive-through ATM about two hours ago, making a deposit. And I don't remember getting my card back.

I quickly hand the cashier my credit card, trying to wrap my head around this thing. After getting my receipt, I walk out of the store, rummaging through my purse some more. No transaction receipt from the ATM either. I probably just stuck in that deposit envelope and drove away, sunglasses on and hair flying in the breeze. Idiot.

I easily peel out of the parking lot, like an over-ripe banana. Only you know, if the banana were silver-gray and had four wheels. I'm crossing the overpass near the freeway when this bare-footed goon slowly crosses in front of me. To be completely non PC, he's probably homeless and missing some nuts and bolts. Unfortunately, the ones I bought at Home Depot earlier won't do him any good. He finally gets across to the sidewalk, completely oblivious to the fact that nine cars in either lane have piled up, waiting for his idiotic crossing. Meanwhile, I'm trying to remember how much money I have in my checking account that I could be getting robbed out of right now. Somewhere, someone could be racking up dollars worth of expensive pink lingerie or plasma TVs.

As soon as I get home I rush to my computer to Dex online to look up the number of the bank I was at. It's past 6, so they're probably closed. I call anyway. Lame message of some mortgage agent. Instead I dial the customer service number on the back of my credit card, hoping it's the same number needed for a misplaced debit card. The automated voice wants me to punch in my card number. I want to punch the automated voice in the face. I don't know what the card number is because I don't have it anymore. Brilliant. I'm on my on-line banking, seeing if my card number is on there anywhere. It's not. There's just a bunch of Xs and then four digits. I punch in the four digits anyway. We're sorry, this number is un-recognizable. 

After some waiting, I get connected with a real person. I think his name was Michael, and he had really poor enunciation. I could barely make out what he was saying. I explained the problem, and he said that he needed my bank number in order to cancel the card. BUT I DON'T KNOW IT. That's the problem. The card is missing and I bloody well don't know anything but the last four digits. Michael asks me if I have online statements. I do. Through his mumbling he advises me to open one and look in the top right corner for my number. I do. I stare at the number. Idiot.

It's a very familiar number. It's friendly, almost smiling at me. I know it better than my sister's cell phone number. I easily memorized it years ago. It's my stupid checking account number. I knew that. Somehow, in my panic, I didn't realize he needed my account number. I thought he needed the card number.

Michael, me, and his low quality speech patterns get everything squared away. He checks my account and assures me the last transaction was the deposit I made. He cancels my card and orders a new one. Then he's all I have a few questions about your other accounts, which kind of freaks me out, because I'm worried something is wrong. But instead he asks me questions about if I'm happy with my mortgage and do I want to open up a different sort of savings account? since CD rates are basically $h!t right now. I say no, but thanks for asking.

Then I re-look up the bank's number on Dex Online and get a different number. I call and Kelly answers and I tell her I left my ATM card in the machine but I already called customer service and had them cancel it. She checks the vault anyway to see if some really honest Samaritan returned my card. There isn't any. (debit cards or honest Samaritans). But Kelly tells me how if you don't say I want my card back within like, 5 minutes of your ATM transaction, the machine sucks your card back in and instantly shreds it. So you know, that's taken care of.


The short of it is I'm utterly brilliant.



*There is no such thing as Insta-Grass-Magic, but whatever I bought basically assures me that it includes a magic formula of mulch, fertilizer, and grass seed and will repair my lawn instantly.