words, maybe.

2010-10-21T08:55:00.004-04:00

I can remember talking about baby names with Jeremy before we were even romantically involved; on the car ride back from a trip to McKay's, or while sitting in a Japanese restaurant, the subject would come up and we would toss back and forth names that we liked.

It wasn't but a week or two after we were officially "together" and talking about marriage that, at a friend's suggestion, we visited a little Church of God church off Dalton Highway. To this day, I still wonder what prompted this friend to recommend the church to us, because they obviously hadn't been there before. It was by far the strangest sermon--or lack thereof--that I have ever heard; the pastor's idea of "preaching" was to have a member of the congregation come up, stand beside the pulpit, and read aloud from the book of Genesis. The pastor would then repeat everything the congregant read, only with more emphasis.

"And God said to Abram..."

"And GOD...said to ABRAM!"

"Leave your country, and your people..."

"Leave your country! And your PEOPLE!

Etc.

Once we got over our initial shock and giggles, we soon found that reading on through the book of Genesis was a little more interesting than listening to the parroting coming from the front of the sanctuary. We flipped forward through Abraham and Isaac and Jacob and Joseph, and when we saw the name "Ephraim", we both stopped. We decided there, in that weird little church in Cleveland, TN, in the autumn of 2004, that we would name a child Ephraim.

At that time my attraction to the name was mostly aesthetic. It was a name that was traditional, not made-up, but not common, and certainly not trendy. It had a nice meaning--"Fruitful"--which in my book was only a perk. Later we would add the middle name Aleksandr, spelled the Russian way, because we liked the look and because my paternal grandmother's father had emigrated from Russia in the late 1800's.

So Ephraim Aleksandr's name was chosen, for no particular reason, six years ago by two young people who hadn't even started planning their wedding yet.

I have always loved the name, but always felt somewhat embarrassed that we chose it the way we did, for the reason we did. I have heard story after story of Christian couples being given a name after praying for direction, names with deep, profound meanings and connotations. For us, there was never really any room for discussion. In 2006, during my false positive fiasco, we would have named the child Ethne or Ephraim. In 2007, when we miscarried, the child would have been named Ethne or Ephraim. This year, when we found out we were pregnant, we very, very briefly talked about alternative names, then decided that the child would be named either Ethne or Ephraim. (For the record, Ethne was chosen six years ago, too.)

When we went Friday for our "big" 20 week ultrasound, we were of course overjoyed to learn that it was Ephraim that had been kicking me awake at night. It wasn't really until later that day that the appropriateness of his name occurred to us--really only after a friend from school had prayed with us after we told her our news.

The last three or four years, as far as children are concerned, have been incredibly difficult for me. I have questioned God, His providence, His love, my purpose and my future. I can't count the number of times I looked at a negative pregnancy test and thought God hates me. I seriously wondered if we would ever, could ever have children. I wondered if I was doomed to that spiral of bitterness forever.

The name Ephraim means "fruitful", and I had always taken this to mean that the bearer of the name was fruitful. In reality, Joseph named his son "Ephraim" because Joseph was made fruitful.

The second son he named Ephraim and said, "It is because God has made me fruitful in the land of my suffering." (Gen. 41:52)

(I don't really need to point out, I guess, the fact that Ephraim is our second child, too.)

Jeremy's main reason for wanting a boy first was so that he would be a protector for any other children that would follow him. Did you know the name "Alexander" means "defender of man"? We didn't. I mean, I did, but I kept forgetting it, and again the parallel didn't occur to me until Friday afternoon.

This whole pregnancy process has been so humbling for me. How can it be that a name we chose supposedly on a whim before we were even married would be so incredibly appropriate for our lives? This is probably the third or fourth time that I've been blindsided with evidence that yes, God knows where we're at, and no, this baby was not a fluke, and yes, God is faithful, even though we may not be.

Oh, and did I mention that Oct. 15, the day of our ultrasound, was Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness day? How unbelievable is it that, on a day I would normally be home alone and mourning the past, we instead were able to see the precious little body of our son?

contrariwise

2010-09-20T10:39:00.003-04:00

Unless something changes, I'll have to start listing my occupation as part-time teacher, part-time cat.

I'll be 17 weeks along on Wednesday (or Thursday, depending on whether you believe the due date my OB gave me or the date she put on the sonogram) and am finally starting to regain some of the energy that has been conspicuously missing since--oh, about July 4th.

Since I teach, I was able to spend a good six weeks after my positive pregnancy test literally doing nothing but sleeping all day. (The cats were very pleased with this turn of events, and welcomed me with enthusiasm to their world of endless slumber.)Since I teach only part-time, even once I started working I was still able to spend 5/7ths of the week snoozing and being lazy in general.

It's been a hard habit to break.

Sometimes I wonder if I'm really still so tired, or just so accustomed to doing very little besides lie in bed. Obviously, I know that fatigue is part of the whole pregnancy package, and I have to be careful not to over-exert or work myself too hard. Nonetheless I've noticed that all the time spent lounging about isn't nearly as refreshing as it was previously...quite the opposite, actually.

Saturday night I meant (I really meant!) to clean the guest bathroom (which we have been using since our master bedroom is out of commission.) Instead I plopped down after a late lunch and alternately slept, watched movies, and browsed the internet. All day. All evening.

It wasn't until about 9:30 that I realized that not only was I wide awake, I was restless both mentally and physically, and I still had a ridiculously dirty bathroom. For a half-hour I lay in the dark, trying to convince myself that I would do it in the morning--an attempt that failed miserably. I ended up getting up around 10:30 to clean the stupid bathroom. And then I did the dishes. And then I had peace.

So, this week I am considering the somewhat paradoxical fact that working is oftentimes more relaxing than relaxing is.

sneak attack

2010-09-07T10:32:00.003-04:00

I read the story of Balaam's donkey (among other things) this morning while waiting for my coffee to brew. Whenever I read or hear about that story, I always marvel at what instrument God can and will use to convey His message.I mean, you go from chapters and chapters of God's word being spoken through Moses, with whom He spoke "face to face", then God is speaking through Balaam, a pagan prophet, and then through his donkey. That's quite a variation.

Sometimes, though, it seems God speaks to me through something infinitely more unexpected: my own voice. It's weird.

One thing this pregnancy experience has been showing me is how miserably inadequate my prayer life is. I vacillate between using prayer as some sort of incantation or manipulation (I wrote a whole post on this a month or so ago but was so embarrassed about it that I never published it) or just a one-sided feelings dump.

I have this friend who hears from God regularly. It's really incredible. I find myself in awe constantly when she shares about the words she hears and the events that confirm them. I want to ask, "How do you do that?" How are you tuning in to Him so well? Is there some kind of process I can follow? Could I sit in on your prayer time with you? Tell me your secret!!

I desperately want my prayer life to be two-way. I have found myself praying for that a lot recently...but to be truthful, I'm not even sure I know how to pray for it correctly. I'm just lost.

So we have this munchkin cat named Mims. She is an endearing creature with her teeny-tiny short legs and big yellow eyes. She to just come and sit with us--she's really not happy unless she is in someone's lap. If she can't get in your lap, she will follow you around the house literally yelling until she can. And she has a loud voice.

Sometimes, though, my lap will be readily available, but she'll sit on the floor and yell at me anyways. Or we'll be laying in bed, and she'll stand out in the hallway and cry, but won't come in, no matter how much we call to her.

This gets really irritating after a bit.

So I was sitting at my computer this morning when Mims came to sit on the floor about four feet away from me. And she yelled. And yelled. And I looked at her and said, "Ok, come here! Come and sit!" She just blinked her large, luminous eyes at me, then launched into another series of yowls. "Mims." I said. With feeling. No change. Finally I got angry. "For pete's sake, would you just come here and be with me?" And my words kinda-sorta slapped me in the face. I could almost hear the Lord repeating the same thing to me. Except nicer. Because He is nicer than I.

Literally right after that I read this post.

So please excuse me while I quit hollering and just go be with Him.

the beat of relief

2010-09-03T14:28:00.003-04:00

When I first converted this blog to private, I had all sorts of great intentions of writing through the first trimester experience, all the moments of prayer and faith (or lack of it), the ups and downs and everything baby wouldn't let me eat.

I am not a fantastically stable person, emotionally speaking. I get rocked pretty hard by the waves of whatever chemicals, hormones or otherwise go coursing through my brains as the days pass. My mom could tell you--every now and then I have to call her and regale her with whatever "grown-up hissy fit" I've just thrown (which I try to do only when I'm alone, if at all possible.) I also tend to have no skill whatsoever in hiding any feelings--good or bad.

I have noticed, though, that during moments that truly overwhelm me, I clam up. An old employer used to call this tendency "going dark." After we lost our first baby, I didn't talk about it. I didn't really want to talk about it. It's really only been this year that I've felt like I could talk about what happened, thought I always felt like I was talking about something that happened to someone else.

I haven't really written anything at all during the past two months, on here or in my own personal journal, which really only got entries like "still here, still pregnant, still sick." Occasionally I would think about how I was afraid to talk to baby, afraid baby was dead already, afraid to leave things in God's hands in case He had plans other than the ones I wanted. It has been a long two months.

I had my first doctor's visit today. Because I can never have a normal doctor visit experience--last time around they lost my appointment--I got a phone call around 4:30 yesterday from the office saying that my insurance didn't cover maternity. They had outdated information, which I told them, and gave them my new insurance information, but that didn't stop the panic that they'd call back and I've have to reschedule again or even find a new doctor entirely.

The cat woke me up at 4 a.m. this morning (for reasons that shall have to be explained in another post) so I laid in bed for quite a while, thinking, brooding, praying, trying not to imagine the worst possible scenario, trying to think of how I would cope if the sonogram showed what it did last time. When I did finally get up, my hands shook so bad that I only barely managed to get mascara on my eyelashes. Most of it ended up on my eyelids.

I met Jeremy at the doctor's and we prayed in the parking lot. Our wait was short (thank God) and when we made it back to the sonogram room, I was already eyeing the box of tissues stuck the wall. Dr. R came in and asked how we were, to which I readily replied "a nervous wreck!" She understood and skipped the regular...um, exam intro things, I guess...and got on with the sonogram. The nurse turned the lights off and I asked for tissues--a good thing, too. Once that little body showed up on the screen, I looked desperately for signs of life, which Dr. R. saw right away. She gave a murmur of approval (for the life of me I can't remember what she said) and turned up the monitor so we could hear the little swish-swish of heartbeat. Jeremy and I both burst into tears. Relief, joy, thankfulness, disbelief, peace...you name it, we felt it. I could feel his hand shaking in mine, and the picture on the screen dipped and jiggled as my sobs jostled the sonogram wand.

"Heartbeat is good, placenta looks good, everything like it should be!" The doctor was measuring baby, who was right on schedule at 14 weeks. We saw baby's whole body, head and arms and tummy and legs, saw the heart beating, saw baby do a little jig a few times. It was so surreal, yet so perfect. Just right. For a weak-minded person like me, who felt sure for the last three years that I would never see this moment, the thought of having a pregnancy where everything was just right was hard to comprehend. But there he--or she--was, in black and white.

a rock and a hard place

2010-08-05T21:42:00.003-04:00

...Or as they say in Spanish, "between the sword and the wall." Except they actually say it in Spanish.

Whatever. You know what I mean.

Tonight I found myself faced with a choice between two evils. Or, more accurately, I made my choice of one evil then realized later that I wasn't sure I had actually picked the lesser of the two.

This evening was the Open House for our school. I was in the building nearly all day (so I missed my daily 7-hour nap) preparing my classroom for the onslaught of parents and students that would be filling the school tonight. I was also mentally preparing the speech I was going to give about my classes (since we had been told two days prior that all teachers would stand up, introduce themselves, and give a little blurb about their classes.) I figured I would stand up and talk in Spanish at first, just to show off...er...I mean, show I knew what I was doing. Then I'd launch into a bunch of stuff about the classes that I had pretty much made up that afternoon, seeing as my past month has been focused on seven hour naps and NOT pre-planning.

When I went home to change for the Open House, I realized I had a bit of a dilemma on my hands. I had already changed and made up my face, but I really needed to brush my teeth since I would actually be having to talk to people tonight. The problem is that, recently, I never know when brushing my teeth is going to earn me a one-way ticket to the toilet bowl. It's very tricky, this little gag reflex. Some days I am totally fine. Others I end up dry heaving (or worse, bringing up bile) for five minutes, after which I'm back where I started, with an ever nastier mouth than before I stuck the toothpaste in.

These little episodes also leave one feeling incredibly tired, and drained, and make one lose all one's mascara.

There was no choice about it--I was going to have to do something else. I thought for a moment, then decided I would stop by a gas station on the way to school and get some gum. THAT would do the trick!

Now, one of the lovelier symptoms I have had is this constant burping. If that sounds gross, that's because it is. Typically it's at least somewhat quiet, though every now and then one lets loose with a force that would make a middle school boy stare in awe. I have no warning for those. They just come.

It wasn't until I was almost to school with a coke in one hand and the gum in the other--and one rather large belch had just snuck up and out of me--that I realized I had just ingested two things that would certainly not be aiding me in the gas department. And now I had to stand up in front of people and talk with these time bombs rolling around in my gut.

Suddenly I wished I had taken my chances with the toothbrush.

So I stood over to the side during Open House assembly, trying to keep my sounds to a minimum, praying that I wouldn't mortify myself in front of all these people, and trying to remember all the stuff I had made up about my classes, when it ended up our Headmistress decided it was too hot in the assembly room and that we would just be in our classrooms to describe our classes.

2010-07-27T14:51:00.002-04:00

I found out last week that our school was not able to enroll enough elementary-age students for our Friday classes, so at the moment all my classes for that day have been canceled.

Now, this is a good thing and a bad thing. The good thing is that I would L-O-V-E love to only work two days a week and not have to go in on Fridays anymore. Lord knows I could use that day around the house, or tutoring, which earns me considerably more money than Elementary Spanish and History classes. The bad thing is that, with those classes gone, and if I can't get anything to take their place, that is that much less money my already measly part-time paycheck will be bringing home. Oh well.

On a lighter note, by this time "last time" I was feeling a sudden decrease in morning sickness and felt pretty good in general, which may or may not have been a signal to the problems inside. Today I am happy to report that I cooked Jeremy and I a late lunch lunch of grilled chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, and was subsequently unable to eat any of it without gagging. A good sign.

Last Time: (this is a silly post.)

2010-07-23T12:55:00.004-04:00

Last time around I knew I was pregnant for a whole three weeks before I went in for my first sonogram--the one that showed baby bean was there but his* heartbeat wasn't.

It is morbid curiosity, I guess, that has made me wonder for the past couple of days how exactly the days worked out last time. I looked up a 2007 calendar today and was somewhat disturbed to see that November 2007 and July 2010 are...well, the same month. That is that the numbers fall on the same days of the week--with the exception, of course, of the 31st, which does not exist for November.

Let me put it this way: I found out I was pregnant on November 9th after being sick all week, starting on November 5th. Three weeks after that discovery, on November 30th, was that doctor's appointment I so loathe remembering.

This time I found out I am pregnant on July 10th after being sick all week, starting on July 5th. The 30th is one week from today. Do you see where I'm going with this?

Now I knew that whenever I approached the parallel week, it would be a difficult time. I just didn't know it was coming so soon. The chances of everything ending up like last time stay in my mind constantly. The fact that the dates match up may turn out to be endlessly redemptive, but for the moment they're just creepy.

2010-07-22T20:48:00.003-04:00

Well, if you're here, you probably already know that we're pregnant. A private blog is one last desperate attempt for me to maintain the air of secrecy that we conspired to when we found out nearly two weeks ago. Of course, that secrecy hasn't exactly gone as planned...it's kind of a hard thing to keep quiet about.

For example: first it was only family. Then family and close friends. Then some church leaders. Then the garbage man. Then I came home one day to find Jeremy had told our neighbors. Then the girls I was working in VBS with, since they guessed why I was eating saltine crackers like a fiend, anyways. And so on and so forth.

Anyway, I thought I might go insane without some outlet for sharing with the world (read: reading list) all of the emotions and sickness and fear and lessons that God seems to be passing my way daily. I would say more, but that would give away my next blog post, so I'll have to leave it for now.

ATTN

2010-07-20T15:31:00.001-04:00

This blog is going private in a few days. If you would like to be added to the list of readers, please send me an e-mail at allis.and.the.cat@gmail.com

Thanks much!

avoidance

2010-05-05T17:38:00.003-04:00

The end of the world...I mean, school...is near, and I'm a little close to panicking. Whoever assumed that school got easier once you're on the teaching side had serious issues with reality. (Who was that glib person? Oh, right...it was me.)

So I'm seated in the nook on a Wednesday with a candle or two to keep the moisture out of the air (not sure whether that works or not, but it's a nice thought.) And I have cookies in the oven that will turn into mini fruit pizzas, and I'm avoiding my schoolwork. No--very little has changed since my years as a student.

There is a spoken pact in our household that the inside of the house, barring the basement, will be finished by the end of the summer. Two days ago, however, J and I sat down and made a list of everything that needed to be done; the list was, in 12 pt. font and with 1 inch margins, nearly four pages long.

There is probably a much greater chance of the house being finished before I ever get around to making a blog with archives of the work we've done.

How I Spend My Spring

2010-03-16T20:39:00.005-04:00

Making cakestands out of candlesticks and pretty plates

Crocheting "iHoots"

Owl-sighting

Dreaming about a finished living room

For Family

2010-03-09T08:06:00.000-05:00

quasi-modo

2010-02-25T07:25:00.002-05:00

I hyphenated the title so that you would read it, not as the name of Hugo's ill-fated protagonist, but with more of a modern English flair, like quaz-EE modo. Like that. Why I wanted this, I'm not sure exactly...I have hair dye on my scalp and havent had any coffee yet, so anything goes.

If you are a nerd like me (and I certainly hope you are) you will know that word, or name, in Latin means....what? Hmm? Anyone? And no fair running to Google for the answer!

I'm thinking of starting a blog for our house with the word above as inspiration. If you know the word, you know why.

Black-roof country, no gold pavements.

2010-01-21T07:47:00.005-05:00

In a white room
With black curtains
Near the station

-Cream, "White Room"

Yesterday morn I stood in the master bath, facing the master closet, with a paintbrush in hand and dilemma in mind. The biggest item on my to-do list was to paint the trim in the bathroom, which I stood poised to do. As the closet caught my eye, however, it occurred to me that the trim in there needed to be painted, too--but before the trim could be painted, the walls needed painting...and the ceiling, as well...

So I stood there, with one half of my brain calculating all the things that needed to be done, and the other half telling myself that this was a big closet, a big job, and I was undertaking it by myself, and I probably wouldn't be able to finish it that day...Erin...Erin, are you listening? This is a big job! Are you sure you want to do this?

So being the reasonable, logical person I am, I ran downstairs to see what kind of paint we had for the closet.

It took me almost an hour to clean the thing out, and another half-hour to take the shelves out, and another fifteen minutes to find a roller (it was outside), but only five seconds to know that orange, lavender, or yellow were not acceptable colors for the continuation of a room that is mostly jade and stone. White was the only option available that would not cause some kind of color clashing riot, and thusly, yesterday marked the very first time I have ever voluntarily painted something white out of purely aesthetic reasons*.

So I painted the closet white, the ceilings and the walls and the trim, being careful not to drip on the carpet (which we are keeping), but spray-painting the shelves a kind of metallic taupey-champagne color, because in reality I cannot fathom a completely white room. I purchased a curtain rod, and Jeremy (when he got home) hung blinds, so now we can dress in the closet without wondering if everyone can see us through the pithy piece of fabric I had haphazardly tacked in the window.

(Yes, there's a window in the closet, and yes, I'd like to think the view was always blocked, but one can't help but wonder if the neighbors are mourning--or applauding--the end of a two-year-long peep show at the end of the cul-de-sac.)

I hung black curtains left over from our Cleveland days on the curtain rod, thus fulfilling my goal of one day creating a room in homage to the Cream song "White Room". Now, whether yellow tigers are crouching in jungles, or shadows running from themselves, or starlings are tired, remains to be seen--I'm actually not quite finished with the job, yet!

*of my own. We painted Mom and Dad's living room and kitchen white back in 2002, or 2003, but that was only because they wouldn't let me paint it green.

2009-10-31T13:17:00.005-04:00

It's autumn: the leaves are changing, the owls are back, and my preferred nail color has shifted from pink to burgundy.

In the south, the third season of the year is usually the shortest. Most of the time you barely notice its presence at all--the weather is warm and muggy, then all of the sudden the humidity is gone, the leaves fall abruptly, and cold sets in. Because of the unusual amount of rain we've received here in the last month, the whole fall feel has lasted a tad longer than normal. Even still, one can still miss it if one is not watching closely.

Autumn is my favorite and least favorite time of the year. Favorite because the weather--when it arrives--is perfect. Autumn is a colorful season, not extreme, and carries the memory of coziness with it: mulled spices and firesides and a new set of slippers.

Least favorite for one main reason: Halloween. One of the most useless holidays, in my opinion, second perhaps to Valentine's Day. Halloween is a roadblock to the start of the family-oriented holiday season, in my opinion; one always feels guilty thinking about Thanksgiving or Christmas until Halloween is over. If it weren't for the over-emphasis on the fabled day of orange and black, we could get on with the Season's Greetings as soon as the autumnal feel fled the scene, no strings attached and no guilt involved. Who's with me? Anyone?

But I digress.

[We interrupt this blog post for this special announcement: the cat sitting next to me has the hiccups.]

mugged

2009-10-08T08:45:00.004-04:00

It was hard for me to get up this morning. Jeremy gets up at 6:00 a.m. everyday (barring weekends, of course) and sometimes I can manage to get up about a half-hour after him. I do enjoy these days, when I can accomplish them--they are, however, few and far between.

I have gotten up and 6:30 every day this week, though. That is, every day but today. Today I felt like my arms and legs were made of whipping cream. Heavy whipping cream. Then I felt like a truck had run over me, but it was only Jeremy, who was now washed and dressed and had come to squish me, as he always does on those days I'm not out of bed yet.

With my mind semi-alert but my body completely rejecting the idea of getting up, I simply laid in limbo for a good half-hour after Jeremy left for work. Finally I fell asleep again. I woke at 8:11, startled awake by the sudden thought of something I really needed to do (what it was, I don't recall...I think I've done it already, though.)

When I came downstairs to the kitchen, there was a Lee University mug sitting on the counter, looking spry and regal in its grey and burgundy motif. Jeremy must have gotten it at the college fair last night, I thought, picking it up to look at it and peeling the sticker off the bottom. ("The Grande Mug", it said.) Setting it back down, I moved to make the coffee, then sat down at the piano to play a couple of hymns. When the coffee was done I left my musical seat and went back to the kitchen to pour myself a cup, stopping briefly to eye the Lee mug, again, sitting rather forlornly on the counter.

I have a healthy obsession with mugs. I like strange, artsy, mismatched mugs that have bright colors or are hand made or are very old. My favorite mug for years was one I found at Goodwill, cracked, with the brown and yellow "Yuban Coffee" screen-printing flaking away. The handle had been broken off and haphazardly glued back on again.

New mugs with logos--"business mugs", in my mind--I have never let into my collection. I guess they're too left brain for me. A little too math and science. A little too skirt suit. My other mugs are right brain cups, all art and abstraction, feelings and language and nuances. Even their shapes are out-of-the-ordinary, unlike my helpless newcomer, the Lee Mug, which stood with its "typical mug" shape and straight lines.

I hovered beside the coffee maker while considering these things. I had moved to get a mug from my collection in the drawer when I was drawn, inexplicably, towards the Lee Mug. I held it in my hands for a second, weighing the pros and cons of forgoing a right-brain for a left-brain drinking vessel. In the end I rinsed it out, dried off the outside, and poured my coffee into it, mixing in the cream and testing the flavor, no, not enough, a little more, there that's good. And I felt strange, starting my day off with business mug. Even stranger was the odd feeling of satisfaction I felt in representing my alma mater during a coffee break.

and now for something completely different

2009-09-23T16:56:00.005-04:00

There are many downsides to living in a house during its renovation: not having doors, tools being constantly underfoot, cleaning the living room only to have your husband unexpectedly sand the staircase and cover everything in a 1.5" layer of sawdust, etc, etc.

The good part is that things are always changing. From week to week and month to month a room will undergo drastic changes. This is an excellent environment for someone like me, who gets extremely bored with colors and furniture arrangements and style that stays the same day after day. I'd actually like to think that my insatiable need for visual variety is the indicator of some sort of hidden, mad genius. Or something.

While growing up, I could only go so long without changing something--usually it was my hairstyle (later, hair color) or the order of the knickknacks on my bedroom shelves. Every couple of months I would wind up rearranging my bedroom furniture. I remember, as a teenager, arranging and then rearranging my room twice in one month. It didn't have to be a brand new layout every time; it just had to be different than what I saw presently. I even dismantled my bed, at one point, and slept on a mattress on the floor for many months. The change of view was incredibly refreshing.

Now, as a "grown-up" (I use the term loosely) I still get the itch for a change of scenery with predictable regularity. I rotate rugs and vases and accent pillows from room to room. I find a new spot for the coffee maker every few weeks. My hair is never the same color twice in a row (someday soon it will fall out altogether, but that's another subject for another day.) I have even contemplated packing up half of my coffee mugs so that I can change them out every now and then.

It was today, while putting up different curtains in the living room, that I was struck with an epiphany of creativity. I had thrown the previous curtains over one of my chairs when I decided to tuck it around the cushion--I wondered what the chair would look like blue instead of orange. And I liked it! It was an incredible change in the look of the room, and it appealed to my need for diverse scenery.

What struck me was an idea that I had never considered previously: the two orange chairs--actually halves of a sofa--are modular, designed to break into pieces and be rearranged at will (that's why I wanted them) and therefore perfect for handmade recovering. No store-bought cover would fit them, but all one would really need to do would be to sew four large squares.

Of course, I would NEVER want to do something permanent, but having two or three sets of slipcovers for the chair set would be a dream come true. I was so giddy when the idea hit me that I laughed and did a little dance and frightened the cats. Even now, the thought of being able to change the color of furniture at will is incredibly exciting.

So I'm making a list of possible materials and colors to use--Velcro and such. I'll keep you posted.

2009-09-17T21:33:00.002-04:00

Can it really be going to rain for the next ten days? I think the last two evenings (three including tonight) have been accompanied by the peculiar sound of raindrops hitting the chimney cover. I am running out of rainy day music to listen to; while I love to shut the windows against a driving thunderstorm, light a candle, and turn on some old album by Simon and Garfunkel, several evenings in a row of such a pattern can get somewhat old.

I remember having in college a whole list of music that qualified as "rainy day songs". Frank Sinatra, Groupe Oyiwan, Simon & Garfunkel (of course), Yann Tiersen...along with several other things I can't even recall, now. Those were the days when I didn't do anything without a personal soundtrack (except go to class...those were pre-ipod days.) I collected so much music from my friends and family that I could put my media player on shuffle and have non-stop music for almost two days.

Of course I lost all that music the first time Jeremy decided to re-format my laptop. I've never quite recovered.

stylish schizophrenia

2009-08-23T21:36:00.003-04:00

I went to-night to a the bookstore; I aimed to spend a giftcard of my husband's which he had bestowed upon me, as he wasn't planning on using it.

So I snatched it with glee and went on my way-- though I do not go to a bookstore to buy books. Books I buy at yard sales and thrift stores and occasionally amazon. It's sad, but true...I went to the bookstore to look at the paper and notecards.

Once inside, I tried not to be too indecisive--I had just been to the international market and had all sorts of things in the car like milk and basa and some japanese strawberry puff-thingies that looked interesting, and I didn't want anything to spoil. But it still took me a half an hour to browse around two aisles, unable to decide on which style I liked best.

I have multiple personalities when it comes to design. I was actually sitting in our master bedroom, today (I was supposed to me cleaning it out) and daydreamed about how it would look when finished. I really couldn't for the life of me figure out what the end result might look like. See, I have a very eclectic style of decor, of music and of clothing, and of all things aesthetic; all this really means is that I can never make up my mind about anything, because I like it all.

So for one moment I was enamored with sleeping in a very clean, posh sort of palette of greys and navy blue and gold. Then I was set on relaxing with a more modern, feminine look of olive green and coral. Then I fantasized about settling down in an earthy, organic feeling rooms with whites and greens and natural fibers for window treatments. Then it was back to grey, but with teal this time. (Of course it's silly for me to settle on only two colors, because I will always end up somehow throwing in something of a contrasting hue. I really can't help it. The living room was supposed to be a pale green, white and black. Now there's an orange couch. It's how my brain is hardwired.)

Anyways, it was this same mental cacophony that impeded me from making a decision in the bookstore. Was I more drawn to the floral printed notecards, the lavender ones, the ones with a mod cartoon turtle? The paisley was certainly nice.

I turned down another aisle and found a set that were entirely cream, except for a tiny black cat, no more than half an inch wide, lying down in the middle. It was very chic, very minimalist. I agonized over it for a while, really loving it, but the thing is that I am the absolute furthest thing from a minimalist that you'll probably ever meet. After a while I felt ridiculous. If I bought the cards, I'd most likely have to balance the starkness by writing my notes with orange or green ink, and then it'd be the living room all over again.

Fortunately I was saved from my inability by the entire section of owl-themed things, magnets and notecards and sticky-notes, and little spiral-bound notebooks that would make excellent to-do lists. Owls trump everything else, in my book, so I ended up with a mug (!) and a to-do-list-book and a set of magnets for a friend who is also an owl lover.

I am still hung up on those little cat cards, though. Does this mean I might truly have a minimalist side that is trying to emerge? I suppose we'll see if she'll manifest herself in the master bed decor.

Excerpt from Facebook Chat, 8/16/09

2009-08-16T21:42:00.003-04:00

Carol: Are we keeping score, then?

Erin: ...no.

Carol: I'll quit talking 'cause I'll lose!

Erin: Haha, I was about to say that!

Carol: No, I'll LOSE!

Erin: No, I'll LOOSE. But I don't know what I'll loose. Hopefully something that doesn't make a mess.

Gimme a W, gimme an E, gimme an I-R-D.

2009-08-13T12:16:00.003-04:00

I think my body is subtly starting to panic.

Or, my prayers that I might share a friend's anxiety have been answered.

Or, I am worried about too many things.

Or, I have had too much coffee today.

Or, all of the above.

Nevertheless, I feel like I'm floating in a sea of pinpricks, and my stomach hurts, and I need to sit down, and I need to stand up, and I need to talk. Talk talk talk.

I'm not twitching yet, though.

this is what Irony smells like.

2009-08-11T21:31:00.004-04:00

I spent an hour today working on a post about a logically and grammatically fallible bumper sticker I had seen last week.

I ended up deleting it after fretting about the possible logical and grammatical fallacies in my own post.

C'est la vie... or la guerre.

Typical Craigslist Evening, 7/30/2009

2009-07-31T10:46:00.004-04:00

It's starting to rain slightly as we take the exit for Freedom Parkway and come to a complete stop. It's not rush hour, but there's still too many people in their shiny downtown vehicles trying to cross three or four lanes in the space of .1 miles. I stop reading to look over my shoulder and help Jeremy move over, one lane at a time--now, wait, not yet, okay now go, fast, hold on a sec, you're good. The stoplight is too fast, and we crawl towards to the intersection, and I alternate between glancing at the scribbled directions in my hand and straining to read the upcoming street sign as we inch closer to it.

Fulton county most certainly has the worst method of street labeling in the metro area.

Several minutes later, and we're close enough for me to see that this isn't the street we're looking for, and I look back down at my book while I can. It's Camus' The Plague and it's unsettling, as his works tend to be. I had picked it up early that day, along with several history textbooks and a Norton's Anthology of Literature, at a thrift store selling all books 8/$1.00, which is such an odd number. Why not seven for a dollar, or six? Are single books really twelve and a half cents?

Two miles down the road we find our street and turn right, entering the part of Downtown Atlanta that doesn't look like Downtown at all. I help count house numbers, 915, 1076, 1300, 1360, here it is. We turn left and down the driveway, and as we step out it begins to rain in earnest. The man we're here to see is waiting in the doorway of his basement apartment, a cat hanging around his feet that looks exactly like one of ours, only without the white feet. We park halfway beneath a tree and dodge puddles on our way in.

Inside the apartment are boxes, half-empty bookshelves. A Mexican marionette hangs from the moulding on one end of the room. The man is moving, and the place is clean and bright and smells wonderful, like it was deeply cleaned earlier that day. The cat has disappeared.

Our interest is directly to the left of the door and against the wall--a disassembled Japanese arcade, the kind that you have to sit on stools to play, the kind that people have imported for almost ten times as much as we are paying for this one.

Finding it on craigslist the evening before caused a minor frenzy of excitement in our humble house; I had been told the news prefaced with the disclaimer that I would be furious "with the fiery passion of a thousand angry wives", which unsettled me greatly, and the more he stalled the more unsettled I felt, until I demanded he simply give me a kiss and tell me anyways. I have no love for video games, and certainly not for arcade cabinets, but this one is small and compact and Japanese (and I have a soft sot in my heart for all things Japanese) and when he finally told me what he had gotten, I was interested in it as well.

We load it into the truck, making sure all electrical parts are inside the cab and away from the rain, and Jeremy chats with the guy for a while about xboxes and arcade cabinets and other things. I have stepped aside, out of the way of their conversation, and glance surreptitiously down the hallway (I am insatiably curious of other people's homes). There is a magnetized dry erase board on the fridge, stamped with the logo of some nondescript company. On it is written a to-do list:

TO DO

-MOVE (out)
-MOVE (in)

Which strikes me as being very practical and well-prioritized.

A few minutes later we are loading back into the truck and backtracking to our side of town. It is getting dark, now, and I cannot read; though I probably wouldn't anyways, had it been light. I am stuffed against the passenger door beside a 29 inch monitor, and am busy clinging to the handle over my head to assuage my fear of the door flying open and me falling out, as I have always feared, ever since being a small child.

Jeremy is giddy. I am happy for him, and we talk on the way home, and he thankfully distracts me from the perceived precariousness of my seat by wistfully fantasizing about getting a burrito from Moe's.

Excerpt from Facebook Chat, 7/27/09

2009-07-27T23:07:00.003-04:00

Erin: But I disapprove of the spelling of the word "privilege." There should be a D in there. Priviledge. It makes more sense. :P

Carol: You may take that up with Mr. Johnson.

Erin: "Mr. Johnson, I must protest."

Carol: However, I believe he is out of the office.

Erin: Oh.

Carol: He's been rather ill lately.

2009-07-23T10:28:00.003-04:00

I tried my very best to get up at a reasonable time this morning, but waking up at 6:15 and not being able to go back to sleep for almost an hour meant that, once I did fall asleep, I didn't wake up for another three hours.

I will try again tomorrow.

2009-07-15T10:20:00.002-04:00

I went yesterday to sign the contract for my new job. Kind of a weird feeling, today...like I am missing something. I wonder what it could be? Panic? Listlessness? That ever-pervading sense of being lost? I may not know what to do with myself, but it's better than the alternative.

I accepted the homeschooling job. I've been given a few more classes, so will only work 3 days a week, but still make enough to pay the mortgage.

Last week was a busy one. I had one interview a day on Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday. No other position really worked out; it was nice to have a clear choice.

Yesterday morning I received a phone call from a middle school that I interviewed with back in March. They were in the same county as the high school that hired and then un-hired me in May. About midpoint of the same month was the last time I had heard from them. The principal was calling to see if I had found employment yet. I said yes. He asked where. I told him. He said they still were looking for someone and did I know anyone looking for a Spanish job. I said nobody came to mind immediately, but I would keep them in mind.

I mean, really?

One hurdle passed. The next: how on earth am I going to raise $800 for this Nicaragua trip I've been asked to participate in?

etc., etc., etc.

2009-07-08T17:48:00.002-04:00

I interviewed Tuesday for a Homeschool Academy, the same sort of thing I attended through High School.

It's a really exciting prospect. There are four Spanish classes currently: two elementary and two high school level classes. I also might be able to teach an elementary -level creative writing class, a drama class, an elementary-level "Cultural Exploration" class...she was open to anything, she said--I just needed to present it.

This is kind of the equivalent of someone handing me a brush, palette and canvas, and saying "you paint a picture, and we'll sell it." Exciting! My mind is bursting with ideas.

The thing that really caught me, though, was the attitude of the school's founder. When I asked her: What are your expectation for this Spanish program?

She answered: That the students learn Spanish.

That may seem like a very obvious answer, but I assure you that it is the only one of its type I have received in all the interviews I've been in this year. But I believe this is typical; the goal of homeschooling is, usually, the success of the student. The goal of public schools is, usually, the success of the school system, via test scores. That may be a biased opinion, but I base it on experience in both styles of education.

She actually offered me the job on the spot. I told her, though, that I had an interview scheduled for the next day (today) and that the school had contacted me for said interview, and I felt obligated to go before accepting any other offers. I made it clear, though, that her school was really my first choice, and that I would contact her Thursday.

But oh, the bad news. Did I tell you the bad news? The bad news is that, to start, I'd only be working one day a week, and monthly would garnish only enough wages to pay 1/3 of our mortgage. But the school gives plenty of opportunity for growth, for extra hours, for after-school tutoring, and all sorts of things. My hours could double, easily. Hopefully.

This morning, as I readied for my other interview, I was really torn. I felt drawn to the position I was offered, but the one I was interviewing for was full-time, in a school district that pays $10,000 more than I earned working at my last school.

It came down to this: one job had a sense of purpose firmly attached to it; one job had money attached to it. In a brief, blinding moment of clarity, I realized that the choice is no choice at all.

I still worried about the interview, though. I knew I didn't really want the job, and felt dishonest even going. (When before, ironically, I felt dishonest about cancelling.)

Fortunately I was saved any further discomfort when, as I was about to walk into the building, I got a phone call from the woman who arranged the interview, saying she was sorry but that the interview would have to be re-scheduled for another time, but she would (WOULD, she emphasized) call me TODAY to re-schedule.

Well, it's 6:17, and no phone call.

I love a slammed door.

2009-07-03T18:16:00.001-04:00

2009-07-02T12:25:00.003-04:00

If I turn my head about three inches to the right, I can hear this high-pitched buzzing sound. When I face forward again, it's gone.

I've spent the past two hours sitting in our garden tub with the following: rubber gloves; a sponge; Soft Scrub; a bristle-brush; paint thinner; a bucket (to sit on); a wooden shim (to use as a scraping tool.) My arms hurt, but it looks like a tub again. I think I have spent more time cleaning the rub than actually cleaning myself in it. Hopefully that will change once the bathroom is finished.

Thoughts for the Future, and a Blast from the Past

2009-07-01T16:50:00.003-04:00

I had an interview yesterday. I have another next Tuesday, and another the day after that. I am rather hoping that at least one of those will yield some sort of result.

Today I am going backwards through all my old Xanga posts, just for nostalgia's sake; I sigh happily at some posts, cringe at the occasional misspelled word, and--sometimes--giggle uncontrollably at the account of some memory I had completely forgotten.

Here's one: from Wednesday, Dec. 22, 2004.

Putting up the Christmas tree.

Last year dad and I went out to the field and cut down a fresh cedar tree. This year the fields were mowed ("Don't worry, daddy, in another eight years we'll go get another one", I said.) So we were forced to resort to our old fake tree. After a few years of real honest-to-goodness piney trees, it seemed a little...fake. And shorter than I remembered ("This tree has osteoporosis!").

After we pulled the tree from its place of hiding, we went in search of the fated box-of-ornaments. And we searched. and searched. And we were split into three groups: the attic group (mom and dad) the front closest group (aimee) and the basement group (erin). About fifteen minutes and the re-discovery of mom's wedding bouquet later, I emerged from the basement successful. (Kanpai!! Aimee and I exclaimed, to which I added "I win I win!!").

It's our tradition to decorate the tree to Handel's "Messiah". This year the CD was left at Shutterbug, so after a brief stint of singing it ourselves ("What's it to ya" to the tune of the Hallelujah Chorus, performed by father, of course) we resorted to the Beach Boy's "I Get Around" whilst putting the lights 'round the tree. Finally mom caved and put it our Canadian Brass Christmas Album.

We let all the cats out of the basement so they could enjoy the festivities. All ten of them. Sponge (who performed the amazing "exploding cat box" feat after I pushed him into the christmas tree box) Nemo, Mouse, Pooka, Bear, Liriel, Squeaky, Alli, Goblin, and Oliver.

As I write, there was just a resounding crash in the other room.

After we put up the tree we all sat down to watch Peter Pan together (my second time for the day. It was unintentional, I assure you.)

Happy Christmas, everyone.

And now, for something completely different!

2009-06-29T17:39:00.000-04:00

A - Age: 25.

B - Bed size: King or Queen, dependant upon whether we want to sleep in the Chaotic Black Hole of ~~Storage~~ DOOM! (master bedroom) or the guest bedroom.

C - Chore you hate: Well, I don’t particular enjoy any them, but I do loathe unloading the dishwasher, for no sensible reason whatsoever.

D - Dog's name: Don’t have one at the moment. Past dogs have been: Anna, Cricket, and Mr. Bingley (who had a potty problem, bless his little canine heart.)

E - Essential start your day item: Good music and a cup of coffee.

F - Favorite color: Green green green. Also, coral (at the moment.)

G - Gold or Silver: Yes.

H - Height: 5’5.76”

I - Instruments you play(ed): Piano, Bass Recorder, Oboe, Violin (very ill, indeed) and—if you count synthesizer settings—the entire string section of an orchestra. I also have a clarinet, which I occasionally pick up to play the cat’s theme from Peter and the Wolf.

J - Job title: Most Illustrious Instructor of the Hispanic Language (Spanish Teacher)

K - Kid(s): Two of the feline variety, and one tiny bean in heaven.

L - Living arrangements: In a house…with my husband…and an ankle bracelet.

M - Mom's name: Carol, and sometimes Maggie.

N - Nicknames: Nothing I’d prefer to share publicly.

O - Overnight hospital stay other than birth: Emergency appendectomy, 1997.

P - Pet Peeve: People that want to know your pet peeves. No really—clichéd writing; e-mail stories that are REALLY TRUE IT HAPPENED TO MY FRIEND’S SISTER-IN-LAW’S DOGSITTER OMG that people forward without verifying; monolingualism.

Q - Quote from a movie: “Yes, but this is all extremely vexing! I’m quite put out!” (Lady Catherine deBourgh, A&E’s Pride & Prejudice.)

S - Siblings: Aimee, 22 months my senior.

T - Time you wake up: Do you mean the time my alarm goes off, or the time I actually get out of bed?

U- Underwear: Worn with astonishing regularity.

V - Vegetable you dislike: none. Vegetables that dislike ME: sauerkraut, onions.

W - Ways you run late: reading and lost track of time, forget that I need gas, can’t settle on something to wear…my husband could probably make a better (and longer) list for me.

X - X-rays you've had: Teeth, Uterus, and an Upper GI, throughout which I couldn’t stop giggling.
Y - Yummy food you make: As if I would make un-yummy food? Pfft.
Z - Zoo favorite: Birds! :D

Weakness and Strength

2009-06-27T12:24:00.000-04:00

An employer once said of me that I was always looking for the most efficient way of doing something. Actually I think she misinterpreted my innate desire to find the easiest and quickest way of completing a task. A real weakness, in my eyes; it is nice that she considered it a strength, anyways.

At any rate, the surest way to see my compulsion to cut corners is in my cleaning. Growing up on a farm was not always the best way to groom oneself to be a good housekeeper--you clean something, then in ten minutes dirt is back, from the dogs or the sheep or that one horse we kept in the house, or the cats...or the kids...

After a while you realize you're fighting a losing battle, and you wave a white flag and go do something else. Like read.

Living in a house in a constant state of renovation isn't much more encouraging. Have you ever finally moved a piano and arranged furniture, sweeping and dusting and finally ending with a lovely, proper sitting room, only to have the staircase sanded and everything covered in one inch of sawdust?

I have, and I've learned to roll with the punches, and at least make things look clean. But it's just faster if you leave out the corners...of rooms, I mean.

It is this habit that made a good six or seven months pass since I really, I mean really cleaned the guest bedroom. It really wasn't my intention to clean it today, either, except that I'm rearranging some furniture and, upon moving a dresser from this corner to that, simply couldn't ignore the carpet of fuzz and dust and cat hair that had probably lived under it since Thanksgiving.

After taking care of that mess, I tackled the rest of the room, dusting, sweeping, rearranging, taking everything out of the closet and putting it all back again, but neatly. I attacked the pile of Stuff (tm) sitting on top the antique dresser, stuffing most of in into a junk drawer (cutting corners, again) before taking a cloth and Pledge to the things that derserved to be displayed on top. An handmade doilie, an antique brush and mirror set, a chinese vase, a silver teapot that a friend sent me from Afghanistan. The teapot in particular was incredibly dusty, which was a shame, since it really was quite brilliant, with what appeared to be hand-etched designs on every available surface.

I discovered, however, upon trying to dust the teapot, that what I saw was actually not dust at all, but simply the tarnishing of the silver. I don't know why this should surprise me, as tarnishing is what silver does when left to its own devices. I thought briefly about where silver polish might be located in the house, before a closer look at the teapot made me pause, and change my mind.

Before, when I first received the gift in the mail and proudly displayed it for the beautiful thing it is, its brilliance and sheen was really breathtaking. The silver was flawless, and the etchings almost invisible, lost in the shine of the metal.

Today that shine had turned to a brassy, dulled gray, but the etchings--the etchings were clearly visible, prominent, and on the more subued background had almost the appearance of gold.

It really looked like a different teapot. I stared for a while and decided that, while the original intention of the piece was the radiance and luster it had displayed before, I found more beautiful this sullied, blemished incarnation; it made the artist's work even more intricate, incredible.

In II Corinthians, Paul talks about his receiving visions and revelations from God. And it wouldn't be foolish for him to brag about it. It's the truth! But to keep him from becoming conceited, he says, he's been given a thorn in his side that three times he asked God to take from him. And not just a little thorn--the kind you might get stuck with picking blackberries--but a "messenger of Satan," sent to torment him. And God's answer?

"My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness."

Today I might interpret His answer as this: You and I both know you're silver, and I've carved a beautiful design onto you. But when you're tarnished, those silver patterns shine like gold.

That old river in Egypt

2009-06-26T23:20:00.000-04:00

It's with great sadness that I move my writing away from Xanga! All my online writing existence has been tied up with that site--I even met my husband through Xanga--and for a good three or four years I wrote nearly every day. Thoughts of the moment, anecdotes, strange sitings and feelings, happenings that struck me with their peculiar way of being full of meaning in some form or another...I chronicled it all. But somehow so many things have changed...

It is quite sensible to feel betrayed by a website? I think it must be incredibly silly.

Nevertheless I feel Xanga to be like a friend who has slowly become someone else; over the past few years the changes have come, first so subtley, then with such alarming speed that one day you go to the front page and haven't the slightest clue what happened, where you are, or whether you want to be there.

I decided I didn't, and I packed my bags and moved house. And here I am!

I have more of a flair for the dramatic than I care to admit. One might even think I held something against Xanga personally. What a silly idea.