This happens here.
There is a vintage bridal shop located a little ways down from our place. Its a little store front filled with many beautiful and elegant vintage bridal gowns. This boutique is every girls' dream. These dresses are transformed by a seamstress named Miranda, who owns the shop, and turns out to be one of the sweetest and most darling friends I have made in this new place.
That being said, I think someone is out to get her.
Just the other night, already past dark, she closed up shop and went to her car. A brief moment before she turned the door key, she saw a bright light getting closer. Some could say she was saved by a thread. It collided head-on into her car, and then drove off.
It was a fancy new car, driven by a fancy young woman. Upon deliberation, I have concluded that this is no accident. Someone is out to get Miranda.
A bridezilla.
A maid-of-honor from hell.
A threatened competitor.
A psychotic maniac.
Regardless, it has now become a dangerous world for this sweet sweet shopkeeper. In due time, justice will be served, and the perp wont look so good in lace satin doilies.
Saturday, July 28, 2012
Friday, July 13, 2012
On the Loose Again
You already know little Johnny. He is a "redheaded boy of 4, shirtless, too skinny to keep his pants up." A broken chain with each new day, and incredibly unsupervised. I saw him again just the other day, on a walk with my husband; he was on the loose. This time he was free riding on a scooter.
Goodbye freckle-faced smile. Hello angry mother who is stuck at the other side of the red light, screaming from the passenger's seat.
When she realized a crowd had gathered, her demeanor changed. "Hi little Johnny, where have you been?" she comes near and crouches at eye level.
"I-I-I-" Little Johnny has a stutter.
The story comes out. He has escaped from day camp, all are looking for him. How can you blame him?
Goodbye freckle-faced smile. Hello angry mother who is stuck at the other side of the red light, screaming from the passenger's seat.
When she realized a crowd had gathered, her demeanor changed. "Hi little Johnny, where have you been?" she comes near and crouches at eye level.
"I-I-I-" Little Johnny has a stutter.
The story comes out. He has escaped from day camp, all are looking for him. How can you blame him?
Thursday, July 12, 2012
Schwinn/ Lose Situation
Last weekend I joined a bicycle gang. I rolled with the toughest thugs around: my husband, my sister, and her husband. On our old school schwinns.... we ran this town.
Hassling those who owe us money and have done us wrong [namely Mitch]
Stealing from innocent shopkeepers [a local shop was giving away free ice cream]
Buying gangster attire [went vintage thrift shopping]
Sharing strategy on thug-like behavior [stayed up late talking, laughing, looking at wedding pictures].
Then fate caused us to disperse. Half of us are here all alone. The other half of our gang is currently driving to the other end of the country, ready to tear apart bears with their own hands, ready to find a new town to run. I cant say I'm pleased, but there are two schwinns here eagerly awaiting another visit.
Hassling those who owe us money and have done us wrong [namely Mitch]
Stealing from innocent shopkeepers [a local shop was giving away free ice cream]
Buying gangster attire [went vintage thrift shopping]
Sharing strategy on thug-like behavior [stayed up late talking, laughing, looking at wedding pictures].
Then fate caused us to disperse. Half of us are here all alone. The other half of our gang is currently driving to the other end of the country, ready to tear apart bears with their own hands, ready to find a new town to run. I cant say I'm pleased, but there are two schwinns here eagerly awaiting another visit.
Tuesday, July 3, 2012
These Are the Trials of a Housewife.
I am currently confined indoors. I had to close my windows, and I think there is a tornado going by. So for now I will blog about being a housewife, in hopes that it will soon clear; I want to go to the farmers market.
While adjusting the ice in a peach smoothie, my spatula shattered. Plastic peppered the fruity goodness, and we had to spit out the bigger chunks. There was spatula delight in every sip. This adventure ended with my husband attempting to glue the pieces back together.
While lighting a candle to burn the onion fumes, I set it on our coffee pot and walk away. A while later wax had melted down and into every crevice of this coffee maker. It was temporarily unfunctional, until this morning, when I decided to bake it in the oven. This fresh baked coffee maker now makes coffee again, but the joe tastes like parafin.
In a head to head encounter with homemade pastry dough, I lost a battle. I was having friends for breakfast at 10 am sharp. When they got to the door, my hair nor my clothes were ready to be seen by the public, not even dear friends. Flour covered every inch of counter space, and the floor as well. That was a mess.
In a recent attempt to surprise my husband, I painted the bathroom a beautiful shade of charcoal. Our ceilings are an upwards of 14 feet high; they are unreachable. So I planted the ladder in the shower and held onto the curtain rod to keep my balance. Well, the rod is not as strong as I first thought, and let me just say that it is only by the grace of God that I am still alive to tell this story.
This tornado may have just turned into a hurricane. It looks like its going to be a long morning. Its time to pull out the french press, hem trousers, and read Little Women. Although childish in nature, this sweet novel teaches about the joys of mundane tasks.
While adjusting the ice in a peach smoothie, my spatula shattered. Plastic peppered the fruity goodness, and we had to spit out the bigger chunks. There was spatula delight in every sip. This adventure ended with my husband attempting to glue the pieces back together.
While lighting a candle to burn the onion fumes, I set it on our coffee pot and walk away. A while later wax had melted down and into every crevice of this coffee maker. It was temporarily unfunctional, until this morning, when I decided to bake it in the oven. This fresh baked coffee maker now makes coffee again, but the joe tastes like parafin.
In a head to head encounter with homemade pastry dough, I lost a battle. I was having friends for breakfast at 10 am sharp. When they got to the door, my hair nor my clothes were ready to be seen by the public, not even dear friends. Flour covered every inch of counter space, and the floor as well. That was a mess.
In a recent attempt to surprise my husband, I painted the bathroom a beautiful shade of charcoal. Our ceilings are an upwards of 14 feet high; they are unreachable. So I planted the ladder in the shower and held onto the curtain rod to keep my balance. Well, the rod is not as strong as I first thought, and let me just say that it is only by the grace of God that I am still alive to tell this story.
This tornado may have just turned into a hurricane. It looks like its going to be a long morning. Its time to pull out the french press, hem trousers, and read Little Women. Although childish in nature, this sweet novel teaches about the joys of mundane tasks.
Saturday, June 30, 2012
A Little Diddy on Babushkas
O sweet little Babushkas
your head scarfs are cute
but your hands are much too quick for my liking.
Exploring and sizing every angle.
If I could pronounce "you can look but don't touch" in your slovic tongue,
my life would be more blissful.
your head scarfs are cute
but your hands are much too quick for my liking.
Exploring and sizing every angle.
If I could pronounce "you can look but don't touch" in your slovic tongue,
my life would be more blissful.
Monday, June 11, 2012
Bird Friends
They lived in the vent in our bathroom. Chirped the moment the sun came up, reminding us it was morning. Sang to me all day, a happy working song. These were my bird friends.
Today I woke up and they were gone. Needless to say, this hasn't been my favorite day I've lived.
Maybe my husbands empty threats to drive them away weren't pacifist enough for them. Or because the bread crumbs I poked into their home were not organic. Or maybe the songs I was singing them were too pop, not enough folk.
Hipster birds. sheesh. I dont understand them.
Today I woke up and they were gone. Needless to say, this hasn't been my favorite day I've lived.
Maybe my husbands empty threats to drive them away weren't pacifist enough for them. Or because the bread crumbs I poked into their home were not organic. Or maybe the songs I was singing them were too pop, not enough folk.
Hipster birds. sheesh. I dont understand them.
Friday, June 8, 2012
Biketown USA
Our neighborhood is filled to the brim with bikers, all of whom are serviced by a man named Mitch.
Mitch is the owner of the local bikeshop. I dont know how to otherwise describe our experience of him and his shop, therefore I will proceed to give you tidibits of facts, in no particular order.
Mitch is a self proclaimed Acidic Jew: a Jew who has done too much acid.
He is a genius, and knows everything interesting on every topic under the sun. Literally.
He is about 5' 7", his balding hair flies everywhere, and wears his glasses on his forehead. This is, until its time for in inspection. The glasses comes down, he gets really close and says "I don't trust these petals", and continues to complain if the bike was made anywhere but Japan.
This is Mitch.
He once ran for mayor of a nearby town, due to the fact that he investigated on his own a government scandal and reported it. When asked how many votes he received in the election he answered "I dont know, I was at a bike factory in Japan".
He owns a shop that is the neighborhood sensation. Its too filled with bikes, and so he uses the front yard as his workspace. Sometimes he is fixing up to 8 or 10 bikes at a time, running to and fro, requesting help from innocent passerbys.
My husband and I were tickled when we went to get our bikes repaired. After we did business with Mitch, we then sat on his step and observed the bikeshop happenings for an hour and a half. We werent the only ones who came to see Mitch.
"Mitch fix my chain"
"Mitch pump my ball"
"Mitch pump my prosthetic leg"
The following are his responses "how many times do i have to tell you I'm not fixing your chain everyday kid? Only once a week!" he says to this redheaded boy of 4, shirtless, too skinny to keep his pants up. "tell you mama she needs to start keeping an eye on you! Hey watch for cars" he hollars to little Johnny, already halfway down the street with his working chain.
"Why would I stop what I'm doing to pump your ball" he growls at some punk kids. "dont i look busy to you". By then they're gone, with a ball as good as new.
Mitch is a grouch. But they love him, us included. We secretly hope he likes us, and that someday soon we'll be friends.
Mitch is the owner of the local bikeshop. I dont know how to otherwise describe our experience of him and his shop, therefore I will proceed to give you tidibits of facts, in no particular order.
Mitch is a self proclaimed Acidic Jew: a Jew who has done too much acid.
He is a genius, and knows everything interesting on every topic under the sun. Literally.
He is about 5' 7", his balding hair flies everywhere, and wears his glasses on his forehead. This is, until its time for in inspection. The glasses comes down, he gets really close and says "I don't trust these petals", and continues to complain if the bike was made anywhere but Japan.
This is Mitch.
He once ran for mayor of a nearby town, due to the fact that he investigated on his own a government scandal and reported it. When asked how many votes he received in the election he answered "I dont know, I was at a bike factory in Japan".
He owns a shop that is the neighborhood sensation. Its too filled with bikes, and so he uses the front yard as his workspace. Sometimes he is fixing up to 8 or 10 bikes at a time, running to and fro, requesting help from innocent passerbys.
My husband and I were tickled when we went to get our bikes repaired. After we did business with Mitch, we then sat on his step and observed the bikeshop happenings for an hour and a half. We werent the only ones who came to see Mitch.
"Mitch fix my chain"
"Mitch pump my ball"
"Mitch pump my prosthetic leg"
The following are his responses "how many times do i have to tell you I'm not fixing your chain everyday kid? Only once a week!" he says to this redheaded boy of 4, shirtless, too skinny to keep his pants up. "tell you mama she needs to start keeping an eye on you! Hey watch for cars" he hollars to little Johnny, already halfway down the street with his working chain.
"Why would I stop what I'm doing to pump your ball" he growls at some punk kids. "dont i look busy to you". By then they're gone, with a ball as good as new.
Mitch is a grouch. But they love him, us included. We secretly hope he likes us, and that someday soon we'll be friends.
Tuesday, May 22, 2012
Cleveland Evenings.
On Monday evening, I decided to go for a run, I'm thinking a little jog to the park and back. My husband has a different idea. Before I know it, were running through a construction site, onto a bridge, along a highway.
Theres a jogging path on the highway. People do that here.
Then were in the city. I cant breathe, so my husband tells me about his day. Then we get to Progressive Field, where the Indians play. We ran too far, way to far, I have to walk. So we stroll home, hand in hand.
My husband prays for me. Hears about my new friends. Laughs at my jokes. We stop to chat with some neighbors at the park. They will soon be our friends.
Therefore dinner's not till 9. We do that here.
Theres a jogging path on the highway. People do that here.
Then were in the city. I cant breathe, so my husband tells me about his day. Then we get to Progressive Field, where the Indians play. We ran too far, way to far, I have to walk. So we stroll home, hand in hand.
My husband prays for me. Hears about my new friends. Laughs at my jokes. We stop to chat with some neighbors at the park. They will soon be our friends.
Therefore dinner's not till 9. We do that here.
Wednesday, May 16, 2012
A Lad Named Sully
We live in apartment 53. In apartment 54 lives a little lad named Sully.
He's 4, and so wonderful.
He doesnt really know I exist yet, he doesn't even give me the time of day, except when I feed him cookies and candy, then he grunts at me
He doesnt speak English, he only speaks Sully.
He's 4, and so wonderful.
He doesnt really know I exist yet, he doesn't even give me the time of day, except when I feed him cookies and candy, then he grunts at me
He doesnt speak English, he only speaks Sully.
Monday, May 7, 2012
Montezuma's Revenge
I married the man of my dreams. We ran off into the land of honeymoon bliss, on the shores of Cancoon, Mexico. We couldn't be happier, the ocean by day, beautiful candlelight dinner by night. And then it hit...dun dun dun the Montezuma's Revenge.
The legend goes, Old Man Montezuma dies on vacation. He makes the world pay.
I sleep for 2 days straight. Awake only long enough to be sick everywhere. Early Wednesday morning, while Cancoon is still sleeping, we just have to leave. At the airport, I collapse at the ticket counter, and hit my head on the way down. At the emergency room in Houston, Im given shots and drugs that numb the pain, but make me drowsy. Perfect. I sleep to friday, and wake up in Cleveland.
I fight with Montezuma in my head. Why us Montezuma? Why did you ruin such a good thing? And then I finally understand his wrath, and we come to terms. He's getting his revenge on me because of my husband.
My sweet husband who held my hair back as I lost my insides over the bathroom sink. My husband who handwashed everything I soiled. My husband who ran to the pharmacy in the middle of the night, 3 nights in a row. My husband who wheeled me through every terminal, all the while whispering sweet nothings.
Its not fair to the world that I got him.
Montezuma made me pay.
The legend goes, Old Man Montezuma dies on vacation. He makes the world pay.
I sleep for 2 days straight. Awake only long enough to be sick everywhere. Early Wednesday morning, while Cancoon is still sleeping, we just have to leave. At the airport, I collapse at the ticket counter, and hit my head on the way down. At the emergency room in Houston, Im given shots and drugs that numb the pain, but make me drowsy. Perfect. I sleep to friday, and wake up in Cleveland.
I fight with Montezuma in my head. Why us Montezuma? Why did you ruin such a good thing? And then I finally understand his wrath, and we come to terms. He's getting his revenge on me because of my husband.
My sweet husband who held my hair back as I lost my insides over the bathroom sink. My husband who handwashed everything I soiled. My husband who ran to the pharmacy in the middle of the night, 3 nights in a row. My husband who wheeled me through every terminal, all the while whispering sweet nothings.
Its not fair to the world that I got him.
Montezuma made me pay.
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
to be continued
When I read the book of Colossians, I am struck with the theme of thankfulness. It comes up 7 times, in light of some heavy aspects of life:
In community (1:3)
In salvation (1:12)
In sanctification (2:6)
In freedom from anxiety (3:15)
In serving and worshippping (3:16)
In everything we say and do (3:17)
And in our prayer life (4:2)
Instead, I live my life running to experiences, situations, people, and things looking to be satisfied. And one of my biggest fears is that one day I'll wake up when I'm 80, and wonder how life has passed me so quickly by.
A while back, I heard this inner voice, quietly beckoning me to be content and thankful. It grows louder and louder as the days go by until I've finally decided to think about it. I want to learn to be peaceful and grateful for even the littlest things.
I've begun to make a list:
-My moms classical book collection
-The sound of a friend taking my needs to the Lord
- A quiet moment by the Christmas tree
-An unexpected gift
...
In community (1:3)
In salvation (1:12)
In sanctification (2:6)
In freedom from anxiety (3:15)
In serving and worshippping (3:16)
In everything we say and do (3:17)
And in our prayer life (4:2)
Instead, I live my life running to experiences, situations, people, and things looking to be satisfied. And one of my biggest fears is that one day I'll wake up when I'm 80, and wonder how life has passed me so quickly by.
A while back, I heard this inner voice, quietly beckoning me to be content and thankful. It grows louder and louder as the days go by until I've finally decided to think about it. I want to learn to be peaceful and grateful for even the littlest things.
I've begun to make a list:
-My moms classical book collection
-The sound of a friend taking my needs to the Lord
- A quiet moment by the Christmas tree
-An unexpected gift
...
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
Raining On My Own Parade
I picture a little boy, so excited for his little bug that he squishes it. A bubbly baby so enthralled by his cupcake, doing the only thing he knows- face plants into the mound of icing. Sweethearts holding hands so tightly, it cuts off circulation.
This is what I want to write about- loving people to the point of hurting them. Being so delighted and grateful for friendships till it gets to be too much. In much reflection lately, I see these themes echoing true for me.
It goes like this. Have you ever spoken the truth in love, at just the wrong time?
Cared to the point of meddling?
Pursued knowing till it threatening emotional safety?
I'm guilty of all these things, and if youre in my life, its not fair to you but I'm sure you see it.
Just the other day, over a hazelnut steamer, I had to warn a friend, give her a heads up before it's too late "if were going to be close, I'm going to hurt you". If youre reading this and know what I'm talking about, I'm so sorry. If you dont, consider this your own warning- soon you'll know. Its my own fault- my sin nature and my longing for relationships make a perilous combo.
The great Henri Nouwen, the profound scholar of relationship in light of the human condition, writes that until we embrace our lonliness, we cannot really welcome anyone in.
So, today I'm spending the day alone. With my homework, and coffee, and a journal- in a quiet and desperate need of Christ's mercy in navigating through these things and the security that only relationship with Him offers.
In light of this, if you're still in I'm still in.
This is what I want to write about- loving people to the point of hurting them. Being so delighted and grateful for friendships till it gets to be too much. In much reflection lately, I see these themes echoing true for me.
It goes like this. Have you ever spoken the truth in love, at just the wrong time?
Cared to the point of meddling?
Pursued knowing till it threatening emotional safety?
I'm guilty of all these things, and if youre in my life, its not fair to you but I'm sure you see it.
Just the other day, over a hazelnut steamer, I had to warn a friend, give her a heads up before it's too late "if were going to be close, I'm going to hurt you". If youre reading this and know what I'm talking about, I'm so sorry. If you dont, consider this your own warning- soon you'll know. Its my own fault- my sin nature and my longing for relationships make a perilous combo.
The great Henri Nouwen, the profound scholar of relationship in light of the human condition, writes that until we embrace our lonliness, we cannot really welcome anyone in.
So, today I'm spending the day alone. With my homework, and coffee, and a journal- in a quiet and desperate need of Christ's mercy in navigating through these things and the security that only relationship with Him offers.
In light of this, if you're still in I'm still in.
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