Wife Swap

This won't be a memorable post, but-- as always-- I am avoiding something more productive.

I don't like to sit in silence. In silence, I notice every time the air conditioner turns on or off, the chain on the ceiling fan bumping the bulbs, and every other time the house creaks or sighs. So every day when I sit down with my textbook, my constant companion, I flip the TV on. I turn the volume down and look for something I've seen before so that I'm less likely to get pulled in. My usual preference is ABC Family because I'm convinced there's not an episode of Full House or Sabrina, the Teenage Witch that I haven't seen (is that sad in and of itself?); however, ABC Family has changed it's line up without consulting me. I am unamused by My Wife and Kids and whatever the new show is called, so I have been forced to look elsewhere for background noise.

Today, I landed on Wife Swap. Not my first pick, but maybe I'm too choosey when it comes to peripheral sounds. Contrary to it's purpose, I have been sucked into this little piece of reality television. It's like a train wreck. These moms switch places for two weeks: the first week, they abide by the native mother's rules, and the second week the implant mom makes her own rules. Immediately, the children rebel and the husbands get uppity. The moms weep and yell and seem totally devastated by their new surroundings.

Newsflash, Wives: you signed up for this. It is only a two-week engagement. Deal.

I like to picture my own mother in these situations. Call it good manners, call it Southern hospitality, call it what you will: Cheryl would never tell a man to shave his head to become a more "modern" man, and she would never tell kids they must quit their sports and learn what it's like to relax. If presented with food she wouldn't usually eat during her first week, Cheryl would quietly and politely pick around the food and make do-- she would never question why the family eats the way it does. And Cheryl would never, ever yell at her new family. She doesn't yell at her current family.

These people are out of control. They know when they sign up that they are going to be put in a situation that is as completely different from their own as is possible. Love to camp and hike? Congratulations, you just won yourself a ride to the concrete jungle. Are sporting events and competition your bag? Well, enjoy your two-week stay in the hippie commune; no need to pack your running shoes... moccasins will do. Do you feel progressive because your husband is a stay-at-home dad? Get ready, you're about to move in with a man who is married to his job.

People amaze me. I'm not so sure that my family is the definition of normal... but I'm thinking our relatively high level of normalcy may disqualify us as candidates for good reality television.

Light and Reflection

First things first: there is a mosquito somewhere in my bedroom, and I must seek and destroy it.

Now, down to business. Bear with me; these are just some reflections, and they're bound to be choppy.

This morning we kicked off our college and career Sunday school class. I'm really excited about it because I haven't been in a small group Bible study in... too long.

[Fun fact: I figured out after class that the man that wrote our study book was my parents' preacher in Oneonta, and he gave blood for my brother when Adam was in the hospital... and, I mean, that's kind of awesome.]

We started our series in Matthew:

"[Jesus said] You are the light of the world. A city set on the hill cannot be hidden." (5:14)

Our study guide instructed us to imagine what life would be like if all the lights went out, if the only source of light that could be found on the planet was emitted through Christians. And that's where my head's been at all day. I have imagined the night light in the upstairs hallway that glows faintly and throws longs shadows across the hardwood floor. I thought, too, about the stadium lights in Jordan-Hare. They are bright and almost blinding, and on a dark November Saturday night in Auburn, it's broad daylight on Pat Dye field. And so I've wondered, if I am the light of the world, where do I fall on the spectrum from night light to stadium light? In a darkened world, would I be a beacon of light or would people even notice my glow?

In John 8:12, Jesus says, "I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will not walk in darkness, but will have the light of life." When I read this Scripture, my mind immediately went to all the glow-in-the-dark toys that thrilled me as a child. You could get a glow-in-the-dark bouncy ball in one of the quarter machines at the grocery store, and you just held them up to a light bulb for a minute or so to activate them. Then my friends and I would lock ourselves in a windowless room-- a closet or the bathroom-- and ooh and ahh and bounce away. Keeping in mind our dark world exercise, I am the glow-in-the-dark bouncy ball in this scenario. The strength and duration of my glow are directly correlated to how often I draw near to the Light. So my next question is: if the lights went out, would I glow? Has my light been activated through daily drawing near to the true Light?

I'm borrowing this straight from the guide because it hit me hardest. I don't know if you've seen Schindler's List, but it is haunting and inspiring and heartbreaking...

"Oskar Schindler was a flippant profiteer who was called to save hundreds of Jews during WWII. Then the war ended. As he prepared to leave his hometown and flee those searching for Nazi war criminals, the more than 1,100 lives he had saved were standing to say thank-you and good-bye. His carefree, strong German demeanor disappeared as he gazed on the crowd.

'I could have done more,' he said to his reassuring and affirming Jewish accountant. 'I could have sold my car and saved ten more. I could have melted my (Nazi) metal and saved one more. I wasted so much. You don't know. I could have saved more.'"

If Christians were the only source of light in the world, would the strength (or lack-thereof) of my light leaving me thinking I could have done more? Is there some part of my lifestyle I could tweak that would make my light shine brighter, stronger? Is there something I could do to be a beacon to more, to share the Light with more?

And that's what I'm thinking about this week.

Fake Bake

You may find this shocking, but...

I am not naturally a bronzed blonde beauty. (when I wrote that, I meant to highlight my fake tan, and then realized that I'm not naturally blonde either... ho hum)

My dad walks into the sun for a mere moment, and he instantly develops a golden glow. My brother had this same talent, and even my fair-skinned mother isn't so fair as me. With my "black Dutch" heritage (that's redneck-racist for Native American, I think), one might think with a little effort I could work up some sort of color...

One would be wrong. My skin has two modes: fair and burnt. Each of these versions comes in the freckled variety. I mean, really, I'm just a few steps away from being a ginger (no offense, E). As I am not a ginger, though, my processed-platinum hair and blue eyes benefit greatly from a little sun love. But... we have already discussed my skin's relationship with the sun: toxic.

Sure, I could hop in the tanning bed from time to time. It's quick and easy and the perfect place for a power nap... or a little daily dose of cancer. I am firmly of the belief that "everything" gives you cancer these days; however, now that it's in my head, I can feel my ovaries frying up and my freckles darkening and any existing moles turning into little Death Stars.

So: no sun, no tanning bed. What's a girl to do? Yes, the fake bake. Or tan in a can, if you will (although I do not buy my own can anymore as I have had one too many streaky, unfortunate results). Instead, I head down to the local tanning salon (why is it called a salon??) and pop into the spray tan booth, where I am sprayed down four times with a golden mist and then blasted with air. It's kind of like a car wash for the Pale Face.

This process is not so easy as it may sound. First, you must shower pre-session. This rinses all the oil and lotion and crap off you so you don't streak. When you arrive you rub magical blending cream onto your hands and feet (another streak-free measure). You wrap your hair up in a surgical cap, and hop in the tiny chamber. When the freezing mist hits you, your heart races as you realize that this tiny compartment is so full of tanning fog and so empty of good, clean oxygen. And then the things you must remember: bend your knees slightly, flex your knuckles so no lines for, cock your wrists so your palms aren't bronzed, and on and on. You have to carefully plan your tanning session so that you don't have anywhere to go for four hours afterward (it has to sit for at least four hours before you can shower), and if you go mid-day you risk sweating streaks into your new glow on your drive home (serious hazard if you have leather seats).

So... no, it's not a simple process. In fact, it's a hassle. You can call me vain if you want... but I just see it as being proactive about my pigment disability. And as long as you're not orange (think Lindsay Lohan, or see the below picture of that darling George Hamilton), it's way better than sweating it out at the pool or jumping in the ol' cancer box.

The Secret Life.

Okay, there's nothing secret about my life... but that IS what's on my television right now. Yep, I admit it: sometimes I watch The Secret Life of the American Teenager. But only sometimes.

This morning I experienced my first Monday at the special education facility where I'm doing my service learning for a summer class. The fact that it was a Monday is significant because the students have had a weekend of regression. Children with special needs demand a highly structured environment, and a lot of our students don't get that at home. Honestly, I can see why. These children need a lot of patience, and sometimes just saying, "Fine, whatever." is an alluring trap to fall into. So today was a little... chaotic.

The student we'll call "Jamal" has hydrocephalus. I don't know if I've mentioned that before, but it means that his skull is enlarged and fluid collects around his brain. He has a shunt in his head where it can be drained from time to time. As you can imagine, head injury can be very dangerous for Jamal... and today, Jamal fell out of his chair and hit his head on the marker tray beneath the blackboard. I think all of our hearts stopped for an instant as we watched for Jamal's reaction. Like any typical six year old, he ran to the teacher with his arms out and sobbed into her stomach. As he wailed, another student ("Grace," who is often violent) ran up to him and slapped him... then laughed (people, this was horror movie creepy-- think 'Orphan'). We called the nurse to the room, and it turns out that Jamal was fine, but it was terrifying.

Later the speech therapist came to the classroom, which was just comically disastrous. This therapist wore an expression that let us all know she'd rather be anywhere else in the world, and she let the kids talk over her just to get her book read and get out of there. Jamal talked constantly and pouted when he didn't get his way, Aaron raised his hand constantly like the kid in 'Welcome Back, Mr. Kotter,' Trent (who is non-verbal) grunted and flapped his arms without stop, and Grace shoved Trent down. All the while, the speech therapist carried on, one sigh after another.

Aaron told me I was cute and picked a flower for me, so that was the one redeeming factor of my first (and last) Monday in Special Ed.

Father's Day

This morning, fathers all over America woke up to their favorite breakfast and an array of hand-painted coffee mugs, construction paper cards, ties, and golf balls. As a child, your teacher or Sunday school teacher sets up activities to make pencil holders and those delightful construction paper cards a week in advance... and I'm beginning to see why.

Yesterday (the day before, I know... Miss Responsibility), I embarked on a journey to find my dear old dad a father's day card, as I was fresh out of construction paper. Now, if you know my dad and/or me, you know that we are not the sappy type...

None of this:

Dad, on this day, please know...

You are the reason I breathe...

You have set the standard impossibly high for any man I meet...

You are the perfect specimen of man...

You are a gift from the Heavens...

Now, while all of this might be good and true of my father, it's just not us. Trust me, my dad doesn't need to be told he's wonderful. :)

The most disappointing thing about the card search, though, was the "funny" card section. Again, if you know me or my dad, you might suspect that when standing in front of the card selection, I go straight to the "Father's Day- Funny" rack. Unfortunately, mine and Hallmark's senses of humor seem to have come to an impasse.

Sorry, Hallmark, my dad isn't a grill master and he doesn't guzzle a case of beer every night in front of the television. He doesn't belch or make fart jokes, and he doesn't "adjust" himself Al Bundy-style.

Captain Fun is no prude, but I'm beginning to wonder... is my dad more refined than the average American dad? I hope not. I hope most people looked at those cards and wondered the same thing: who are these people?!

My dad's funny card needs to be about his poor sense of direction... that the one thing he can cook if deserted is chocolate oatmeal cookies... his inability to sit still, as he would rather take a VCR apart to see how it works then sit poolside with me and Mom... or even his graying hair.

So next year, I'm thinking of reverting to my childhood and whipping out a construction paper card for my apparently uber-classy father.

It's a Beautiful Day

Today I started my service learning project at a local special education facility. I have expressed before that special education services are not my forte, as I feel so desperately ill-equipped. So on my drive to school this morning, my heart raced and a thousand worst-case scenarios ran through my mind. I arrived at the school 15 minutes early, and I spent 10 of those minutes praying. I prayed for a humble heart and a discerning spirit, for patience and compassion.

And I don't know why I act so surprised every time the Lord comes through for me.

I was assigned to a classroom of just five students ranging from severe disability to high-functioning. These children are the most open, friendly creatures you have ever met. They were not shy, but very interested and lively. Joyful, even. One child, who we'll call Jamal, loved to tell me that I was his friend and to be sure I thought of him as a friend as well. Throughout the day, Jamal referred to me only as "Buddy," and he often told his teachers that I was his "Buddy."

My assignment for this project is to choose a child, observe him or her for two weeks, and write a proposal for a program designed especially for this child's disability. But today I didn't choose a child. Aaron chose me.

Aaron is seven years old and will be in the first grade in the fall. He has a chubby face with a permanent grin and big, curious blue eyes. He is very intelligent and loves to tell you facts about himself in riddles.

A: Guess how old I am.

L: Um... 25?

A: Nope. It's one more than six. Guess what comes after six. It's spelled s-e-v-e-n.

Aaron doesn't have an intellectual disability; he has an emotional disturbance. He refers to his time at "bad boy school" often, and he constantly looks for affirmation with questions like, "Did I do that good? Have I been good today?" He has a new idea every minute, and he is the most polite child I have ever met. He has a 'thank you' and 'please' for every request, and he gave me a flower on the playground. He is affectionate to the point that other teachers scold him, often saying to me, "I have a surprise for you" and then wrapping me up in a hug.

Today I sat beside him on the swing as he screamed, "I'm having a beautiful day!" and taught him how to make a Play-Doh necklace. He drew me a picture of SpongeBob SquarePants titled 'For Lindsey' (with a backwards D) and stole my heart in a matter of hours.

It's beautiful and simple, and God's grace pours over me as I start this journey with some of his most precious children.

The Old Ball and Chain

I'm glad to announce that I'm in a new relationship, and we're already living together.

Ladies, gentlemen, blog world, meet Macy.

We dine together.

We catch up on current events together (a la Rolling Stone).

We play together (although, I'm not sure who is more entertained... me or Macy).

And we study together.

Now, my mom says I let Macy run my life. But so what if I plan my days and weekends around Macy's preferences? It's called commitment, people.

Macy and I are just two single gals livin' large in the big city... and by that, I mean she sits with me on the couch and watches Say Yes to the Dress and Glee and So You Think You Can Dance.

Okay, yes, I am the crazy cat lady. I'm okay with that.

On the Road Again

Yesterday morning I was woken up by the voice of my grandmother on the answering machine, going on and on about where she and my grandfather are right now.

My grandparents (my mother's parents) are rapidly approaching their 80's-- a fact that I am acutely and sadly aware of-- but they are hardly sitting in their living room knitting and napping. Oh no-- from the time my mother and her siblings were young, J.O. and Emily have had a very serious passion in life: road trips. Age, retirement, and an empty nest have not slowed them down; on the contrary, Momma Em and Daddy J are now in hyperdrive when it comes to their travels. Their home is full of scrapbooks documenting their travels to Massachusetts, Wyoming, Hawaii, and all the spaces in between (no, a "road trip" to my grandparents is hardly a day trip to Memphis).

Right now, Momma Em and Daddy J are on their way to Wyoming. They probably haven't passed through a city they haven't visited before yet, and Emily could tell you what she ate at each restaurant she's visited in any given city (it's where I get my sick memory). The first few days of their trips, they plan out and reserve hotel rooms. But for the rest of the journey, they stop where they please and go by no schedule (other than that if there is a tourist trap, they WILL stop there).

It's fabulous, the life they live. And I hope when I'm in my mid-seventies my husband and I (okay, first of all, I hope I have a husband) are as awesome as my grandparents.

Just another manic Monday.

Okay, it wasn't manic at all. In fact, it was really quite pleasant. And because I've been such a dud blogger lately, I'm going to carry on that theme with a dud blog. Yes, a play-by-play of my day... but I'll start with Sunday just for a good yawn.

Sunday, Ashley the Sorority Sister and I visited Calvary Baptist. Their youth choir had just returned from a choir tour in Texas, and they performed. Usually this would be like, as my mom puts it, being at someone else's family reunion. But it didn't even matter that I didn't know any of these kids-- they were phenomenal. There were also several baptisms. An entire family was baptized, including a child with disabilities, and the congregation was beautifully reminded of the hope we have in a day when, as the preacher said, "no child will be unable to pronounce her own name."

After church, we saw Sex and the City 2 (don't judge). I've seen every episode and the first movie so, despite all the critics' warnings, I pressed on out of loyalty to Carrie and the gang. I wouldn't say this movie was bad-- The Back Up Plan: THAT was bad-- but it just wasn't good. There were a few redeeming qualities, like fabulous shoes and impressive scenery, but it just felt forced. Hopefully these ladies will spare me a third installation... because, yes, I'd feel obligated to see it even though I know better.

I ended the night with a little night swim with Ash and Tyler. This marks my first time this summer in a pool, and it was wonderful. Here's hoping for more night swims. I might even get crazy and go during the day.

Today, I went to class. Duh. Nothing exciting there. I had lunch with Tyler at City Cafe, Tuscaloosa's version of Auburn's Veggies To Go (but not as good, in my humble opinion). Later, at the grocery store, I bought watermelon. On top of my night swim, this was another exciting indication of summer's arrival. I bought a little box of the pre-cut watermelon, and was unable to stop myself from finishing the entire thing in one sitting.

Tonight Ashley and I decided to strike out at the Rec, which is full of skinny runner-girls and terrifying. We went to the Turbo Kick class: that is, we kicked and punched and heaved and panted to Lady Gaga for an hour, and now I think I could turbo kick any enemy straight to the ground. So look out... because I can dance and kick box at the same time.

Tomorrow: Zumba. Glee. Cake (with sprinkles! we're going for a Glee theme, and sparkles on cake seemed like a bad idea. sprinkles it is).

You're welcome for the minute-by-minute account of my last two days. I know you were wondering.

just breathe.

It's funny how accomplishing something can change my mood.

My reaction to pressure is not a good one, but it is very productive. My mother and aunt Connie have told me that I handle things wrong... er, not like they do. They do things way in advance, so they have time to do it three times if they need to. Not me. I am completely paralyzed by a heavy workload. I can't think about it, I can't look at it. Then, at the 11th hour (that's the saying, right?), I go into hyperdrive and do it all at once. Today, I went to class at 9:30, made it home by 1, and then read my textbook until 6, leaving my couch only for snack breaks.

So today, I have read two chapters of my Lifespan book, made a 93 on my quiz, and participated in 8 discussions. And now I'm done for the night. Ta da!

Tomorrow, I think I'll sleep late. Then I'll start chapter 3, read a case study, and head to Hartselle for Hailey's nuptials. Yes, I love a good plan.

Editor's Note: My mother said that my last post may have caused some confusion. Obviously I bear no ill will toward children with disabilities, I just feel ill-equipped to work with them. So if you thought otherwise, don't.

Sorry for the useless babbling. I'm just so pleased to finally have my head above water.

School's In for Summer

Regardless of strep throat or viral syndrome or whatever nastiness that has invaded my body and wrecked my wing, summer school has begun. I'm already hyperventilating just thinking about it.

First, I'm taking one on-campus class. This is my preferred method of learning, except that this is the one class of my grad school career that meets on campus during the day.... which is again preferable EXCEPT for my other classes, I park on campus after 6, which is when ticketing ends. This summer, though, my class is from 10- 12:30... and parking permits are ridiculous at UA. Like, $200. So, no, I will not buy a parking permit for one class for the month of June. That's absurd. And yes, Tuscaloosa is the hottest place on this Earth in summer... so I'm hiking my sickly self across campus every morning, just to arrive in my building, huffing and puffing and sweaty and gross.

As for my class, it's Intro to Special Ed. I don't want to be selfish or insensitive or whatever, but I've got to be honest here: I am not comfortable with children with disabilities (that's the PC way to say it, by the way). My friend Perkins is a special ed teacher, and he lives for it. I love that about him because I think it's a calling of the heart... one calling that I do not have. So I'm already stressed about this class, and I haven't even started the Service Learning portion. Yes, Service Learning. That means that I'll be working in a special needs facility one-on-one with a child. Eventually, my supervisors will come observe me working with said child. Terrifying.

One of my teachers for Special Ed is Morgan Freeman. The other is a woman from Kenya; she is absolutely beautiful, with the darkest, smoothest skin you've ever seen in your life. She went to British schools in Africa, so from time to time her accent is flowery and lovely, like a narrator on a PBS special. Other times, it has an unpredictable rhythm that's really fascinating. I always expect her to say, "Jambo!" because that's what the tour guide says on the African safari at Disney World.

Immediately, I'm pissed off at my other class. It's online, so I'll never even see the teacher, but I know this much: his syllabus reads like a letter, and says, "Work that meets expectations is B work. Work that goes above and beyond expectations is A work." Okay, so if I do everything you ask me to do, I get a B? Perfect. Hope you're having a sun-shiney day, Prof.

My third and final class is called Career Development, and it shouldn't be too tough. For one, I've had the professor before and I love him. And secondly, it's one of those "self-exploration" classes and, as evidenced by my little blog here, what's easier to talk about than yourself?

Now. I'm going to read for the aforementioned classes. I'm already way behind. It's going to be a rough month.