Someone Worth Checking Out

I'm not really big into the blog scene. I know, I know, I HAVE a blog...but really this is a place for me to get on my soapbox about crazy Christians and ugly shoes. I would not consider myself a wheel in the blog-cog.

Until about a month ago, the only blog I follow religiously is ThePioneerWoman. I'm addicted to her witty anecdotes and beautiful photographs of dicing onions and cracking eggs. Her Grilled Ribeye Steak with Onion-Blue Cheese sauce will go without mention here because even the thought of the deliciousness makes me put on 5 pounds.

I wish I was kidding. (About the poundage, not the recipe.)

However, if you like blogs about real people doing their best to love the Lord and deal with the ups and downs life throws at them, this girl is totally worth checking out:

http://www.sarahmarkley.com/

If there is one thing I dislike...hate...dispise even, it's a preachy Christian. I get mad at people that only post things on their facebook status like "God is SO Gr8!" or "I am so FULFILLED in HIM I don't know what to do with myself!!!".

I get mad for 2 reasons:

1. God is not extra honored because of weird capitalization.

2. NO ONE is always that happy and fulfilled. So to me, they just come across as desperate and fake. Some of my most intimate moments with the Lord come from conversations that start with an expletive (from me, of course, not God) or a phrase like, "God, I'm so mad at you right now." There's a brokenness found in that sort of place that can lead to a deeper insight into who God is.

Think of the words of Jesus on the cross. "My God, why have you forsaken me?" Obviously, Jesus would not have tweeted while on the cross, but still, that wasn't a "Jesus Christ is: super-excited for what the LORD is doing in His life!" kind of moment.

And the Bible says to "work out your faith with fear and trembling" not "and on your facebook status so everyone can know how spiritual you are"

So if I can't handle hyper-spirituality in 140 characters, I'm sure as heck not reading some pompous, self-righteous blog.

ALL OF THAT TO SAY:

Read Sarah Markley. She has a beautiful balance of insight and wit flavored with a deep and honest relationship with the Lord. She's articulate. She's genuine. She's refreshing.

And she has 2 adorable little girls.

And an amazing husband. (Usually I don't say things like that about other people's spouses, because clearly, Mr. Awesome has no equal. But just read their story, and you'll see what I mean.)

And she has an amazing God...I think He's pretty gr8 2!

So, They Announced the Date for the Premier...

And I am not a happy lostaway.

February 2nd.

That's 74 days from now. And that is lame.

What about the Olympics? Will they take a break? Can't they just show it all at once. We're talking one 18 hour (or wherever the count is now) chunk. Eating and sleeping would only be allowed on commercial breaks at my house.

URGH! I'm so impatient to get to the end.

The Three Camps of Christmas

Want to walk into a group of people and immediately stir up controversy? Sing a Christmas song in the middle of November.

Other than national health-care, nothing will polarize a group of people more quickly. There are only three camps:

1. The Buddy-the-Elf:
"OMG! I created my Dean Martin Christmas station on pandora.com two months ago! I've been listening to it and drinking peppermint mocha's from Starbucks every afternoon!"


2. The Traditionalist:
Covers their ears. "No, no! I will hear none of it until after Thanksgiving! You will leave my presence for trying to ruin the sanctity of Christmas by forcing it to precede Black Friday. Now begone with you, and your misguided holiday spirit."


3. The Ebeneezer Scrooge:
"Bah! Christmas. It's nothing but a commercial crock to make us spend money on frivolity and airline tickets. Frankly, my favorite holiday is Boxing Day. Yeah, Boxing Day. It's as far away from sugar-flake-gum-plum's as possible."

I promise, there is no middle ground here. Please, please try this in a very large, very public gathering of people and let me know what you find. :)



Make Buddy proud. You know you want to.

Musicals, as a Lifestyle

I always have been an avid lover of musicals. It started innocently enough with things most kids watch like Disney movies, or Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory.

Then Julie Andrews came along and messed everything up. With Julie, frolicking through the Austrian country-side in curtains or dancing on the rooftops of London seem not only like entertainment to a young, impressionable, imaginative slightly-hyper child. It became a possibility. And certainly, a preferred reality to the aforementioned child.

Then my eyes were opened to the wonderful world of Rogers and Hammerstein. Cinderella was a personal favorite of mine. Upon a recent revisiting of this musical, I realized how horrifyingly bad the vocal performances are. But hey, it was 1965, that's an entirely different musical era. (Listen to this if you want to cringe)

Needless to say, by the time I was 13 and finally introduced to Les Mis, I was desperately, hopelessly, and thoroughly hooked on musicals.

So I wonder:

Why can't choreographed singing and dancing happen in real life!?

Think about it, there are some cultural things that didn't really come from anywhere and are never officially taught, but people know them anyways. Like paper, scissors, rock. Every American child knows it is the most unbiased way to make a decision. The other night after Mr. Awesome and I used this method to agree on something terribly important, like what TV show we watched, I tried to remember where I learned it. I obviously wasn't born with an instinctive knowledge that rock smashes scissors, it was something I just picked up along the way. Probably preschool.

So why can't singing and dancing be the same way?

Sure, you learn the hokey pokey, but usually that's some poor teacher trying to get her ADD kids to blow off some steam before trying to teach them about addition. And sure, you learn "David and Katie sitting in a tree, K-i-s-s-i-n-g" the first time your kindergarten crush (jerk) is ignoring you for someone else (she was scrawny and bossy and he really should have liked me instead), but that hardly even qualifies as a song.

I'm talking about a real world, like that scene in Enchanted when everyone in central park knows Amy Adam's song. I'm talking about the scene in 500 days of Summer with the Hall and Oates song. I'm talking about fraulein Maria's voice being pumped through a train station's sound system.

THAT, my friends, is a world that I want to live in.

Here's to believing for a better tomorrow for my kids!

What's in a Name?

It's been just over a year since I married the man of my dreams. He's loving, caring, smart, hot beyond all reason, and a great listener. It has been, by far, the most fulfilling and rewarding year of my life.

(every married person is laughing right now, noticing I didn't say easiest)

His family is wonderful too. From a remarkably young age I had vivid nightmares of my future panning out similarly to the first half of "Monster-In-Law." The nightmares started before the movie was even released. That's how vivid my pictures of my groom's mother trying to sabotage my wedding was.

I could not have been more wrong!

My MIL is a home-cooking, Renee-loving, saint with a great sense of humor. I heart her.

She warned me, when Mr. Awesome and I were engaged, that I would be spelling my new last name for the rest of my life. Apparently it's one of those names that no one can get right. I laughed. My maiden name was the exact same way. I've literally heard dozens of variations of my name. Possibly hundreds. I am not intimidated simply because I have to spell my name. I was excited to take his name.

Today I was thinking what an beautiful tradition it is for a woman to take her husband's name. I know it's been an entire year that I've been signing credit card slips and typing it on emails, but sometimes it still hits me that I have a completely new identity.

And I really like it. I feel like a part of his identity is always with me.

I know there are some women out there that feel like this tradition is antiquated and counter-productive to gender equality. I'm not even going to discuss the latter point here, because that is an entirely different rant. (brief excerpt of said rant: I don't want to be equal to a man, I aspire to be a pretty great woman. There's an amazing book I once read called Fight Like a Girl, written by a wonderfully strong lady I know. She tackles this issue very well. If you want to be excited about femininity, read it! Please forgive the plug and the digression.)

I don't feel like this tradition is something that should be stricken from the record of modern society. It's beautiful and symbolic. Sorry if you think it's antiquated. (Hello, it is a tradition, please explain to me where traditions are supposed to be progressive?)

For me it was a tangible way to separate from my family and establish my own household with my new husband. It made me feel like I was a part of him. It was one of many small things that bound our hearts together as husband and wife.

It also is a vulnerable gesture, when a man offers his name to his bride. That means, not only is he trusting her with his heart, but he's trusting her with his lineage. He's offering that you join with his past, and step into his future as his partner. I don't think we make a big enough deal about lineage now-a-days. Modern society would do well to remember the generations that have gone before them, and honor them. Names like Anderson, Johnson and Williamson all come from people identifying themselves as from the family of Anders, John or William. That kind of honor has all but disappeared in our culture.

So why can't he take your name? Why can't you offer that he join your family heritage? Hate to pull the Jesus-Card, but marriage is still a representation of Christ and the Church. And Jesus, sure as heck, isn't taking my name. His is better anyways.

I'm not saying it's wrong to hyphenate. I'm not saying it's wrong to keep your last name. I'm just saying it's an incredible honor to have someone give you their family name. When women look at it as a form of bondage or as a loss of their identity, it makes me sad. It's not a loss. It's an incredible step into intimacy.

Why I'm not as thin as I'd like to be part 3

I discovered these this weekend. Oh. My. Chocolaty. Goodness.

I was hesitant at first because I'm not a dark chocolate kind of girl. If I'm going to indulge in chocolate it will be creamy and contain a cavity-inducing level of sweetness. Not bitter and crumbly. Also, typically fruit in my chocolate bores me. I feel as though candy marketers think this: if your chocolate is so mediocre that it can't stand alone, throw fruit in it! No one will notice the difference.

So I tried this to appease my mother.

THANK YOU MOM!

Don't like dark chocolate?

You will.

Don't like fruit in your chocolate?

You'll beg for more.

Promise.

Why I'm Not as Thin as I want to be Part 2 (iLike: food)

I like food.

I know this is a problem for almost everyone here in America. Except my mom. I'm convinced her taste buds don't work quite right, because she ALWAYS eats healthy. In my estimation, cardboard tastes better than some things she passes off as crackers or cereal. I do aspire to be like her. I would love to be so dedicated to my pursuit of health. But until they stop making mozzarella sticks, cheeseburgers and Fat Tire, I will eat because I love it.

I want to learn to cook better. I make a mean pot roast and some pretty fair chicken teriyaki, but I want to be really good. Like Epicurious.com good. I always feel so ashamed when I go to that sight because every third recipe calls for fennel. I don't even know what fennel looks like, no less where to find it in the store. *Deep shame and self-loathing*

I'm not sure how Mr. Awesome would respond though. Bless his meat-and-taters heart, he's one of the pickiest eaters I've ever met. Moms with 5 year olds that only eat chicken nuggets and Honey Nut Cheerios's, imagine him being 31. I'm worried that this is what would unfold if I got experimental with my evening menus:

This was for my birthday when we were dating. Maybe we were engaged, I don't remember, the significant thing to remember is: we weren't married yet. He had to try harder back then.

He took me to a great sushi place in Denver. I adore sushi. It's a luxury for me. I never make it for myself, so in my mind it is associated with special events.

He ordered steak.

So I begged him to try some of my sushi. Since, as I mentioned before, we hadn't tied the knot yet, he had to try. It's boyfriend law.

And THAT, my friends, is why I will be eating food with that special bar-food way of frying or grilling everything and fighting to take those calories off for the rest of my life.

Why I'm Not as Thin as I Want to be (Part one: The Gym)

I want to be thinner. I think every woman does. But I realized I have a few things standing in my way.

#1. The Gym.

I understand the gym should be the primary way by which the goal of being super-hot is achieved. But I have several issues with this.

First, the gym is filled with tons of skinny, toned and generally in-shape people. This is fine for people that are not me. Sometimes, seeing others like that can even be considered motivation. I, however, am dabilitatingly competitive. I see people like that and I want to be skinnier, more toned and generally more attractive than all of them, so I get frustrated if I haven't been there in 6 months, and some girl next to me is running a mini-marathon on her tradmill.

Seriously. It's a sickness. I'm working on it.

Second, I work 40 hours a week. I know this excuse sounds as feeble as my arms are at the moment, but hear me out. I'm a homebody by nature. If I don't have time doing laundry, putzing around in the kitchen, or simply sitting on the couch watching Mythbusters re-runs, I feel out of sorts, and typically rather cranky. What this means for my relationship with the gym is that it cuts into my already too-short time at home during the work week.

If I get home from work around 5:30, eat a light something, go to the gym at 6:30, do a little eliptical action, a few free weights, get changed and come home a little after 8. Dinner at 8? Ick.

Ok, so let's get creative. I hit the gym after dinner. That means I get there around 8, hop on the treadmill, do a couple dozen sit ups, and roll out at 9:30-9:45. Ugh, no matter how I dice the situation up, I end up feeling cheated out of my time at-home time, and I get cranky.

I know what is going through your head right now. "If you hate it so much at night, why don't you go in the morning before work?"

...Seriously?

We must be strangers.

My husband is one of those beautiful people you see walking around the gym. He's the male version of the people that make me feel competitive and like dirt simultaneously. He is sculpted so becuase he LOVES the gym. He says it helps him feel good, helps him focus, helps him relax. No, I don't know what planet he's from.

So I understand that I am entirely responsible for my jeans getting tighter. But those are the reasons I don't frequent the gym.

All those and, I just don't like it.

Weather

Here is a picture of what greeted me when I got to work this morning. I was estatic. I don't know why I get such a kick out of foggy, rainy weather.

It's cozy, for starters. I love the idea that I can wear something warm. I always find myself wanting to snuggle up with my husband and watch a movie while sipping on a cup of Sleepy Time tea.

But I think the other reason I like this weather is that I read too much. I don't really read typical 20-something fiction. If your main character lives in Manhattan and works for a fashion magizine, I'm highly uninterested in your book. Now, take me to England 500 years ago, and I'm yours! If your characters are wearing cloaks and running around the woods, that's also a plus.

So I guess the real reason that I like this weather is becuase I feel like my imagination is heightened. It's comfortable becuase I've already spent hours here. Well, not here, really. Middle Earth, Scotland, Narnia, Atlantis. I don't know that I would really care to read a book about someone that lives in Palmer Lake.

Tell me you can't see Aragorn riding through that mist.

Or Arthur and his knights starting out their quest for the Holy Grail.

Or an Atlantian princess out for a morning stroll through the hills her father's realm.

Of course you can.

Hmm, I'm sorry, Atlantis is calling, I must answer.

Working in an office Pet Peeve #1

I like that title, this may become a series. We’ll see.

I’m sure anyone that’s ever worked in an office setting has several of these pet peeves. The loud nose-blowing co-worker, coffee grounds in the coffee, the eternally broken copy machine are all common ones. But really, I’ve discovered this one has given me more trouble lately than I care to even admit.

Ask anyone that knows me well, one of the last words you could use to describe me is anal. I’ve come to terms with the fact that the kitchen at work is used by many different people. I understand that not everyone cares to be fastidiously clean. The problem comes when the line is crossed to unsanitary. That’s when I start to get cranky.

I really hate when I go to put my lunch in the microwave…I’m sorry did I say microwave, I mean a 6 sided Jackson Pollock painting with spaghetti sauce and dried re-fried beans and I have trouble fighting my gag reflex. Yummy. That makes me excited to eat lunch!

I don’t understand how difficult it is to cover your food. It takes two seconds. Maybe three if you have to fight with the paper towel holder.

So that’s fine! Leave your nasty food in the fridge to mold! Leave puddles of coffee on the counter! Just cover your soups, casseroles and Italian leftovers!

Baby Names and Recess

Last night Hubby and I were talking about kids, and he mentioned how he’d like our kids to have strong Norwegian names. I get that, we are the last people in his family to carry on the family name. His dad has about a billion brothers, but none of them popped out any boys. Redic, I know. No pressure to have kids with both an X and a Y chromosome, none at all. So I get the idea of it…carrying on the family heritage and all. The hitch is that there are no cool Norwegian boys names. We’re talking Axel, Hans, and Sven. Can’t you just hear me in a half a dozen years… “Oly, Thor, quit your pillaging and come inside for dinner you adorable little Viking children!”
Then Hubby says to me, “What about Bjorn.”
Haha. That's really a good one...super funny...wait...what about it?

He was serious. It’s a strong Scandinavian name, therefore, it’s good enough for our child. I had immediate flashes of poor little Bjorn on his first day of kindergarten. Teacher does roll call. Stumbles over the name. Mean kids in the class giggle. Recess. My baby boy gets knocked to the ground because his daddy wanted him to have a strong Scandinavian name. No bueno.

If Dead is Dead, Then That Sucks for John Locke.

After a few weeks of the final “thud” of season 5 still ringing in my head, I feel a bit more settled now. Mostly that’s thanks to the podcasts I’ve been listening to and the inordinate amounts of time that I’ve been spending on lostpedia.com. There was one day last week where I had to have spent 3 hours in total on lostpedia.com catching up on every bit on nuance I’ve ever missed. Later, I regaled my husband about how the Black Rock couldn’t have legally been a slave-trading ship because of the year that slavery had been abolished, therefore it was most likely a prisoner-transport vessel. He endured it because he loves me. What a good man.


Another topic I spent some serious time with was John Locke. In the finale I was distracted by things like seeing Jacob for the first time and what the heck lay in the shadow of the statue and cared a surprising little about Locke. I was also driven to temporary-insanity by how much I wanted the hydrogen bomb to go off and miraculously allow everyone to live except for that whiney, insecure doctor with his ridiculous “count to five” story that I, and the rest of the viewing audience was tired of hearing about two seasons ago. (Note to producers: emotional touchstones CAN be overworked!) But, I digress…


All these things were more in my face than Locke’s body being revealed, yet again, in a season finale. As it stood when the episode ended, I wasn’t sure what I thought about the double reveal. I felt like when I was a kid and mom made dinner, and then the next night used the leftovers in a casserole. The decision felt over-worked and slightly anti-climatic during the fiery, time-traveling, actually-physical-Jacob finale.


But the more I think about Locke’s body being unceremoniously dumped onto beach by Ilana and crew, the more is implied. Though yes, I did just compare it to casserole, the plot twist is really brilliant because I’m still thinking about it four weeks later. Maybe it’s like a super-special tuna noodle casserole?


Since there was a dead Locke being dragged around by Bram and the boys, yet a seemingly alive Locke was championing Ben to commit murder, it appears as though anti-Jacob doesn’t need a body to take corporeal form. He doesn’t necessarily re-animate someone’s body, but takes on it’s form. Is there a connection to the other deceased we’ve seen on the Island that appear alive like Christian Shepherd, Yemi, and bloody-nosed Horace? And are these apparitions all anti-Jacob? It would be a logical statement then, to say that the body has to be on the Island to accomplish this because Anti-Jacob didn’t start running around as Locke (as far as we can tell) until Ajira 316 crashed with Locke’s dead body. Christian, Yemi and Horace’s bodies are all hanging out on the Island as well easily allowing anti-Jacob to take their form. When Eko finds Yemi’s body in the drug plane, he is rather disgustingly decayed however, when he talks with Eko, other than some dust on his suit, he looks alive. (And that is a point for which I am glad, because a talking mostly-skeleton Yemi would have caused me to stop watching the show)


So that means dead is dead and they’ve been telling us the truth all along? Don’t know how I feel about that. The reason I have a hard time with the idea is the lack of redemption for Locke’s character. I mean, the poor guy never came out on top in anything. He failed Richard Alpert’s creepy little Dali Lama test when he was 5, was conned out of a kidney by his father, (A kidney? Yes, a kidney, he only mentioned it 62 times before season 3 was over) and lost the only woman who ever loved him. That’s a rough life. He was used by his father, used by Ben, and now apparently and finally, used by anti-Jacob to set the “loop hole” into motion. And that’s his entire character arc? Sad.


Do I think they’ll bring him back to life yet again? Probably in some fashion. They’ve invested too much into the character to allow his arc to end there. Even if they do a few more flashbacks, but keep him dead, I’d be fine with that.


Do I hope they bring him back to life. No. How many times are they going to try to mess with our brains about this? Personally, it would damage the credibility of the writers. And with a story that forces their audience to trust them as much as Lost, they can’t break trust like that.


Do I think I can wait until January to see how this all pans out? I guess I have no choice, but I’ll probably be warring with myself to stay away from spoilers as soon as they start filming again.

the joy of the mundane

Do you ever get tired of seeing and hearing the same thing over and over; drudging through an overwhelmingly predictable day with perfect punctuality? The kind of day where the more you look at the clock, the slower it moves. Do you ever have the urge to bash in your computer screen with a stapler just for the sake of doing something different, exciting and unexpected?

That's today.

Authenticity

I’ve been thinking a lot about authenticity lately. I’m probably focusing on it because so much in my society is fake these days. Packaged foods have so many chemicals that there are barely traces of real ingredients, everything that Hollywood cranks out is retouched with CGI, and let’s face it, I don’t trust the standardized church father than I can chuck it.

There is a shockingly large amount of people that I feel as though expect me to behave in a certain fashion. I understand that in society people have different roles and are expected to fulfill those roles. My employers expect me to be a good worker, capitalism expects me to be a brainless consumer and the government expects me to obey the law and pay my taxes. That’s not what I struggle with. It’s the fact that I feel like I can’t have a bad day that bothers me, the fact that I can’t question or wrestle with God, the fact that I can’t have any problems.

Don’t problems and issues simply go with the territory of humanity? We are being perfected and refined by the Lord, sure, but who’s actually ever arrived? The last man I knew that claimed to go for long periods of time without sinning…well, was apparently soliciting a male prostitute regularly. That’s not the kind of life I want to lead. The idea of that kind of inner duality just discourages me. I want to know God and be known by Him, but how is that possible if I’m not honest about my shortcomings, which is the entire reason I NEED Him.

In a situation like this, when my thinking and belief seems to go against the typical Sunday school answers with which I was raised, I turn to the scriptures to see how far “off base” I might be. But the more I investigate, the more I see that if Jesus was anything while walking the face of this earth he was REAL. He was always sneaking away from the crowds and his disciples to spend time with the Father. That’s pretty legit. He loved His time with the Father so much that He put the rest of His life and ministry aside on a daily basis.

Then think about the disciples. HELLO, 11 of them died for him. Those are some real friends. Let’s be honest, I love my church leaders, but I would never actually die for them. The people I’d die for without batting an eyelash are the ones that have been there in my best and my worst moments. They are the people that know my secrets and trust me with theirs. They are the people that I have built lasting relationships with in the mundane beauty of everyday life.

Most people in the church would give me those two points without question. To know the Lord and be honest with him and then to have genuine friends within the church surrounding you are kind of a given in Christian society. But what about the heathens? Jesus hung out with the lowest of society. He hung out with the hookers and drug addicts and thieves of the day. Or, Maybe less extreme examples will be easier to identify with, he hung out with the sluts, adulterers, gamblers, partiers and foul-mouthed. Something about human nature desires to put people into a stereotype. If there is a group of kids standing around smoking weed, most people immediately associate all of them with that activity. It’s entirely possible that one of them has never smoked, but their reputation is ruined because of the company they were keeping. Jesus didn’t care about the way that people perceived him! He spent time with the worst of sinners, knowing that it would hurt his reputation in the religious world. But isn’t that the thing? Jesus wasn’t religious.

So if Jesus wasn’t religious, why the hell are we expected to be? Why is looking like you have everything together a prerequisite for entering the presence of God? That’s not the God I know. It breaks my heart but I have seen countless people in my generation give up on the Lord because of the church. Do you hear that? They’ve given up on a real God with real power, grace, forgiveness, and love because the “body of Christ” is obsessed with appearances. This problem is not new, however. There’s a nagging memory about someone calling church people white-washed sepulchers. I’m tired of a society filled with dead bones.

Mary Freaking Kay

I’m not a fan of Mary Kay. Not the makeup or the ideology or the pink Cadillac’s or the idea that “your friends are going to buy makeup anyways so they may as well pay you for it.” I despise hearing lines like “I’m sorry you’ve had a bad experience, but we have a cleanser (eye-liner/ color palate/ perfume/ moisturizer/ nail polish) for every skin type!” and “Mary Kay has really changed their target demographic, they’re younger and more hip now.”

And tell me why I always find myself in a room of over-perfumed and over-bleached women with hideous brown shades spackled on their eyes, cheeks and lips ooh-ing and aah-ing over how beautiful I am as I expertly apply their purple-palate to my eyes. Though you would think I might enjoy these tender utterings in my favor, I know that truly they just want me to sign up to sell their makeup and become their collective protégé. I don’t know what the going rate for signing an underling in the makeup world is, but it must be pretty darned good. In that cramped living room with 4 sets of spider eyes blinking at me, I feel more pressure to say yes than a cheerleader on prom night.

This, however, is not my major grievance with Mary Kay. With shame I admit to you that I have been suckered in to these cramped living rooms and musty basements with the cleverly used promises of a “pampering session” or a “make over”. Once, a lady had the audacity of announcing with vigor that myself and my bridesmaids had won a spa day with a pizza lunch. I have two fundamental issues with that invitation. One, what self-respecting spa gives you pizza for lunch? Two, what part of some cleanser on a q-tip resembles a spa? How am I supposed to feel pampered as I apply my own toner and moisturizer from a cheap cotton ball? Pampering would be me in an over-large reclining chair with low lights, plinky music, and someone doing that for me!

But now I am the wiser. I can hear it in their voice, even though they very carefully will never admit they’re from Mary Kay. I will never again be sucked into the vortex of exaggerated color and fake smiles.

I Hate Neighbors

So I've never lived in an apartment before. Hopefully, I will never have to do so again. I don't particularly like giving directions to a complex where 45 buildings look the same. I don't like having to walk up three flights of stairs when carrying 18,000 pounds of groceries. And I really don't like the people that moved in right below us.

About 6 weeks ago, they moved in. With their yappy little dog. I remember the first time we heard the thing. Jake and I were standing in the kitchen unpacking about 12,000 pounds of groceries, and it began. Then about three days later, we walked in the door and there was an unmistakable and overwhelming smell of cigarette smoke in our very non-smoking apartment, wafting up through some sort of air duct.

That's not even the most offensive thing that's happened to us since they've moved in. For some reason, they seem to think that 4 foot statues of hooded monks with giant crosses around their necks are ok to put, in triplicate outside their front door. I genuinely startled when I first came down the stairs and saw them. I said to Jake that they couldn't possibly intend to keep them there. Well...it's been 6 weeks and the only thing that's changed is they've added an ugly totem pole on their balcony.

Tonight was the final straw for me. I came home to an apartment that, yet again, reeked of their second-hand smoke. I called the apartment complex and very sweetly asked if they could try to fix the problem. (left a message)

Later, Jake tackled me on our bed. This always makes me laugh, and since I'm not used to being tackled by anyone on a regular basis, always catches me off guard. About five minutes later someone pounded on our door. I figured that it was the maintinance guy coming to fix our problem. I scurried to get something a bit more "Hi maintinance guy" and a little less, "Hi, husband" appropriate. But then I hear a woman's voice, and Jake saying, "I was just sitting at the computer...No, really, I was just sitting there."

Apparently the worst neighbors in the world think that there's something wrong with us and the ugly, fat lady was yelling at my husband and I for being loud and stomping around. Really? had I not been scrambling for a hoodie, I would have given her quite the piece of my mind. I would have, with extended finger, recounted to her the time that her yapping dog interrupted our Valentine's day dinner.

Never had a war with another neighbor. Who knows, this could get ugly. There may be hooded monks involved.

Oh, Lost Fandom

This is not a Lost blog. Period. But there is something that I have to get off my chest… Or off my plate... Honestly, since the situation makes me sick, I'm going with the off the plate analogy.

In the Lost fan community, there is a group of people called "Shippers". You might think, being that the show is about a quazi-deserted island, that the term has something to do with a form of rescue or (for those of you that are caught up) a method of return to the island. But no. This is the group of fans that obsess over the relation"ships" in the show. These are the people that talk incessantly about the "look" that Jake gave Kate or the way that Sawyer "didn't call Kate freckles that one time, so clearly it means that he cares". Frankly, I find it all a bit exhausting.

Being a girl, I'm all for a good love story. I cried in The Notebook, I would certainly "have what she's having" from When Harry Met Sally, and I self-indulgently quote the sonnet along with Julia Stiles at the end of Ten Things I Hate About You. But that's just the thing, I like GOOD love stories. I like flawed but realistic characters that overcome themselves and their surroundings to be together. Once characters start sinking into self-pity and debilitating insecurity, I lose patience with them and any sort of love conflict construed in an effort to keep my attention.

In this group of "Shippers" there are two primary sub-groups, the "Jaters" and the "Skaters". These sects derive their names from the increasingly popular phenomenon of combining the two separate names of a couple. Camp "Jater" thinks that Jack and Kate should be together, and the "Skaters" believe that the only man for Kate is Sawyer.


Logically, to be in camp "Jater" you have to like Jack. This is difficult for me. From the beginning of the show, I've struggled with the Jack-led circus. I struggle with the idea that a surgeon with no military training and less than quality leadership skills would be the one responsible for every one's life. The actual mystery of the show is why the Iraqi techie/torturer/ex-military/general-bad-ass doesn't call the shots. There should be bumper stickers "Sayid for Grand Poobah of the Island". To round out the category there's flash-forward Jack. If it's possible I dislike him more than normal Jack. I mean, no one likes a pill popping doctor with a guilty conscience who sees apparitions of his creepy dead father, but really, the beard? Really Matthew Fox? Really make-up department? Really Damon and Carlton? Eww.

Sawyer, on the other hand, has been a fun character to watch progress through the show. Personally I enjoy his southern twang, his quick wit and his base of literary knowledge. He's awfully heroic toward the end of season four, which is a far cry from when he was ripping wallets off dead bodies and sleeping on top of his stash. Though, honestly, I almost liked him better when he was a scoundrel. I kinda dig the scruffy-looking scoundrel with the heart of a hero gig.


Though you may think you've pegged me as a shameless "Skater" don't start making any primitive statues of a four toed Sawyer with his precious Kate-bride yet.


The problem of falling into either camp is that Kate is the common denominator. To want to see Kate with the man of choice, you would have to wish her on them and though I'm far from in love with Jack, I wouldn't even wish her on him. There are two primary issues that I have with Kate.

The first is that she's completely inconsistent. I don't know if this is simply a characterization issue or if the writers simply use her as a tool to further the plot. She's sweet and innocent, yet a cold blooded father-killer. It seems as though we see her with a different guy in every flash-back. She is a super tracker and a great shot with a pistol, yet through seasons one and two is constantly sneaked up on or walking into traps. Now that she's taking care of Aaron, does anyone else see a Michael-esque "MY SON!" headed our way to inspire us to throw our televisions out the 8th story of a building?


The second issue I have with her is, she can't decide whether she's a "Skater" or a "Jater" herself! I understand being torn between two fabulously good looking men, but really you can't just pick and stick with one in all of your emotional turmoil?

The point is, "Skaters" and "Jaters" Please, have your day in the sun. Tear up when Jack pops the question. Sigh when Sawyer kisses her and jumps out of the helicopter. But really, if you care about those characters, it would be in their best interest not to be with Kate.

And really, if I were on the island, I'd have a "Sayid for Grand Poobah of the Island" sign in front of my tent and not bother with these Sawyer/Jack questions.