Thursday, September 28, 2006

The Positives of Being Married to a Negative Person

One morning when I was completely exasperated with my husband (and blinded by my own frustration) I thought, Why, oh, why did I marry him?! And the sad thing was that I had no excuse. I dated my husband for FOUR YEARS before we got married, so I knew pretty much all there was to know about him. I knew his faults. We both made full disclosure in those four years and walked into marriage with our eyes wide open.

Our differences were pretty obvious from the beginning. If we hadn’t met on a blind date, we probably would have never met. In fact, after we started dating, both sets of our friends were VERY surprised. I can’t tell you the number of people who said, You’re dating Brett? You? And, of course, his friends asked him the same question. People had a right to be surprised. Here are some of our more obvious differences:

Me – Country
Brett – Heavy Metal

Me – Reading
Brett – TV

Me – Preppy
Brett – Biker

Me – Overachiever
Brett – What’s a nice way to say the opposite?

Me – Urban
Brett – Rural

Me – Large group of acquaintances
Brett – Small group of friends

Me – White Collar
Brett – Blue Collar

Me – Assertive
Brett – Laid Back

Me – Thought theology was BORING
Brett – Thought theology was fascinating


I could list more stuff, but you get the point. So, I knew this going in. The nice thing about having so much NOT in common is that when you find things you both like, it’s a treat. For instance, we both love history, action adventure movies, and science fiction.

I never planned to get married. I wanted to prove to myself and the world that a woman could be a success on her own. I never wanted to be in the inescapable position of having a man support me. And, perhaps a little more painful to admit, I knew that no man would ever want me.

My thoughts going off the college were that I MIGHT get married, but probably in my forties to a man whose wife had died or some such thing where he would want to be with me. I wanted him to be in marketing or advertising, and I especially wanted him to be a funny and smart man of Jewish heritage. That was my tentative plan. But thanks to God’s intervention, I ended up dating a tall, serious, Swede in my first year of college.

Truthfully, the only reason I went out with my husband after our initial blind date was his dogged persistence. He called me all the time and said the nicest things. I had never had a guy treat me like that. NEVER! I wasn’t in love with him at first, but he was so convinced we were meant to be together that I had to a least give him a chance. And I had to admire his perseverance. After a while, I found out what an amazing person he was. He WAS very different from me, but many of those differences were good things that helped me to maintain balance.

Me – Judgmental
Brett – Understanding

Me – Sarcastic
Brett – Sincere

Me – Unforgiving
Brett – Forgiving

I’d go on, but I’m not sounding like such a good catch myself right now. The main difference between us has been that I’m a born optimist (albeit a cynical one) and Brett’s kind and loving but also most definitely a pessimist. I like to joke he’s like the donkey from Winnie the Pooh! So, usually my frustration stems from the very different ways we can view a situation. And, of course, like all married couples, we are normal in our *cough* *cough* discussions of important issues.

One of the things I enjoy about my husband is that, even after six year of marriage and ten years together, he still chases and pursues me in a way that makes me feel beautiful and attractive. And when opposites attract - like we do – there can be sparks! The good kind, too.

I’ve started to think about our union like a battery. A battery needs both a positive and negative end to make anything work. And when we are in sync, even with our different perspectives, our marriage works wonderfully!

So, in the end, my frustration rarely wins out, and I realize I’m really in love and still attracted to my opposite.

Besides, one of the best things about fighting with a big, tall, handsome man is the making up with the big, tall handsome man.

Ooh, la, la!

Tuesday, September 26, 2006

Tlips of the Sounge

My mother has been amusing me for years. Ever since I was a little girl, she has had some of the funniest slips of the tongue and misunderstandings. Hanging out with my mom is sort of like living in a sitcom.

Here are some examples:
Mom was talking about a recent court ruling. She was pretty sure the accused would get out of the death penalty, because he was going to flea bargain. FLEA bargain! She thought that was the correct term. She’s been using it her whole life.

I thought Mom was being funny when I saw she wrote Congradulations on a card to a new grad. When I told her, she asked me what I meant. It turns out she thought it was the correct spelling.

When I was eight, we were going through a drive thru at a local restaurant, and the person at the window asked Mom if she wanted condiments. Mom lost her temper. She asked the server, Don’t you think it is enough they are handing them out at schools and Planned Parenthood? Now, you are trying to hand them out with your meals? I calmed her down and (between laughter and embarrassment) managed to say, Mom, he said “condiments, not condoms! Oh, my mistake, she told the server and calmly drove away.

After church one time, she told some new visitors that she didn’t eat Sunday dinner with her clothes on. When we got in the car, they were still looking at us, and Mom realized she had left out the word “good” – with her good clothes on.

When the President was talking about finding weapons of mass destruction, she said how she was glad they hadn’t deplored yet. Mom – the word is deployed!

When my Dad was still living, he was driving a little too fast for my mother (with my mother 35 miles per hour is too fast). She demanded that he stop “whizzing” around out there.

She and my dad were talking about politics, and Mom couldn’t remember the name of the country she wanted to talk about. She kept telling my Dad it started with an “S.” We guessed every country we could think of with an “S,” and she kept shaking her head. So, she tried to start spelling it. Pointing her finger at us, she kept saying, “You know, S-O-B-... Stop laughing you guys. I know it’s S-O-B-… something, I just can’t remember the rest.” By the end of the whole ordeal, Dad and I were laid out on the floor in hysterics. We finally figured out the country. It was Portugal.

I heard my mom on the phone with my ultra-conservative Aunt Jan. “It’s a crock, Jan! Just a big crock!” I wondered what could possibly have agitated my normally calm mother into talking to my Aunt Jan like that. When I got closer, I saw she was describing her latest cross-stitch project – a drawing of an actual milk crock.

My boyfriend at the time (my husband now) and I were having a huge fight in the middle of my mom’s living room. Mom got us calmed down. She asked me what was wrong. When I got done telling my side of the story, she turned to my husband and said, Okay, we’ve heard the AT version, now, let’s hear the BS version. It was one of the best lines I’ve ever heard, and Mom was totally oblivious. I still use it today when I ask my husband if something is the truth or just the BS version.

But, as happens to all of us, I heard myself yesterday describing the rural neighborhood we live in. The words actually came out of my mouth. It’s not a neapolitan area. I said it. I admit it. Now, the person I was talking to knew I meant metropolitan, but she still couldn’t stop laughing.

Now, I guess I know how Mom feels.

And you know, if it is only one of the ways I end up being like her, I’d be more than happy with it. You know, if I didn’t live in an ice cream neighborhood and all.

Slogans! Get Your Slogans!

I should have gone into advertising. I love creating slogans, one liners, titles, and captions of all kinds. Recently, I found a website where I can indulge this passion. I go to www.zazzle.com and create T-shirts, mugs, and other items. Two of my recent favorites are:

(As listed earlier)
I don’t have OCD.
I don’t have OCD.
I don’t have OCD.

And

Rabbit owners do it like….well, you know.

It is SO fun! I also love coming up with what I think would be interesting book titles. Last night I was surveying the bunny cardboard kingdom that is slowly but surely taking over our master bedroom, and I thought, Wouldn’t a good book title be – The City of Boxes? It sounds like it could be an expose on homelessness. Or maybe The Box Dwellers?

I am always thinking of titles for my own writing-works-in-progress. Here are the ones I have in progress right now:

Fiction:
Sky Seven (futuristic mystery thriller)
Gang Land (end-of-the-world action adventure/love story)
*Bruised (foster child fiction)
*This is the first in a planned trilogy. The other two books are Beaten and Broken (or Buried – I haven’t decided on the last title yet.) Actually when I told a very supportive friend about these titles, she started joking about other titles – like Bludgeoned, Back Handed, and Buried – which I actually like and might use instead of Broken. It’s hard for writers to share, but, in this case, I’m glad I did, since I might have a better title!

No titles yet for:
Colin & Lexi (working title – historical fiction)
Josh & Sarah (working title - mystery thriller)
The Farm (working title – historical fiction)

Non-Fiction:
The X Word
(my life stories)
Bystanders (my life stories)
The Sherman Avenue Rehfeldts (collection of family stories)

Wow, now that I look at that list, I realize I better start getting the pedal to the metal on these! I love each one of them.


Now, I just hope I’m as excited, passionate, and talented at real writing as I am at creating slogans.

No, Really I Don’t. Do I?

I recently remarked to a co-worker that a funny slogan to put on a mug or a T-shirt would be:

I don’t have OCD.
I don’t have OCD.
I don’t have OCD.

Now, I know that probably isn’t as funny to people who struggle with OCD (or maybe it is, if they have a sense of humor). But the reason I thought about it was because I think I may have a touch of OCD. Nothing full-blown (at least not yet), but I find myself occasionally doing things an OCD person would do. For instance, I have to check all the outlets in my house before I leave to be sure nothing is left plugged in. Now, that sounds like I’m just being safety conscious, but I left out the part where I have to do it at least three times! I actually build about five minutes into my schedule to allow myself the three-time-plug-check. I do the same thing with candles, even after they’ve been blown out, sometimes I even find myself checking them (a tad obsessively) the next day.

The earliest recollection I have of my mini-OCD episodes was in the fourth grade. Our teacher would assign us seatwork (work to do in our seat after she was done teaching), and if we finished our work, we could leave it on a table in the back, and then go get a game to play quietly at our seat. Well, being the overachiever I was then, I would often finish my seatwork, put it on the table in the back, and go get my game. Then, I would double-check the table to be absolutely sure I hadn’t just imagined completing my work and actually had put it on my table. I’d go back to my desk, and then five minutes later, head back to the table to (once again) be sure I’d actually finished it. Finally my teacher, who said she eventually got exhausted just watching me trek back and forth, told me to just give my work to her and for-crying-out-loud-go-back-to-your-desk-and-just stay-there!

Since then, my kind-of OCD comes and goes in spurts. I have the same worries everyone else does – worry about leaving my hair rollers plugged in, a candle lit, a faucet turned on, etc. It’s just that sometimes worry overwhelms me. Most of the time it doesn’t. But I clearly remember one morning where I sat inside my car, in my garage, paralyzed with fear that I had left something plugged in and that my house would burn down while I was at work. I honestly debated calling in sick.

When I confessed this fear to my mom, she had (as mothers often do) a very sane and uncomplicated solution. She told me to do what I needed to do – check the plugs and candles – and then say to myself, I have done all I can humanly do to ensure the safety of my home. Lord, I leave the safety and protection of this house, which is your house, anyway, in your hands. She said that if I did that, I fulfilled my responsibility as a homeowner and as a believer. So that if I were ever to come home one day and my house were burned to the ground, I would know that God desired it to be so.

So, now when those OCD moments occur (and they still do every so often), I pray that prayer and find myself relaxing inside a little.

I told Mom I appreciated her advice and joked how I wished I’d been raised Amish so I wouldn’t have these worries. Her response? Horses can still knock over lanterns, you know.

Thanks, Mom. It’s nice to know the even the Amish aren’t safe. From fire. Or, I’m sure, from OCD episodes like mine.

Sunday, September 24, 2006

Grilled Cheese Master

I am a grilled cheese master. I have achieved the art of the slightly brown toasted, right amount of cheese meltiness, light buttery goodness, and perfect twist flip that combine to make the World’s Best Grilled Cheese. I’m good at it. And I should be. Twenty years of practice (apparently) makes perfect.

I started making grilled cheeses when I was eight (thanks mostly to my mother’s frustration). I detested (and still do) most breakfast foods. Eggs. Yuck. Sausage. Yuck. Bacon. Double Yuck. Oatmeal. Gag me. Cereal. Why not eat cardboard? Jelly? Tastes like squished bugs. Should I go on? Anyway, I wouldn’t touch most breakfast foods, except for chocolate (and only chocolate) Pop Tarts. Mom despaired on what to make me for breakfast. I was SO picky.

Then one morning I got sick and couldn’t go to school. Mom had to drop me off at Grandma’s house. Grandma asked me what I wanted for breakfast, and I decided to take a shot at what I really DID want. “Grilled cheese?” I asked hesitantly. And off Grandma toddled into the kitchen to make me a grilled cheese – AT 9:00 O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING!!! I was exultant. The impossible was possible.

Looking back now, I realize that perhaps Grandma was just indulging her sick grandchild, but I’m not kidding when I say that moment changed my life. It made me realize that no matter how odd (and people still think the fact I have grilled cheese in the morning is very odd) something may be considered by other people, if you really want it, it IS possible. I credit Grandma for teaching me (with just one little ole grilled cheese) to think “outside the box” and go for my dreams, no matter what other people think.

The next morning I told my mom I wanted grilled cheese for breakfast. She looked at me a little strangely, and I decided to make a case for it. First, I pointed out Grandma had done it – her very own mother. Then, I said it included a lot of the same things as in “regular” breakfast food. Bread = Toast, Cheese = Used in scrambled eggs, and Butter = Used on toast. Mom says I made a very passionate argument for an eight year old.

After she listened, she thought for a moment, and then said I COULD have grilled cheese for breakfast, but I would have to learn to make it for myself, since she wouldn’t have time to do it every morning.

So, she gave me a Grilled Cheese Making Lesson. At first, I spread the butter too hard and the bread would tear, and sometimes I forgot to spray the pan and the whole mess would stick, and other times I got distracted and charred my sandwich…but, after a while, I became an artist. And my parents were so relieved I wasn’t just eating chocolate Pop Tarts anymore that they just got used to it.

After a while, it became part of our family history. I still remember being a very happy nine year old when Mom and Dad presented me with a non-stick pan for Christmas. “It’s for your grilled cheeses,” they sang to me in chorus. It is an atypical, albeit warm and fuzzy, holiday memory.

I haven’t expanded my breakfast horizons very much over the years. In college, I fell in love with bagels and cream cheese. I had never tasted cream cheese before, due to thinking it was the same thing as cottage cheese (which I had tasted and disliked very, very much – tasted like lumpy mucus!). And I learned to tolerate certain dishes and cereals, but I lived for the weekends I would be home and could make grilled cheese for breakfast.

I still make grilled cheese for breakfast at least two times a week. I vary it with toast and peanut butter, bagels and cream cheese, cereal, fruit, and an occasional treat like one (and only one) donut.

But, for some reason, even to this day, I can’t seem to make myself even look at (or think about) chocolate Pop Tarts.


Go figure.

Talk about Your Mood Shifts

I was going to write about appreciation today. I walked around my house in the quiet of the morning and just appreciated what God has given me. I looked at all my beautiful fall decorations. Each thing was either given to me by someone special or hand-picked with care by me to fit in perfectly with my personality and my house. I lit a fall candle my mom gave me and just savored the moment.

Then I came upstairs and talked to my still half-asleep husband about something financial which I thought was going to be no big deal. But I was wrong. It is a big deal, and he says it is impossible to do it. Well, since I spent all morning figuring it out, I was disappointed on two levels. First of all, I apparently wasted a good deal of the morning figuring it all out. Secondly, it was something I really wanted to do, and now it appears I won’t be able to.

So, I went from being appreciative to being disappointed, and I’m sure, a little ungrateful with what God has given. Hence, my title of this post.

It is amazing how money has a hold on me. It really does affect everything. It shouldn’t, but it does. My Pastor once said that it is interesting how most people automatically understand the Bible truth that “the love of money is the root of all evil.” I think it is because we’ve all experienced it. That familiar gnawing in the pit of my stomach and the rumble of dissatisfaction of not being able to have or get what I want.

But it leads me to ask, if God wanted me to have it, wouldn’t He provide it?

So, that’s my private little quandary this morning.

Maybe God wants me to get a job at Kohl’s, so I can afford it.

Or maybe, just maybe, it’s time I learned to sacrifice a little bit more.

Wednesday, September 20, 2006

Samson – The First Dumb Jock?

Well, today’s devotional in Judges 16 was even more informative on the character of Samson. I have to say, as I was reading the text, it was kind of nice to see Samson get what was coming to him.

The more I read, the more I found myself thinking of Samson as an Old Testament version of “a player” when it came to women. He seemed infatuated with them and obviously enjoyed different women and an immoral lifestyle. But he was also blinded by lust or love – I’m guessing – because that is the only way he could not see through Delilah’s web of deceit. I mean, how many times did the woman try to deceive him? To give away the secret his strength? And he just kept falling for it – maybe the beginning of the “dumb jock” stereotype? I mean, obviously, God allowed him to be blinded to her betrayal, but if there was anything left to his human senses, he completely missed the ball.

I also found it interesting that so many verses were given to Samson’s rise to power and his activities while only a few described his downfall and the rest of his miserable life as blind prisoner in a Philistine jail. Reminds me of what my mom and dad always said about the importance of “ending well.”

The hardest part of “ending well” is that we don’t know when our ending date is, so we have to live everyday like it could be our last. I certainly haven’t mastered that lesson. I’d better drive carefully (not that it would help!).

Smith. As boring as it sounds.

I watched the pilot for the new show Smith last night. I can’t say I watched the whole thing as I mostly flipped through the channels. For some reason, the show just didn’t hold my interest. Ray Liotta was fine, and Simon Baker was (a whole other kind of) FINE, but I really didn’t care for Virginia Madsen’s performance. She looked bored and disinterested during the whole thing. Wake up, lady! You’re on TV! Anyway, I’m not very interested, so I’m probably not going to follow it. It’s too bad, because there is nothing else on during that time!

I guess I’ll have to turn off the TV and go read a book. I know, I know! It's better for me, anyway!

Tuesday, September 19, 2006

Because You Worked

After many years of working in administration, medical records, childcare, and retail, my amazing mother is retiring. Since I am (as always) broke, I’ve used my meager talent to write her a poem. Every word is true and (as it was one of the easiest things I’ve ever written) it turns out that I’ve been thinking about it for 28 years.

Because You Worked
To my working mother on the occasion of her retirement

Because you worked
I knew I was important to you

Because you worked
My needs (and many of my wants) were met

Because you worked
I learned how to prioritize the important things in life

Because you worked
I gained knowledge of balance in a home

Because you worked
I learned how to positively present myself

Because you worked
We always had new things to talk about

Because you worked
I learned that women can have a powerful voice in the world

Because you worked
Dad didn’t have to carry the financial burden alone

Because you worked
I learned women can change the world through their actions

Because you worked
I watched you create friendships with other strong, independent, and intelligent women

Because you worked
I learned that what I do with my life matters

Because you worked
I was encouraged to venture outside my comfort zone and make a difference

Because you worked
I knew men and women were equal

Because you worked
I learned how to resolve conflicts

Because you worked
I was inspired to follow my dreams, too

Because you worked
Many people (who will never read a Bible or pray) saw your life and were blessed

So, if you’re ready to stop
If you want to move on
I hope you’ll find even more happiness
I know you deserve it

Because you worked

Blog Sharing

Oooh boy! This one’s a toughie. Do I want to share my blog with people I know?

I just don’t know. I mean, there are my friends who will love me no matter how much they may disagree with me and my twisted little mind. And then there is my family who has to love me no matter what. But other people? What if someone links to me and changes their opinion about me? Or forms a negative opinion about me based on a flippant, little blog? What then?

I ask, because I read a blog the other day, and it colored my opinion of the person who wrote it. I didn’t really know this person very well, but the realization that he was a subtle sexist (oh (wo)man - one of my biggest pet peeves) certainly influenced the way I thought about him. I wanted to fire off a comment to his comment section, but then I thought, I don’t really know this guy. What is he going to think when he gets a disgruntled e-mail from some person he barely knows? And then I thought, It is a blog. These are his thoughts and the way he chooses to express them. Why should I care? He won’t be able to limit my ability as a woman. For crying out loud, I’m not married to him. Let his wife deal (and/or be happy) with him.

But still. That lingering disrespect for him is now there. I don’t know if I would want people to feel that way about me.

I am trying not to focus on how much I disagree with his person, and trying to just love him as a Christian brother. And, in hoping that he feels the way I do about blogs and personal expression, let me just say to him –

Let’s just see you try to stop the many, many qualified women who have been teaching in churches all these hundreds of years. Women who taught when there were no men available, when the men were unqualified, and when the men were unwilling. I would dare ask you to stack the balance of their years of fruitful service against yours. God works through women teaching in the church. Just ask anyone who was led to the Lord by one of these faithful, godly women.

As for sharing my blog, I still don’t know. Perhaps just to people who already know how fundamentally flawed I really am.

We Can’t All Be Morning People

No, we can’t, but, boy, do I wish we could! Just think of all we would get done!

I suppose it’s not very sympathetic of me to tease non-morning people, since they are already cranky, tired, and in a bad mood, and I doubt this will improve that trio, but I can’t help myself. I’m an unapologetic morning person born to two morning people.

When I was a little girl, my mom used to wake me up by coming in and singing songs to me. They were sweet little cheery songs, uplifting, and often humorous. I would snap awake (something I still do) and help her finish the song. My dad was usually in the middle of his devotions and half way through his coffee by the time I made it to the breakfast table. He would tell me how great I looked and give me a big smile. He never forgot to give me a big hug and kiss before he left for work, usually whistling all the way out the door.

It can be tough to be an avid morning person, especially one who can survive on only a little sleep. I was the only kid who had an early breakfast with my friends’ parents after a sleepover. All the other little girls would still be asleep, sprawled out on the basement floor, encased in Rainbow Bright sleeping bags, and I would be up and at ‘em at 6:00 a.m. sharp. I can’t tell you how many mothers looked at me like a little alien when I emerged from the basement in search of toast and peanut butter first thing in the morning.

In college, I sprung out of my bed at the first peal of my alarm. I’d greet my roommate with a cheery hello and jump in the shower. I’d sing while I put my make-up on and fixed my hair. Then I’d head down for a good breakfast in the school cafeteria, and usually be one of the first five people in my morning class.

I tried to persuade my succession of three roommates and one boyfriend (now my husband) to go to breakfast with me, and all I ever received was a mumbled suggestion of what they thought I should go do. It usually wasn’t very nice.

In spite of my early morning cheeriness, my roommates still managed to love me, and we are all very dear friends. However, they have all admitted to me that my morning antics drove them half mad.

My husband, on the other hand, is very much not a morning person. He struggles to the surface after many repetitions of his bleating alarm. Then, he rolls around in the bed for a while, wrapping himself in a cocoon of covers, and pulls the pillow over his head. Eventually he stabilizes to a sitting position and looks around the room through bleary eyes. He drags himself out of bed, cranky, and goes through the getting ready process in a way that feels like a slow moving ride at Disneyworld.

His mom once told me the only way she could get him out of bed in the morning when he was a teenager was to poor frozen marbles under the covers!

Now, he’s finally getting his chance. He’s on third shift now at his new job, and he loves it. He says he finally feels awake at work (not a fact I’d share with his previous first shift employers), and he is a lot less stressed. I’m happy for him. And I’m even happier for me. Finally, I can sing the complete Oklahoma theme in the morning and not worry about annoying anyone.

Oh, what a beautiful morning!
Oh, what a beautiful day!
I’ve got a beautiful feelin’!
Everything’s going my way!
Oh, what a beautiful day!

Studio 60

A new show! A new show! Last night I checked out a new show – Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip. It was pretty good. I must say, I was admirably impressed by Matthew Perry (what was he ever even doing on Friends? That man can act!), Bradley Whitford (already a proven success by The West Wing), and a surprisingly nasty turn by Steven Weber (great acting – just hate to see him being mean – he was SO lovable on Wings). And I didn’t even dislike Amanda Peet’s performance as a know-it-all new president of an NCB-like network. There were several other good (and somewhat unknown) performers, so I think it is going to make for an interesting show.

The show is basically an hour long drama drawn around life behind the scenes at a satire/comedy show, much like Saturday Night Live. If the show scripts are anything like last nights, I think it will be worth watching.

Sarah Paulson just shined off the screen as a Christian comedian in the show. Her character had broken up with Matthew Perry’s (her new boss) character because he wouldn’t support her music career by coming on to the 700 Club when she was promoting her new CD there. As a Christian, I thought it was pretty smart way to play a “controversial” topic, as most normal Christians don’t align themselves with Pat Robertson or his crowd of crazies. So, it actually played pretty well.

Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip, NBC, Monday, 9:00 p.m. – Check it out!

Samson: Real Israelite Superhero

Judges 15:12 – 17
12
They said to him, "We've come to tie you up and hand you over to the Philistines." Samson said, "Swear to me that you won't kill me yourselves."

13 "Agreed," they answered. "We will only tie you up and hand you over to them. We will not kill you." So they bound him with two new ropes and led him up from the rock.

14 As he approached Lehi, the Philistines came toward him shouting. The Spirit of the LORD came upon him in power. The ropes on his arms became like charred flax, and the bindings dropped from his hands.

15 Finding a fresh jawbone of a donkey, he grabbed it and struck down a thousand men.

16 Then Samson said, "With a donkey's jawbone I have made donkeys of them. With a donkey's jawbone I have killed a thousand men."

17 When he finished speaking, he threw away the jawbone; and the place was called Ramath Lehi.
Judges 15: 12 - 17


This was my devotional reading this morning in Today in the Word. As I was reading it, I was struck by the fact that Samson killed 1,000 men with a donkey jawbone. 1,000 men! Using a donkey jawbone!

I couldn’t help but think of that scene in Kill Bill where Uma Thurman (aka The Bride aka Beatrix Kiddo) cuts down a hundred men using a Chinese sword (there’s a right name for that, I just don’t know what it is). She just walks in and her opponents gather around her in a circle. One by one, sometimes by two or three, she mows them down in a stylish, athletic ballet of swords(wo)manship and assassin prowess. At the end, most of them are dead and a small group is minus arms and legs and groaning in pain. In the movie world, she might have killed 100 men. And watching it done under the direction of Quentin Tarantino is quite an experience. You want to look away, but you just can’t. This probably won’t make sense after that description, but it is a wonderfully played scene. It actually ends up being poetic and smart.

So, I imagined Samson taking up his donkey jawbone and entering Philistine territory, and…then what? Somehow I can’t even begin to picture Samson killing 1,000 men. 1,000 men. Just the sheer volume of it. And all with the same donkey jawbone. I mean, even after QT pointing me in the direction of how it actually might play out, I still can’t imagine it. I mean, wouldn’t he get tired? At some point, wouldn’t all that death be too much on the human spirit? Wouldn’t the donkey jawbone eventually break?

The Bible says the strength of the Lord came upon him. And the strength of the Lord has got to be amazing, so I guess that would answer those questions, but I still find it impossible to see in my mind’s eye. And, of course, reading the chapters before, you know that Samson has his own reason for why he does what he does.

The other thing I find interesting is that the Bible doesn’t commend Samson for his actions. So much of what he does (as so much of what I do) is motivated by his own humanness and his own desires. Here he has this amazing ability – unbelievable strength – and he’s not above using it to get what he wants or to get revenge on his enemies. Samson didn’t earn his strength. The Bible doesn’t say that he worked out (did they even do that back then?) although, I guess, he may have. He just had it. And then he lost it. I’m sure I’ll read a more in-depth analysis of the way he lost it later in the devotional book, but since I know the story, I know he lost it.

God gives talents to us all. We don’t earn them. We just try in our own meager ways to improve upon them, often to use for our own gain. It is a convicting thing to realize that one might not be using one’s God-given talents and abilities to serve God. But we sure do use them to serve ourselves, don’t we?

Something to think about. The Philistines aren’t the only ones made to feel like donkeys in this passage. I know I felt like one.

Monday, September 18, 2006

Oliver Revisited!

One of the great things about Netflix is how I can watch movies I never intended to see (in a theater or even rent). Since Netflix takes all the hassle out of renting movies, all I have to do is add it to my queue and poof! It’s in the mail.

Such is the case with Roman Polanski’s remake of Oliver Twist.

Now, I must admit that I’m greatly prejudiced in favor of the 1968 musical version of Oliver. Ever since I watched it as a rerun on TNT as a teenager, I’ve been a fan. It was one of the first DVD’s I bought after we got married. Occasionally, Mom and I have been known to break out in song for “Wheeeeeere is Love?” And I was never so heartbroken as when I learned (on the DVD commentary track) that the exquisite soprano singing voice of the young actor actually belonged to the director’s daughter. And all these years, I had been amazed by the young boy’s range. I still kinda wish I hadn’t heard that little fact.

So, I was intrigued to watch Roman Polanski’s non-musical re-make. And disappointed. The characters were flat – with the noticeable exception of Ben Kingsley whose Fagin rivaled Ron Moody's fantastic 1968 portrayal – and hardly menacing. The musical version was a great deal lighter, but also dark and foreboding at all the right points.

Several comparisons:

The young actor playing Oliver in the re-make is a great deal older and seemingly far less vulnerable than the very young and shy kid in the original.

The Artful Dodger is written as boring and serious as opposed to Jack Wild’s whimsical and crudely thoughtful interpretation of the character.

I wasn’t scared of Bill Sikes in the recent version. He was portrayed as a run-of-the-mill hoodlum. When Oliver Reed played Mr. Sikes in the musical, I was actually shaken. His abuse of Nancy, Fagin, and the boys was so believable. At times his fist seemed to be heading out of the screen, towards me. It still gives me shivers.

The grit and oppression on the streets of London were much more real in the musical version. Polanski’s London seemed very, very clean.

Perhaps, worst of all, Polanski’s version lacked even a slight sense of humor. The characters led each other around blandly with no sense of urgency or excitement in the story.

So, stick to the musical. And enjoy two of my favorite songs:

Consider Yourself
Reviewing the Situation

(I often sing this when I am, indeed, reviewing a situation. And, yes, people do look at me strangely; I do the same thing with Food, Glorious Food.)

Scarlett Who?

Today, one of our morning newscasters (female) started talking to our other morning newscaster (male) about The Black Dahlia and mentioned that Scarlett Johansson is an up-and-coming actress. The male newscaster said, “Hmm. Really? I don’t know who she is.”

Oh, c’mon, buddy! You’re in the news. You’re on TV. You’re not living under a rock! AND, even if you didn’t know who she is, I can’t believe you just admitted it on the air! Just smile and nod, and say, “Yes, she really is great.” I mean, how hard is that!

Geesh. Get it together, people.

Sunday, September 17, 2006

Butterfly & The Black Dahlia

Sometimes the movie going experience is fraught with peril.

As an avid moviegoer, I accept that some movies will not be as good as others. Some movies will be average. In fact, most movies are average. Not horrible, not great, just so-so. But I sit through those movies in hopes that after so many average movies there may eventually be a great one.

A great movie does not have to be beloved by critics to make it great. Sometimes, you can find a great movie by accident. Those are my favorites. You go out to sit through a movie, trying not to get your hopes up, and there it is – one that is good or so good you have to have it as part of your permanent collection.

And then there are those that make you groan in disbelief that you actually parted with $8.50 of your hard earned money to sit through the equivalent of a root canal. Or watching people badly act as if they are the ones having the root canal.

Such was my experience this past Friday. It started out innocently enough. Angie had asked me to go to a “movie night” hosted by her college Spanish Class. She told me the movie would be in Spanish with English subtitles. At first I wasn’t interested, but then she reminded me I had dragged her to a book discussion by a Holocaust-era writer at Midway Village earlier this year. So, I relented.

So, we went to Rock Valley College and watched Butterfly – based on the brief Republican era in Spain’s history before Nationalist Franco took over – in Spanish (with English subtitles for those of us not in the class). The story was told from the perspective of a little boy whose father is a closet Republican in a Nationalist neighborhood. Mostly, though, it revolved around the boy’s relationship with his Republican teacher. It was a pretty good movie, and there was some passionate discussion by students afterwards trying to interpret the puzzling ending.

Angie and I had already decided we wanted to see a “real” movie afterwards, mostly because she had a sitter for the night. My mom had shown some interest in going to a movie with us, and knowing her passion for whodunit murder mysteries (and based on the previews we’d seen), Angie and I thought The Black Dahlia might be the perfect movie. I still suggested Little Miss Sunshine, but (yet again) transportation and circumstance made it difficult.

So, we took my mother to see the Black Dahlia. Poor mom. Poor us. The move was…mostly smut. And that’s the best I can say about it. Perhaps Mom summed it up best when she said, “It was like a visit to Sodom and Gomorrah.” She told me she went home and prayed for forgiveness and told me that she hoped I had done the same.

Take into consideration that Mom sees maybe three to four movies a year. Angie and I see a great deal more, and so, even though we were disappointed and disgusted, we know how movies can be. I had to promise Mom that next time I would take her to a “safe” romantic comedy. Yikes! Now I have to sit through one of those of my own volition. See what I do to myself!!!

Oh well, it wasn’t a total loss. We did get to see the attractive Josh Hartnett take his shirt off. But Mom said it still wasn’t enough to redeem the movie.

See, this all could have been avoided if we had just gone to see Little Miss Sunshine.

Thursday, September 14, 2006

Kindred Spirit

“I never had any friends.”
Gennie James as Mary Lennox
in Hallmark Hall of Fame’s Presentation of A Secret Garden


This is one of my favorite lines from one of my favorite movies. It’s the way Ms. James says the line that makes it perfect. A slight head tilt downward, a trace of wistfulness, and a hard edge of truth and stubbornness. She’s only a little girl, but she says it like she believes it, wishes it wasn’t true, but knows why it is. It’s an amazing performance.

It is the kind of thing I remember thinking often as a child. So, when I watched this movie on TV with my mom in 1987, I felt a connection with the young Mary Lennox. Don’t get me wrong. I wasn’t locked away and prevented from having friends. The fact of the matter is that I did have childhood friends - from the neighborhood, church, school, and my same-age cousins. It was just that I never had a true close friend. Or as Anne Shirley was fond of saying, “a kindred spirit.”

My friends were typical children, fickle in their friendships and neighborhood alliances. But for an only child entrenched in books and her own brilliant world of make believe (at least, it was brilliant to me), these friends were my social network, my foray into the outside world. I didn’t want the flash-in-the pan friendships they were all so fond of.

Where was my Diana Barry?

I found her in seventh grade. My family was visiting Windsor Baptist Church. I was led up a winding staircase to a new youth group. I was terrified - as only a 300 pound seventh grade girl can be - of meeting new people. I stepped into the room, looked over the sea of faces, and found refuge in those sweet eyes crinkled up in a smile.

Her name was Tania. We were instantly fast friends. Our connection was fueled by a mutual desire for a good friend, since we had both been rejected by a good number of other people. My obvious disability was my weight, while Tania’s was deafness. I like to joke now about how our friendship mostly consisted of me saying something and Tania saying, “What?”

I don’t know how I would have made it through junior high and high school without my Tania. Her sweet spirit and non-judgmental ways were both a comfort and a guide to me. One time, a girl who we had both been friends with at different times (she dumped Tania because she wasn’t “cool” enough for her, and she dumped me when she got interested in junior high boys) saw that we (Tania and I) were getting to be really good friends and tried to worm her way back in. I told Tania this was a chance for us to show her how it felt to not be included. But, no, Tania insisted I invite her to join us for a sleepover we had planned at my house.

At the sleepover, the girl waited until Tania went to sleep, and then told me that she though Tania was faking her deafness. She also said other things about how I should dump Tania and become friends with her. I told her that no way was that going to happen and that she was only at my house because Tania had insisted. She was pretty surprised. When I told Tania later, she just shrugged, and said, “Well, it was still the right thing to do.” I would have taken that girl down a peg or two, but not Tania – she always did the right thing. It should have driven me crazy, but it just made me grateful to be her friend.

Near the end of high school, I lost over 85 pounds, thanks to Weight Watchers. Everyone noticed. I still wasn’t even remotely thin, but people did notice. Everyone, except Tania. After two month of her not noticing, I finally asked her if she had noticed I was 85 pounds lighter. She look me straight in the face and said, “Yes, but you’re still you, and you’re my friend no matter what you weigh.” It was probably one of the nicest and most humbling things anyone had ever said to me.

After high school, we both moved away from home, went to different colleges, and our lives changed significantly. In college, we both made other close friends and found joy in multiple friendships which we had never had. The friendship “drought” through which we had sustained each other was finally over!

Over the years, we’ve partly lost touch, just thanks to life, but still manage to see each other or make contact every so often. She is still the same sweet, godly person, and I’m so glad she was in my life – as my very first “kindred spirit.”

Snakes on a Plane

When I am old and gray, and small children ask me if I ever saw the phenom that was Snakes on a Plane, I will be able to say, “Oh, my, yes!”

I never planned to see Snakes on a Plane, because:
a.) I’m not a big Samuel L. Jackson fan.
b.) I’m not a big snake fan.
c.) I’m not a big flying fan.

So, I figured this was not the movie for me. The movie I really wanted (and still want) to see is Little Miss Sunshine. But I had limited gas in my tank and Snakes on a Plane was showing at Showplace 14 (close to my house) while Little Miss Sunshine was only showing at Showplace 16 (all the way on the other side of town). And perhaps the MAIN reason I went to see Snakes on a Plane is that my friend Angie wanted to see it.

Angie and I have a deal. We go to movies that we both want to see and then trade off going to ones that only one of us want to see. So, I grudgingly agreed to go with her. For someone who was pretty gung-ho about seeing the movie, she watched most of it from behind her hand while shrieking loudly. I, on the other hand, thought it was pretty tame (a marathon of the Kill Bill videos must have desensitized me at some point). The plot was corny, but not badly acted, and those snakes bit people in THE most interesting places!

Among my favorites:

The young couple joining the Mile High Club was bitten while in the throws of passion, but no one knows, since all they hear is moaning, and they draw the Mile High conclusion.

A woman feels ill, and when she reaches for the airsick bag, a coiled snake shoots out, grabs her tongue and doesn’t let go.

A man is using the bathroom, and…it’s pretty obvious.

A man is crushed by a giant python, and then the python SWALLOWS HIM WHOLE! Really good special effects on that shot!

Also in the cast are ER alum Julianna Margulies (who wears straight hair – I prefer her curly hair look!) and Saturday Night Live-r Kenan Thompson. The rest of the cast are relative unknowns with Paris Hilton and Diddy look-a-likes.

All in all, not a bad movie.

Now, of course, Angie owes me. Hope she likes Little Miss Sunshine.

Wednesday, September 13, 2006

My First Post!

So why The Left Handed Rabbit?

Well, I’ve been a lefty (aka “southpaw”) since birth, an inherited trait from my father, the late (great) Robert Trotter. I’ve enjoyed being left handed ever since I realized it was one of the things that make me different and special. It has always been one of the ways I’ve defined myself.

Being left handed is like being part of a secret club. You never know until you see someone pick up a pencil. Then it’s the moment of connection and kinship – “Oh, you’re left handed, too.” Then, the exchange of a smile and the knowing nod of getting by in a world designed for right handers.

My kindergarten teacher (the lovely) Mrs. Ericson took great pains to teach me to write correctly with my left hand. She and I both stayed after school, often late into the afternoon, teaching and practicing the art of left handed writing. Thanks to her endless patience, I finally perfected the slight hand tilt that kept the pencil lead from smearing the paper and ending up on my hand.

I thank God for Mrs. Ericson and her insistence I learn correctly, especially after I heard about my Dad’s left handed school experience. When Dad was growing up, the schools thought children could have the “left handedness” taught out of them. My Dad’s teachers forced him to write right handed, resulting in many miserable years for Dad and un-legible papers and assignments for the teachers. When Dad was finally allowed to write left handed, he came up with a very, very tiny left handed shorthand which he used all his life.

My Dad’s been gone for seven years now. Still, when I see one of his tiny, tiny notes tucked in somewhere, I notice that familiar slanted scrawl and smile.

And rabbits? Well, they’ve been my joy, passion, and delight since I was eight.

So, The Left Handed Rabbit it is.