pint-sized

I am a short person. I am, its okay, its true. I came to grips with this fact ages ago, and really once I left middle school youth group it has hardly attracted any attention. Well that is not necessarily true, but at least now instead of mockery over being "vertically challenged" I just have to put up with people having sudden revelations to the effect of, "woah, you are really short aren't you?" Really, I had no idea. Seriously guys, I don't own a single pair of pants that haven't been hemmed and I just bought shoes in the kids section at Target, I think I know I'm short. (PSA: they're totally cute, even if they do have velcro...). Only very occasionally do I get a Lilliputian comment, and then I'm just too dazzled by their vocabulary choice to be upset. I mean sometimes I can't reach items on shelves, but they have ladders for that sort of thing. Most movie theaters are now stadium seating, so please, sit in front of me - see if I care. Maybe my feet reach the floor when I sit in a chair, maybe they don't, so what? Crossing your legs is overrated anyways. So what I'm saying is, I am just peachy keen on this whole being short thing. As a rule I don't struggle unduly with my inevitable shortness-related conundrums, but occasionally I run into a really just sincerely obnoxious scenario. For instance, last night I was at a concert at the Music Farm, aka standing room only, and you can probably see where this is going (or maybe not, if you're tall, in which case you are the source of the problem). And so it was that I spent a fair portion of the evening (that is, whichever parts of the night the two amazons with swingy (hit you in the face) ponytails decided to lean over to talk to each other, which lets be honest was a lot of time) staring at their elbows. A lifetime of fruitless efforts have taught me not to even attempt craning my neck to catch a peek, but ever since I was knee high to a grasshopper (which was yesterday last time I checked) I have just been forced to get creative. And so it was that I ended up watching the artists perform via the screens of the various and sundry digital cameras sprinkled throughout the crowd. It was rather reminiscent of when we went to see U2 and I had to remind myself to stop gaping at the digital kraken towering over them, and actually watch the band. As I scanned the crowd for suspended iphones and cameras last night, my mind stumbled across a thought from the Steinbeck book I read over break. Andiquote: "I could hear them say, 'you mean you were that near Yellowstone and didn't go? You must be crazy.' Again it might have been the American tendency in travel. One goes not so much to see but to tell afterward." Let me just say, I never had to glance twice to find someone standing with their arm outstretched, their camera paying more attention to the actual living breathing person than they were. (I on the other hand, was clearly glued to the stage and not at all pondering such randomness as this. And just so no one can call me a hypocrite, I photo documented a bit too.)

Magic Moment

It has finally happened. I have been waiting for this moment for about four months. Tonight, at approximately 1:21 AM I woke up warm, hot even. After this unreasonably cold winter that was only made all the more dreadful by the death of my beloved space heater in a huge blue snap of electricity, the weather has finally shifted. As I slowly awakened to the realization that I was feeling rather toasty, joy spread through me like spring through the land of Narnia. I'm making a big deal of it, you say? Yes. Yes, I am. If only you could understand how much I despise sleeping in multiple layers. In socks. In twisty sheets of tangly death. IN FLEECY HELL. Yes, my friends, that is where I have been the past few months, you just don't know it because I am such the poster child for silent suffering. But never fear for that time has come to a close. We've had a few sneakily warm days here, a few outright beauties that were such teasers, and a few cruelly cold days in the past few weeks, but this - this is the first night that the warmth has subsisted. Enough so that at approximately 1:23 AM I joyfully tossed back my covers, kicked off my socks, scoffed at the fleece blankets relegated to the floor, and skipped into the hallway to flip on my fan (yes I said hallway, this is a crusty old gem of a house I live in, and some of its wonders cannot be explained). All of this very naturally riled me up to the point that I could not exactly settle back into my slumbers, and so here I am, sharing my jubilation. I have to say, as I lie here basking in the freedom of one layer instead of seventy-three, with my feet dangling outside without fear of blossoming icicles, I feel rather alive.

lions and tigers and bears, oh my

Life is unpredictable.

Cheese grits are unpredictable.

Relationships are unpredictable.

It makes the world a messier place, but that mess is all encompassing: the good and the bad. From the crummy messes of hurt that people carry around, to the crumby mess on the family room floor - the only remnants of the two pound bag of animal crackers my roommates had just spent twenty minutes pelting at each other while doubled over laughing.

Unpredictability is what makes life worth living, because unpredictability is really just a sign of the fact that we don't yet know the plans the Lord has for us. But we trust, whether the pain will come from wounds deeper than we can imagine, or from abs aching after raucous laughter, that they are plans to prosper us. Not to harm us. Plans to give us hope and a future.

That's what I'm thinking about as I tumble into bed, animal cracker crumbs strewn throughout my hair.

"Whenever we insist that God should give us an answer to prayer we are off track. The purpose of prayer is that we get ahold of God, not of the answer." - Oswald Chambers

Fine, Chiquita. Fine.

The other day I ate a banana for the first time in 12 years.

I pause for dramatic effect.

Twelve. Years.

The Truth: I have spent the last twelve years (Alright, if I'm being honest: 22 years, although I technically can't vouch for those first 3 or 4, as I don't remember them. Its just that twelve years ago, at the age of 10, my father couldn't stand the dramatic tears and gagging anymore and finally gave up trying to make me consume them. Thusly I didn't eat one for the next 12 years.) abhorring bananas with every fiber of my being. The smell makes me nauseous. The sound of someone contentedly munching on one (aka: squelching) near to me makes me gag. The thought of the sound of someone contentedly squelching one near to me makes me gag. I can't speak to the how I react to the taste of one, as I hadn't had one in twelve years and the memory had thankfully faded away. That scene in Honey I Shrunk The Kids where the girl passes out because she has a weird potassium deficiency so they literally stuff one into her slack jaw and she miraculously revives makes me...excuse me... Also that game they play in youth groups where they put panty hose over some wretched kid's face and make someone else smash the banana through it...I can't even go there...

The Whole Truth: All of these emotions and memories and experiences led to twelve years of instances similar to the time that kid mashed banana in my hair at the beach and I was actually sick. On him. Or the time some friends of mine thought it would be funny to chase me with a banana peel and I ended up shivering and shoeless on the cold front porch rather than suffer the presence of what is, in my opinion, the most revolting joke Nature ever played on us. Or that time we were at the movies sharing a bag of jelly beans and I accidentally ate a banana flavored one because it was dark and I innocently assumed that would just be too cruel of a joke for the gods to play on me. Or that time I unknowingly took a sip of my sister's banana-laden smoothie and very nearly spluttered it all over her face. Or the time everyone at dinner was asking me...you know what, no. I refuse to live through that one again (if you were there, you'll doubtless remember well enough on your own).

Nothing But the Truth: The other day I was wanning downtown (walk-running, duh) and I thought to myself, "Hmm, I'm hungry, what shall I have for lunch when I get home. I mean besides apples and whole grain cheddar goldfish. Huh, a banana sounds good maybe I'll ha-WAIT, WHAT!? What am I thinking? Why did I, oh my gosh, it really does sound good what is, what do I, how did I, how do I, what should I, who do I, whaaaa!?" And then my train of thought deteriorated into something as mushy as a banana...oh sick. But then I got home and told my roommate what crazy thing had happened. The second I told her, her eyes lit up. Really though, there was a bit of a maniacal glimmer to them as she said, "Well I have a banana." Silence. Deep breath. I wanted it.

So help me God: I ate the banana. Well okay, I ate the sliced up sections of banana my roommate put on a plate with a fork about two feet away from me. I picked up the fork. I gingerly stabbed a sliver. I inspected it with the utmost of skepticism. I did not smell it. I closed my eyes. I ate it. I liked it. I ate the whole banana. The only reasonable explanations I can come up with involve chemical imbalances and scenarios in which my body has been possessed by the black smoke funnel monster from Lost - who apparently loves bananas. Seriously, nothing else could explain the phenomenon.

Twenty minutes later I was cleaning up and was greeted by the splayed out, splotchy, sick nasty banana peel on the top layer of our trash can, and my gag reflex immediately kicked into gear. So apparently it was the peel, all of these years. Sorry for the theatrics dad, but if you want me to eat them you're going to have to peel and slice them like I'm still 6.

( )

Dearest parentheses, Oh how I love you. How you so generously and wholeheartedly embrace my sarcasm, musings, and asides. This is not a lukewarm affection that I harbor for you, and this is not a mediocre affair. Indeed my love for you runs true and deep. You. Complete. Me. No, really - without you in my life I couldn't do things like comment on my own comments. Why is there no verbal version of you that would allow me to interject my asides into discussions without diverting the entire waterfall of conversation down a new route? (Or earning funny looks...lots of funny looks I get when you are not around, parentheses). Why are you the only one that understands me, parenthesis!? You accept my suppositions and accusations without criticism or mockery, and for that I am eternally grateful. I do believe it is safe to say that when you harbor my parenthetical proclamations, you deliver the truth of the matter (whether it be touching, or ugly snark). We live in a messed up world, parenthesis, and all I can say is that I will never let the imbroglio come between us, even if other sentences do. So parenthesis, on this sacred (commercial) holiday (sham) created by the love gods (Hallmark), I celebrate our love. Cheers to whatever thoughts of mine you may hold in the coming months, and hey - happy valentine's day baby!

diffidence and daisies

Today, at a new coffee shop, I encountered one of my vices. Or insecurities? Or weaknesses? Maybe I mean my inhibitions. Or reservations. Psychological block, if you will. All of these words are applicable, or not. Anyhow, this is what happened: I walked into the sun drenched room and blinked my way through ordering a cup of coffee - the same order my compatriot had selected (hey, she'd been there before, better safe than sorry right?). The barista started to do something fancy and confusing with the coffee, the owner answered my companion's question. "Your total is $2.53," he told me (extra charge for fancy and confusing, apparently) and I handed over a five dollar bill. A woman in a poofy purple coat walked in, greeted them as familiars. "Here's your change," he said, as he asked poofy coat lady how she had been, and handed me some odd coins.

An ordinary encounter, ordinary circumstances, ordinary response - at least on my part. Response to what, you may ask? Well if you are like my friend the cashier then you also failed to notice the discrepancies on the part of the financial interchanges that had just occurred. I'm sure it was entirely unintentional (no one in such a nice shirt needs to shortchange customers to get through the day) but the man kept two too many of my dollars (then again, maybe that's how he got that shirt- hmmm). What did I do, you ask? Well since I said before that I responded in the ordinary way, I must have gently reminded him of the disparity in my change, right? He must have genially apologized for the confusion and remedied the situation, right? I must have told him it was no problem, we must have all laughed about it, right?

Wrong. This is not the first time this has happened to me - rather, this is not the first time I have let this happen to me. This is not the first time I have quietly deposited the nickels and dimes into my wallet and begun the fruitless search for the half and half, instead of... well, instead of doing anything else. This is not the first time. What would have been a first would have been me correcting him. I don't know what it is about me. I'm a huge weenie when it comes to such instances, and not just in coffee shops. Something in me prefers not to correct, not to interrupt the conversation with the poofy coat lady, not to bother, not to draw attention to myself. Not to speak up. I've found that I don't face this intimidation in many circumstances. Ironically I usually only find myself cowering in the corner with the lion from the Wizard of Oz in scenarios that involve me paying others for any sort of food or beverage or service. For some odd reason I am petrified to bother someone I am giving money too. I'm not even bothered at the cashier, only at myself for being such a silly monkey. As my friend the lion sings, "I'm afraid there's no denyin'/ I'm just a dandy-lion / A fate I don't deserve / I'm sure I could show my prowess / Be a lion, not a mouse / If I only had the nerve." If I only had the nerve, indeed.

But ahs me, life goes on. I chatted. I blew on my hot coffee. I encountered a semi-famous-sortof-actor (an episode of the OC counts for something, even if that other movie was ehh, right?). I said goodbye to a friend, thanked her for bringing me there. I snuggled up (well, figuratively speaking) with my book. I texted my sisters about the semi-famous-sortof-actor. I grinned when the barista turned on an the Avetts. I took a sip of coffee as I turned the page. I tweeted something inane and irrelevant about the word 'bougainvillea.' I decided that fancy and confusing was worth the $2.50 (but maybe not $4.50...next time I guess). I packed up my things: book, phone, cahier. I searched out my sunglasses. I threw away my cup, kept the cute paper sleeve. I walked outside, said goodbye to the daisies in the windowsill, to some folks on the porch. I wound my way home, following the sunny side of the street.

Wilted Plastic

This morning at internship I worked the food pantry in the outreach center. I arrived, bearing a red nose and a grim countenance (which was immediately cleared by the effects of caffeine offered to me practically before I got through the door). Contrary to my expectations, the room was as bustle-less as could be. After flipping on lights, opening cabinets, and starting another pot of coffee, I and my two co-workers sat at one of the brown flaky tables and sipped our watery coffee. 9:30. 9:37. 9:48. 9:52. 9:53. 9:56, nothing. "They'll come dear, don't worry" she said as she perused her newspaper.

This was an unforeseen turn of events. We sit and wait? Not my strong suit- not when I came to get things done. Considering I had neglected to bring along my usual arsenal of book and magazine and backup book, I began aimlessly flipping through the battered issue of Real Simple someone had left behind. I learned how to properly load a dishwasher. I read about a few women's worst holiday hostess moments (yes, one of them actually decorated all of her mantles and centerpieces and wreaths with spanish moss because she was so enamored of it the first year she moved to the South, and as a result gave all her guests a healthy dose of mites along with their turkey. Another result, far less important to Ms. Morgan of Florida, is that I now have to eat my words and admit that all those warning signs stapled to trees are (sadly) far from superfluous.) I read about six women's favorite times of day ("right after I tuck the kids in", "my dawn morning coffee" - this magazine is obviously not catering to my interests).

And then they came. All at once, just like she said, "dear." As they filed into the room and began to engage in the horridly disorganized process of form-filling and explaining they filled out a form last time and hearing they must fill out a new form for the new year and so on and so forth, I began to help them choose from the cans and cans and more cans. "What are you looking for today? Black beans or pinto? Pinto, okay - how about some rice, do you want white or brown? White. Alright, soup? Tomato? Two cans? What about applesauce? Milk? Bread? Tuna? How about vegetables, there's the spinac- - oh, no? Okay how about the green beans instead? Two cans, perfect."

I had been warned that they were running short on the plastic grocery bags they usually used to distribute the food in, so I had come prepared with a bulging sack of balled up plastic collected at 43A over the past few weeks. Sure enough, about halfway through the morning their supplies ran out. I stood at a table and began de-crumple-ifying the stack I had brought (yes, that is the technical term), and then began to double layer the wilting plastic before handing it over to be burdened with heavy cans. Occasionally as I pulled out bag after bag that had previously borne groceries back to Vanderhorst, a crumpled up receipt would tumble to the ground. "Raspberries," they read. "Rice Pilaf, Yuengling," read another. "Hummus, carrots, apples, organic milk, cheese, eggs," read a few. "Whole grain Goldfish, yogurt, granola, strawberries, bell peppers, avocado, pistachios, diet coke," read mine. "Total: $47," one read. "Total: $26," read another. "Total: $58," read mine.

Those grocery bags are in for a rude awakening.

Those grocery bags are going to live in places I have read about in textbooks more than I have witnessed firsthand.

Those grocery bags are being carried with gratitude, rather than entitlement.