Mothers April 30, 2005

My mother is coming for a week-long visit (Dad, too!). I adore my parents. I love to spend time with them. I look forward to their coming and I positively dread their leaving.

That being said: I also dread their coming. Particularly my mother. My mother is a spic and span housekeeper. Truly. Even when she complains about how dirty her house is, it’s spotless compared to mine.

Now, some of you may be thinking, “But you’ve got a toddler and three churches! She has an empty nest and works Monday-Friday. Don’t feel bad, beege.” But: she has always been this way. Even when we kids were home. Even when she was working graveyard at the hospital. Neat. Neat. Neat.

And when she comes to my house: she cleans. Not in an accusatory way. I honestly think she believes I’m too busy to clean the way she taught me to, and so she wants to help. In reality: I don’t care to clean the way she taught me to. I never ever have. Her entire goal in raising me seemed to be to 1) Keep me a virgin ’til I got married (check!) 2) Get me to like yogurt (Nope. Sorry.) and 3) To turn me into a neatnik (Double Nope. Double Sorry.) And now, I’d rather play with my toddler. But when she comes, I find myself frantically cleaning all the places that haven’t been cleaned since her last visit: I dust the washer and dryer, I clean the edges of the dishwasher door, I attack the grout with a toothbrush and clean the plastic bolt covers on the toilets. It’s mad, I tell you! Mad!

*sigh*

I found a tshirt in a catalog the other day, and I so want to order it. It says: Neat. But not in that clean way.

Now. If you’ll excuse me, I have to clean the drainage pans beneath my plant pots.

Sometimes people surprise you in a good way April 29, 2005

I just want to thank everyone who has taken the time to express support for me right now. I’m in a much better place than I was on Tuesday, but everything is still up in the air. I think a huge part of the reason I’m in a better place is because of people who actually took the time to let me know they cared (Something I’m horrid at–I always think, “I need to remember to do that.” and then I forget.) either by just telling me they were praying for me, or sending me links to job search sites, or allowing me to share their lunch experience while we chatted on the phone, or offering to issue a fatwa on the bishops in question, or even offering to have a disliked pastor ‘done away with’ so I could come and be their pastor (an offer that I sincerely hope was made in jest–it SO doesn’t look good on a pastoral record “Had preceeding pastor offed so she could have his job.” ;)).

The grace and humor that y’all have extended (some of you to a total stranger) is so greatly appreciated. As a good Lutheran, I can’t say that I believe in karma, but if I did: you’d get some seriously good shit coming back your way.

So thanks. 🙂

I’ve got the cutest damn baby in the freaking WORLD April 28, 2005

I had to leave this morning for a meeting. So M and I were hugging and kissing goodbye, when Linnea wormed her way between us. We often do “family hugs”, so we picked her up for one, and I kissed M again. Much to her delight.

She put one hand on the back of my head, one hand on the back of M’s head, and made us kiss, repeatedly, the biggest baby grin in the world on her face. And when she was done making us kiss one another, we had a rousing game of “Smooch Tag” where she kissed me, then M, then me, then M, then me, then M…

There are times when she brings such delight into my life I’m not sure that my heart can hold it all, and I’m half afraid it will just explode in a shower of light and confetti: the heart of a happy mama.

Beware of Tylenol PM Dreams…

I was talking at a meeting with a fellow young female pastor. She was saying that she hadn’t been sleeping very well lately. I said, “Take a couple of Tylenol PMs. They work great!” and she said, “I don’t like to. I always have really violent dreams when I take Tylenol PM.”

Which I found interesting, because I always have wild sex dreams when I take Tylenol PM. The first time I took it (back in college when it felt oh-so-dangerous to be taking–and this part must be whispered to get the right effect–sleeping pills) I had a dream that I, dressed in the white, blowing Marilyn Monroe dress and the attendant wig, gave Santa (in his full Christmas Eve regalia) a blow job that knocked his little red hat off. Me, the virginal, “Uh-oh, you said a bad swear” uber-annoying Christian who thought oral sex meant talking about ‘doing it’. I was so embarassed. Couldn’t look a mall Santa in the eyes for years after that. (Heh. Clearly I’ve dabbled a bit in the real world since then. Now I’d be like, “Mmmm…Santa…have I been naughty…or nice?”)

Anyway. I digress.

Last night I took a couple of Tylenol PMs because I didn’t sleep at all the night before, and needed the rest. And I proceeded to have the most violent dreams I’ve ever had in my life. I was in a group of girls (excuse me: women) that people were trying to kill, and Oprah was trying to help us escape in her CR-V, but we decided that we couldn’t leave with Oprah. We had to end the fight, otherwise other girls would be in danger. So it sort of turned into a weird “Buffy The Asshole Slayer” sort of dream, and dude: I kicked some serious ass! At one point, I got my fingers shoved up into a guy’s nose and then proceeded to slam his head into a countertop until he blacked out. We girls were kicking the shit out of these guys right and left. Except there was this one guy. He was small (not Mini Me small, but not a hulking guy either), slender, fine featured and dressed all in black. We just could not kill this guy. He always got away, and he never even got in the fights–he always sent his idiot, easy-to-kill minions. My final dream image before waking up was him just smiling. It was sort of creepy.

I want to know where the sex dreams went.

Blog rules?

So a friend of mine asked an interesting question. She asked if there were blog rules.

Some people responded yes, and explained their rules. Some were pretty structured, some seemed to follow the Hippocratic Oath, some seemed to follow the Golden Rule.

But me? I don’t have blog rules. I blog about what I want to blog about. Whether that’s friends that are letting me down (wow. Did that go over like a turd in a punchbowl.), my husband’s farts, our planned night of passion that never happens because we get sucked into a ‘Surreal Life’ marathon, my moments of total lack of faith–it’s all fair game. It’s my blog. I write about what I want to write about.

I suppose I do have some rules. I don’t use M’s name (to protect the not-so-innocent); I’m a little leery of posting pictures of Linnea here (heh, that and I can’t figure the techonology to do it)…but that’s mostly it, I think.

So how about those of you who read me and blog? Do you have rules? What are they? Or do you just fly by the seat of your pants, pissing people off as you go on your merry blogging way? ‘Cuz lately, that’s they way I’ve been going. 😉

When you’re going through hell, don’t stop! April 27, 2005

I’ve always found that to be a very good statement. Certainly not platitudinous like some words I’ve been getting. And a good warning as well, because when things get bad: you can just sort of stop and wallow in the badness, until that just becomes the way things are. You condition yourself to look around at hell and say, “Hey. It’s not so bad. Climate’s nice.” and before you know it, you’re all settled in, living in hell, trying to convince yourself it’s heaven.

So, we’ve re-evaluated our plans. We are still going to move to St. Paul. M’s getting that doctorate if I have to do it myself. 😉 Besides: we’ve already tendered our resignations, and our bishop has set a precident of not allowing resignations to be withdrawn, and when we’re completely honest and not reacting from a place of fear and panic: we don’t WANT to be here any more than we did 10 days ago when everything was going to end happily ever after and tied up with a big pink bow. We don’t regret leaving, but we’re scared that we don’t know what comes next.

Which is why I’ve gone through the last day muttering, “Thy word is a lamp unto my feet.” It’s not a searchlight, or a flashlight, or even one of those really annoyingly bright new blue/white headlight that some cars have (gads, I hate those things). It’s just a small, flickering lamp, showing us where to set our feet next. The rest of the journey is still in shadow, something for God to know and for us to find out. And so I’m trying to trust that. I wish I could still just fling myself out there, trusting God to catch me and take me where I need to go…but somehow I’ve lost that. I’ve grown cautious. I’ve grown wary. And, to be perfectly honest: I’ve not been that impressed with the journey God has had us on so far. I mean: Kansas?! What the fuck?

Anyway. I was saying we’d reevaluated our plans. We have. I spent all day yesterday on the internet, trolling for jobs. I found several that I could do. I found several that I could do, and probably really enjoy. I found jobs that I could do and probably enjoy more than I like being a pastor. But something in me won’t let me give up on finding a church just yet. There’s a still small voice, telling me to wait. To keep going after churches. There’s a church in Wisconsin that’s only 50 miles from St. Paul…they’ve been looking for a pastor for about 15 months. As long as Linnea has been alive. There’s something about this church…it caught my eye the first time I saw it months ago. I keep going back to see if their “ad” is still there. It was, so I contacted them, to see if the position has been filled yet. I also contacted a church in St. Paul who is looking for a Youth and Family Education Coordinator. It wouldn’t be a pastoral position, but that would be sort of nice…I’d still get to work in the church, I’d get to work with the kids and the young adults and the thirtysomethings and young families…but I’d work Monday-Friday for the most part, and not have to deal with any of the 24/7 crap pastors have to. I also contacted a church who is looking for a Senior pastor who is passionate about preaching (yep! Check!) and who is a good ‘staff administrator’ (ummmm…I’m not sure). The Senior is probably reaching a little bit beyond my experience, but hey: I’m desperate.

I also found an adult entertainment firm who is looking for an attractive woman for easy work, which is answering phones and being a Girl Friday. Poppy thinks I should be a Girl Sunday. So, you know, I’m keeping that one in my back pocket. 😉 Everybody’s got to dream.

In an effort to lighten things and distract myself… April 26, 2005

Many thanks to mojavi, who tagged me on this. Perhaps she knew my love of books would at the very least distract me from a very funky funk. 🙂

1) You’re stuck inside Fahrenheit 451, which book do you save? I suppose the “gimme answer” would be “the Bible”, but I’m really not all that sure that would be the one book I’d save. Dude. I’ll probably get my pastorhood revoked just for writing that. Gads. Only one book? Then I think I’d have to go with “Anne of Green Gables”, because I love it so. No book (*sigh* OTHER than the Bible) has spoken to me on such a consistent level over soooo many years.

2) Have you ever had a crush on a fictional character? But of course!!!! Isn’t that part of the fun of smutty books? And (here’s a something I’ve never confessed to anyone) I’ve always had a secret crush on Jem Blythe from “Rilla of Ingleside”, except I totally thought he should dump Faith Meredith and fall in love with someone slightly less shortbread and a little more spicy–like me.

3) The last book you purchased? I don’t even know. I’ve put out a book-buying moratorium until M and I read some of the gazillion books we’ve purchased and never read. Perhaps “The Mommy Myth”? But (true to form) I haven’t bothered to read it yet.

4) What are you currently reading? For personal pleasure: Ahab’s Wife by Sena Jeter Naslund. I love this book. It totally sucks me in, no matter how many times I read it. For work: Toward a More Radical Gospel by Gerhard O. Forde, who was my teacher in seminary and who just plain, flat out, without question rocks my face off. His books are the type of books where SO MUCH is highlightable that what you DON’T highlight stands out more than the stuff you do. He’s amazing.

5) 5 books you would take to a deserted island? Hm. I have to agree with Mojavi, just for richness of story and ponderability, and new details and understandings upon multiple readings: it’s the LOTR trilogy. Except I always skip over the Sam and Frodo parts because I’d rather read about yummalicious Aragorn and Legolas (mmmmmm…Legolas. Funny story: a dear friend and I went to see one of the trilogy. It matters not which one it was, because Legolas was edible in all of them. But there was a shot where he suddenly appeared in frame and we both audibly gasped. He is so fine. Not so fine that he made me moan orgasmically in the theater–unlike Matthew McC in “A Time to Kill”–but, Lord, I thanked God for making a world where men like Orlando Bloom exist. Mmm-hmmm.). Or the “Outlander” series by Diana Gabaldon–also excellent story, but I’m not sure if it’s too many books or not. And really, are they going to say, “Oooo! Sorry. Six books. You don’t get to go to the deserted island. We’re sending you to Vegas instead”? And if they do: I’m so bringing six books.

“We regret to inform you…”

I got a letter from the bishops today. In it, they talked about how great I was. How much they enjoyed visiting with me, and how they felt I had many clear gifts for ministry.

And then they wrote, “We feel we have no churches available for you at this time.” Out of nearly 100 hundred congregations, they didn’t find ONE that needed someone as great as they apparently think I am to be their pastor.

Thanks for blowing wads of meaningless sunshine up my ass.

God fucking damn it.

The Wonders of Modern Medicine April 25, 2005

Linnea had her 15 month check-up today. She’s still not 20 lbs yet. She’s in the bottom 5-10% on the growth charts. She’s a teeny widdle girl!

But the most amazing thing: she got her chicken pox vaccine today. My little girl will never have chicken pox. That’s so amazing to me! I can remember word of a chicken pox outbreak blowing through our childhood neighborhoods like wildfire, and all the moms would send their kids to play with the sickie, hoping their kids would get the pox, too. And I will never ever have to do that. I will never have to bathe my itching, feverish, cranky child in calamine lotion, repeatedly tell her not to scratch the scabs, etc.

I just can hardly wrap my mind around that. It seems so amazing, so unreal. Chicken pox was just part of childhood, you know? And now: it’s gone.

Boys are gross

Today we went to the mall. It was Monday, our day of freedom: so off we went.

M had to go to the bathroom, so I said, “I’m going to get Linnea a frozen yogurt. We’ll meet you by the fountain outside Penny’s.” He said, “Oh! I’ll just go use the bathroom in Penny’s then.” I thought that was a fine idea.

So Linnea and I are sitting by the fountain, sharing a lovely chocolate frozen yogurt. M comes back. He sits down beside me on the bench and rips off a fart.

Good Lord! He’d just come from the bathroom! Couldn’t he have let that fly in there? Or did he think I wouldn’t want to miss it? Did he want to share his flatulent achievement with the entire mall? Was he marking his spot on the bench? Was his one goal for the day to make his wife so embarassed that she didn’t want to be seen with him? What the hell was he thinking?

Boys are so gross!!