Getting Married

Chances are, you won't be invited. Nothing personal. We're just assuring that the event will be small and intimate. (Not in that way, Tyler. You're such a pervert.)

What Lassie??? Are you telling me that Lindy has a job??

That's right, folks. After a grueling four months, I have landed a job. And, as I had anticipated, it is through someone I know. I will be an insurance agent's assistant. There will be boring paperwork to do, but I will also get to design literature, select menu items for his seminars, and captivate his audience with promotional extravaganzas. My dad would like that part.

At the time, the job will only begin as part-time and work into full-time; however, I have in the last week been named babysitter, personal interior decorating consultant, and wedding photographer. Life is picking up speed again and I am getting excited.

Thank you for the prayers...this has been a long road with curves, bumps, and lots of beautiful scenery.

When Thrifty Attacks

As you may know, my roommate and I attended Copeland and Switchfoot. A fabulous, free concert is right up my alley. I bumped into the guy who had put the show on - we had worked together last Spring for a Jars concert. We exchanged a few obligatory words and as I could see he was earnestly trying to recall our connection.

My expectations for the concert were not as high as they probably should have been, but the last time I saw Switchfeet was nearly four years ago at the Illinois State Fair - some New Englanders tend to assume they were playing banjos with cobs of sweetcorn - but lets be honest it was the State Fair. Regardless of their performance then, the one last night was fantastic. I happily left without qualms of the money I hadn't spent on tickets.

Kristen and I exited the Palladium Theater to be met by a strong, icy wall of winter. I snuggled more deeply into my coat and allowed my scarf to hinder my face from any more brutal attacks. Picking up speed to make it into the parking garage before turning to pillars of ice, I noticed that no one was following us. Ha! Silly little people, they had no idea that only two blocks away had been a $1 parking place, instead they succumbed to a closer place that must have cost them at least five times as much.

I'd like to take a moment to give you some background. My dad is the king of bargains. He will drive thirty miles to find a cheaper gas station that may actually save him a mere 15 cents, he takes great pride in his Walgreens mail-in rebates and he has sadly trained me to be thrifty when the situation allows. Such was this night. I had already landed free tickets, why would I jinx that fortune by paying more than a dollar for parking?

Finally, we arrived at our corner, turned and found the garage dark. Empty. Closed. Locked.

Screwed.

After a choice, but appropriate word slipped out with my breath I immediately began thinking worst case scenario. Kristen and I with our combined weight of 220 lbs huddled against a homeless guy in the second most dangerous city in western Mass. Call the police? Not yet. Call Brad for moral support and standby. Return to the Palladium and pray that someone is still there.

My adrenaline kept me warm enough to make it back to the Theater. The joke-of-a security bimbo almost didn't let me through, but once I pleaded my case and allowed tears to well up in my eyes, being quite certain to tilt my head so the above lights would conveniently glisten the ready-to-pour droplets, she let me through. Miraculously, Roger from Soulfest, was still tearing down. He would have to go slightly out of his way, but happily offered us a ride back to Derry.

I believe God allows things like this to happen to humble me. And so other people can earn jewels for their crown.

Update:

Brad and I drove down to Worcester tonight and retrieved my car.

The overnight lock up cost me $17.

So much for being thrifty.

My Favorite Four Letter Word

FREE

A lady from church gave me two free tickets to see Switchfoot and Copeland tonight.

Can't refuse free.

Maybe unemployment has it's occasional perks.

What is Home?

I've heard some say it's where your pillow is. Others would say it's where your heart is. Maybe you define home as where you pay rent or where the majority of your family members reside. Perhaps you refer to home as a region rather than a distinct location. For some of you, home is a collection of memories or a place to hide. Some of you left for college to never return home again - your parents moved due to "empty nest syndrome," a job transfer, or something very significant happened that would forever change the way you felt when you came "home." A change that would make you wonder if you could ever feel "home" at home again.

God's immutability has taken on a whole new meaning in my life. Since I left for college, my existence has required a barf bag in the front car of the wildest rollercoaster I could have ever imagined. One tragic event after another, followed by gracious persistence and momentum to move forward, to wind up doing a loop of confusion, down thrilling ramp of altered perspective, climbing a hill of calm and normalcy, for a quick drop into silence which rides out as a promise is kept... And the cycle goes on and on. So, God's never-changing attribute is precious.

Through it all, I have felt uncomfortable - experiencing both belonging and a lack of belonging. Why did I leave Lincoln? I had once belonged, but no longer belonged. Why did I leave Danville? I had once belonged, but no longer belonged. Why am I in New Hampshire? I had once belonged, and for the moment I still belong.

But when I think of home...Derry, NH is not what comes to mind.

What is my home? It is an antique iron bed in a yellow bedroom in a white, stucco home in central Illinois. It is my mom crotcheting rugs in the living room. It is my oldest brother tearfully waving goodbye after a weekend visit. It is my older brother and his family next door. It is my baby brother and his family two blocks north. It is my dad commuting to work everyday. It is sacred. It is a story, a testimonial, of who I am and where I am going. And when home changes, I sense that story losing its validity - as though the life were being sucked right out of it. Perhaps the one thing I'm terrified of most is the final breath of my mother's existence being exhaled. Something which may only be best understood by her one daughter. Certainly, we can exchange cliches of her ongoing presence in the lives she touched, we can attempt to re-tell almost-forgotten stories she took great pride in sharing, but when I go "home" it will in a sense be fading away.

I now wonder how I can redefine my home, my story, so the expectations melt away?
I even wonder if it is possible.

How Do You Like Your Marshmallow?

Have you seen When Harry Met Sally? Sally is big on sides. She wants her salad dressings on the side, her vanilla ice cream on the side, her best friend on the side. This morning I realized that although my preferences may not require ingredients on the side, there are a few things that I am quite particular about when it comes to food.

For instance, I like marshmallows: big ones, small ones, pastel ones. However, if I'm toasting one at a campfire, I place the forked, puffed food in a warm place where it can cook "low and slow" just as a seasoned griller may cook his steak. If it burns, I give it away. It must remain white or a very light brown, but most importantly it must be all goo within. Then, I rarely enjoy the typical s'more unless, of course, I am successful in a particularly gooey marshmallow that will radically melt the small piece of chocolate on the graham.

As for small ones, at one time I would have preffered to treat myself with a thick layer of small marshmallows melted across the top of my hot cocoa drink. Last night, I discovered that I actually don't like the combination. I would much rather eat the two seperately.

Did you know it can take me an hour to make tuna fish salad? I hate fish. I hate the taste, the odor, and the fact that every doctor wants me to eat it to bring down my cholesterol. I like tuna fish salad, but only if it doesn't look, taste, or smell anything like it's actual form. Therefore, I take whatever measures necessary to disguise the fish factor.

• Step one: Open white albacore in fresh water can.
• Step two: Hold breath and dump can into strainer.
• Step three: Rinse for a few minutes while pressing the meat with a fork to eliminate any fishy flavor.
• Step four: Spoon in a glop of miracle whip. Keep the spoon handy in case more needs to be added later.
• Step five: With a second spoon add a healthy portion of relish.
• Step six: Finely chop some onion and add it to the mix.
• Step seven: Stir. Taste. Add ingredients as necessary.
• Step eight: Refrigerate in an air-tight container as to not smell it when the fridge is opened.

I like chocolate milk, chocolate ice cream, and chocolate syrup, but I absolutely hate milk chocolate bars.

I thoroughly enjoy unsweetened hot tea, but abhor unsweetened ice tea.

I have to hold a napkin everytime I eat, but rarely do I actually use it.

I will hum the most annoying part of a song because it annoys me, but usually don't realize I'm doing it.

If I hear someone clicking a pen in church I will have strong driving desires to snap off their hands, but I sit their with a content look on my face and swing my legs to distract myself.

So, my question is this: How do you like your marshmallow? What makes you unique - or distractingly obnoxious?

What Would've Been Better?

What would have been better than the artist formerly known as The Artist Formerly Known As Prince at the Super Bowl Halftime Show?

David Chappelle acting like the artist formerly known as The Artist Formerly Known As Prince.

Now that would have been worth viewing on an illegal 56" television screen.