Here's Johnny

Some of the most vivid memories of my childhood are of those moments in the middle of the night, laying flat as a pancake praying to God that I would sink into my mattress, willing my mom to hear the faint whimpers I managed to squeak out and come running into my room to rub my tiny back, sticky from the cold sweat clinging to my favorite jammies—the pink baseball uniform.

I’m in my twenties and that helpless, paralyzing fear has once again taken over, granted this time it’s warranted…I’m staying in a real-life haunted hotel.

If I was down with cursing, I would drop a long litany of words that would make my Grandmother blush because it’s down to either that or crying big sloppy tears while staring down the baby door in the corner that is surely housing some tiny ghost that wants to eat me.

It started like any other horror movie. Cute girl (what’s up, self-compliment?) far away from home, stepping foot into a situation that you, as the viewer, think “What the frick are you doing, girl? Get outta there!” I would be lying if I said I hadn’t considered packing my bags multiple times since checking-in.
 

The lobby is exquisite. Dark mahogany paneling, crystal chandelier and what I assume is the original cage elevator, equipped with a little old man who learns each patron by name. I checked-in after a late flight at a deserted front desk. No upgrade, just get me to a room. Yes, key for one. Yes, I’m sure no one else will be joining me, but thanks for the confidence in my game. Then, she dropped this doozy on me.

“Oh. 3001. Your room is the only one that isn’t where it is supposed to be.”

Excuse me? Hey, lady, quit speaking in tongues and riddles. I don’t know what you are saying, Rumpelstiltskin.

After exiting said caged elevator, to what I considered a really creepy laugh by the attendant when he found out I was staying alone, I turned to the right to go find my door amidst all of the others. I half expected to see a kid on a trike and some twins running around. This hall is straight out of The Shining. In theory, my door would be with all of the others….but theories are shot in a horror movie. My door was to the left. All.by.itself.

When I opened the door, it hit me. I really am going to die tonight. This is one of those moments, that looking back, when a ghost is staring down your face that you think ‘Yup, should’ve seen that coming.” I set my stuff down and turned on every light in the house. Behind each of the four, count them four, creepy closet doors stood a surplus of pillows, robes and dead bodies. I flipped on each solitary light bulb and sat cross legged on my bed, which is where I still sit, to this moment.

About five minutes ago, I decided to ignore the fact that my bathroom door keeps closing on its own. That’s normal, right? Obvi it isn’t the product of some estranged former lover who killed herself in a fit of passion and misery….or is it.

This is going to be one of those sleep with your Bible and crucifix kind of nights. I racked my brain trying to come up with ways to stay safe. Bible. Check. Reciting prayers. Check and check. Garlic. Check. Salt. Check. A Colt 45. Welp….here’s wishing. (cue: Afroman)

I can’t remember a time when my fear of the dark wasn’t as issue.  My tiny-self devised multiple safe-guards against the terrors of the night. I would run (read: sprint) from my room to the safety of the lighted living room after turning off the lights. An army of stuffed friends stood guard on my bed, though after hearing rumors from my older sister that they would come to life and kill me if I made them mad, their presence soon cast an ominous shadow on my 1^st grade brow. The ritual of creating an equal opportunity environment so one didn’t get upset and start the mutiny, Lord of the Flies style, was daunting to me, though humorous to my parents who never understood the underlying cause of my benevolence.

The day my dad brought home a television for my room, I’m pretty sure the heavens parted ways and the angels sang. “Let there be light!” says I throwing my tiny fist skyward in defiance, and with that light, the ability to sleep through the night. Take that, ghosties! (okay, don’t judge me…I was 9 and convinced that ghosts couldn’t come around if there were lights. If you’ve ever seen that toothfairy movie, you know what I’m talking about.)

Right now all I want is my dad…or maybe that Colt 45. And it would be really nice if that small pale figure would stop staring at me through the window. I’m just kidding….kinda.

So long, World, its been real.

More Cheese, Please

The grocery store imparts a wealth of knowledge on me at every hair-raising turn of the baby cart. On my 5^th stroll past the bacon (the unfortunate by product of not making a list), I finally bit the bullet and put my 3^rd cheese variety into the basket that was looking pretty sad at this point. Four types of bread, three types of cheese, a hodgepodge of veggies and five…count them five…types of soup. 

I’m a creature of variety, not habit. Just like meeting new people, trying new things always puts pep in my step. It’s the exciting and unknown that bring the most value-add to my day. The memories that bubble most frequently to the surface are the moments unlike all the others, not the repeated cadences of my daily life. That is not to say that there is not comfort in the habitual, and I appreciate those rhythms in their own way, but nothing ignites my thoughts like a novel taste, an unheard joke or the cool breeze on an unexplored path. 

Sometimes, my need for adventure exceeds the number of hands I have to tote all of my foodie finds up the 92 stairs required to enter my apartment.

It’s November, but still the physical act of dragging that many bags has caused me to sweat profusely. It’s a reoccurring battle between me and my grocery bags. Every time, I obstinately refuse to take more than one trip up the stairs. Instead, I try to cram as many bags as I can onto each arm, clearly conserving previous energy….nevermind the squished bread and bruised bananas, victims of my stubborn nature. 

Why did I need to get 82 pounds of cheese? Were rye AND wheat really necessary? What the frick do you even DO with rhubarb?

All important questions to ask oneself during break number three on the trip to the second floor.

I just need to try it all. Cheddar and I have always had a solid relationship.  I know what I am going to get every time I take a bite and it fits quite nicely with my life. But what am I supposed to do when presented with the plethora of possibilities that live in the four walls of my local Central Market? There is only one answer: try them all.

I’m sorry, Cheddar, I’m cheating on you with the Fontina.

Unlike previous dating pools, big kid life tends to treat dating like my grocery shopping. It isn’t even unheard of to have multiple metaphorical cheeses in one’s fridge. Try them out in several recipes until you find one that makes the perfect salad topper, melts well on a pizza and can even be paired with Gypsy Wine (when I find it that is…) during a Friday night movie marathon.

Due to the sheer number of ways to communicate in today’s world, it would be naïve to think that people are trying out one “cheese” at a time. I have been guilty of vetting multiple possibilities at the same time with the typical get-to-know-you questions. (Calm down. It’s not like I group text it out, or BCC them all on the same email. I have tact, you know.)

What with texting, facebooking, gchat, email, skype, twitter and the myriad of other communication tools, constant communication has become a part of our everyday lives. I freak out now if I don’t hear back from someone in 5 minutes. C’mon, I know your phone is blowing up. If you didn’t get my text, then the push notification from my wall post and @mention had to have caught your attention. No? Maybe I should send you an instagram….and a Face Time request…or maybe leave you another voicemail. If that doesn’t work, there is always the option of posting up in the tree outside of your window…

Particularly zealous singles run into the problem of remembering which cheese is which. Was the Gouda on Friday night…or did I say Thursday? The Asiago is intelligent, but the Brie is really really fun. But then there’s always the Pepper Jack, he’s dreamy.

Tirade aside, I think it is fine to test drives your cheeses, but keep your feet on the ground. If you aren’t careful, you may find yourself with more cheese than you can carry.

Health Kick

I think I just found my own personal crack cocaine. Now, I’ve never been one for supplements…or even vitamins, unless those vitamins are found in cheese and/or cereal then I’m probably not getting a whole lot of it, but my friend convinced me that these supplements would really help my workout and were great for your productivity.

He didn’t tell me that I would run twice as much, clean my entire apartment, wash my windows, go for a late night grocery run, cook dinner….and plan a pumpkin-themed dinner party…..all in like 2 minutes flat. I’m like a tiny tornado of efficiency wreaking positivity and encouragement on all who come within my fury. 

I took this little amino acid-laden bundle of joy 10 minutes before my usual 3 mile jog. Three miles in, I was literally dancing down the river jamming to Needtobreathe’s new album (because it is sick). I threw up a high-five to a little blue haired speed walker, and chunked the deuce at the River Walk dude….and then I’m pretty sure I did some Sarah Palin-esque finger guns towards an innocent bike gang rolling down the street. “No, officer, I am not drunk, but I did have these FLIPPIN’ SWEET pills right before my run and now I’m FREAKING STOKED to be getting my jog on.”

Jumped in my car to head home and decided that smoothies in the morning were a solid deal, so off I jaunted to Central Market to get my health on. Frozen rhubarbs? I know you make a delightful pie, so of course I will throw you in my blender in the morning. Add some strawberries and a banana and that really weird fiber supplement and boom! A super start to my morning.

Clearly I am on some sort of health kick. I decided to run Tough Mudder in January (if my posts slow down around then…no worries, I just got electrocuted and/or puked up my lungs). My mate (a little phrase I picked up from the Emerald Isle) convinced me not only to take the little magical pills of energy, but also to do some sort of fiber cleanse. Don’t worry, readers, my mom said I’m not allowed to write about my fiber experience. I told her it really couldn’t be any more revealing than my lady doctor visit. She didn’t appreciate my logic. Mom, it’s the age of technology, I can’t help that I’m so trendy. The people need to know what fiber can do to one’s small intestines. It’s like the Discovery Channel, but IN MY BODY. 

Suffice it to say that this fiber drink is like mucus, mixed with baby food and apple sauce. It says mix well and quickly drink because it thickens with time. It didn’t say that it would never fully dissolve and that little pieces of tree trunk would be floating amongst some flax seed. So instead, I got to drink some apple sauce dump. The box says it does an ‘intestinal scrub’…which can’t be comfortable. In college I worked in a meat lab and had to clean out the pork slurry from the test tubes. Didn’t know you could make pork slurry? Yup. Grind it, freeze it with liquid nitrogen, dehydrate it, then blend that trash up in a commercial grade blender with some water. Yum. Anyway, ‘intestinal scrub’ sounds eerily similar to the test tube brush I had to use way back when….and it sounds awful. 

It’s hard to be healthy. 

Whether it is mental or the system is really working, I really do feel great. I am full of energy, happy and my tummy is full of delicious food. No dieting, only good ol’ American exercise and some crack. How much more American could it get?

Yoga Pants

As we have clearly established; I am a terrible person. I am judgmental. I am picky, sarcastic and all around rude. I have spent a significant portion of my 4 hour layover in the Toronto airport teaching my parents how to play 'you forgot your pants'.

The game is quite simple: step 1: look around you (eh). 2. See which lady traveler mistook leggings for pants 3. Tell the group so they can point and laugh (there was a rather unfortunate British lady who, all by her lonesome, created a need for 'you forgot your shirt')

It's not a hard concept, ladies, if you would wear a dress or shorts over them....they probably aren’t pants. Did you buy them in the accessories department? Not pants. Made entirely of Lycra? You guessed it. Those aren't pants. Can you do the splits in them without busting a seam? Probably not pants. (did I mention I'm wearing yoga pants?? Yeah...I'm playing a game that I can't even follow the rules of. One point for at least having the word 'pants' in the name. Minus ten because a yoga sesh is nowhere in sight.)

I’m judging people for doing exactly what I, too, am doing. Someone should really make a word for that…it would be way easier to explain. I feel like one exists. Fraud? No, that’s for money and liars. Charlatan? No, I’m not being a showoff. Hypocrite? Well, certainly not. Those people are terrible….oh, wait. Frick.

Now, gazing out the window from 20 thousand feet into the seemingly endless black expanse that stretches before me, I am brought back to earth. I am utterly broken, self-righteous, stained and a far cry from the creature I was intended to be.

I constantly get lost in my own world. My French seat neighbor probably thinks all Texans are stark raving mad (sorry, team. I'm blowing it) due to dondon yelling my name from four rows back to see if my in flight pasta was worth it or if he should get the chicken and Mem then getting confused and yelling 'what are y'all sayin'?' Not to mention my impromptu dance session when I momentarily forgot I was in public and got carried away jamming to Gungor's 'Beautiful Things'.

Look, quit judging me, sometimes you and God just need to get down during a transatlantic flight. Get down, we did.  So not only is my pants status currently uncertain, but I'm also pulling some Dance Dance Revolution like moves in my seat. It's fine, I'll just blame it on the turbulence. I really don't blame her for pounding the complimentary red wine that the silly Canadians are passing out like candy. If I were sitting next to a delirious blonde, I would do the same.

We serve this incredible God who IS love. He does not simply love us, love is His very essence, the fragrant output of the I Am.  If God is love, then my inability to only see love is due to my separation from the one who embodies it. When I allow myself to dwell on the things of this world, I am removing the cross from the chasm it bridges, the chasm that separates me from my creator. In its place, I put myself, which clearly is not working out so well…otherwise I wouldn’t be so entertained by making fun of other people…and their pants (or lack thereof). 

Gungor puts it so well in ‘Beautiful Things’. God makes such beautiful things out of dust. He created us. Humans are in incredible examples of God’s power and divine ability. We are curious enough to discover atoms, one of the smallest particles in our world, stubborn enough to build machines that defy gravity, trusting enough to give our hearts to someone as broken as we are, adventurous enough to dive to the depths, yet careless to ruin the beauty that surrounds us.

When I say it is too hard to love those around me I am claiming that either (a) God isn’t big enough to make me whole or (b) I know better than God….neither of which are claims I am willing to make with my mouth, but my actions scream it from the mountain tops on the regular. Who do I think I am? Clearly, I have forgotten that I am a child of Love itself. (not in the 1962 sort of way…)

I totally don’t deserve the blessings that God has given me. I never will, but I certainly don’t right now. I just got a mile high swift kick in the religious pants…errrr….pant-like apparatus.

Portion Control

Someone supposedly wise once said “Everything in moderation”, but I’m not so sure that’s true.

I can think of a few things that are really not good…even in moderation. Umm herpes, for one. Then there’s murder, cancer, clowns, licking the sidewalk, drinking gasoline, hotdogs (personal) and let’s not forget a little thing called JNCO’s. If I had a time machine I would immediately go back and tell my 7^th grade self that those things were a terrible idea…even if they matched my super sweet blue jersey pullover.

I went through this really cool stage where I ate the same portions as a 7-year old. It was great. It wasn’t something I tried to do. It just happened. I ate until I was full…and that happened to come after three bites. Sadly, my self-restraint is lacking and due to my obsession with food, I managed to screw that up. I have major issues with portion control.

I eat rather healthy. Random, but healthy. Tonight I had an apple with peanut butter, some pita chips and hummus, and a bowl of cereal. Snack, snack….and breakfast. I don’t know. It sounded tasty. The list sounds really healthy and quite light, but when you realize I had 234 pita chips it begins to be indulgent.

There is this really stupid trend in America where everything is oversized: chairs big enough for a family of four, plates the size of a small country, and bowls that can comfortably hold a baby. In a world where California Kings and super-sizing reign supreme, it’s no wonder we are programmed to think we need to eat 3.6 pounds of steak to constitute a full meal.

I just learned this neat trick. Instead of using my vat of a cereal bowl for my Cheerios, I eat it out of a glass. So maybe this trick was learned out of necessity because all of my bowls are buried somewhere beneath the mountain of dishes in my sink, but regardless it helps control the number of tasty little o’s that find their way into my diet.

I fool myself into thinking that because WHAT I’m eating is healthy the HOW MUCH I’m eating is irrelevant. Granted, it’s better than stuffing my face with 97 chicken nuggets, but the point remains that the mantra of everything in moderation is woefully wrong.

In Corinthians it says that ‘everything is permissible, but not everything is beneficial’, just because we can do it, doesn’t mean that it is going to be good….or even remotely worth it.

My desire for power is a vice I struggle with daily. Call it a product of the Fall or my competitive nature, the fact remains that I identify strongly with a Machiavellian society. My soul cries out against it, but my nature argues that the end does, in fact, justify the means.

Portion control is sadly, not a concept contained only to our food consumption. Our nature pushes us to do more, achieve more, attain more, be more, but when do the urgings of society stop being motivating and become destructive?

In this do-er world that I live in, I find myself relishing in the newfound responsibilities of adulthood. I am truly the king (or queen as it were) of my domain. My decisions? Selfish. My plans? Selfish. My motivations? Selfish. Without the accountability of another life attached to your destination, it is easy to lose yourself in the ease of solitude.

I can be completely career driven. I can plan every hour to satisfy the whims of my mood. Anything truly is permissible, but the falsehood of this freedom, if allowed to go unchecked, can lead to the harsh reality of a selfish solitude rather than the selfless community we were called to. Like my cereal, I need to practice strict portion control on my pride.

Baby-Makin' Hips

In my head I am a pretty low-maintenance girl. I play sports, I’m more comfortable getting sweaty playing ball than I am in heels or on the sideline. But it is during the moments that I catch myself spending entirely too long in front of the mirror taking inventory of my least favorite things that I remember one small fact: I am crazy.

Despite my exorcising efforts, there is one bodily change that try as I might, I cannot slow or stop. It is like standing on my porch watching the flood waters creep inch by inch towards the threshold, threatening life as I know it. My hips will not stop growing.

I get it, body, you are trying to tell me something…I’m supposed to be procreating Well, I have news for you. That isn’t happening any time soon. So, it would  be great if you could stop preparing for it.

My baby-making hips are ruining my life right now. Every day their girth widens by about an inch. Seriously, are you preparing to birth some sort of freakishly large child? I get that I am a genetic goldmine and will probably only produce linebackers…..but they aren’t going to come out 6’4, so please stop growing to accommodate a child of that size. You have 10 years to get ready. Make it stop.

My timeline is a little bit different from what my nether regions have determined appropriate. I say we are taking it slow, just chilling until something awesome comes along; my hips say time’s a tickin’. We need to get on the same page because there are only so many times I can convince myself  that the mirror is actually just at a weird angle so they just look bigger than they really are.

As my body prepares for the future, so does my heart. It’s actually irrelevant that I am not prepared to be with child because my hips are headed that direction regardless of my protests. God does this to us a lot. He doesn’t always wait until it is time to start growing us. Sometimes, he prepares you long in advance of the purpose set before you.

During those times when you feel emotionally and spiritually stretched for no reason, He is simply preparing for the beginning that will soon come. When God called Abram to leave his father’s house and everything he knew, God didn’t tell him where he was going. God told Abram to go to the land He will show him. Future tense. Meaning one day. Yo, Abram, grab your stuff and head out. I’ll keep you posted.

My spiritual hips are widening by the minute for a period that I am still not privy to. I get so frustrated that the creator of the universe won’t let me in on His secret. That the I Am, who doesn’t even need a noun because He is so much bigger than my grammatical constraints, thinks He knows better than I. Just like the tantrum I throw in the mirror as I watch my hips grow, I cry out to God when He won’t tell me what He is doing up there. I know that the transformation I am currently experiencing will lead to me not stabbing my husband in the face as we bring our beautiful creation into the world. By the looks of it, babies are actually just going to slip right out. A little shimmy here or there and the next Brian Urlacher will make his debut into the world. That knowledge does little to satiate my vanity because I have no idea when this change will come to fruition. My pretentious human flaw is that I need a path.

It is no wonder I feel lost without a mapped course for my life. Daily I follow the little blue dot on my iPhone as it directs me from the red pin to the green pin, making my path simple and well laid out. There are no surprises. GPS allows me to be 10 steps in front of the game, never missing a turn and never needing to make any sort of decision. I just follow this device blindly relying on its unerring ability to get me to my destination.

I have more faith in my GPS than I do in my Savior.

So This One Time....

This is one of those stories that I should probably keep to myself, but if you have ever met me…or if you have read any of my previous posts, then you know I have no social filter. Onward we go then? Fantastic.

I never liked jogging. In fact, I thought it was a stupid concept. Run for no reason? Ummm is someone chasing me? No? Well then, a slow stroll should suffice. Now that I have quite a bit of time on my hands I decided to try my hand at jogging. I bought the necessary moisture-wicking tank top, arm band for my mp3 player of choice, some tennis shoes with a handy ventilation system to keep my feet from getting sweaty (ya good luck, shoes) and finally put to good use the 39 pairs of Nike shorts I have lounging about from my sorority days.

And for the past month, things have been just fine. I made friends with the bike cops that patrol the area (safety first, I always say). I even befriended the guy at the locks who has an air conditioned kiosk just in case I heat stroke one day and need a friend (probably going to happen…its Sahara hot outside). It took about a month before I could feel the solid change. Rather than pounding the pavement gasping for air, now I look much more like a graceful gazelle prancing past the tourists waiting on the river barge. Bar a small snake incident that made me look like a complete tool for squealing at a decibel only heard by dogs and kindergarten girls, my jogs have been peaceful and my evenings quiet.

Enter the hobo.

My keen sense of observation is always on full alert during my jogs. There will be no surprise attacks here (sans the snake incident…which doesn’t count because he doesn’t have feet). About a week ago my warning system was on full blast. Sirens blaring, sweat pouring, I jumped when a man said “hey there” from behind a bush. Hey bro, you look creepy behind that bush. You also look creepy because…well...you’re creepy, but it’s broad daylight and I’m feeling optimistic so I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt. You, sir, are just a hobo.

I know plenty of hobos. There is Cigarette Lady, Dog Man, Maroon Shirt, Bike Guy Larry and now…Bush League (c’mon, those names are clever…and apropos). I live downtown and get my urban on every day. But people are people, even if they live in a box, or a bush as it were.

I thought little of my bush-dwelling friend, but decided to mention it to the officials just in case. I’ve seen enough horror movies to know what could come next, and I’m not having that. I believe in self-preservation. Despite the NRA bumper sticker my dad thought would be a hilarious joke that now elicits comments from co-workers on a daily basis, I am pretty old school on my defense tactics. Hand-to-hand combat, a solid scream….and knife throwing. Okay not really, but if you think about it knives would be the best weapon of choice in a scary movie. Why? The girl ALWAYS finds a knife, the gun ALWAYS breaks. Stabbing too close for comfort? Too bad I can throw this blade at you from a safe 10 feet distance. Oh, hey, good luck crazy killer walking all slow across the house….I just straight shanked you with my Renaissance-style skills.

Back to the bro in a bush.

The authorities were notified and I continued my evening jogs with little change until a few days ago. As I rounded the corner nearest his humble abode, I saw him standing there waving politely…..without any pants on.

Umm, excuse me, sir, I believe you forgot your pants...

Oh, you didn’t forget them? You’re just stark raving mad? My mistake. Carry on then.

Sadly, the evening ended with my friend being taken away in hand cuffs. And that, kids, is why we stay away from drugs.

Ladies and gents, though my hobos are friendly albeit unclothed characters, some are not. So get out there and get your cardio on, but don’t jam so hard to Nelly that you forget the world around you. So grab your Nalgene and your Ipod…and don’t forget your throwing knives, you never know when you might need them.