When I do something that Amy deems to be good (like filing my taxes way before the deadline or weeding the front flowerbed), she asks me if I am running for the Kiker of the Year Award. Excellent, because she says I am far ahead of the other Kikers... bad because... uh, where is she finding these other Kiks?
Amy walked home on Friday night, after hanging out with some friends. There may have been some drinking involved. She came into the room where I was sleeping, very quietly changed clothes, walked over to the bed, picked up a glass of water and said, "I AM GOING TO DO ALL THE LOUD THINGS NOW." She had been quiet as a mouse, prior to that outburst.
I graded all day Friday and all day Saturday. On Sunday, my head exploded and I could. not. grade. any. more. papers. Instead, we went to breakfast, shopped for groceries at Target, picked out new glasses for me, had a God-forsaken meal at Bennigans, went to church, went to Four Green Fields for beverages (I had an O'Douls) and capped off the night with some tasty sushi. Spent all day with Amy. It was one of the more spectacular days in recent memory.
The new church service that I am on the planning team for went swimmingly. We seem to have found the right blend of innovation and ritual. I was invited to assist with Communion for the first time. Amy said she was pleased to have been present at my first Communion. Get it? She is really proud of that one. I thought it was funny that, given my anxiety issues, I ended up standing in front of 100 people, holding a ceramic cup of grape juice (a.k.a. blood of Christ).* Amy noted that the pastor didn't know about my anxiety issues when he asked me to participate. I, in turn, reminded her that God most certainly knew, though... Very funny, God.
Today, I had one of those moments where everything seemed so perfect that I was awed by it. Even my Fruit on the Bottom Black Cherry yogurt seemed a wonder to behold. Don't worry, I will snap out of it when I get back to grading those essays...
*I have a completely irrational fear of holding anything breakable in public. And I am very afraid of spilling beverages that stain.
Monday, February 25, 2008
Monday, February 18, 2008
Rockabilly Ruckus
Saturday was WMNF's 5th Annual Rockabilly Ruckus. I had been pretty hyped about it for a few weeks. Since I am not drinking (and sometimes get a little bored just hanging out watching folks tie one on), the Ruckus seemed like the perfect event: good music, food, beer for the imbibers and plenty of atmosphere and people watching.
We headed to Skipper's around 5 p.m. The show started at 4 p.m., but the bands continue to get better as the night wears on, so we figured we wouldn't be missing much. We neglected to take into account how many rockabilly fans are in the Tampa Bay area (who knew???). The place was packed by the time we got there. But we managed to find a bench w-a-y in the back to park ourselves on.
We sat there for all of 30 seconds before Chatty Cathy came over and asked if she and her friends could share our bench. Which would have been fine, if she hadn't been so damned chatty. Her chatter drove Amy to express an intense desire for Conch Fritters... right then. So off we went to the restaurant/bar section (thereby surrendering our seats). The restaurant was slammed... so slammed that it took them one hour to serve us cold conch fritters, cold fries, cold hush puppies and lukewarm shrimp. And the Ruckus is going on outside without us.
We finally made it back outside... to find wall to wall people. There was not a bench, a ledge or tabletop that was not already occupied. We found a spot w-a-y in the back, by the exit door, where we could stand. And we guarded that spot with ferocity. At least there we weren't shoulder to shoulder with dirty people with pompadours.
Okay, to be fair, the dirty people and the pompadour people are two separate camps in the rockabilly scene. The pompadours are a proud people. In fact, one of the bands sang an entire song about rockabilly hair. And they are also covered in elaborate, colorful tatoos. Fascinating. The dirty people are... dirty. They have long hair (often stringy), band t-shirts and less artistic tatoos. And they smell.
But the most interesting person we spoke to all night fell into neither of these camps. She was of the over 70, drunk, dancing persuasion. She approached Amy and I, as we stood innocently in the only spot we could claim as our own, and said, "I just had to come over and tell you that you two are just like mimes. You don't move, and you don't speak. Just like Mr. and Mrs. Mime."
My first thought: Lady, if you came over here and freaked Amy out right after I have finally gotten her to relax, I will f*ck you up... 70 or not. Second thought: You HAD to come over and tell us that? And the final thought: When the HELL have you seen a mime that didn't move?
I really didn't have time to ponder the situation for long, because the main act was taking the stage. Amy had been really patient up until this point (this really wasn't her scene), but I was sure she would like this act. Until the woman started to sing. Amy leaned over and said, "She sounds like a duck with a hot coal shoved up its ass." Right, then. And Kelloggs out.
Oh, and one final thought... I don't even like rockabilly. Oops.
We headed to Skipper's around 5 p.m. The show started at 4 p.m., but the bands continue to get better as the night wears on, so we figured we wouldn't be missing much. We neglected to take into account how many rockabilly fans are in the Tampa Bay area (who knew???). The place was packed by the time we got there. But we managed to find a bench w-a-y in the back to park ourselves on.
We sat there for all of 30 seconds before Chatty Cathy came over and asked if she and her friends could share our bench. Which would have been fine, if she hadn't been so damned chatty. Her chatter drove Amy to express an intense desire for Conch Fritters... right then. So off we went to the restaurant/bar section (thereby surrendering our seats). The restaurant was slammed... so slammed that it took them one hour to serve us cold conch fritters, cold fries, cold hush puppies and lukewarm shrimp. And the Ruckus is going on outside without us.
We finally made it back outside... to find wall to wall people. There was not a bench, a ledge or tabletop that was not already occupied. We found a spot w-a-y in the back, by the exit door, where we could stand. And we guarded that spot with ferocity. At least there we weren't shoulder to shoulder with dirty people with pompadours.
Okay, to be fair, the dirty people and the pompadour people are two separate camps in the rockabilly scene. The pompadours are a proud people. In fact, one of the bands sang an entire song about rockabilly hair. And they are also covered in elaborate, colorful tatoos. Fascinating. The dirty people are... dirty. They have long hair (often stringy), band t-shirts and less artistic tatoos. And they smell.
But the most interesting person we spoke to all night fell into neither of these camps. She was of the over 70, drunk, dancing persuasion. She approached Amy and I, as we stood innocently in the only spot we could claim as our own, and said, "I just had to come over and tell you that you two are just like mimes. You don't move, and you don't speak. Just like Mr. and Mrs. Mime."
My first thought: Lady, if you came over here and freaked Amy out right after I have finally gotten her to relax, I will f*ck you up... 70 or not. Second thought: You HAD to come over and tell us that? And the final thought: When the HELL have you seen a mime that didn't move?
I really didn't have time to ponder the situation for long, because the main act was taking the stage. Amy had been really patient up until this point (this really wasn't her scene), but I was sure she would like this act. Until the woman started to sing. Amy leaned over and said, "She sounds like a duck with a hot coal shoved up its ass." Right, then. And Kelloggs out.
Oh, and one final thought... I don't even like rockabilly. Oops.
Thursday, February 14, 2008
Baby, Baby, I'm Taken With The Notion To Love You With The Sweetest of Devotion
On Monday, Amy and I went to see the fertility specialist in order to embark on what I hope will be a very short journey to getting me knocked up. Why a fertility specialist, you might ask? Did you take Biology? As much machismo as Ames throws around sometimes (hello, trying to break up a fight at Gasparilla), she is still a girl. So, the doctors order the swimmers and place them where they need to be. Hence, the need for a fertility specialist.
I have been charting my ovulation cycles for a year. Peeing on a stick for a year. No one ever said I lack perseverance. So, I go in to see the doctor, all impressed with the fertility chart that I have painstakingly created… to which she says, “You can read that better than I can. Do you ovulate? Good.” And we moved along. Not the kind of praise I had hoped for. Can I get some attention over here for my ability to urinate on a tiny stick??
After some chatting, the nurse practitioner lead me and Amy to an exam room, where I dutifully disrobed. The nurse left to do whatever it is that they do that keeps you waiting for at least 20 minutes for no apparent reason. Amy was a bit nervous, so she was pacing and chattering. Lots of chattering. Then she began what I like to call the “bunny/raptor” move. Envision: hands up in front like bunny paws, rodent face, and head jutting forward rhythmically. Uh huh. She has trouble acting normal when she’s nervous.* When I made her stop doing that, because she was about to drive me batty, she began ducking behind the changing curtain and peering around at me.
As I was beginning to understand what it might be like to take a 3 year old to a doctors appointment, mercifully the nurse and doctor came back in. They got me up on the table and were about to scoot me a-l-l the way down to the end of the table to prep me for the exam. At which point, Amy looked at me, said, “I think I will let you handle this,” and bolted out of the room. Sweet. Nah, baby, I am cool. I dig throwing my legs up in stirrups and letting someone dig around. No need for moral support. Bastard.
After the exam was over and doctor had left again, and Amy had asked to be let back into the room, the nurse went over some of the protocol for making sure I am a good baby carrying vessel (blood work, hormone level tests, some basic genetic screening), and then they took some blood… from Amy. Heh. No, they didn’t just get us mixed up. They had to test her for communicable diseases. So, four vials of blood later, Amy left MY doctors appointment asking where her treat was for being so good. Rarely does karmic debt collect that quickly. I think she will probably stay during the exam next time. Poor monkey.
*Know the song?
I have been charting my ovulation cycles for a year. Peeing on a stick for a year. No one ever said I lack perseverance. So, I go in to see the doctor, all impressed with the fertility chart that I have painstakingly created… to which she says, “You can read that better than I can. Do you ovulate? Good.” And we moved along. Not the kind of praise I had hoped for. Can I get some attention over here for my ability to urinate on a tiny stick??
After some chatting, the nurse practitioner lead me and Amy to an exam room, where I dutifully disrobed. The nurse left to do whatever it is that they do that keeps you waiting for at least 20 minutes for no apparent reason. Amy was a bit nervous, so she was pacing and chattering. Lots of chattering. Then she began what I like to call the “bunny/raptor” move. Envision: hands up in front like bunny paws, rodent face, and head jutting forward rhythmically. Uh huh. She has trouble acting normal when she’s nervous.* When I made her stop doing that, because she was about to drive me batty, she began ducking behind the changing curtain and peering around at me.
As I was beginning to understand what it might be like to take a 3 year old to a doctors appointment, mercifully the nurse and doctor came back in. They got me up on the table and were about to scoot me a-l-l the way down to the end of the table to prep me for the exam. At which point, Amy looked at me, said, “I think I will let you handle this,” and bolted out of the room. Sweet. Nah, baby, I am cool. I dig throwing my legs up in stirrups and letting someone dig around. No need for moral support. Bastard.
After the exam was over and doctor had left again, and Amy had asked to be let back into the room, the nurse went over some of the protocol for making sure I am a good baby carrying vessel (blood work, hormone level tests, some basic genetic screening), and then they took some blood… from Amy. Heh. No, they didn’t just get us mixed up. They had to test her for communicable diseases. So, four vials of blood later, Amy left MY doctors appointment asking where her treat was for being so good. Rarely does karmic debt collect that quickly. I think she will probably stay during the exam next time. Poor monkey.
*Know the song?
Friday, February 08, 2008
Wrench Throwing
If I had to take an educated guess, I would guess that this guy is throwing a wrench in some people's ideas about Heaven and our mission as God's people here on Earth. Here is an excerpt from the interview with the Bishop of Durham, N.T. Wright, that appeared in Time on Feb. 7th:
The New Testament is deeply, deeply Jewish, and the Jews had for some time been intuiting a final, physical resurrection. They believed that the world of space and time and matter is messed up, but remains basically good, and God will eventually sort it out and put it right again. Belief in that goodness is absolutely essential to Christianity, both theologically and morally. But Greek-speaking Christians influenced by Plato saw our cosmos as shabby and misshapen and full of lies, and the idea was not to make it right, but to escape it and leave behind our material bodies. The church at its best has always come back toward the Hebrew view, but there have been times when the Greek view was very influential.
Interesting that I heard very little of this "goodness" of the material world when I was growing up in the church. Part of my disdain for the church as a young adult was based on their complete disregard for this world in favor of "Heaven." Seems as though heaven is here, my friends.
The New Testament is deeply, deeply Jewish, and the Jews had for some time been intuiting a final, physical resurrection. They believed that the world of space and time and matter is messed up, but remains basically good, and God will eventually sort it out and put it right again. Belief in that goodness is absolutely essential to Christianity, both theologically and morally. But Greek-speaking Christians influenced by Plato saw our cosmos as shabby and misshapen and full of lies, and the idea was not to make it right, but to escape it and leave behind our material bodies. The church at its best has always come back toward the Hebrew view, but there have been times when the Greek view was very influential.
Interesting that I heard very little of this "goodness" of the material world when I was growing up in the church. Part of my disdain for the church as a young adult was based on their complete disregard for this world in favor of "Heaven." Seems as though heaven is here, my friends.
Thursday, February 07, 2008
OMG, My Eye!
One of the pastors was a little heavy handed with the ashes last night. As he was making the sign of the cross on my forehead, I got ash in my eye. Do you think God is trying to tell me something?
Also, yesterday when one of my students overheard me say I was going to church for Ash Wednesday, he said "Enjoy getting ashes on your head. Gross." Uh? Really? Dude, they are ashes from palm fronds. We totally stopped sacrificing infants years ago.
Extra Ash Wednesday Bonus: When I got home last night, Amy said,"You've got something on your forehead."
Also, yesterday when one of my students overheard me say I was going to church for Ash Wednesday, he said "Enjoy getting ashes on your head. Gross." Uh? Really? Dude, they are ashes from palm fronds. We totally stopped sacrificing infants years ago.
Extra Ash Wednesday Bonus: When I got home last night, Amy said,"You've got something on your forehead."
Wednesday, February 06, 2008
Ash Wednesday
Today is the first day of Lent. This is also the day where Amy gets to repeatedly tell me I have something on my forehead. Apparently, that joke will be funny until Jesus comes back (see how I snuck that one right in there?). Also funny? When my dad asks me if Lent is something that you find in your belly button. Absolutely. I have been saving it for years now. I am going to make a lent bunny out of it this year.
Part of the purpose of Lent is to reflect on the sacrifice that Christ made for humanity. So, it is a rather somber time in the liturgical calendar. Some churches suggest giving up something during Lent to experience sacrifice, to create a deeper appreciation of the sacrifice made by Jesus. I like this practice. Each year, I get a little better at it.
The first year, I gave up beer (but still drank other malt beverages). I know, I know. Weak. But when was the last time you had to drink a Smirnoff Ice? It is a sacrifice, I tell you.
The next year I gave up smoking and beer. The beer part went okay. The smoking part... not as much. Yes, I felt guilty. Yes, I know Jesus saw me with that cigarette. He and I have since worked it out. He says I can still be His sunbeam. No worries.
Last year, I gave up meat. Excellent choice. There were health benefits. It felt like a significant enough life change to honor the Lenten season. I missed chicken wings, but I was strong in my shunning of the chicken wing. And, I still don't eat meat. I also lost 5 pounds. I think that was a little bonus for sticking to my commitment. Everyone loves a bonus prize (like when you order now and get 20 Ginzu knives, FREE).
This year... I am giving up drinking (all alcohol) and smoking. In fact, I stopped doing those things about two weeks ago. Although I did take a break for a little Chubby Monday celebration (I didn't want to celebrate Fat Tuesday because I had conferences this morning at 8 a.m.) The Chubby Monday celebration was a good decision because it would have felt a bit like sacrilege to offer oneself for reflection on the season of sacrifice at Ash Wednesday services while nursing a hangover. Yeah, Jesus, 'preciate ya, but could you have mercy on the pounding in my head?
I will be reflecting on Lent frequently during the next 40 days, which is longer than 40 days because Sundays don't count. Sneaky, no? Can I sign up for Lent Lite, the 40 day commitment?
Have a blessed Ash Wednesday. And please don't stop anyone in the grocery store to tell them they have something on their forehead.
Part of the purpose of Lent is to reflect on the sacrifice that Christ made for humanity. So, it is a rather somber time in the liturgical calendar. Some churches suggest giving up something during Lent to experience sacrifice, to create a deeper appreciation of the sacrifice made by Jesus. I like this practice. Each year, I get a little better at it.
The first year, I gave up beer (but still drank other malt beverages). I know, I know. Weak. But when was the last time you had to drink a Smirnoff Ice? It is a sacrifice, I tell you.
The next year I gave up smoking and beer. The beer part went okay. The smoking part... not as much. Yes, I felt guilty. Yes, I know Jesus saw me with that cigarette. He and I have since worked it out. He says I can still be His sunbeam. No worries.
Last year, I gave up meat. Excellent choice. There were health benefits. It felt like a significant enough life change to honor the Lenten season. I missed chicken wings, but I was strong in my shunning of the chicken wing. And, I still don't eat meat. I also lost 5 pounds. I think that was a little bonus for sticking to my commitment. Everyone loves a bonus prize (like when you order now and get 20 Ginzu knives, FREE).
This year... I am giving up drinking (all alcohol) and smoking. In fact, I stopped doing those things about two weeks ago. Although I did take a break for a little Chubby Monday celebration (I didn't want to celebrate Fat Tuesday because I had conferences this morning at 8 a.m.) The Chubby Monday celebration was a good decision because it would have felt a bit like sacrilege to offer oneself for reflection on the season of sacrifice at Ash Wednesday services while nursing a hangover. Yeah, Jesus, 'preciate ya, but could you have mercy on the pounding in my head?
I will be reflecting on Lent frequently during the next 40 days, which is longer than 40 days because Sundays don't count. Sneaky, no? Can I sign up for Lent Lite, the 40 day commitment?
Have a blessed Ash Wednesday. And please don't stop anyone in the grocery store to tell them they have something on their forehead.
Friday, February 01, 2008
Notes from Amy
I was cleaning out my email and found the following note from Amy. I think it really says a lot in just a few words.
Subject: A few reminders
Since I'm not there to remind you in person.
I do not like the cherry pops.
I am no longer eating cottage cheese at the house. I am reserving the right to eat it at salad bars.
I am now an Earl Grey, black, person.
I love Kendra. Tons.
Kisses love,
Amy
Subject: A few reminders
Since I'm not there to remind you in person.
I do not like the cherry pops.
I am no longer eating cottage cheese at the house. I am reserving the right to eat it at salad bars.
I am now an Earl Grey, black, person.
I love Kendra. Tons.
Kisses love,
Amy
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