Well for today I was a REAL farmer. I moved and stacked
about 800 pounds of hay in the barn for my little goatlets.
Saturday, June 13, 2015
Sunday, May 31, 2015
Who is my neighbor?
Now that it's May I'm aware of the clock ticking down on our California adventure. I frantically think of the things I wanted to do but have not. Most prominent in my mind is my failure to make friends with my neighbors. I had such grand intentions of being the neighbor everyone loved:
*Bringing home-baked pies and cookies to their doors.
*Offering to babysit their children after school.
*Pouring tea while giving them wise counsel.
Um, none of this happened. But to be fair, what I had to work with was greatly lacking also.
My downstairs neighbor I call the Smoker. I never got more than "Hi" out of her mouth, besides a daily -- and nightly -- stream of smoke that seeped into every corner of my apartment, even with the windows closed. I heard she worked as a waitress, but she sure didn't seem to leave much, at least not according to the schedule of smoke floating upwards.
Across from our bedroom and kitchen are the Yellers, the dynamic duo of Indian college students, top and bottom apartments. Not sure how many live in there, anywhere from 3 to 5 in each, but at 1:00 am it sounds like half of New Delhi. We learned from our hot tub Indian friends (to be explained later) that in their culture they often eat dinner at 11:00 pm, midnight, or later. And apparently when they cook they must yell to their roommates the whole time, who of course must yell back. The downstairs apartment dwellers have a patio facing us that acts as a beer bottle recycle plant and a Cone of Cacophony. You've heard of the Cone of Silence? Well this is the Cone of Cacophony. They are unaware that anyone else may hear them "talking" at 2:00, 3:00, or 4:00 in the morning. In fact they talk so loud that when Bill tries to yell out the window to ask them to be quiet, he has to try several times before they hear him. We have, unfortunately, complained to management multiple times because they don't seem to understand that we don't want to be woken up in the middle of the night. I always smile and say hi when I see them and they smile back, but they're probably muttering Indian curses about a million camel fleas to infest my bed or something.
Then there are the Night Phoners. These may come from the same apartment of the Yellers, but I don't walk out at 4:00 am to check. These are the guys who want to talk to their family members back in India at 4:00 am. Being ever so considerate of their roommates, they step outside under our window -- so that their neighbors can hear their conversations instead.
Lastly, there is the sweet family across the way on the other side. Mom, Dad, 8-year-old boy and 3-year-old girl. Okay, so I tried to befriend them. I invited mom and daughter over for a tea party. The little girl was so excited she basically did gymnastics in my apartment the whole time (don't know if the Smoker got to enjoy that or not) and was too excited to actually eat the treats. Mom was very nice, but never once asked anything about me. I still enjoyed finding out about them, but unfortunately it ended with a blood-curdling tantrum when they had to leave. (She has at least one of these a day, by the way, that I can enjoy from the comfort of my own apartment). I was still hoping they would invite me over to their place for a tea party or to play Candyland, but it never materialized and I never had the guts to make a pest of myself.
So here it is with 3 weeks left to go and I have nothing on the Good Samaritan. Instead I'm the bad Oregonian! Even Mister Rogers wouldn't want to be my neighbor. We did, however, befriend the aforementioned hot tub buddies. They are two Indian college students who soaked in the hot tub every night while enjoying a six-pack of beer. They were very friendly and even brought us some curry one night. I basically had to wash the curry sauce off of my chicken before eating it and it still felt like hot coals. One night they explained that that particular day was the celebration day of one of their Hindu gods. They then produced a tiny statue of this god on a key chain and handed it to us to look at. I accidentally baptized the little god in the hot tub. Thankfully, this didn't end our friendship.
So I guess the moral of the story is: You know who your real friends are when you get into hot water.
*Bringing home-baked pies and cookies to their doors.
*Offering to babysit their children after school.
*Pouring tea while giving them wise counsel.
Um, none of this happened. But to be fair, what I had to work with was greatly lacking also.
My downstairs neighbor I call the Smoker. I never got more than "Hi" out of her mouth, besides a daily -- and nightly -- stream of smoke that seeped into every corner of my apartment, even with the windows closed. I heard she worked as a waitress, but she sure didn't seem to leave much, at least not according to the schedule of smoke floating upwards.
Across from our bedroom and kitchen are the Yellers, the dynamic duo of Indian college students, top and bottom apartments. Not sure how many live in there, anywhere from 3 to 5 in each, but at 1:00 am it sounds like half of New Delhi. We learned from our hot tub Indian friends (to be explained later) that in their culture they often eat dinner at 11:00 pm, midnight, or later. And apparently when they cook they must yell to their roommates the whole time, who of course must yell back. The downstairs apartment dwellers have a patio facing us that acts as a beer bottle recycle plant and a Cone of Cacophony. You've heard of the Cone of Silence? Well this is the Cone of Cacophony. They are unaware that anyone else may hear them "talking" at 2:00, 3:00, or 4:00 in the morning. In fact they talk so loud that when Bill tries to yell out the window to ask them to be quiet, he has to try several times before they hear him. We have, unfortunately, complained to management multiple times because they don't seem to understand that we don't want to be woken up in the middle of the night. I always smile and say hi when I see them and they smile back, but they're probably muttering Indian curses about a million camel fleas to infest my bed or something.
Then there are the Night Phoners. These may come from the same apartment of the Yellers, but I don't walk out at 4:00 am to check. These are the guys who want to talk to their family members back in India at 4:00 am. Being ever so considerate of their roommates, they step outside under our window -- so that their neighbors can hear their conversations instead.
Lastly, there is the sweet family across the way on the other side. Mom, Dad, 8-year-old boy and 3-year-old girl. Okay, so I tried to befriend them. I invited mom and daughter over for a tea party. The little girl was so excited she basically did gymnastics in my apartment the whole time (don't know if the Smoker got to enjoy that or not) and was too excited to actually eat the treats. Mom was very nice, but never once asked anything about me. I still enjoyed finding out about them, but unfortunately it ended with a blood-curdling tantrum when they had to leave. (She has at least one of these a day, by the way, that I can enjoy from the comfort of my own apartment). I was still hoping they would invite me over to their place for a tea party or to play Candyland, but it never materialized and I never had the guts to make a pest of myself.
So here it is with 3 weeks left to go and I have nothing on the Good Samaritan. Instead I'm the bad Oregonian! Even Mister Rogers wouldn't want to be my neighbor. We did, however, befriend the aforementioned hot tub buddies. They are two Indian college students who soaked in the hot tub every night while enjoying a six-pack of beer. They were very friendly and even brought us some curry one night. I basically had to wash the curry sauce off of my chicken before eating it and it still felt like hot coals. One night they explained that that particular day was the celebration day of one of their Hindu gods. They then produced a tiny statue of this god on a key chain and handed it to us to look at. I accidentally baptized the little god in the hot tub. Thankfully, this didn't end our friendship.
So I guess the moral of the story is: You know who your real friends are when you get into hot water.
Saturday, May 9, 2015
The Pit of Despair -- Oh the humility of it all
This morning I had one of those moments of realization wherein my cheeks flush red at the same time the light bulb in my brain flashes yellow.
As I was getting in the shower I noticed that I had quite a bit of growth in the armpit area. I had planned to shave it the day before but was in a hurry. At the time I thought, "No big deal. I do have Zumba class tonight, but no one will notice me in the back row. It can wait a day." I always wear a tank top because I can't stand to have hot shoulders when I sweat.
So, no problem except the teacher asked me to lead the cool down song. A worshipful, lyrical song that involves lots of plies and sweeping arm movements. In fact, for the majority of the song, my arms were stretched overhead or out to the side. My pits were revealed in all their black, stubbly glory for a full 3 minutes, elevated above the class.
The song goes like this:
It's your breath
In our lungs.
So we pour out our praise, we pour out our praise.
It's your breath
In our lungs.
So we pour out our praise to you only.
The class members were probably thinking:
There is hair
In your pits.
So we avert our gaze, we avert our gaze
There is hair
In your pits.
So next time we will buy you a razor.
As I was getting in the shower I noticed that I had quite a bit of growth in the armpit area. I had planned to shave it the day before but was in a hurry. At the time I thought, "No big deal. I do have Zumba class tonight, but no one will notice me in the back row. It can wait a day." I always wear a tank top because I can't stand to have hot shoulders when I sweat.
So, no problem except the teacher asked me to lead the cool down song. A worshipful, lyrical song that involves lots of plies and sweeping arm movements. In fact, for the majority of the song, my arms were stretched overhead or out to the side. My pits were revealed in all their black, stubbly glory for a full 3 minutes, elevated above the class.
The song goes like this:
It's your breath
In our lungs.
So we pour out our praise, we pour out our praise.
It's your breath
In our lungs.
So we pour out our praise to you only.
The class members were probably thinking:
There is hair
In your pits.
So we avert our gaze, we avert our gaze
There is hair
In your pits.
So next time we will buy you a razor.
Friday, March 6, 2015
Life Preservers
I woke up this morning to discover that someone had slipped a life preserver around my hips while I slept. Unfortunately, it did not slip off when pushed. These are my theories of how it appeared.
1. I dreamt I was drowning and David Hasselhoff saved me.
2. My husband was dreaming I was Pamela Anderson and he saved her.
3. The road to my kitchen in this cozy bungalow is much too short and paved with Oreos. And Girl Scout Thin Mint cookies.
As Carrie Underwood said, "Jesus, take the me-ee-eal. Take it from my hands. I can't eat this on my own. Jesus, take the meal." Or something like that.
I've been trying to zumbacize the weight off as fast as it comes on, but it's not working. I have to face the fact that I eat too much when I'm bored or just want a distraction. In my Daily Bread reading, Bill Crowder referenced an interview with Amy Adams who played Lois Lane in the Man of Steel, explaining the film's appeal: "Who doesn't want to believe that there's one person who could come and save us from ourselves?" Joking aside, I've come to believe that Jesus IS the only one who can save me from myself and my sugar addiction. Yeshua Ha Mashiach. His name even means "the Lord saves."
So while I would like to remove the ring around my waist, I certainly will hold tight to the loving arms wrapped around my shoulders.
1. I dreamt I was drowning and David Hasselhoff saved me.
2. My husband was dreaming I was Pamela Anderson and he saved her.
3. The road to my kitchen in this cozy bungalow is much too short and paved with Oreos. And Girl Scout Thin Mint cookies.
As Carrie Underwood said, "Jesus, take the me-ee-eal. Take it from my hands. I can't eat this on my own. Jesus, take the meal." Or something like that.
I've been trying to zumbacize the weight off as fast as it comes on, but it's not working. I have to face the fact that I eat too much when I'm bored or just want a distraction. In my Daily Bread reading, Bill Crowder referenced an interview with Amy Adams who played Lois Lane in the Man of Steel, explaining the film's appeal: "Who doesn't want to believe that there's one person who could come and save us from ourselves?" Joking aside, I've come to believe that Jesus IS the only one who can save me from myself and my sugar addiction. Yeshua Ha Mashiach. His name even means "the Lord saves."
So while I would like to remove the ring around my waist, I certainly will hold tight to the loving arms wrapped around my shoulders.
Friday, February 20, 2015
LENT - SACRIFICING FARM ANIMALS
Okay, before you animal lovers get your no-animals-were-harmed-making-them-panties in a bunch, you must know I am not talking about blood sacrifice, but chore sacrifice. Not really a sacrifice at all, but I'm getting ahead of myself.
LENT
So Lent began on Ash Wednesday, February 18th this year. Since we are not able to go to our Oregon church Ash Wednesday service -- one of my favorite services of the year -- I searched out and found a local one in Fullerton. However, by the time Bill got home, I was so hungry I forgot all about it and we went out for a decadent dinner. That's kinda like Moses chomping on a Philly Cheesesteak with carmelized onions while all the Israelites stagger through the desert on their manna diet. An inauspicious beginning, wouldn't you say?
In previous years I have bravely chosen something to give up, such as sugar, tea, or spandex (not really). If you read earlier blogs, you would even see that one year I gave up all foods except seven.
But this year, being out of my element in our little one-bedroom apartment in the concrete jungle, I just don't have the stamina to give up something I daily indulge in. So in an effort to still sound spiritual, I am proclaiming a sacrifice that I already made by moving here: No contact with my animals, including feeding, watering, brushing, egg gathering, petting, and cuddling my goats, chickens and cat. Oh hey, I can list other things I've given up too.
* Clean, smoke-free air.
* Really green things
* Church where everyone knows my name (I don't have a favorite bar stool, but a favorite pew)
I suppose I could list more things, but then this would turn into a complaint-fest and I don't mean it to be. Let's just say that Lent looks a little different this year. In order to keep turning my face toward God, I will need to remind myself how blessed I am that someone else is doing all my chores. And I will also need to work on my reaction to the smokers downstairs, as I think slamming the windows every time I smell it is not "What Would Jesus Do."
LENT
So Lent began on Ash Wednesday, February 18th this year. Since we are not able to go to our Oregon church Ash Wednesday service -- one of my favorite services of the year -- I searched out and found a local one in Fullerton. However, by the time Bill got home, I was so hungry I forgot all about it and we went out for a decadent dinner. That's kinda like Moses chomping on a Philly Cheesesteak with carmelized onions while all the Israelites stagger through the desert on their manna diet. An inauspicious beginning, wouldn't you say?
In previous years I have bravely chosen something to give up, such as sugar, tea, or spandex (not really). If you read earlier blogs, you would even see that one year I gave up all foods except seven.
But this year, being out of my element in our little one-bedroom apartment in the concrete jungle, I just don't have the stamina to give up something I daily indulge in. So in an effort to still sound spiritual, I am proclaiming a sacrifice that I already made by moving here: No contact with my animals, including feeding, watering, brushing, egg gathering, petting, and cuddling my goats, chickens and cat. Oh hey, I can list other things I've given up too.
* Clean, smoke-free air.
* Really green things
* Church where everyone knows my name (I don't have a favorite bar stool, but a favorite pew)
I suppose I could list more things, but then this would turn into a complaint-fest and I don't mean it to be. Let's just say that Lent looks a little different this year. In order to keep turning my face toward God, I will need to remind myself how blessed I am that someone else is doing all my chores. And I will also need to work on my reaction to the smokers downstairs, as I think slamming the windows every time I smell it is not "What Would Jesus Do."
Wednesday, February 18, 2015
Webfoot farmer turned barefoot beach bum
Yes, I'm a terrible blogger. But who wants that on their tombstone? "She was a blogger extraordinaire." Let's face it, blog is not a poetic word.
Okay, so we jumped to February 2015. Although I'm still a "Fake Farmer," the farm is in the capable hands of a house sitter while I am now a temporary apartment dweller in the City of the Angels, or as I call it, "Halos of Smoke Rings." Not because of the smog, but because apparently 75% of apartment dwellers are required to smoke, or so it seems. These are the steps that led to this adventure:
1. Husband retired after 34 years of teaching.
2. I gained more online transcription work, making it very portable.
3. We (foolishly) told God we would go wherever God wanted us to go.
4. Megan's track coach at Biola suddenly retired 2 days before Christmas.
5. Bill fit the, uh, bill for an interim track coach.
6. So we packed up the truck and we moved to Beverly...or Fullerton, that is. No movie stars, but there is a swimming pool and bonus! A hot tub!
Really, it was quite amazing how God lined up all the details that had to fall into place for this to work. (Can you tell I'm the daughter of an engineer the way I number everything?)
Okay, so we jumped to February 2015. Although I'm still a "Fake Farmer," the farm is in the capable hands of a house sitter while I am now a temporary apartment dweller in the City of the Angels, or as I call it, "Halos of Smoke Rings." Not because of the smog, but because apparently 75% of apartment dwellers are required to smoke, or so it seems. These are the steps that led to this adventure:
1. Husband retired after 34 years of teaching.
2. I gained more online transcription work, making it very portable.
3. We (foolishly) told God we would go wherever God wanted us to go.
4. Megan's track coach at Biola suddenly retired 2 days before Christmas.
5. Bill fit the, uh, bill for an interim track coach.
6. So we packed up the truck and we moved to Beverly...or Fullerton, that is. No movie stars, but there is a swimming pool and bonus! A hot tub!
Really, it was quite amazing how God lined up all the details that had to fall into place for this to work. (Can you tell I'm the daughter of an engineer the way I number everything?)
1. I felt God telling me to back off of most of my commitments, including Bible study, which really broke my heart, but it's obvious now why he wanted me to.
2. We had to make a quick decision about the job and step out in faith, not get "all our ducks in a row first." My ducks may never have lined up otherwise.
3. We found a capable woman who was looking for a house sitting situation and likes to clean (Praise you Jesus!).
4. We have been lent a nice table that we needed and given a toaster oven, as well.
5. God has been speaking to me just about every day about "trusting him without borders," and "walk upon the waters wherever he may lead me." Yes, I suddenly hear that Oceans song at least twice every day. Really.
6. As I began to pack in earnest, my Daily Bread story was called "Leaving it Behind." For those who know me, I'm a pack rat and I like to have all my things around me "just in case." It says, "Our new life of following Jesus Christ may mean that we have to leave things behind, including those that don't bring lasting satisfaction." Ha!
So that's a lot for one day. Maybe I will get back to this again this week, or maybe another year or two. Who knows?
So that's a lot for one day. Maybe I will get back to this again this week, or maybe another year or two. Who knows?
Monday, March 11, 2013
It was a rough weekend. You know the line, "Sugar plum fairies dancing in their heads"? I had donuts dancing in my head in my dream last night. They were gray, though. Not sure what flavor that was. Maybe sin flavor. I have completed 3 weeks and am beginning week 4. Ten more days to go.
Week 3 was uninspiring because my body quit functioning well (think drain clog), I didn't sleep well at all (awake at 4:30 every morning), and I failed to drop any weight. I know, I know, losing weight is not the point. It's not a DIET. But I'm looking for the gold at the end of the rainbow, um, besides the gold of knowing and hungering for God more.
Okay, here are my spiritual gems this week: "The Supremacy of God in all things is the great reward we long for in fasting." Not the slimness of the waist. "Fasting expresses rather than creates hunger for God." Still trying to process that one.
And the best one:"Most of us run the risk of being overly 'sensualized' simply by having every craving satisfied and rarely pausing in a moment of self-denial to discover if there are alive within us spiritual appetites that could satisfy us at a much deeper level than food, and that are designed for the honor of God."
On my way to search out bargain chicken.
Week 3 was uninspiring because my body quit functioning well (think drain clog), I didn't sleep well at all (awake at 4:30 every morning), and I failed to drop any weight. I know, I know, losing weight is not the point. It's not a DIET. But I'm looking for the gold at the end of the rainbow, um, besides the gold of knowing and hungering for God more.
Okay, here are my spiritual gems this week: "The Supremacy of God in all things is the great reward we long for in fasting." Not the slimness of the waist. "Fasting expresses rather than creates hunger for God." Still trying to process that one.
And the best one:"Most of us run the risk of being overly 'sensualized' simply by having every craving satisfied and rarely pausing in a moment of self-denial to discover if there are alive within us spiritual appetites that could satisfy us at a much deeper level than food, and that are designed for the honor of God."
On my way to search out bargain chicken.
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