This is the absolute best idea I've seen in a long, long time. It's called "Bookcrossing." The basic concept: turn the world at large into one giant lending library. How does it work? Basically, you take a book that you want to "release into the wild," and register it at bookcrossing.com. They give you a unique tracking number for the book, which you write on the inside cover, along with the website's url. Then you leave the book somewhere--at your local coffee shop, at the grocery store, at church, at a bus stop, wherever you want--and when someone finds it, they go to the website, log in using the book's tracking number, and mark where they found the book. Then, when they're done reading it, they do the exact same thing. You can go to the website and look up the book you've released and see where in the world it's gone--you wouldn't believe all the countries where this is happening! From Afghanistan (currently listing 3 books in the wild) to Burkina Faso (I don't even know where that is, but they have 2 books) to Spain (1,389 books) to the good ole' US of A (16,002 books--but we have an unfair advantage since we started the program). You can click on a country and go all the way down to the city level to see how many books are currently listed as being there--here in RSM there are apparently 7 floating around. And guess what?! Two members have "Worlds Collide" listed as being in their possession!
There's a lot more to the site than just this; go take a look so you can see what all they do. For those of us who consider reading to be more important than, say, eating, this is a dream come true. I can't wait to release some of my books into the wild!
Monday, April 25, 2005
Tell me who I am!
*It has come to my attention that you can barely see the text in the table I've included--I'm trying to figure out how to change it but so far have had no luck. Sorry!!*
I'm a sucker for profiles and personality tests--it's why I joined eHarmony in the first place, to get that free personality profile! Robin Lee Hatcher had a link to this one on her blog, and of course I couldn't resist. Here are the results of the kind of American English I speak:
5% Dixie, eh? Must be because I admitted to saying "y'all" on a frequent basis. Not even sure where I picked it up. Anyway, this site is great--another fantastic time-eating tool--they have tons of other profiles and quizzes. Knock yourself out!
I'm a sucker for profiles and personality tests--it's why I joined eHarmony in the first place, to get that free personality profile! Robin Lee Hatcher had a link to this one on her blog, and of course I couldn't resist. Here are the results of the kind of American English I speak:
Your Linguistic Profile: |
65% General American English |
15% Upper Midwestern |
15% Yankee |
5% Dixie |
0% Midwestern |
5% Dixie, eh? Must be because I admitted to saying "y'all" on a frequent basis. Not even sure where I picked it up. Anyway, this site is great--another fantastic time-eating tool--they have tons of other profiles and quizzes. Knock yourself out!
Friday, April 22, 2005
More ways to kill time...
First we brought you Artpad.com. Now we draw your attention to the little button in the upper right-hand corner of the screen that says "Next Blog." It's been there since the day I started my blog, but I'd never clicked it until last night. It turns out there's no official "next blog;" it's not like they're in some particular sequence or anything. It just brings you to some other blogger.com blog. Once you're there, you click it again...and again...and again...and see all the bizarre and unreadable (because they're in Japanese, or Dutch, or Spanish, or whatever) blogs that the cybervillage has come up with. I had no idea how international blogger.com was until I saw all the non-English blogs out there; kind of eye-opening. Although, I suppose some of them could have been written by Americans; no reason they should give up their native language when they get here. Anyway, it was really kind of fascinating. Found one by a principal of a Seventh Day Adventist school who posted all the goofy things kids say (rasberries.blogspot.com, I believe) that had me laughing out loud. Found some rather disturbing ones; some really boring ones, and a lot of company ones, which was interesting. Never thought of using a blog for business. A lot of teachers, too, using them to update parents on classroom stuff; wish I'd thought of that back in the day.
Anyway, give it a shot and see what you get. But just so you know, if you hit the back button on your browser, it won't take you to the blog you just saw, it'll take you back to the blog you started on. So, like, if you deliberately come here, and then click the "next blog" five times, then hit the back button, it'll bring you back here. So make sure you're really done looking before moving on, or you may never find it again. (Although in some cases, that's a good thing.)
Anyway, give it a shot and see what you get. But just so you know, if you hit the back button on your browser, it won't take you to the blog you just saw, it'll take you back to the blog you started on. So, like, if you deliberately come here, and then click the "next blog" five times, then hit the back button, it'll bring you back here. So make sure you're really done looking before moving on, or you may never find it again. (Although in some cases, that's a good thing.)
Saturday, April 16, 2005
Mother/daughter tag-team ministering
I'm such a numbskull. I forgot to blog about the coolest part of my day.
THis morning my mom and I spoke to over 100 women who are "spiritually mismatched" in their marriages--married to unbelieving husbands. I was a little unclear as to what I could share--they wanted my perspective, having lived in a family where my parents were unequally yoked, as the lingo goes, but I was only 4 when Mom became a Christian and Dad started his spiritual journey, so it's not like I have a whole lot of vivid memories to share. But the woman hosting the breakfast said that, since my book deals with that kind of relationship, too, she thought I might have something unique to add to the morning. Despite being clueless about what I'd actually say once I got there, I accepted the invitation, because they also wanted me to bring my book to sell, and how can I turn that down?
Well, the breakfast was awesome. God totally spoke through my mom--she's such an introvert that speaking to 20 people can completely rattle her, much less 100. But once the interview started, it was like she does this kind of thing all the time. Not a single "uh" or "um" out of her the whole time. And I used to always think that she and I were equally emotional, but she didn't cry the whole time--got teary-eyed, yes, but didn't choke up. I, on the other hand, was biting my tongue to keep from crying while she talked, and once it was my turn to answer questions, I managed to get to within 3 words of the end of my response before I lost it. And truly, I didn't feel at all inspired; I doubted I'd said anything noteworthy the whole five minutes I talked. But at the end a lot of women came up and thanked me, even when my mom wasn't right there next to me making them feel like, "Well, if I thank Leslie, I really should thank Alison, too." And then we sold our books--mom co-wrote "Surviving A Spiritual Mismatch in Marriage" with my dad a few years back--and signed them for the women, and in the end I sold more than she did. :) 'Course that's probably because the majority of them women already had Mom's book. But still!
I may have even gotten a second speaking gig out of it. One of the leaders of the women's ministry that hosted the event asked if I'd consider speaking to the women at the college ministry. Not sure what on exactly, but she said she'd have one of the leaders from that ministry give me a call. I'm really excited about that. I'm finding that I really love to give talks, and honestly, I think I'm really good at it. Part of that whole teaching thing, I guess. And the head of the women's ministry--the woman that invited my mom and I, and who is actually a really good friend of Mom's--wants to meet with me for coffee next week because she wants to kind of mentor me in this whole speaking thing. How cool is that? Kinda funny how Dad used speaking as a springboard for his writing, and I'm using my writing (limited as it is so far) as a springboard for my speaking. It'll be interesting to see what the next couple years bring for me in these arenas....
THis morning my mom and I spoke to over 100 women who are "spiritually mismatched" in their marriages--married to unbelieving husbands. I was a little unclear as to what I could share--they wanted my perspective, having lived in a family where my parents were unequally yoked, as the lingo goes, but I was only 4 when Mom became a Christian and Dad started his spiritual journey, so it's not like I have a whole lot of vivid memories to share. But the woman hosting the breakfast said that, since my book deals with that kind of relationship, too, she thought I might have something unique to add to the morning. Despite being clueless about what I'd actually say once I got there, I accepted the invitation, because they also wanted me to bring my book to sell, and how can I turn that down?
Well, the breakfast was awesome. God totally spoke through my mom--she's such an introvert that speaking to 20 people can completely rattle her, much less 100. But once the interview started, it was like she does this kind of thing all the time. Not a single "uh" or "um" out of her the whole time. And I used to always think that she and I were equally emotional, but she didn't cry the whole time--got teary-eyed, yes, but didn't choke up. I, on the other hand, was biting my tongue to keep from crying while she talked, and once it was my turn to answer questions, I managed to get to within 3 words of the end of my response before I lost it. And truly, I didn't feel at all inspired; I doubted I'd said anything noteworthy the whole five minutes I talked. But at the end a lot of women came up and thanked me, even when my mom wasn't right there next to me making them feel like, "Well, if I thank Leslie, I really should thank Alison, too." And then we sold our books--mom co-wrote "Surviving A Spiritual Mismatch in Marriage" with my dad a few years back--and signed them for the women, and in the end I sold more than she did. :) 'Course that's probably because the majority of them women already had Mom's book. But still!
I may have even gotten a second speaking gig out of it. One of the leaders of the women's ministry that hosted the event asked if I'd consider speaking to the women at the college ministry. Not sure what on exactly, but she said she'd have one of the leaders from that ministry give me a call. I'm really excited about that. I'm finding that I really love to give talks, and honestly, I think I'm really good at it. Part of that whole teaching thing, I guess. And the head of the women's ministry--the woman that invited my mom and I, and who is actually a really good friend of Mom's--wants to meet with me for coffee next week because she wants to kind of mentor me in this whole speaking thing. How cool is that? Kinda funny how Dad used speaking as a springboard for his writing, and I'm using my writing (limited as it is so far) as a springboard for my speaking. It'll be interesting to see what the next couple years bring for me in these arenas....
Babies, babies everywhere
I co-hosted a shower today for a friend who's due in about a month. Lots of my friends from my teaching days were there, as the mother-to-be was one of us back in the day, so it was particularly fun because we so rarely see each other all at once.
The shower had basically ended, but all we teachers had congregated in the family room where it was more cozy, and were just chatting. Of the six of us in there, four were pregnant. Julie, the woman we were partying for, was obviously the soonest. But then someone said, "Okay, when's everyone's due dates?" And it went: August, September, October. Then one of them, who's been trying, said, "If I am, then I'll be due in December." And November stuck out like a big black hole in the calendar. The month I would have become a mom.
It's a good thing that there never really was a baby in there, because I can't imagine how wrecked I'd be if there had been, given how I can't seem to let this go. Another friend of mine, who miscarried twice before having her first, made a really good point about how the HOPE that is involved in being pregnant is what makes it so devastating when you lose the pregnancy. Your hopes get elevated to an astonishing degree, just sky-high and within an arm's reach of heaven, and then suddenly you're plummeted back to earth and the landing is not at all soft.
I started a journal the day I got my positive test, and recorded all my thoughts, and symptoms (very short list since I hardly had any), the people I told each day about the pregnancy, and I finally threw it away the other day. It was a bit liberating, getting rid of the physical evidence of the hope that had been decimated. Like finally getting rid of the trinkets an old boyfriend gave you years ago, or mementos from years past that conjure the choices you wish you hadn't made. But I can't help thinking that, the next time I get to start that kind of journal, all the excitement will be out of it, because it won't be the first time, and every time I write in it I'll wonder if this journal will last longer than a month.
I checked my new prayer book to see if it had a miscarriage prayer. It doesn't. I wish it did. I need new words.
The shower had basically ended, but all we teachers had congregated in the family room where it was more cozy, and were just chatting. Of the six of us in there, four were pregnant. Julie, the woman we were partying for, was obviously the soonest. But then someone said, "Okay, when's everyone's due dates?" And it went: August, September, October. Then one of them, who's been trying, said, "If I am, then I'll be due in December." And November stuck out like a big black hole in the calendar. The month I would have become a mom.
It's a good thing that there never really was a baby in there, because I can't imagine how wrecked I'd be if there had been, given how I can't seem to let this go. Another friend of mine, who miscarried twice before having her first, made a really good point about how the HOPE that is involved in being pregnant is what makes it so devastating when you lose the pregnancy. Your hopes get elevated to an astonishing degree, just sky-high and within an arm's reach of heaven, and then suddenly you're plummeted back to earth and the landing is not at all soft.
I started a journal the day I got my positive test, and recorded all my thoughts, and symptoms (very short list since I hardly had any), the people I told each day about the pregnancy, and I finally threw it away the other day. It was a bit liberating, getting rid of the physical evidence of the hope that had been decimated. Like finally getting rid of the trinkets an old boyfriend gave you years ago, or mementos from years past that conjure the choices you wish you hadn't made. But I can't help thinking that, the next time I get to start that kind of journal, all the excitement will be out of it, because it won't be the first time, and every time I write in it I'll wonder if this journal will last longer than a month.
I checked my new prayer book to see if it had a miscarriage prayer. It doesn't. I wish it did. I need new words.
For the traditionalist in me
Dan and I were at Barnes & Noble today. I was perusing the Christian section in search of nothing in particular, just scanning the shelves to see if my eye caught anything interesting. And it did. A little red book, hardbound, with the simple title, "My Daily Prayer Book." I opened it to see if I could find any denominational label, then scanned the table of contents to see what all it had. And the more I saw, the more excited I got. Prayers for each morning and evening, prayers for each new week, prayers for each holiday and for special circumstances. I flipped through to skim some of the prayers, and that clinched it. And it was less then $10 with tax.
It kills me that prayer is such an issue with me. I know better than to think anything will be a quick fix, but if nothing else, this will help me to ground my ever-spastic mind while I pray, and guide me beyond the cookie-cutter prayers I tend to pray every day.
It kills me that prayer is such an issue with me. I know better than to think anything will be a quick fix, but if nothing else, this will help me to ground my ever-spastic mind while I pray, and guide me beyond the cookie-cutter prayers I tend to pray every day.
Friday, April 15, 2005
Revelation
I was lying in bed last night, praying, when I had a revelation. I'm not sure if I can put it into words, which isn't good when you're a writer, but in a nutshell, I realized that God is....big.
Now, before you say, "Duh!" here's the thing. Of course I know God is "big," in the sense that he's all-powerful, all-knowing, all-seeing, all-everything but what's bad, and that gives Him a certain "big" stature to us. We don't imagine someone with all that God is being 4'9". But I think that I've "known" God for so long that He stopped being big to me. When I pictured Him I inadvertantly pictured the Jesus aspect of Him, and that shrank Him to human size in my mind. What's that line from the Genie in the Disney "Aladdin" movie, something about the biggest power in the universe, in a itty-bitty living space. He was kind of like that to me. Lots of power, small package that I could get my head around. But then last night, as I was praying, I got this sudden vision of God being like the sun: so big that, even millions of miles away, He's huge in the sky.
It's a bit like the concept of love. We toss the word around so much that, by the time you find yourself faced with a person you really and truly LOVE with all the facets that the concept entails, the word dribbles, powerless, off your tongue. Suddenly this word that should cause you to swell with emotion, to melt with pleasure, has no more oomph to it than the plainest, most ordinary word in the language, and even though the concept behind it is so intense, you have no way to convey it. So you say it over and over, thinking maybe you can pile it up and increase its potency, but instead you're just exacerbating the problem. Soon you've said it so much it's lost all meaning.
I think that's what happened to me and God. After 23 years of faith, after thousands of Sunday school stories and youth group meetings and Bible studies, God became commonplace. The idea of God creating the universe--did you hear me? CREATING THE FREAKING UNIVERSE-- held no more mystery or majesty. The fact that He managed to multiply two fish and three loaves of bread to feed more than 5 times as many people as attend my church is about as awe-inspiring to me as the fact that dirt plus water equals mud. How pathetic.
So anyway...I'm lying in bed, praying, and suddenly I saw Him staring down at me, patiently listening to my prattling, and I was overwhelmed. Overwhelmed by His existence. Overwhelmed by His strength. Overwhelmed by the privilege I have to speak directly to Him. This gigantic, enormous, massive power, this God that can speak solar systems into place and call all the stars by name and keep track of every sparrow all at the same time...this God sees me, hears me, listens to me, and speaks to me. And I, miracle of miracles, am allowed to see, hear, listen, and speak back.
Oh yeah, and He loves me, too. Me. Loves me.
Oh boy. Slow down. One mind-bending concept at a time...
Now, before you say, "Duh!" here's the thing. Of course I know God is "big," in the sense that he's all-powerful, all-knowing, all-seeing, all-everything but what's bad, and that gives Him a certain "big" stature to us. We don't imagine someone with all that God is being 4'9". But I think that I've "known" God for so long that He stopped being big to me. When I pictured Him I inadvertantly pictured the Jesus aspect of Him, and that shrank Him to human size in my mind. What's that line from the Genie in the Disney "Aladdin" movie, something about the biggest power in the universe, in a itty-bitty living space. He was kind of like that to me. Lots of power, small package that I could get my head around. But then last night, as I was praying, I got this sudden vision of God being like the sun: so big that, even millions of miles away, He's huge in the sky.
It's a bit like the concept of love. We toss the word around so much that, by the time you find yourself faced with a person you really and truly LOVE with all the facets that the concept entails, the word dribbles, powerless, off your tongue. Suddenly this word that should cause you to swell with emotion, to melt with pleasure, has no more oomph to it than the plainest, most ordinary word in the language, and even though the concept behind it is so intense, you have no way to convey it. So you say it over and over, thinking maybe you can pile it up and increase its potency, but instead you're just exacerbating the problem. Soon you've said it so much it's lost all meaning.
I think that's what happened to me and God. After 23 years of faith, after thousands of Sunday school stories and youth group meetings and Bible studies, God became commonplace. The idea of God creating the universe--did you hear me? CREATING THE FREAKING UNIVERSE-- held no more mystery or majesty. The fact that He managed to multiply two fish and three loaves of bread to feed more than 5 times as many people as attend my church is about as awe-inspiring to me as the fact that dirt plus water equals mud. How pathetic.
So anyway...I'm lying in bed, praying, and suddenly I saw Him staring down at me, patiently listening to my prattling, and I was overwhelmed. Overwhelmed by His existence. Overwhelmed by His strength. Overwhelmed by the privilege I have to speak directly to Him. This gigantic, enormous, massive power, this God that can speak solar systems into place and call all the stars by name and keep track of every sparrow all at the same time...this God sees me, hears me, listens to me, and speaks to me. And I, miracle of miracles, am allowed to see, hear, listen, and speak back.
Oh yeah, and He loves me, too. Me. Loves me.
Oh boy. Slow down. One mind-bending concept at a time...
Saturday, April 09, 2005
***insert monosyllabic grunt here***
taxes done. three hours. brain hurts. jaw aches--clenched teeth. deductions income forms publications receipts wages your-return-has-eight-errors why-can't-i-find-the-dmv-payment-for-my-car congratulations-you-are-done. 24 pages printed. 12:30 AM. must sleep.
zzzzzzzzzzz....
zzzzzzzzzzz....
Friday, April 08, 2005
Say that again?
Have you ever thought you knew the lyrics to a song, then found out the real lyrics were completely different from what you thought they were? And the funny thing is, your line makes complete sense to you in the context of the song; it's not like, "Gosh, I don't see where this is coming from, but I guess that's what he's singing!" This happened to me recently with a new worship song. I can't remember where I first heard it, but it was somewhere where I didn't have the lyrics in front of me, so when the chorus came I heard, "Hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah, your love makes me stay." And I was like, Wow. That is a cool, cool line. Not the kickbacks of being a follower, not the fire insurance aspect of it, but God's love, the full-on 1 Corinthians 13, love-is-patient-love-is-kind kind of love that God has for us, with all its incredible facets and strength. Because, honestly, there are some times when there's very little else keeping me there, you know? But anyway, then the next time I heard the song, the lyrics were there, and I nearly cried with disappointment because I found out the line was "Your love makes me sing." Now, I've got nothing against singing--I'm quite fond of it, in fact, as my friends will tell you--but the line just didn't strike a chord with me the way my version did. So now, when I sing it, I sing my line instead. :)
Now this should be fun. What song lyrics have you misunderstood in the past? You know, there's a whole book of them, called "'Scuse Me While I Kiss This Guy,"which was the author's version of Jimi Hendrix's line, "'Scuse me while I kiss the sky." My dad got it to use as a sermon illustration one time, and I'm not kidding, I was laughing my butt off at some of them. So anyway, please post them, and tell us if you prefer your version or the original.
Now this should be fun. What song lyrics have you misunderstood in the past? You know, there's a whole book of them, called "'Scuse Me While I Kiss This Guy,"which was the author's version of Jimi Hendrix's line, "'Scuse me while I kiss the sky." My dad got it to use as a sermon illustration one time, and I'm not kidding, I was laughing my butt off at some of them. So anyway, please post them, and tell us if you prefer your version or the original.
Wednesday, April 06, 2005
Death and Taxes
April 15th is looming large, and we've still yet to do our taxes. We're a last-minute bunch, I'll admit. I have managed to get my patootie down to Staples to get this year's Turbo Tax programs, and I just finished about an hour of receipt sorting and classification of documents so that, once we crack open those programs, we'll be all set to go. Last year we were so proud of ourselves for wading through it all--I'd used H & R Block or something similar for the previous years, and Dan's were always so easy he could just telefile with the easy form--and then we completely forgot to sign the silly printouts and include our W-2 forms. I totally freaked when we got a letter from the IRS a few weeks later. Nothing like those three little letter to strike terror in the heart of good citizens.
It's truly unbelievable how many receipts and write-offs one can rack up as a writer. The bummer is that, while I can write off tall these great things--printer ink, my computer, novels I buy, the drinks I buy at the coffeeshops when I go there to write--I hardly ever have the money to buy them in the first place. Like they say, takes money to save money.
I started working with a direct sales business in December of 2003 called Cookie Lee (corporate guidelines prohibit me from linking you there, but it's cookielee.com if you want to check it out), so last year was my full year of business, and sadly, I did not plan well for tax season. I was shocked, though, to see what my sales were--way more than I'd anticipated. Still, given all the money I poured into it, I could probably have claimed a loss if I'd better tracked things like mileage. But who am I kidding to think I'd ever keep track of little piddly things like mileage when I can barely keep track of the keys needed to drive the dang car? This year I managed to stay really, really organized--until about two weeks ago. Now there are receipts and stuff everywhere, and the little slips of paper I wrote milage and toll fees and postal costs on are who-knows-where. How I wish I'd gotten my mother's organizational gene. Apparently the "disorganized" and "writer" genes are on the same chromosome, inextricably tied together. Thankfully Mom's genetic contribution watered down my dad's--otherwise I'd have lost my husband under all the clutter by now.
So now my brain hurts. Too much thinking, too much math. I have my freshly-signed Jodi Picoult novel waiting to be read, so I'd better go indulge it and rest the part of my head that deals with taxes. Otherwise I may exhaust it end up forgetting to send them altogether this year.
It's truly unbelievable how many receipts and write-offs one can rack up as a writer. The bummer is that, while I can write off tall these great things--printer ink, my computer, novels I buy, the drinks I buy at the coffeeshops when I go there to write--I hardly ever have the money to buy them in the first place. Like they say, takes money to save money.
I started working with a direct sales business in December of 2003 called Cookie Lee (corporate guidelines prohibit me from linking you there, but it's cookielee.com if you want to check it out), so last year was my full year of business, and sadly, I did not plan well for tax season. I was shocked, though, to see what my sales were--way more than I'd anticipated. Still, given all the money I poured into it, I could probably have claimed a loss if I'd better tracked things like mileage. But who am I kidding to think I'd ever keep track of little piddly things like mileage when I can barely keep track of the keys needed to drive the dang car? This year I managed to stay really, really organized--until about two weeks ago. Now there are receipts and stuff everywhere, and the little slips of paper I wrote milage and toll fees and postal costs on are who-knows-where. How I wish I'd gotten my mother's organizational gene. Apparently the "disorganized" and "writer" genes are on the same chromosome, inextricably tied together. Thankfully Mom's genetic contribution watered down my dad's--otherwise I'd have lost my husband under all the clutter by now.
So now my brain hurts. Too much thinking, too much math. I have my freshly-signed Jodi Picoult novel waiting to be read, so I'd better go indulge it and rest the part of my head that deals with taxes. Otherwise I may exhaust it end up forgetting to send them altogether this year.
Oh, the agony of defeat
Well, I did everything in my power. My family was making fun of my cheering because I was going so nuts. But, alas, it was all for naught: my poor Fighting Illini didn't quite fight hard enough against the Tar Heels and that's the end of that.
Until next season.....
Until next season.....
Sunday, April 03, 2005
Hail to the orange, hail to the blue...
Okay, so my team is in the NCAA final championship game. This is unheard of for the University of Illinois--we're usually pretty good, but not this good! Having graduated in '99, there's not a soul left there that is even remotely familiar to me, although to be honest I was never that keyed into the sport scene when I was there. All my friends were band nerds, though, so I'm used to seeing the familiar faces in the trombone or trumpet section. This is one of the few times I really wish I was still back in Chicago. There would be a lot more people to celebrate with.
Being part of these mass events is one of the things I miss most about college. I loved being a part of something huge. I loved Thursday nights in my dorm, knowing every other TV on the floor was tuned to NBC at 7:00 when "Friends" came on. (The entire floor screamed in unison when Ross and Rachel kissed for the first time.) I loved Saturday mornings in the fall when the football team had a home game; I'd join the throng and march with the band from the Armory to the stadium and go crazy during the pre-game show. (Gotta love band friends--they got two tickets to each game, so I never missed one.) I loved whatever day it was that The Onion came out and everyone was walking on the Quad with their face buried in the newspaper. And I especially loved singing "Loyalty" at the end of the football halftime show, arms around each other's shoulders, swaying and singing, The Chief standing proud with his arms outstretched in the center of the field. (Yes, I supported The Chief; still have the t-shirt.)
So tomorrow I'll just have to fake it. I'll don my Illinois wear, I'll pretend I'm in the dorm, ten floors up above Green Street, leaning against the bunkbeds as I sit on the floor staring at my roommate's 20 inch TV, instead of sitting on the couch in my parents' California living room. I'll pretend the shouts of "I-L-L...I-N-I!" can be heard in the street below and that the sidewalks on the Quad, filled with blue and orange chalk drawings, are just a five minute walk away instead of a five hour plane trip. I'll pretend that I'm still 20 years old and that my biggest worry is midterms and not paying the mortgage. And when its halftime, I'll embarrass my husband and sing "Loyalty" at the top of my lungs.
Hail to the orange, hail to the blue,
Hail, Alma Mater, ever so true! (So tru-ue...)
We love no other, so let our motto be,
'Victory!...Illinois...Var-si-tyyyyy!"
GO ILLINI!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Being part of these mass events is one of the things I miss most about college. I loved being a part of something huge. I loved Thursday nights in my dorm, knowing every other TV on the floor was tuned to NBC at 7:00 when "Friends" came on. (The entire floor screamed in unison when Ross and Rachel kissed for the first time.) I loved Saturday mornings in the fall when the football team had a home game; I'd join the throng and march with the band from the Armory to the stadium and go crazy during the pre-game show. (Gotta love band friends--they got two tickets to each game, so I never missed one.) I loved whatever day it was that The Onion came out and everyone was walking on the Quad with their face buried in the newspaper. And I especially loved singing "Loyalty" at the end of the football halftime show, arms around each other's shoulders, swaying and singing, The Chief standing proud with his arms outstretched in the center of the field. (Yes, I supported The Chief; still have the t-shirt.)
So tomorrow I'll just have to fake it. I'll don my Illinois wear, I'll pretend I'm in the dorm, ten floors up above Green Street, leaning against the bunkbeds as I sit on the floor staring at my roommate's 20 inch TV, instead of sitting on the couch in my parents' California living room. I'll pretend the shouts of "I-L-L...I-N-I!" can be heard in the street below and that the sidewalks on the Quad, filled with blue and orange chalk drawings, are just a five minute walk away instead of a five hour plane trip. I'll pretend that I'm still 20 years old and that my biggest worry is midterms and not paying the mortgage. And when its halftime, I'll embarrass my husband and sing "Loyalty" at the top of my lungs.
Hail to the orange, hail to the blue,
Hail, Alma Mater, ever so true! (So tru-ue...)
We love no other, so let our motto be,
'Victory!...Illinois...Var-si-tyyyyy!"
GO ILLINI!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Wednesday, March 30, 2005
Books I'm reading
Went on a book rampage the other day. Haven't had anything to read in ages and really needed to fill up the fiction tank. Got seven books from the library, and am planning on purchasing the new Jodi Picoult because she's coming here to sign it next week and I want to bring it in. So I thought I'd share some of the titles I'd strongly suggest you check out:
Eric Wilson's book "Dark to Mortal Eyes" was unlike anything I'd ever read. Seriously. Now, I don't typically read the Ted Dekker, Dean Koontz type stuff, but Eric's a friend of mine, so I checked it out. WOW. I think he's created his own genre, and thankfully he's got a second one coming out in a month called "Expiration Date." I'm lucky and got to read an advanced copy of it, and all I can say is, this guy is creative. And, of course, a fantastic writer. Definitely check him out.
Anita Shreve's book, "The Pilot's Wife," was a one-day book: started it yesterday morning, finished it last night before bed. Very moving, very sad, very surprising. Loved it.
Lisa Samson's new one, "Tiger Lillie" was incredible. I swear, every book that woman releases is just gold. I can't wait for "Club Sandwich."
I started reading Dee Henderson's book "Truth Seeker" this morning. I read "The Healer" a few months back and really liked it, so I have high hopes for this one.
So what are you reading these days?
Eric Wilson's book "Dark to Mortal Eyes" was unlike anything I'd ever read. Seriously. Now, I don't typically read the Ted Dekker, Dean Koontz type stuff, but Eric's a friend of mine, so I checked it out. WOW. I think he's created his own genre, and thankfully he's got a second one coming out in a month called "Expiration Date." I'm lucky and got to read an advanced copy of it, and all I can say is, this guy is creative. And, of course, a fantastic writer. Definitely check him out.
Anita Shreve's book, "The Pilot's Wife," was a one-day book: started it yesterday morning, finished it last night before bed. Very moving, very sad, very surprising. Loved it.
Lisa Samson's new one, "Tiger Lillie" was incredible. I swear, every book that woman releases is just gold. I can't wait for "Club Sandwich."
I started reading Dee Henderson's book "Truth Seeker" this morning. I read "The Healer" a few months back and really liked it, so I have high hopes for this one.
So what are you reading these days?
Go kids, go...
Lisa Samson wrote a great blog on the youth of today. (Sounds stodgy but it's not, trust me; go read it.) She made a great point about how parents today limit their children's freedom so much. Once upon a time, summer meant taking off after breakfast and showing up somewhere around four-thirty in the afternoon, having filled the day with bike rides all over town, hours at the park, quick lunch at a friend's house, and who knows what else. Nowadays parents keep such close surveillance on their kids that they don't get to taste those same freedoms that we did.
Is this true everywhere, or just out here in SoCal? I mean, we have mountain lions and 45mph speed limits through the center of town and major streets absolutely everywhere, which is vastly different from the quiet neighborhood where I grew up and the pokey driving even on the main drag through town. But gosh, the miles I logged on my bike, riding to the park, riding to the library, riding to my friend Sara's house clear on the other side of town...no wonder I had the metabolism of a hummingbird back then. And it was so much FUN. That's the bottom line. Every day I got up I couldn't wait to see where I'd end up that day. And I just don't think our kids have that same feeling, because they know where they'll end up: the game room, the garage, the back yard, the front yard, or all those things at their friend's house. BORING.
When I was teaching, I saw this protection extend even further than just the physical parameters of kids' free-range areas. Parents were afraid to let their kids fail. Rather than treat a bad grade as an opportunity to learn from their mistakes (didn't study, didn't care, didn't write down the right page numbers to review, so now you've learned your lesson) parents acted like it was the end of the world and freaked out. (Start saving for the therapy now, folks!) I remember my first F. Math, second grade. Did the whole subtraction page in addition. Totally my fault; made an assumption and went with it instead of reading the direction. I got over it. Big deal. And I learned from it, lemme tell ya, because at 8 I was already very conscientious about my grades. Now when you write the letter F on a paper parents get mad at you for dashing their kids' self-esteem against the rocks. Like "32%" is any better.
Parents are also afraid to let their kids fall, both figuratively and physically. I've broken four bones in my body: wrist three times and thumb once. I've fallen out of a tree and sprained my ankle. I've fallen directly on my head and been knocked speechless. (Very weird experience--the words were totally in my head like I was saying them out loud, but my mouth wasn't working.) And everything still seems to be working as it should. But now parents are overly protective because heaven forbid little Johnny have to wear a cast for six weeks. Pul-leeze. You're the center of attention, people wanna sign your cast, it's great social exposure, and then you've got A Story. Kids today don't get stories because they're stuck inside playing SuperMario all day. Figuratively speaking, parents are afraid to let their kids "fall" as in "mess up." I used to tell my fifth grade parents at Back to School night every fall, "This is the year the straight A students will get a C or worse, and the year the angels will end up in detention. It happens. It's not the end of their world. These are excellent opportunities to help them learn from their mistakes, to show them you love them regardless, and to let them be human." And sure enough, the kid who had never "pulled a card" ended up pulling three and having to write an essay on respect. The kid who never got less than an A missed honor roll for the first time. And the kids who were okay with it were the kids whose parents said, "Wow, bummer, huh? What's up?" and not, "What happened!? Let me talk to your teacher about this...."
The plastic bubble is doing more harm than good. We've gotta find a way to let out kids out of the Habitrail and into the real world so they can learn to live their own lives and fend for themselves. I'm all for parental responsibility, but isn't part of our responsibility making sure our kids grow up with a healthy view of life?
Is this true everywhere, or just out here in SoCal? I mean, we have mountain lions and 45mph speed limits through the center of town and major streets absolutely everywhere, which is vastly different from the quiet neighborhood where I grew up and the pokey driving even on the main drag through town. But gosh, the miles I logged on my bike, riding to the park, riding to the library, riding to my friend Sara's house clear on the other side of town...no wonder I had the metabolism of a hummingbird back then. And it was so much FUN. That's the bottom line. Every day I got up I couldn't wait to see where I'd end up that day. And I just don't think our kids have that same feeling, because they know where they'll end up: the game room, the garage, the back yard, the front yard, or all those things at their friend's house. BORING.
When I was teaching, I saw this protection extend even further than just the physical parameters of kids' free-range areas. Parents were afraid to let their kids fail. Rather than treat a bad grade as an opportunity to learn from their mistakes (didn't study, didn't care, didn't write down the right page numbers to review, so now you've learned your lesson) parents acted like it was the end of the world and freaked out. (Start saving for the therapy now, folks!) I remember my first F. Math, second grade. Did the whole subtraction page in addition. Totally my fault; made an assumption and went with it instead of reading the direction. I got over it. Big deal. And I learned from it, lemme tell ya, because at 8 I was already very conscientious about my grades. Now when you write the letter F on a paper parents get mad at you for dashing their kids' self-esteem against the rocks. Like "32%" is any better.
Parents are also afraid to let their kids fall, both figuratively and physically. I've broken four bones in my body: wrist three times and thumb once. I've fallen out of a tree and sprained my ankle. I've fallen directly on my head and been knocked speechless. (Very weird experience--the words were totally in my head like I was saying them out loud, but my mouth wasn't working.) And everything still seems to be working as it should. But now parents are overly protective because heaven forbid little Johnny have to wear a cast for six weeks. Pul-leeze. You're the center of attention, people wanna sign your cast, it's great social exposure, and then you've got A Story. Kids today don't get stories because they're stuck inside playing SuperMario all day. Figuratively speaking, parents are afraid to let their kids "fall" as in "mess up." I used to tell my fifth grade parents at Back to School night every fall, "This is the year the straight A students will get a C or worse, and the year the angels will end up in detention. It happens. It's not the end of their world. These are excellent opportunities to help them learn from their mistakes, to show them you love them regardless, and to let them be human." And sure enough, the kid who had never "pulled a card" ended up pulling three and having to write an essay on respect. The kid who never got less than an A missed honor roll for the first time. And the kids who were okay with it were the kids whose parents said, "Wow, bummer, huh? What's up?" and not, "What happened!? Let me talk to your teacher about this...."
The plastic bubble is doing more harm than good. We've gotta find a way to let out kids out of the Habitrail and into the real world so they can learn to live their own lives and fend for themselves. I'm all for parental responsibility, but isn't part of our responsibility making sure our kids grow up with a healthy view of life?
Monday, March 28, 2005
The Mother Ship is calling me home....
Oh. Oh. Oh. It's too wonderful to be true: is there really an entire restaurant dedicated to cereal? Behold Cereality. Wisely setting their first location on a college campus (how fondly I remember those evenings when I'd walk into the dorm cafeteria and discover it was yet again another Lucky Charms night), this is a venture that is virtually guaranteed to succeed. How I envy those lucky U of Arizona and Pennsylvania students (and soon some yet-unrevealed student group in Chicago) who have stores near their campuses. Come here, Cereality! Please! We have a really big junior college just up the street--well, fifteen minutes up the street, but still! Perhaps I'm barking up the wrong tree with the book thing. Maybe opening my own Cereality franchise is my true calling. My passion for cereal is unmatched, my dedication to perfecting the cereal-milk ratio bordering on obsession--who else would be better suited? Time to rework my resume....
Thursday, March 24, 2005
How cool is my husband?
This is love:
We pulled into the driveway last night, and when I got out I stepped on a snail. This is something I've managed to avoid doing since I moved here nearly 5 years ago, and the very thought of it as always grossed me out to the point of nausea. We didn't have snails in Illinois, but here, especially when it rains, they're everywhere. So I got all grossed out and whiny, and I was still fending off the involuntary shudders while cleaning the kitchen ten minutes later when Dan went outside for a minute. When he came back in I asked where he'd gone, and he said he moved the car. Puzzled, I asked why, and he said, "So you don't have to see the snail next time you go out."
How sweet is that? Those of you who are still searching for the love of your life, let me tell you, it's these little gestures that count. Anyone can plan big romantic dinners or elaborate dates, but when someone picks up on the little things you say and do, and then spontaneously does something about them to try to make you happy, you know you've found someone who's real quality. Dan is the King of Little Gestures That Speak Volumes. I'm so lucky.
We pulled into the driveway last night, and when I got out I stepped on a snail. This is something I've managed to avoid doing since I moved here nearly 5 years ago, and the very thought of it as always grossed me out to the point of nausea. We didn't have snails in Illinois, but here, especially when it rains, they're everywhere. So I got all grossed out and whiny, and I was still fending off the involuntary shudders while cleaning the kitchen ten minutes later when Dan went outside for a minute. When he came back in I asked where he'd gone, and he said he moved the car. Puzzled, I asked why, and he said, "So you don't have to see the snail next time you go out."
How sweet is that? Those of you who are still searching for the love of your life, let me tell you, it's these little gestures that count. Anyone can plan big romantic dinners or elaborate dates, but when someone picks up on the little things you say and do, and then spontaneously does something about them to try to make you happy, you know you've found someone who's real quality. Dan is the King of Little Gestures That Speak Volumes. I'm so lucky.
Deprogramming
We saw The Lion King last night. Strictly speaking, it was not the best show I've ever seen, but I have to say, the costumes were unlike anything I ever could have imagined. The audience burst into spontaneous applause when the animals were all coming in for the opening number, "Circle of Life." I would give anything to be able to go back in time and be in on the costume design meetings that yielded these ideas.
So, I'm getting ready to go to the show, and I'm putting on my makeup. I've never been super-excited about doing my makeup, but with this side business of selling jewelry, I have to remember that I'm selling an image, not just a product, and I have to dress accordingly. But I'll be honest and admit that there's a part of me that feels like I really need to wear it, so I do.
Later, Dan looks at me with this forlorn face and says, "Ali, you're so beautiful, you don't need all that stuff! Why do you do that to yourself?" And the weird thing (and one of the thousands of reasons why I ADORE my husband) is that he's being completely serious. He's not just trying to butter me up or something. He hates it when I wear makeup. He really and truly thinks I look better without it.
It makes me wonder why I don't see what he sees when I look at myself. Why do I not see the smile that lights up a room and the eyes with the depth of oceans? Why does my gaze instantly go to the light freckles above my lip that I swear make me look like I have a mustache and the pores you could sail ships in? And why, even when I'm having one of my extremely rare good skin days, do I still think I really should put on some foundation?
One of my teacher friends is not, in her words, a "girlie girl." She doesn't like dresses and skirts and flowery things and pink and makeup. She especially loathes makeup, and can only think of three times she's ever worn it. She told me once that she doesn't want to wear makeup when she teaches because she wants her girl students to see that a woman can be perfectly comfortable in her own skin without having to doll it up. Given where we live, in the liposuction and plastic surgery capital of the world, this is a lesson that these girls desperately need to be taught. And I remember being so impressed that she could do that. And she's not one some Noxema model with skin that looks airbrushed even in person. She's a normal woman with normal skin that has a mind of its own sometimes, and she's okay with that. And I find myself very jealous of her confidence.
So I started trying to figure out who it is I'm putting the makeup on for in the first place. I used to do it to get guys' attention, but obviously there's no need for that, and frankly it didn't help me get the guy I've got because he hates it all anyway. Then I thought of that line from the song, "Wild Night:" "All the girls are dressed up for each other..." And I realized that I don't care what the guys think I look like. It's the women's opinion I'm worried about. What the heck!?!?!? And I thought back to when I first started wearing makeup in high school, and how I was always more concerned with how the popular girls might perceive me than the guys of any social rank. And even though the girl is outta high school by a decade, apparently the high school is not out of the girl, because I still find myself intimidated by beautiful women and worried about what they'll think of my clothes, my hair, my skin. They could be 19 years old and more shallow than a puddle in the desert and I'd still think, "She's totally mocking my skirt in her head, I can see it." WHY ON EARTH DO I CARE?!
So I'm thinking I've been brainwashed by society, by makeup commercials, by the guy in high school who once pointed to a billboard with some Baywatch girl on it and said, "Now, if only you looked like her...,"by the clothes in Express and Limited that are supposedly my size but wouldn't fit me unless I lost three inches off my hips. And I'd really love to say I'm throwing my makeup out today and thumbing my nose at the supposed standard of beauty our culture promotes. But I'm not there yet. But I'd love to know that there are some others like me out there who would love to deprogram along with me and learn to see the beauties that we are underneath all the base and cover-up and mascara.
Anybody?
So, I'm getting ready to go to the show, and I'm putting on my makeup. I've never been super-excited about doing my makeup, but with this side business of selling jewelry, I have to remember that I'm selling an image, not just a product, and I have to dress accordingly. But I'll be honest and admit that there's a part of me that feels like I really need to wear it, so I do.
Later, Dan looks at me with this forlorn face and says, "Ali, you're so beautiful, you don't need all that stuff! Why do you do that to yourself?" And the weird thing (and one of the thousands of reasons why I ADORE my husband) is that he's being completely serious. He's not just trying to butter me up or something. He hates it when I wear makeup. He really and truly thinks I look better without it.
It makes me wonder why I don't see what he sees when I look at myself. Why do I not see the smile that lights up a room and the eyes with the depth of oceans? Why does my gaze instantly go to the light freckles above my lip that I swear make me look like I have a mustache and the pores you could sail ships in? And why, even when I'm having one of my extremely rare good skin days, do I still think I really should put on some foundation?
One of my teacher friends is not, in her words, a "girlie girl." She doesn't like dresses and skirts and flowery things and pink and makeup. She especially loathes makeup, and can only think of three times she's ever worn it. She told me once that she doesn't want to wear makeup when she teaches because she wants her girl students to see that a woman can be perfectly comfortable in her own skin without having to doll it up. Given where we live, in the liposuction and plastic surgery capital of the world, this is a lesson that these girls desperately need to be taught. And I remember being so impressed that she could do that. And she's not one some Noxema model with skin that looks airbrushed even in person. She's a normal woman with normal skin that has a mind of its own sometimes, and she's okay with that. And I find myself very jealous of her confidence.
So I started trying to figure out who it is I'm putting the makeup on for in the first place. I used to do it to get guys' attention, but obviously there's no need for that, and frankly it didn't help me get the guy I've got because he hates it all anyway. Then I thought of that line from the song, "Wild Night:" "All the girls are dressed up for each other..." And I realized that I don't care what the guys think I look like. It's the women's opinion I'm worried about. What the heck!?!?!? And I thought back to when I first started wearing makeup in high school, and how I was always more concerned with how the popular girls might perceive me than the guys of any social rank. And even though the girl is outta high school by a decade, apparently the high school is not out of the girl, because I still find myself intimidated by beautiful women and worried about what they'll think of my clothes, my hair, my skin. They could be 19 years old and more shallow than a puddle in the desert and I'd still think, "She's totally mocking my skirt in her head, I can see it." WHY ON EARTH DO I CARE?!
So I'm thinking I've been brainwashed by society, by makeup commercials, by the guy in high school who once pointed to a billboard with some Baywatch girl on it and said, "Now, if only you looked like her...,"by the clothes in Express and Limited that are supposedly my size but wouldn't fit me unless I lost three inches off my hips. And I'd really love to say I'm throwing my makeup out today and thumbing my nose at the supposed standard of beauty our culture promotes. But I'm not there yet. But I'd love to know that there are some others like me out there who would love to deprogram along with me and learn to see the beauties that we are underneath all the base and cover-up and mascara.
Anybody?
Monday, March 21, 2005
Mais, je ne parle pas francais!
Okay, so now it's 4 o'clock in the morning--4:38 by my alarm clock--and I'm still not sleeping. But as I was lying there I remembered a dream I had earlier tonight, and I figured if I didn't get up and blog it now I'd never remember it in the morning.
In my dream I was on the run, trying to hide from someone or something, and to throw people off my track I started speaking French to everyone. And I really was speaking French. There was one scene where I was in a deli ordering a sandwich, and I did the whole thing in French, and I remember actually translating from English to French in my head before speaking. (and when people asked me to speak in English, I did it with this really bad accent. In my head I was actually thinking at the time, "That's a really bad accent. I'm totally going to get found out."
Now, I took two years of high school French, and in real life I can probably create about fifteen sentences, but that's it. But is it possible that all the French I knew at one time but now can't recall is locked in my head somewhere, and I actually accessed it in my dream?? Darnit, why can't I do that when I'm awake?!
I remember reading an article a long time ago about a girl who was in some sort of accident, I think, or at least in a coma from something or other, and when she woke up she spoke Korean fluently. Her grandmother was Korean, and she'd grown up hearing the language spoken by family, but never really learned it herself. And then suddenly she could. Can you imagine? Can you imagine waking up one day and knowing something you'd never known before? Being able to speak a different language, or paint like Monet, or sing like an angel, or pitch like Randy Johnson? And then realizing that the ability to do this new thing has always been there, and you just couldn't get to it? It makes me wonder what else is stuck up there in my noggin, just waiting to be tapped into.
Bon soir, mes amies, bon soir...
In my dream I was on the run, trying to hide from someone or something, and to throw people off my track I started speaking French to everyone. And I really was speaking French. There was one scene where I was in a deli ordering a sandwich, and I did the whole thing in French, and I remember actually translating from English to French in my head before speaking. (and when people asked me to speak in English, I did it with this really bad accent. In my head I was actually thinking at the time, "That's a really bad accent. I'm totally going to get found out."
Now, I took two years of high school French, and in real life I can probably create about fifteen sentences, but that's it. But is it possible that all the French I knew at one time but now can't recall is locked in my head somewhere, and I actually accessed it in my dream?? Darnit, why can't I do that when I'm awake?!
I remember reading an article a long time ago about a girl who was in some sort of accident, I think, or at least in a coma from something or other, and when she woke up she spoke Korean fluently. Her grandmother was Korean, and she'd grown up hearing the language spoken by family, but never really learned it herself. And then suddenly she could. Can you imagine? Can you imagine waking up one day and knowing something you'd never known before? Being able to speak a different language, or paint like Monet, or sing like an angel, or pitch like Randy Johnson? And then realizing that the ability to do this new thing has always been there, and you just couldn't get to it? It makes me wonder what else is stuck up there in my noggin, just waiting to be tapped into.
Bon soir, mes amies, bon soir...
It's 3 o'clock in the morning...
...and sadly y'all don't know that song--unless you attended Axis in 1999 and 2000, anyway. "It'3 3 o'clock in the morning/another day as flown away/add it to the pile of yesterdays/with a hundred thousand more yesterdays to come/and when it's 3 o'clock in the morning/and I just wanna go to sleep/but I can't go to sleep/'cause when I'm alone in my room, this aching resumes..." SUCH a great song. Get that thing published, Doug. Sell it to someone because, honestly, the world needs to hear it.
So, it IS 3 o'clock in the morning--3:24, actually, according to my Mac, although it tends to run a bit fast so probably more like 3:18 or something--and it hasn't been the best of nights. Could have been much worse, though, so I'm grateful that I slept as much as I did. I took a three hour nap after church (VERY unlike me, I don't have a body that does the nap thing well) and had slept nine and a half hours the night before, but my miscarriage decided to choose bedtime to really kick in, so I had I've only slept on and off since about 10. But now it seems to be over. All done. Not pregnant anymore.
Weird.
So, it IS 3 o'clock in the morning--3:24, actually, according to my Mac, although it tends to run a bit fast so probably more like 3:18 or something--and it hasn't been the best of nights. Could have been much worse, though, so I'm grateful that I slept as much as I did. I took a three hour nap after church (VERY unlike me, I don't have a body that does the nap thing well) and had slept nine and a half hours the night before, but my miscarriage decided to choose bedtime to really kick in, so I had I've only slept on and off since about 10. But now it seems to be over. All done. Not pregnant anymore.
Weird.
Sunday, March 20, 2005
Thanks to my Unofficial Fan Club!!
I am sooo kicking myself. I had this awesome book launch party yesterday, it was SO much fun, TONS of people came (well, 25, but for me that's tons) and did I take a single photograph? Noooooo. Did I remember my camera? Yes. Did I even comment to people at one point, "Oh my gosh! I need to get my camera out and get some pictures!" Yes. Did I actually do this? No. Blast. I'm so into the whole scrapbooking thing now, but I'm making it really hard on myself but not getting pictures!
The party, though, really was great. I'm not the best party-thrower. I never estimate correctly the amount of food, I'm not good at mingling and end up spending too much time with one group and not enough with another, and I think I lack that hostess gene that makes people think, "Oh good! Alison's throwing a party! We simply must attend!" But for once, I think I pulled it off okay. (It was really funny, though: at one point I realized everyone had totally segregated into "church friends" and "work friends" and "old church friends" and that my worlds were definitely NOT colliding. In fact, they were doing an excellent job of avoiding each other.)
If nothing else, this past week of pain and joy has shown me that I have a lot of people in my life that support me. I've no doubt that the line will be practically out the door when I do my book signing in April, because everyone wants to make an impression on the bookstore patrons, as well as make sure I am not sitting there alone like an idiot. And I can't even begin to count the emails and cards I've gotten from people showing sympathy for our miscarriage. I'm so blessed. Thanks everyone. :)
The party, though, really was great. I'm not the best party-thrower. I never estimate correctly the amount of food, I'm not good at mingling and end up spending too much time with one group and not enough with another, and I think I lack that hostess gene that makes people think, "Oh good! Alison's throwing a party! We simply must attend!" But for once, I think I pulled it off okay. (It was really funny, though: at one point I realized everyone had totally segregated into "church friends" and "work friends" and "old church friends" and that my worlds were definitely NOT colliding. In fact, they were doing an excellent job of avoiding each other.)
If nothing else, this past week of pain and joy has shown me that I have a lot of people in my life that support me. I've no doubt that the line will be practically out the door when I do my book signing in April, because everyone wants to make an impression on the bookstore patrons, as well as make sure I am not sitting there alone like an idiot. And I can't even begin to count the emails and cards I've gotten from people showing sympathy for our miscarriage. I'm so blessed. Thanks everyone. :)
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