Chucking Bologna and Salvaging the Cheetos

I know I’m cute! …dammit

Cute.

I am told at least once every other day that I. am. cute.  And you’d think that if I were to believe it, it’d be something that would go straight to my head and I’d be this unbearably confident person.  But that’s not the case.  I do believe it.  I know it’s a fact.  It must be true if so many unrelated people who do not connect with each other to discuss the subject all come to the same conclusion.  I am cute.

And I hate it.

I don’t hate the people who say it, and I don’t get mad at them, personally.  Usually they mean it as a compliment, and I try to take it as such, but the thing is that I am not a bunny rabbit or a member of the Lollipop Guild.  I am a relatively mature adult.  A professional artist who wants to be taken seriously.  And I feel like a professional artist who wants to be taken seriously.  So naturally, it snags me a little whenever I get the sense the rest of the adult world is doting on me as if I were cooing in a stroller.  It’s not something I try to be.  In fact, I’ve made several attempt to not be, but I just end up feeling like one of those really angry lapdogs.  ”Oh look!  She’s barking!  Aw, how CUTE!”  …Futile.

Of course, there is the kind of cute as in what adolescents call each other when they find each other attractive.  Like, “Damn, that chic is cute!”  I’d like to think that sometimes, maybe they’re really saying that I’m hot, or FOIN, if you will.  That’d be a real compliment.  But most-likely it’s usually the cooing thing.

I pay attention and listen closely for other clues of how I am perceived.  I like to know how the outside world interprets what I’m projecting from in here.  But pretty much all I know at this point is that I am VERY cute.  Intelligent?  Annoying?  Interesting?  Attractive?  Neurotic?  I don’t know.  But definitely cute.

Cute.

Is the word annoying you yet?

Cute.

Just wait.  It’ll start to get to you.

Cute!  You’re so CUTE!

I suppose there are worse things than being cute.  I’ll make the best of it, I suppose.  But if it seems that sometimes I walk around as if I’m just ready to kick someone’s ass… well, that is why.

I’m growing increasingly skeptical of most sermons, which is an unfortunate situation for a pastor’s wife.  I sit through many.  I love the concept of church as a community and even the concept of meeting regularly to worship and encourage each other.  There are a few teachers who I will still listen to, like my husband, Rob Bell, Tony Campolo.  But at least once or twice a week, I sit through a sermon I distrust, wandering in and out of awareness and pretty much thinking that the deliverer has no idea what they’re talking about.  My teachers now are things like the Oklahoma trees that are still left are the icepocalypse, and the little sparrows who beg for pastry crumbs at the Starbucks in Utica Square.

Bamboo and Providence?

Some thoughts and impressions exist like bamboo. No matter how hard you try to get rid of it- cut it down, dig up the roots, plant something else- it keeps growing.  It will always grow back.  So you have two options: live in a constant state of denying it any advantage -dig, hack, pull, replace- or… grow bamboo.  Only, in real life, I like bamboo.  It’s not really a menacing phenomenon threatening to destroy my existence.  And that’s where the analogy breaks down.

It didn’t seem like coincidence.  It seemed like providence.  I thought that’s what all of this was, but it seems I may have misunderstood.  And now, if that’s the case, how can I ever trust myself to understand these things?

I had two fellowship meals on Sunday.

Lunch was a large, spiritual cookout with baked beans, potato salad and all things pork. Pork ribs, pork sausage, pork steaks and also a little bit of beef and whatever it is that hotdogs are made of.  And kool-aid.  And deserts made from boxed mixes.

And then

Dinner was a small, spiritual gathering at a friend’s house.  We had Vegan Pad Thai served with homemade iced tea from mint that grows in the backyard, and soy ice cream with vegan chocolate syrup.

I suppose I celebrate the uniqueness of my current existence.  And I laugh to myself a lot because these things are more funny when you don’t have to explain why they are.

Life in Stacked Boxes

How are we not all completely insane?

I walked up to the building daydreaming that my days were spent laughing with heroes. The chatty businessmen were there with their smoldering vices that keep them in the 3 feet of covered space between the wall and the rain. One smiled and held the door open for me, and I woke from my dream just in time for a quick “Thank you,” and to realize that I am here. Again.

I went to my box. They went to theirs. But I’ll see them again soon, when they need to smoke and I need to pee.

I hate smoking, but I get it. I get why I see them standing out there, out of their box, several times each day. In all of this mundane, quiet madness, I get how death can start to feel like life.

Are we all completely insane?

The lights are out, except for one soft desk lamp left by the guy before me, the gray light from the window and the fluorescence nagging from the hallway. I cope with the tiredness, boredom, frustration, by imagining that you’re reading this, and that you care. And also, by melting candle wax, so my box smells like apples, even though I’m freezing again. All the cardigans in the world couldn’t fix that.

If I stayed in this box, I’d lose my whole mind, maybe myself. Yet the fact that I’m leaving probably shows that I already have. In the box. Out of the box. Either way, it doesn’t make sense. Either way, I’m giving something up. And in the end, I’m just going to do what I want to do, because the truth is that either way, we are all completely insane.

Dreams and their Inevitable Disappointments

When I used to think of the challenges my morals would face when pursuing a career in production, I would think of having to work with sleazy sex scenes or gory violent ones.  It never dawned on me that my first televised project would be a manipulative infomercial attempting to sell motivational speaking materials.  The message this piece attempts to communicate is that by spending $49.95 to buy these books and audio disks, you will learn these simple steps that will make you rich, own a big house, drive a fancy car and have a steamy love life.  And all of this is connected with happiness.  Buy our product, learn our prescribed steps and you will finally be happy.  ”It’s just that simple”.

Sound bytes echo through my subconscious daily, like “Someone please stab me in the eye with a pencil,” and “Bullshit Asshole Fucker Son of a Bitch.”

I fear this project is making me a very angry person.

And the PCs keep crashing (4 times today) and the project directors are two old men with bad taste and bad breath and bad people skills who get in my personal space and smell it up with their breath and patronizing attitude toward TV viewers.

Enter: More sound bytes.

I secretly smile inside at the fact that this infomercial is failing.  Sure, it means more work for me, because they keep trying to make it “effective”, but still… I’m proud of people for not buying into this crap.  You go, America!

Father God, is this job really necessary to get where I need to go?  Do I have to?  Why can’t I just be like Mel Gibson and show my ass a few times?  There’s no way that’s more degrading.

Anyway, almost not related and directed somewhere else:

I know it means nothing to you, but it’s important to me.  You’re being flippant, and I’m sure it’s because you’re totally unaware that what I really handed you is my dream, so whenever you could get around to it… if you ever intend to.  In the meantime, I’ll do my best not to begrudge you and think you too extremely arrogant for taking your sweet time when I thought you’d understand.  Thanks.

Observation 32,009

In traffic on Memorial headed North to the BA, I sat behind a Green Camry with a bumper stick that said, “Save Lives!  Look Twice for Bikes!”

From the opposite direction, a motorcyclist sped by with both legs sticking out, attempting to lift his bottom off of his seat and stand on his hands.  His bike wavered.  He dropped one foot to the ground, dragging his foot to regain his balance as the Camry and I watched on.

…

Dear Concerned Camry,

Thank you for the advice.  I will do what I can to save those lives, but some morons cannot be helped.

C

New Job: Week 1

Newborns often cry when they wake up.  I’ve recently resurrected that behavior.  Hopefully, like the infants, I will grow out of it.  There is at least one point everyday, usually mid-afternoon sometime, when tears well up in my chest and I feel like jumping through the window and running to a coffee shop where all of the other artists spend their weekdays, and in those moments I am mostly sure that I’m going to walk down the hallway and quit.  But so far I haven’t, because most of the time I fall on the side of thinking that this is a good thing and that I will get the hang of it.

Most of the time.

Every night, I ask my husband if we can run away, and he says yes.  Then we talk about where we’re going, and what we’ll do there… live off the land.  Bathe in the sun.  Breathe in the fresh air.  We make plans, pray and fall asleep.

Then the alarm goes off, and I am newborn.

This page has been where I vent my anger issues.  I get so frustrated at people, especially myself, and I don’t know where else to blow off steam.  I believe in Grace.  When will I learn to live it?  I want to be wise and zen-like.  Understanding.  Patient.  Secure in my own identity.  But I am usually none of those things.  A lot of times I still catch myself literally ‘trying to be cool’.  Just like when I was 14.  What is wrong with me?   And I feel like such a fraud.  But I’m not.  It’s not that I’m pretending to be someone I’m not.  It’s that I’m striving to be myself, which sometimes just ends up looking like the same thing.  

Just to spite you

…by getting frustrated by the same old broken record conversations of tunnel vision songs that ask questions but don’t listen to the answers…

For the last time, I AM AN INDEPENDENT! 

I get it now. You’re not actually interested in my thoughts. You’re not actually trying to understand. You don’t really want to know how one can vote for a DEMOCRAT!!!!! (this is ridiculous) And still find herself right with the One who knows all and sees all. No. You’re actually just trying to prove a point… with questions! Duh! How silly of me to think you were actually asking. I feel retarded, really. Well… since there’s really no point in me responding for real, I’ll just tell you how it’s done: 

We take the black marker pen, and connecting the line next to the Democratic nominee, instead of the Republican one. And we fight the temptation to do it EVERY SINGLE TIME… just to spite people who ask you questions they don’t really want to know the answers to. 

And I’m done.