dear diary

My thoughts are provoked from some of the strangest places... most recently from an hilarious old move I just saw, The More the Merrier (1943) starring Jean Arthur and Charles Colbrun. Here's the scene that really got me thinking:



Mr. Dingle: Do you keep a diary, Miss Milligan?


Miss Milligan: (As she's writing her latest entry) No, of course I don't! (Pause.) Out of curiosity, why do you ask?


Mr. Dingle: There are two kinds of people -- those who don't do what they want to do, so they write down in a diary about what they haven't done; and those who are too busy to write about it because they're out doing it.



I found myself staring at my own diary on the nightstand that night, wondering which person I was... and which I wanted to be...

jimmy

I've always wanted a garden. I remember my great-grandmother grew all kinds of things in the back yard of her little northern California home, and how much fun it was to explore the plowed vegetable rows and help prune the rosebushes. Being the old-fashioned, sentimental, nostalgic person that I am, building and working a garden full of vegetables and herbs and flowers has been a life-long dream.

Problem is, I don't have a green thumb. My thumb has always been the farthest away from green one can possibly get. In fact, I can kill artificial plants. Seriously.

So imagine my excitement -- and panic -- when my handbell choir kids gave me this geranium...

Was this my chance? Could I affirm those kids' beautiful, beaming smiles by keeping their precious little gift alive? Or would they realize that they'd just sentenced this little plant to a long, slow and very painful death from neglect and starvation in the home of the world's worst gardener? I vowed to do everything possible to cut off my black thumbs and keep this little guy alive.

First, it acquired a name -- Jimmy. Not because it bears any resemblance to one of my most beloved piping instructors, mind you... but rather, because I couldn't remember what species it was when asked one day. "It's a jimmy, germy, something-or-other," I explained to the friend doing the asking. And hence, the name Jimmy stuck.

Second, it came with a small tag that said "medium sun and water." Learning exactly what constitutes "medium sun and water" in a high, sunny altitude like Colorado Springs proved quite a challenge for this desert-bred gardening hopeful. (In southern Arizona, after all, gardening constitutes merely raking colored rocks and carefully removing wind-blown trash from cactus spines.)

Well, I am here to announce to the world today that Jimmy not only still lives... but he has survived living with me for ONE YEAR! That's right -- the handbell choir gave me this geranium last May, at a concert to mark the end of our ringing season. He survived a move, a freezing winter, weeks without water while I was on vacation, and many other hardships, yet he's still going strong, and even began to bloom again last weekend. To mark his first birthday last week, I bought Jimmy this adorable new teacup-shaped planter. Someday soon I'll even attempt to re-pot him so he can grow even more.

Now we're planning another end-of-the-season concert, and I think Jimmy just may have to come as the guest of honor. After all, I think a front-row seat is the least I can do for the little plant that has restored my gardening hopes and dreams! :-)

opening day

I wish I were in Phoenix today...

For the past three years, I have not been at work today. I've been in Denver, celebrating the beginning of another baseball season by watching my Arizona Diamondbacks take on the Colorado Rockies. The D'Backs have started the year on the road for the past three years, and I've been there every time.

But today, they get to start the season at home. In Phoenix. Far away Phoenix.

I'm bummed.

But I'm excited, too, as I watch the minutes tick past on the clock, every moment bringing me closer to the excitement... the military band parade around the warning track... the giant American flag unfurled across the entire outfield of the diamond... the tens of thousands of patriots and fans on their feet with hands over hearts... the glaring red rockets and fireworks bringing the national anthem to life... the Air Force jets buzzing the stadium as the multitude roars... the team in white exploding onto the field from the third-base dugout... the pitcher slowly striding to the center-stage mound, slowly wrapping his fingers around the bright red stitching on the brand-new ball... and then, at long last, two of the most magic words you could ever hear ring out over the loudspeaker...

"PLAY BALL!!!"

I'm stoked that Opening Day is here at last! I just wish I could be there to see it in person...

in with the old

It may not looking like I'm posting much here, but that's only because I'm still working on transcribing all of my old blog posts from MySpace into this new blog. Be sure to check the "archives" list on the side over there to see these "oldies but goodies" as I get them posted!

The old is still coming in... but there will be some new posts, too! So stay tuned!

wearin' o' the orange

As many friends and coworkers have chased me around the office this morning, trying to pinch me because I'm not wearing green, I offer this little history lesson:

Catholics wear green. Protestants wear orange.

In America, St. Patrick's Day is little more than an over-comercialized social event encouraged by alcohol manufacturers for the sole purpose of increasing consumption of their products and, thereby, increasing their profits. I've born witness to this phenomenon first-hand, as for most of the past 15 years I've spent every March 17th evening piping-for-hire in bars and taverns, where with every passing tune the drunks get drunker and the lewd get, well, "lewd-er." Everyone wears a "Kiss Me, I'm Irish for a Day" button, a plastic green derby, and consumes little gold-coin-wrapped chocolates from miniature pots of gold.

But in the lands of my ancestors -- Scotland, England, and Northern Ireland -- there is a much deeper significance to St. Patrick's Day. For centuries, there has been great social, political and religious strife in Ireland and Northern Ireland between the Roman Catholic majority and the Protestant minority. Ever since William III of England, Scotland and Ireland, a Protestant -- and better known to history as William of Orange -- defeated the Catholic King James II in the Battle of the Boyne (near Dublin) in 1690, the tension between Protestants and Catholics on the tiny island of Ireland has been fierce. Majority Catholics have fought in the highest halls of government to suppress the Protestant minority, and at times that Protestant minority has gained the upperhand and sought revenge. It is because of William of Orange (which actually refers to his home region in France) that the color orange came to represent the Protestants, and it continues to do so to this very day, right on the Irish flag.

I could write a lot more about the strife and tension between the Catholic and Protestant factions, but I really don't want to turn this blog into a history lecture. I would encourage those of you who want to know to search "St. Patrick's Day" through something like Wikipedia to read more about the history of the day, of the man himself, and of the centuries of conflict that have defined the tiny island nation of Ireland. You'll read about the green shamrock as a symbol of Catholic loyalty, and about the sectarianism of the "Orangemen." You'll see how both sides have their good points, their just causes, and their bad reputations. You'll understand that the times we live in may be less violent, but the tension is still real.

For my part, I'm not out to provoke anyone on either side of the issue -- on the contrary, I like to think that the white in the Irish flag symbolizes peace between the two factions. Rather, it is out of deference to my Protestant heritage and my Scottish ancestors who settled for a time in Northern Ireland that, on every March 17th, I wear orange.

the difference

The difference between trusting that there is an ultimate happy ending and making an idol of that ending lies in our willingness to let it be a mystery of God's timing and not of our choosing. We have to stand in the complexity of all that God is working on, not just in the simple part we can see for ourselves. We must relinquish our arrogance and presumption that we have figured out God's plan.
~ Nicole Johnson

I'm learning to simply stand in the complexities of life and faith. I'm learning to relinquish all my presumptive thoughts and ideas. I'm learning to trust, not idolize.

I'm learning the difference...

before the throne

Sometimes it's a Scripture verse. Sometimes it's a sermon. Sometimes it's a devotional reading. Sometimes it's a random comment from a fellow believer. You just never know when the Lord is going to hit you between the eyes and speak directly to you and whatever situation you're in the middle of at that very moment.

For me today, it's the words to one of my all-time favorite hymns:

Before the throne of God above,
I have a strong and perfect plea,
A great High Priest whose name is Love,
Who ever lives and pleads for me.
My name is graven on His hands,
My name is written on His heart;
I know what while in heaven He stands,
No tongue can bid me thence depart.

When Satan tempts me to despair,
And tells me of the guilt within,
Upward I look and see Him there,
Who made an end of all my sin.
Because the sinless Savior died,
My sinful soul is counted free;
For God the just is satisfied,
To look on Him and pardon me.

Behold Him there, the Risen Lamb,
My perfect spotless righteousness,
The great unchangeable I Am,
The King of glory and of grace!
One with Himself I cannot die,
My soul is purchased by His blood;
My life is hid with Christ on high,
With Christ my Savior and my God!

spring is here!

I'm sitting in a typical grey office cubicle in Colorado, eating a sandwich at my desk with nothing but the buzz of fluorescent lights, the clicking of fingertips on computer keyboards, and the occasional "blrp!" of the telephone to interrupt the otherwise typical monotony of my work day. It's atypically warm outside, but the mountains are still covered in snow and the north winds are still blowing cold. More snow and blizzards are definitely on the way.

But then I put on my headphones, log in... and suddenly springtime is here! Fluorescent lighting becomes hot sunshine, I've traded my desk for a grandstand seat, keyboard clicking turns to clapping and cheering, and my cheap sandwich is now a wonderfully tasteless, over-priced hot dog.

February may not be over yet, but spring is already here -- spring training, that is!

My winter always ends with the first warm-up toss from the major league mound, the first loud "thwup!" of a baseball in the catcher's massive mitt, the first "Play ball!" enthusiastically hollered from behind home plate. They may only be spring training games right now, but the excitement of watching that first batter digging into the box makes me just as giddy as it will in 38 days when the real Opening Day arrives.

This is the only thing I miss about living in Arizona -- I miss soaking up the warm sunshine from a sticky plastic seat while munching on stale nachos, sipping a warm soda, and taking in all the sights and sounds of a Diamondbacks spring training game.

Thank goodness for MLB.TV!

valentine schmalentine

My annual rant still rings true today...

I hate Valentine's Day. I hate the aisles and aisles of pink and red fluff in every store I enter. I hate the excessive commercials full of happy, kissy-faced couples all enraptured with each other over stupid things like new cars or chewing gum or Caribbean cruises. I hate all the ads for diamonds and tacky heart-shaped jewelry. I hate the love song infestation on all the airwaves and in all the stores and restaurants. I hate how the price of roses is jacked up when the same dozen costs a third as much on any other day of the year. I hate the aisles and aisles of cards crooning about how wonderful the love of my life is. I hate that I don't have a love of my life. I hate that I have no one to buy such a card for. I hate that no one I like has ever given me such a card. I hate that the only Valentine cards I've ever received came from my reluctant elementary school classmates and were covered with happy buddy-buddy images of Garfield and Odie or Snoopy and Woodstock. I hate that I don't have a time turner like Hermione in Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban so I can fast forward to February 15th. I hate those heart-shaped sweetie candy things. "Be mine." "You're cute." "Kiss me." Bah-humbug!!! I want to cram a whole bag full of those candies down some little cupid's throat until he chokes and turns blue and then I can steal his bow and arrows and break them and toss the splinters into a fireplace somewhere along with all those stupid school-kid Valentines and then dance a little jig while they burn to ashes.

Most of all, I hate that I don't have any reason not to hate Valentine's Day....

back to tennessee

For the first time since my family moved from there to Arizona in 1987, I'm returning to Tennessee this weekend! My first business trip ever is taking me to Nashville this weekend, where I'll be attending the National Religious Broadcasters Convention at the Opryland Hotel.

Everyone keeps asking me if I'm excited to be going on this trip, and I honestly can't decide! I'm not really sure why my boss thinks this will be a good way to "expand my horizons" professionally, but that's because I really have no clue exactly what I'll be doing at this convention! So perhaps his reasoning will become clear once I get there.

The only thing I can look forward to for now is the fact that, for the first time in 22 years, I'll be returning to the "wrong side of the river," as we Californians have always referred to anything east of the Mississippi. I know it's not the correct thing to be looking forward to about a business trip, but I'm really hoping for a few free hours over the next four days to do some exploring and make some jaunts down Memory Lane!

We used to live in a gorgeous house on 2012 Sunnyslope Lane in a little Nashville bedroom community called Goodlettsville. I hope to walk up to that front porch again, knock on the door, introduce myself to whoever lives there now and say, "Pardon me, but I used to live in your house 25 years ago, and would like to know if I may take a picture of the outside?" Perhaps they'll be so tickled by the idea that they'll invite me in for sweet tea and let me see the inside. And then I can tell them all about how we practiced our sledding on the basement stairs, or how we found a dozen old, moldy cheese balls in the nooks and crannies of the kitchen as we were moving out, or about the night my great-grandma died right there in that living room while watching "Dallas"...

Hmm... on second thought, maybe not...

There are other places I hope to see while I'm there, like the old church where we used to ditch Sunday School classes to go climbing in the old belfry, or the park where we played softball and decorated an old historic mansion with themed Christmas trees (where my own Christmas decorating madness first began!), or the school where my crazy fifth-grade teacher decorated our classroom with Barry Manilow posters... wrong side of the river indeed!

One of the places I used to visit all the time, though, I know I'm going to see -- and that's the Opryland Hotel itself! We used to visit there every Christmas to see their amazing conservatory transformed by hundreds of poinsettias and twinkle lights, and several other times during the year to play at the theme park or tour the conservatory and gardens. And now, I'm going to get to actually stay in the hotel!

So whether or not I see the old house, the old church, the old park, or the old school, I will have at least one chance this weekend to reconnect with a part of my childhood, and that's something I am definitely looking forward to!

it's not rocket science...

Children do not work here, and grown ups should definitely know better.

It's not rocket science people!

When you've finished "your business," you flush. Simple as that.

So why do I keep discovering so many unflushed toilets at work?

Perhaps I should notify HR... apparently, a new prerequisite needs to be added to some job descriptions:

"Prefer 5-6 years experience in the field, a college degree, typing minimum of 50 wpm, and proven ability to operate a toilet..."