Not a Sad Story: I Want To Tell You About What Happened Ten Years Ago

Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle. --Plato

It's 3:52 am. I can't sleep. I couldn't sleep when I laid down, either, but my brain's been so heavy these last several days that I couldn't keep it off of the pillow. I can't stop thinking about what life was like ten years ago. So I wanted to write about it.

Ten years ago I couldn't sleep either. At 3:52 am, I was sitting in my father's hospital room on 7SW at Via Cristi Hospital in Wichita with my mother. We had a sort of apartment in town but tonight she was in the rubber-covered recliner and I was on the rubber-covered chair that would fold out into a "twin bed". In the nine months that we'd been there, this was my second all-nighter spent with him. The time before that was last night when he started to need constant attention. Things went from "Fine, except for, you know, the leukemia part," to "What the hell has happened?" in a matter of days. I did not believe that he could die.

I always felt sort of guilty for not having a terribly traumatic cancer story. Some would argue that heartily but I know that my experience was not as terrible as some have been. You know, he really only spent one day throwing up--and that had nothing to do with radiation and chemo as much as it had to do with the fact that he had an allergic reaction to a painkiller that they gave him to combat the "uncomfortable side effects" of chemotherapy. That was one day out of a nine month battle. Many fight cancer for years--even decades. On his worst days he was weak and would say things to me like, "You know I could die, right? I know it's not going to but I don't want you to be unprepared for that if it does happen." One day as I left the hospital to go back to our apartment, I said, "You know I could die out there, right? There's a meth house directly across the street from our apartment." Fun fact, that did not make him feel more comfortable. Life lesson: don't tell your dad that you live in the middle of crack-alley if there is nothing that he can do about it. But he did stop telling me that he could die. I really, truly, did not believe he could die.

So he had a heart-attack in January of 2001. That was scary enough. I was 17 and the phone rang in the middle of the night and we were all too asleep to hear it. But as I was running downstairs, a woman was leaving a message on our machine. She was the overnight desk-clerk at the Red Roof Inn in Salina. My dad was staying there because his work was out of Salina but he traveled all over Kansas so we all lived in Stafford, still. There was, what? A two hour drive between here and there? On the message, she was very calm and asked that we call her back immediately. After she left the message, she hung up and called back immediately. I answered the phone but she wouldn't talk to me--she wanted my mom who was, by then, running into the dining room. She said that he'd had a heart attack and asked her to call 911 and then call us. She did those things and we got into the car and drove to Salina. Those whole two hours, I was picturing what our life would be like without him. I believed that he would die before we reached him. Alone. In a strange hospital bed.

But we got there and he seemed fine. You know, except for the heart attack, part. After a few days in the hospital, they discovered that he was diabetic. And that was when, I believed, our lives changed. He had a serious but manageable illness. We would get used to seeing things like syringes and little vials of insulin and alcohol pads and we would get used to a low-fat, low-sugar diet. And we would like it.

So armed with our new information about how to care for a person who has just had a heart attack and how to care for a person with diabetes, we went home. Happy and with a new zest for life. People from the church brought us meals that we couldn't serve to him but it was the thought that counted. The thought was so kind. Really, my dad was a beloved man. I think that most people who met him liked him instantly. I can't remember a whole lot of pre-cancer Dad but I remember that he could sing--and people loved that. I remember that he prayed with gusto. By now I can remember, without guilt, that he was also just a person with a good many flaws.

So, he was getting better and we were getting in the routine of finding a new normal and after he'd been home for about four days, he woke up in the night and couldn't move. He could move, the tiniest bit. Enough to get to the car so that Mom could drive him to the hospital in Pratt. They didn't even wake us up or leave a note. Mom called the house in the morning and told us what was going on. She said he was moving slowly and weak to the point of concern. She said that when they got him to the hospital, they tried to draw his blood but it was as thick as molasses. They had some ideas about what it could be but until they did some more tests, they wouldn't know for sure. She didn't tell me what those ideas were but I knew that a few years ago a girl in my school had leukemia and her blood cells multiplied rapidly which made it thick. "Like molasses." I didn't share my theory with my younger brother and sister. I just told them that they took Dad back to the hospital because he was feeling weak and they were running tests.
I don't remember what happened next, how we got into the speeding mini-van with my parents but suddenly we were all driving to Wichita.

In the car I was still wondering what it could be, feeling the sound of my theory in my head. I didn't know much and this was still in the days of dial-up so it's not like it even occurred to me to Google anything at all. My dad pulled out his cell phone (something that was still a treasure to me--amazing that it even existed) and called his best friend, Greg. And that's when I heard him say, "they say it could be leukemia, Brother." And then he cried. And all of us in the car sat in silence and terror and the unknown. That couldn't have really been it, though. That was just a worst-case-scenario. Leukemia only happens to little girls. Not to my strong, robust, forty-four year old father. But it was. Acute-Lymphatic Leukemia. This is not the kind of cancer that develops overtime. It is "acute" which was a word that I found confusing because when you first hear it you think, "the most adorable Lymphatic Leukemia that ever existed." That's when I learned that "acute" means "sharp," "fast," "vicious". All of his friends kept bringing him good news. They'd all say the same thing, "I looked it up on the internet and you've got really good odds!" Someone said, "if I had to choose any cancer in the whole world, I'd choose your cancer, Chuck." I didn't care about odds, though. That wasn't so important to me. I really didn't believe he could die. Also, I hated it when his friends would call him "Chuck". I have and uncle named Chuck--it is taken, please refer to him as "Charlie" as that is his name.

The doctor who would become his wonderful, regular (kinda dreamy) oncologist, checked his bone marrow as soon as we got there. Later I asked a nurse how they check someone's bone marrow. I shouldn't have done that. I thought that was the most heart breaking thing that I could imagine a person going through without pain killers. It's not. It's really not. But I was a kid. I was seventeen. And I didn't know that I'd see him go through radiation and spinal taps and more bone-marrow tests. I didn't know what a person was capable of at that point-- and even still it feels selfish to say it but--what I was capable of at that point.

Our new normal didn't feel like much of a challenge or an adjustment. I think it was because I never thought of it as "normal" I always kind of thought of it as something that we were doing, today, and then we'd go home tomorrow. And the next day we'd either go home or stay. Andrew and Sarah were younger than I was and they spent a lot of time staying with our pastor's family so that they could have some semblance of stability. Even still, I can't help but think of John and Becky as a type of personal, parental unit that exists for me. They were there before, during and after--constantly to the same degree which was in full. They already had five kids and they didn't mind the addition. Becky said, "after you have five, really? What's two more?" Sarah and Andrew were 14 and 12 or somewhere thereabouts. It's not like they weren't largely self-managing, anyway. My older brother had moved to McPherson to go to college. I remember feeling so strange that at the time when our family seemed most connected, most combatant, we were all in different places.

So that left Mom and Dad and me on the front lines. Let me tell you, the front line of cancer is by-and-large kind of boring. Except when it's not. I learned a lot of things. I learned which nurses were nice and which were not. I learned that they had an oven to keep the blankets in and I would sometimes sneak in there at night and take one for myself. I learned that the owner of a very large car dealership in Kansas was on the oncology floor. He didn't have cancer but he was terminal and this was the floor with the best staff. He bought new furniture and painted his room so that it didn't feel so much like a hospital. New, leather couches and rugs and lamps. After he died, they were donated to "the grieving room". I thought the concept of that room was quite sad but kind. I felt terrible any time that I saw someone in there. I wanted to open the door and say, "you know, sometimes I can't quite keep it together, either." And that would have been the most human thing to say. One day someone brought us a basket of cookies. Dad couldn't eat them and I didn't want to eat them in front of him so I decided to take them to the nurses station. But I saw an older woman in the grieving room. So I left a note and put the basket directly in front of the door. A few hours later there was a tag that read, "thank you" hanging on the door knob. I learned later that woman was the wife of the car dealership guy and that he had died. Life lesson: Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle. --Plato

I can't tell you about what happened when or anything like that. When you live in a hospital, the days all run together. I know that it started in February. It ended in October. And between Andrew and Sarah's birthdays in April, he was in remission. I remember that my friends Ellie and Tori would come to visit me at least once a week. They would take me out to bookstores or for coffee or once or twice to a fancy restaurant that played live jazz (even though we could only afford dessert) so that I could get out of the hospital. We'd sit around and talk about anything other than cancer and I needed all of that so much more than I knew at the time. At first I wondered, "they understand that my dad has freakin' cancer, right??" But then I realized that they knew that I needed to free my brain for just a few hours a week and let it breathe. I was so grateful to them. I pined for them when I was most lonely--mostly when I was driving back to our apartment after a long day at the hospital thinking, "I'm seventeen years old. I shouldn't be in this situation." But this is how life happens.

I remember that he started to smell differently. I remember that he started to age quickly. And by that, I don't mean that his face started to look wrinkly. In fact, I feel like he became a little more childish looking. His eyes got bluer--he'd quit smoking. By "age quickly" I mean that he started to wear hats--obviously because of his hair loss, and he lost weight so quickly that instead of buying belts he would wear suspenders. Suspenders. Suspenders and a panama hat. Suspenders and a panama hat and he suddenly loved cafeteria style restaurants--at 4:30 pm. He aged 30 years overnight. I was not embarrassed by that.
I remember that my dad suddenly had more friends than I was aware of. I mean, I knew he had a lot of friends but I'd never seen them all, essentially, at once. He had one friend who had been diagnosed with MS several years prior. This was a huge relief because he knew someone who had gone through--was still going through--something pretty stinking major and was still alive and happy and full of joy. "Profuse exuberance," was what he called it. My dad wanted to be like that.

He had big plans for after he was cured so when he went into remission after only a few months of fighting--which wasn't really fighting. We were all so confused, still, but satisfied to be finished. It was like when I was younger and I'd play Mortal Kombat with my brother and I would win by simply smashing the controller and seeing what would happen. That's what it felt like.

Remission! I thought that meant "cured". He came out to the waiting room after what was supposed to be a round of chemo and told us that the doctor said he was in remission. Strangers even clapped when they heard him say it. Naively, I felt a huge weight off my shoulders. He would still have to come back for frequent check-ups but he was in the clear! He was cured! Just like everyone said he would be. Just like I knew he would be. I really didn't believe he could die.

After a week or so of jubilation, he went for a follow-up and we ended up back in the hospital. Remission didn't last for long. Not with this bastard of a cancer, anyway. I began to think of Acute-Lymphatic Leukemia as a person and this person was kind of an a-hole. If this person came to a party, he would drink all of the beer and hit on your girlfriend before puking off the railing, onto someone's car. And then he would drive the wrong way down the interstate and not care that there were women and children in mini-vans. He will crash into an animal shelter and then get out and walk and in the morning he will text you, naked, from a stranger's back yard in a dog house, "wutz up!"

He was doing pretty good by the end of the summer. You know, except for the leukemia part. He wanted all of his kids in one place and he wanted to take us to the zoo. The staff at 7SW was not particularly thrilled with this idea but they let him do it anyway. We wheeled him around in a chair (like a wheel-chair at the zoo isn't demoralizing enough, the ones that the zoo provided looked way more like adult-sized strollers) and looked at animals. I got a picture from behind as my older brother stood at a railing talking to my dad in his chair. At the time, everyone said, you got a picture of the back of them--that's dumb. But it's on display in Adam's house right now and it's nice. I'm glad I took it. We don't have a lot of pictures of us with Dad. The one at the beginning of this post is the only one that I've got. Before we left the zoo, an elephant sneezed on my dad. My father, with the immune system of a premature baby--an African elephant sneezed directly into his face. Sometimes I like to think that's what did it.

Anyway, that day at the zoo was really the last nice day of the summer. After that, Autumn set in and I started to wonder if I'd be spending my 18th birthday in a hospital. I hoped not. I hoped that I could be home with my friends but I didn't get my hopes up because after the zoo, he didn't really stay better. I don't remember the order of events. I remember that several weeks prior, they needed to start radiation specifically to keep the cancer from spreading into his spine which would lead to his brain which would lead to his downfall. Despite their best efforts, that was exactly what happened. No one knew that was happening and they kept it at bay until Mid-October. They gave him treatments and x-rays and they kept a keen eye on it but one day something changed. He was my dad one day and the next day he didn't know me.

One evening, Ellie had driven me back to the hospital and came upstairs with me. My mom and my brother and the doctor were standing in the hallway discussing DNR's and "pulling the plug." Ellie seemed to grasp all of this and she hugged me and asked if I wanted her to stay. But I said no because even then, I didn't believe he could die. They said that the cancer had moved into the spine and quickly traveled to his brain. One day we were at the zoo, the next day he looked at me--unaware of who I was. I could only imagine how scared he was when he didn't know anything at all.

When he was awake, his conception of the situation would change from minute to minute--if he was lucky. He couldn't keep a grasp of anything for more than a few seconds really. He'd need to go to the bathroom and by the time he got out of bed, he'd forget why he stood up and he'd sit back down. My mom needed a shower and a little bit of a break during this time, so I was there with him. I read a magazine and when I saw him stand up and sit down a few times I asked him if he needed to go to the bathroom. He looked at me and said, "Nurse, I need to go to the bathroom." I stopped and we stared at one another and I can only imagine that I looked horrified. I was. I took him to the bathroom--reminding him the whole time of what we were doing because he would ask, often. For the rest of the day he called me "nurse" or "miss" or "why are you in my room" and that night, Mom and I both slept in the room and planned his funeral even though neither of us said the words. In a delirium of 1/3 asleep, 1/3 awake and 1/3 delirium, Dad started to mumble/hum/sing "I'll Fly Away."

The next morning, October 20th, I went to take a shower and drove right back. When I came into the room, I didn't look at Dad. I knew he wouldn't know who I was and I couldn't take it much longer. But he said, in such a deliciously childlike manner with the bluest blue eyes, "Hey! You're Libby! You're mine." And he smiled so big and so wide. And I looked back at him and I cried and I said, "I am yours." And those were the last things we said to each other because by the time he blinked, he was gone again and I was happy with that. I was grateful for it.

In his confusion, he started pulling on tubes and wires. By 11:00 am, the nurses had to give him something that would make him sleep. I didn't know that "sleep" meant that he would slip into a coma and I'd never see him again. My Uncle Jerry and Aunt Judy came into the room while Dad slept. They told me about what he was like when he was younger and it made me fall in love with them. Giving me a gift like that. Our whole family must have already been at the hospital but I didn't see them. They were all in the waiting room. It must have been packed. At around 2:00, Andrew and I drove to a halfway point to pick up Sarah. Me and my twelve-year-old brother driving to pick up our sister so that she can see him before he dies. Truly the most surreal moment of my life.

By the time we got to the 7th floor, the entire family was there. Family. Friends. Everyone. The place was packed with people that I knew and I was confused. A few people handed me birthday cards and I remembered that my birthday would be the next day. But mostly people pushed me into my dad's room and said, "you need to see him." I didn't understand. I didn't know he had died. Andrew went in and ran back out. Sarah went in and ran back out. I went in and I don't remember what happened. All I remember was so many hands on me and screaming, "don't follow me!" And I went into the grieving room and I cried longer and harder and more shamelessly than I ever have since. More than anything I was angry. I did not believe that he could die and before anyone explained what had happened, I was pushed in to view his body. I was angry then but I'm not angry now. There's no right way to deal with this situation. Every single person in that place was heartbroken and weirded out and I can't blame them.

After several minutes of alone time, Arryn came in even though I told her to stay out. She held me and she cried with me. She'd been married to Adam for only a few months and her relationship with my parents wasn't exactly magical but she was still heartbroken and she knew what we all needed because she'd been through similar heartache and loss and she was going to give it to me whether I wanted it or not.

By the time we were leaving Wichita and heading back home, it was dark. Arryn and I drove and mostly it was quiet. I asked her to turn on some music and when she powered on the stereo, this song played. And we chose it for his funeral.  A group of people from the church also got together and played a very, very joyous rendition of I'll Fly Away.

The next day was my eighteenth birthday and I was at home surrounded by all of my friends--sort of like I'd hoped for.

I wanted to write this because I know that there are a lot of people who don't know that part of me and they're too afraid to ask--or don't know if it's okay. It's okay. It really, really is. Talking about it is always better than ignoring it. There are also a lot of people who were there for it and I wanted to tell it from my side, and give my gratitude and share my heart. But mostly, it's been a whole decade and I remember, on that day, thinking, "One day it will be ten years from now, will I even remember my dad anymore?" And the truth is that I still think about him a dozen times a day.

But after I write this I'll be happy to have a day packed full of distraction. I'm not the type to take the day off to mourn because in all reality, it's not sad what happened. It's something that happened that was sad at the time. My life is gorgeous and full and full of love in ways that I am not sure they would be if everything hadn't changed so much. Please don't take that to mean that I'm happy that my dad died--there couldn't be anything more inaccurate. I wish he was here. I wish he could see all of his grandkids and I wish that he could see how much his children love each other. I wish he could see that even my mom is happy and I really didn't know if she would be. But I know that a lot of the things that changed in me, happened as a direct result of the world-shift that occurred on that day. I am excited to live the life that I'm living right now.

I love you and I hope you have a wonderful day.

He was 28 in this picture. I'm turning 28, tomorrow.

Dear Self in The 90's

I was a late bloomer in almost every way imaginable. I burst forth from my mother's womb a month early and I guess I was not impressed because I've been sort of a back-of-the-line girl ever since. Which is fine. I'm perfectly okay with that.
It is rumored that I was potty trained quite early on but an illness caused a little regression in that area. I'm not ashamed. I'm totally house trained now, and that's what counts.

I read this article called The Rush to Maturity over at The Curvy Girl Guide and it made me think about myself as a girl.

I was always slow to move along but always so anxious to do so. I was a nervous and sensitive type. Even as a little one, I was always concerned about everyone else's feelings. Despite the fact that I was not a terribly affectionate kid, my parents nick-named me Lovey Libby which embarrassed me because I did not think I was particularly loving or kind in my spirit--I was just afraid of attention.
I wanted to fly under the radar. I never sat in the back of the class and I never sat in the front. I was a B student. When it was my birthday and my mom had to make snacks, I remember insisting that she make chocolate and white in case some kids didn't like one flavor.

So while I was all concerned with everyone else and their feelings (and even the feelings of several inanimate objects), I always held the door for them. I let them be at the front of the line--because they wanted it more than I did. I let them win at games, because they clearly wanted to win and I was indifferent. (Even now, I'm not a competitive girl. I don't like playing games who have winners and losers because I always feel kind of bad when I end up winning.) It was never about the fact that I genuinely cared about everyone else though, I just knew that I was afraid of attention. I didn't want to be the first. I didn't want to be the last. I didn't want to be memorable. Now, that's all I want.

I was afraid of a lot of things. I was afraid of being wrong, so I never raised my hand in class. I was afraid of being slow, so I never played soccer at recess even though it looked like the other kids were having so much fun. I never wanted to look uncool so I never expressed any enthusiasm in anything--just in case I was enthusiastic about something particularly lame. And the whole time I was counting the days until I was older. I remember being 12 and thinking that when I was 13, then I'd probably finally break out of my shell and not be so scared of everyone and everything. I remember being 13 and thinking that 15 wasn't too far away, probably once I was fifteen then I'd finally be normal and cool. Until then, I'd just sit and wait. Guess what, "normal" and "cool" never showed up until those things were no longer important. Which is undoubtedly for the best.

Dear 1990's Libby,
I wish I could go back and tell you to not be afraid because life hurts whether you sit down or run so you might as well stretch your muscles.

I would tell you that DJ Tanner is the only girl in the whole world who is going on dates. You will not realize this until you are in your mid-twenties having drinks with your friends when you all discover at the same time that none of you have ever been on a date.

I would go back to that 5th Grade health class where they give you tiny books filled with shocking diagrams that explain the mystery that you discovered that one time you accidentally walked in on your 17 year-old cousin in the shower and wondered, probably out-loud, "Hair?! There?!" I would remind you that even though you are holding this book at the tender age of eleven, no one is yet going through these changes. This is not the newest normal that you're not keeping up with. I know that's how it feels but that's not the case. Stop looking at the other girls in your class wondering if they've started their periods yet. (But, probably gather the gumption to ask your mother for a bra much sooner than you actually do because--let's get that all under control early on, shall we?)

Please understand that you won the menstrual lottery when yours decided not to start until halfway through your 14th year. Also, everyone makes jokes about how a woman needs all of the chocolates during this time but I'm going to save you a lot of time and tell you right now that your chocolate is french fries and Pepsi. Try to limit your intake of these things during downtime because when it's on it's on and you will be shocked and ashamed to find yourself in a McDonald's drive-thru twice in one day. Just admit it right now that this is your lot in life. It's going to be a long 40 years.

Stop wondering if you're normal. If you don't understand this right now, you'll be nearly thirty before it hits you that no one is--which means that everyone is. Your body is perfectly normal. Your brain is perfectly normal. Your heart is perfectly normal. Your doubts--perfectly normal. You. Are. Perfectly. Normal.

Ah, but you know what? Don't change. Don't develop your confidence too early. Who knows who I would have become if you'd been thinner or more pretty. I probably would have a lot more regrets. Plus, it doesn't matter because you will develop confidence and you will become pretty and a lot of other important things at a time in your life when you're better prepared to deal with it. Even if it does feel much later than everyone else.

Don't stop looking forward to what's ahead of you but do start to take mental, appreciative notes of what you're in right now. You'll never really stop thinking that things will be better or more fun or more straightened out in a year or so. I think that's okay in moderation.

I love you and it is hard and lonely in places but I'm here to tell you that it will all be worth it.
Love,
You in 2011

So, I read that article and it didn't just make me reminisce about my own growing up--it made me anxious and hungry to hear about my friends when we were all young and weird. Katie and Staci said that they would blog about it (and I'll link to them when that becomes an option) but what about you? What kind of a kid were you? Tell me in the comments or email me and I'll throw you in as a guest blogger. At any rate, keep checking this little blog and the comments to hear more stories. I feel like we all have something to share about this.

"That is My Faith"

It's difficult for me to talk about the things that are really important to me right here. Or anywhere, really. I have to cover up my face or hide under a blanket to tell you how I really feel. I can't totally explain why but it has to do with the fact that it would be cool if my brains could just open up and fall onto the keyboard, hitting all the letters in the right order so that it makes some sense for you to read and I wouldn't have to do all of the work figuring out what the right words are.

And I don't want to say things in the wrong way so that you don't get exactly what I'm saying. Because I don't want you to misunderstand me. Because there's nothing in the whole world that I hate more than being misunderstood or misrepresented or misinterpreted or some other "mis" word. But I suppose that's what you open yourself up to when you limit yourself to letters and punctuation and then open it up to conversation. So, I guess here goes nothing.

The other day it was brought up in conversation that a friend of mine, whom I've known for a dozen or so years, seemingly out of the blue decided that she doesn't believe in God anymore and moved to another state with her boyfriend with the intention to join a little hippie commune, and live off the land. Honestly, my very first response to this news was, "what I wouldn't give..." But then I realized that after my many years of dorm living, my current living situation is about as communal as I'll ever be able to stand but the idea is the same. What I wouldn't give to have the opportunity and ability to leave. Start over: mind, body, soul. Get dirty. Sounds like a treasure. Obviously I am removed from the situation and I don't know the whole story so I won't pretend to. All I know is that when the situation was explained to me there was a lighthearted joke-- comparing her to another lifetime friend of ours. Implying that anyone who isn't buying the Sunday School crap anymore is just going through a phase. I beg that you forgive the cynicism in that previous sentence but I've been working on this blog for about six days and there's just not another way to make my point. I assure you, there is no more cynicism to be found here.

In the not too terribly distant past, Tamra, (aforementioned lifetime friend) spoke the words that her thoughts on God had changed as well--or hadn't changed, per se, but maybe never were? I'm certainly not going to use this space to tell you about what she thinks because it's not my place and also, all of the "mis" words that I spoke about earlier. I do know that back in October some friends and I went to Tamra's beautiful house in Kansas City. A house that she purchased and put back-breaking work into. A house with an enormous front porch looking out onto a street with other gorgeous houses with enormous front porches--a house where you can't help but feel at-home in. Totally loved. I never wanted to leave. Even to go for a walk. Tamra made us lunch and we sat down at the table and before we ate she said something along the lines of, "just because I don't think there's a God out there listening to all of my prayers doesn't mean that we can't hold hands before a meal." So we all held hands and we closed our eyes and Tam spoke hopes and wishes over us and in that moment I deeply felt, "finally, somebody gets me."

And there is suddenly so much misunderstanding. I can't even say that, really. It's conclusion jumping is what it is. A friend of yours (me) decides that she just can't pretend to be a part of the bandwagon anymore and suddenly there are conclusions drawn without any discussion. At the first mention of "atheist" or "agnosticism", "debauchery" is a synonym that comes to mind. Whether that's the case or not. Fact of the matter is that I'm not concerned about naming myself or anyone else because I'm quite sure that's what got us all into this mess in the first place.

It's just that... When I tell you that I don't believe in God the way that you believe in God, I hope that you don't think I'm simply ignoring some inflexable truth simply to gallivant or overindulge in all things sex, drugs, and rock-and-roll. (Believe me, I went to a Christian university and there is gallivanting enough for lifetimes, and plenty of hung-over and probably-pregnant kids in Sunday School.) And then when I'm through with that phase I'll come back into the fold and then have this brilliant story of redemption. That's not the case. When I tell you that I don't believe in God the way that you believe in God, what I mean is that I am not buying this thing about there being a plan for my life with right answers and wrong turns. What I mean is that I'm not concerned with rules and tiny, stupid things that will never impact another person's life aside from "winning" an argument. I certainly can't argue against the concept of a God and I'm absolutely never going to tell you that it's wrong for you to believe and devote yourself to whatever it is that helps you along in this life. Because this shit is tough. I thought it was just me but getting along into my late 20's and talking to other people like me, I'm finding that it's a universal truth. It's the Human Condition.

Most of my very best, most well rounded and understanding friends believe deeply in salvation and prayer and all that goes along with Christianity. And I admire it and I adore that part of them. I would never, even here, mean to imply that's the wrong thing. Because I certainly can't tell you that what I've got is the right thing. I know it works for me. I probably feel more gratitude and joy now than I ever did, before.

The load became heavy and starts weighing you down and when you start to sink and die, you start throwing stuff out of the boat. For me, that had to be all of the obligations that came with holding on to the Christian label. All of the guilt for not doing this enough or making this choice or for "screwing up" time and time and time and time again when in reality I was just a human being. That's grace. That's what grace looks like. When you can look at yourself and say, "give yourself a break--you're just a person." That's grace in action--not grace as some idea that you subscribe to and hope that it'll one day work out. And I started to breathe easier. I remember the first Sunday that I said I wouldn't be needing a ride to church anymore. And I walked around campus and I sat on benches and I felt the warm sun on my back and everything felt more real than it had in a long time. It was a sabbath, indeed. And I came home and nursed my hung-over roommates back to health with tall glasses of water and tacos. And that was love in action. And I will take love in action over faith as a concept any day of the week.

Just this morning, Tamra sent me an email and in it she said this and I'm going to share it with you because it is the most legitimate example of physical truth that I can think of. "This week I held/restrained a child who was screaming hysterically for ages. She was two inches from my face and I just kept rocking her and saying over and over again, 'it is okay I'm going to stick this out with you.' That is my faith."

So maybe it seems like "out of the blue" when someone that you haven't actually had a legitimate conversation with in half a decade moves away to do something that does seem a little surprising considering her upbringing (and, I might add--bless her for doing it when she's 21 instead of waiting until she's a wife and mother of three children and suddenly realizes that she never had a chance to get to know herself). Maybe it seems like late-stage rebellion when your friend or your daughter or your sister says "I can't do it like this anymore." But maybe it's a reality. Maybe it's a reality that you're not familiar with. Maybe it's a reality for them that would never ever work for you. But just please understand that it goes the other way as well.

I'm afraid that the thing that makes me happy is the thing that's going to make some of you sad. And I'm sorry for that. And I know that many of you will say that you are praying for me and I am grateful for that. I just hope that when you're thinking of us--when you're praying for us, you don't pray that we start to believe what you believe but that we live full, spiritual lives. And when you think of your friends and your family members--don't boil them down to this one aspect of their personality. Think of me as your creative, happy, kind, honest friend (I would hope--that's what I'm shooting for). Think of Tamra as a woman with perseverance, love and grace for multitudes--and hundreds of other things. People are people with bodies and spirits and minds and hearts. We are not the greatest difference between you and me.

And I love you. So much.

My Break Up with Netflix

Oh my goodness! There is controversy and hurt feelings run amok all over the interwebs regarding the way that Netflix changed their prices. Outrage in the village, people! And, yeah, I did decide to cancel my subscription and, yeah, it did happen to coincide with said price changes but it really didn't have to do with them. Well, I guess maybe it did a little bit but not by much.

This is more a piece about how I go through phases. I'm sure you do, too? I'm only sure of that because all of my siblings do. My older brother goes through phases that are years and years and years long so maybe that's not so much a "phase" as much as an ever growing and expansive personality which might just be the right way to go about it. But the mind wants what it wants and my mind needs constant changing stimulation. But I go through phases. They're generally six months long or so. I go through healthy eating and regular exercise phases followed up by I'm-so-excited-about-cooking-things. I go through phases where I'm going to write every day--no matter what. This is subsequently followed by "What's the point? I'ma write only when I feel inspired because then everything will be gold! (no it won't)" I went through a meditation phase... it lasted about ten minutes (spread out over the course of a week). And then I go through rotating movie/ books phases. Those are really the only ones that are consistent. I know that if I'm going through a watch all of the movies phase, then I will inevitably stumble upon one good looking book review in Real Simple Magazine and then bum rush the library.

Did I just use the phrase "bum rush" appropriately? Probably I did not.

I had a professor in college who was from India. She was sweet and oftentimes unreasonable but definitely sweet and she would say things in a unique way. Like instead of saying, "I probably did not use "bum rush" correctly," she would say, "Probably I did not use "bum rush" correctly." Only I'm about a thousand percent certain that Shanti would never use "bum rush" under any sort of circumstance. Anyway, what started out as casual mockery (much like my use of the word "totes" and also "LOL") quickly morphed into my everyday vernacular. So... now I totes put "probably" into weird places in a sentence. Now you know. Do you love it? Probably it bugs the hell out of you like it did me. (Also, most of her "v" sounds came out as "w" sounds and you should have seen the look of confusion on our faces the first time she asked us to "identify the werb". It was mostly awesome but there was always that anxious self-doubt where you're wondering "is this the accent thing or just a word that I've never heard before...")

So now I'm going through a reading phase. I joined the adult summer reading program at the McPherson Public Library (because I am middle-aged and trying to fill my time since the Empty Nest Syndrome has set in) and it's forcing me to read a bunch of genres that I am not instinctively drawn to. I like that. I'm reading Latin American lit right now and, frankly, I'm feeling a little saucy. Also, I've been talking about starting up a local book club. I think my little town is in need of one and maybe as the summer comes to a close, then I'll seriously try to get one started if people are interested. I know I'm interested. I really miss talking about stories with people who have all read the same thing.

So anyway, Netflix, all that to say that's why I left you. I can almost guarantee that I'll come back to you at some point. But when I cancelled my subscription, you gave me this little questionnaire to fill out about why I was leaving. I checked the boxes that kind of worked for my reasons but it wasn't enough. You were like, "are you leaving me for Amazon? Hulu Plus?? You know you have to pay for that, too! Those bitches." But that's not it, Nettie, baby, honey, shhh... there's no one else. It's just--you're not it for me right now. Not, now. And I know you're going to send me occasional emails begging for me to return to you--and maybe I will. I get lonely sometimes at night.

And I really don't mind spending $7 a month to have you send dvd's to my house as often as I like. I really don't. Seven dollars is a steal! And if I ever streamed movies on my computer, then the new $15 price for both is still a really great deal! It is. It's just that if I'm absolutely not using this service, then I'm going to save my $7 and give it to Applebees in exchange for a sangria in a glass the size of a small fish tank. It's nothing against you. I just have priorities and those priorities involve Chuck Palahniuk and liquor. But it's not Hulu Plus. I promise, I'll never pay to stream a movie onto my laptop. That's just stupid.

Do you go through phases? Do you want to join my book club? Are you butt hurt because Netflix wants to charge you $4 more than you paid last month?

How To Make Up a Recipe

Okay, boys and girls. Here's a legitimate How-To that I might be qualified to write! I'm not using this space to brag but to teach. I don't really use recipes. I just make them up. And when people find that out, they say "How do you do that?? How do you know what goes together?? How do you know you're not going to mess it up??" And today I'm going to teach you how to do something that comes super naturally to me. That is, developing your own dinner using only your own brains. It's hard for me to write, actually, because it is a skill (skill?) that comes so naturally to me that I can't really explain it. It's like this: I don't know how to whistle but no one who knows how to whistle can tell me how to do it. They say, "It's easy! Just purse your lips and... blow." No. It clearly is not that easy because I can do that all day long and no lovely song comes out. Just air. And sometimes saliva. Sexy. That being said, I'm still going to give it a shot.

I guess it all really starts at the grocery store. A well minded person would gather a list of all of the things that she wants to eat that week, compile another list of everything that she will need to purchase to make that list come true and then go to the grocery store. That's how the responsible types do their grocery shopping--I think? Some people also go to the store whenever they decide to cook something. I don't do that, though, because if my cupboards are not filled with things, then I'll just stop at Wendy's on the way to the grocery store and spend $6 on one sandwich and fries. So that's why I have to keep my pantry stocked. Do you know how many chicken sandwiches you can make for $6? I'm not totally sure but realistically speaking, I'd guess about four. But, let's be serious. If you're craving a spicy chicken, you're craving a lot more than spices on your chicken. When I'm craving a spicy chicken sandwich I'm craving nostalgia. And in that case, go get your Wendy's.

Anyway, even though I am an avid grocery shopper, I'm pretty bad at sticking to a list so I tend to shop like this,"I'm out of milk and eggs and I have no more apples." Then I just start grabbing things that I tend to enjoy and when I get home, then I figure out what to make with all of them. It's a gamble but sometimes it works out magnificently. One thing to keep in mind when it comes to grocery shopping is that you want to spend as much time around the perimeter of the store as possible. That's where you'll find the freshest ingredients Fresher ingredients = fewer preservatives, better flavor and more vitamins. Meat, seafood, fresh baked bread, cheese, vegetables, dairy: all of the food groups. Hooray!
That doesn't mean that shelf-things are bad things. There are certain items from the middle of the store that I always keep on hand those things are:
Rice, canned beans and tomatoes, (though apparently there's stuff in canned food that will give you cancer or something--so if you don't like cancer, you can research that and come up with an alternative. I, personally, am a little bit tired of running away from cancer and so I have taken a "casually avoid" approach to the whole thing. Also, I tend to not buy a lot of canned foods for the simple fact that they make my groceries very heavy and squish my other stuff) your favorite pasta shape (I personally like rigatoni) jarred pasta sauce (for nights when you're feeling super lazy) and chicken stock. You can pretty much go anywhere if you already have these things in your pantry. So buy those things and then pretty much anything else that you like from the edges of the store and you'll be able to make a meal--I promise. So lets get into it.

So, you're hungry or bored. Probably you're mostly bored and not yet hungry but you figure you'll probably be hungry at some point, later. Step one: Survey the scene!

I looked in the pantry and saw things like beans and rice and taco shells. I looked in my fridge and saw this big green pepper and thought about how my mom used to stuff peppers with rice and taco meat and cheese and bake them. It was pretty much my favorite thing ever. But I only have one green pepper. So I decided that I was just going to take all of the ingredients that you would put into a stuffed pepper and put them all into a casserole. That's the same, right? No, I don't know what all goes into a stuffed pepper but I know what kinds of flavors I like. I don't have any taco meat but that's okay. I've been trying to eliminate at-home meat intake anyway, lately. So we'll make up for the protein in other ways. There's tons of protein and other healthy things in black beans and I also have a mystery protein source that I will reveal when we get to it.

Step two: Get to it!
As with most things in my life, my philosophy on cooking is fake it 'till you make it. Don't know how to cook? Pretend. I recommend pretending like you're on a cooking show. That's what I always do. Because I'm always cooking alone. And if you're not cooking alone, you can still pretend that you're on a cooking show because you probably have an audience. You say things like, "I'm doing this because ____" and that makes you more aware of what you're doing and why you're doing it. That's important because you remember what works and what doesn't.
I know that I'm going to put rice and beans and my green peppers and onions and tomatoes all together. I know that I'm really going to want that rice to be cooked because uncooked rice is inedible. So cook the rice!
Here's how you cook rice:
1 part rice + 2 parts liquid
A. Bring to a boil.
B. Turn the burner down to low and simmer for, like, 20 minutes or until it's done. You know it's done when you taste it and it's edible.

Secondly, I know that the rice is going to be the main portion of the dish and I want it to be super flavorful. I used a coffee cup as measuring tool. I put in one cup of rice, one cup of water and then one cup of salsa. That way it gets a little tomatoey and spicey. But experience has told me that won't be enough flavor. So I stood next to the spice cabinet and dumped in any spice that smelled like it could be tacoey. I dumped in salt and pepper and garlic and cumin and red pepper flakes. Then I stirred it up and let it cook the way rice cooks. Had I any cilantro, I would have added a friggin ton of that as well. After the rice was done cooking, I dumped it into a big bowl and put it into the fridge to cool it down. I did that because experience has told me that if you keep it warm and then put it into the oven, it'll keep cooking that whole time and it will get really gummy. No one likes that.

While it was cooling down, I chopped up my green peppers and onions and tomatoes. I asked myself, "Self? Should I saute these things before I put them into the rice and stuff?" Self answered with, "Um... let's not and see what happens." I didn't saute them for a few reasons, the first reason being that when my mom stuffed her peppers, she stuffed them raw. Also it's easier to not add an extra step and I like the way that fresh veggies crunch. So I didn't. That's all. You could cook them if you wanted to. NBD.
Also, experience has told me to rinse my beans. You don't always have to rinse your beans but for this purpose I did because, in the past, I've not rinsed my beans and they made my food all gummy again. Hot rice + un-rinsed beans = a gummy mess. I just know that. I only know that because I've made "mistakes" in the past. You'll figure it out while you're faking it.

So, I put everything together with the rice that has cooled down a bit and I was thinking that it would need some type of sauce to run throughout it to bind it together and add a little extra flavor. At first I thought that salsa would do the trick but I used a lot of that for the rice. Hmm... what to do. Look in the fridge again. What do you see? I see a tub of greek yogurt.
Have you ever tasted plain Greek yogurt? It's terrible. Have you ever tasted fat-free sour cream? It's friggin Greek yogurt. You know what makes fat-free yogurt edible? Salsa. So here we go. Mix all of the yogurt into the salsa. Trust me. Sometimes things that don't taste great on their own are just delicious when you mix them together. Like... I can't think of any examples right now but there are tons of them.

So, essentially, I just took all of the things (and I crumbled up some left over taco shells--I don't know why. Texture? Color? Whatever) and stirred them all up together and then put them into a prepared baking dish ("prepared" means that you Pam'd the hell out of it so that it doesn't stick and make clean-up a horrible task). Then I thought it should probably have cheese on top but I don't have any sprinkle cheese. So I cut up slice cheese and laid it all on top like that. And I baked it. Since it was all ready to eat, anyway, I mostly just let it bake until I couldn't handle it anymore. The rule in my house is that when you can smell it, it's probably done. That usually works. It worked for me, anyway.

Step three: Eat it! If you don't like it--then you should probably figure out what you didn't like about it and then change that part. If you don't know what it is, call someone who cooks. They'll be able to tell you. Probably. You can email me. Once I emailed Hilah. She got back to me. It solved my problem and made me feel really cool. It's good to have friends who know how to do stuff.

Now I'll attempt to write the recipe for what I made, in case you want to make it too.
1 coffee cup of rice
1 coffee cup of water
1 coffee cup of salsa
Spices that I did not measure: fresh garlic, salt, pepper, red pepper flakes, cumin.
(Make the rice)

1 green pepper
1/2 red onion
1/2 tomato
1 can black beans (rinsed)
(You could also add corn or green chiles or anything else you like)
Crunched up taco chips

1 little tub-thing of sour cream (or greek yogurt or ranch dressing or... I don't know, whatever you want)
Probably a 1/2 a cup of salsa

Mix all of those things together. Stuff it into a caserolle dish. Top with whatever random cheese you have in your fridge. Bake it until you can smell it.

The end.

Hopes, Dreams, Goals, Meh.

I've been reading The Daily Love for a few weeks now. It's nice and refreshing and sweet sometimes. It's nice to have a little boost every now and again that by accepting, loving and being yourself--you're doing favors to everyone. When you have grace with yourself, it's easier to offer grace to other people. Not only that but everyone in your community will benefit from being in the presence of honesty and who doesn't want to extend that to their friends?

But you know how sometimes you find yourself beat over the head with certain themes for a while? It's kind of like how you're thinking of buying a particular car and then, suddenly, everywhere you look you see that particular car. It's a little like that--it's morning time, though, and I'm only a few sips into my coffee and maybe now isn't the most effective time for similes but I'll continue. I've been hearing about "success", "goals", "dreams" so much lately that it makes me think about my own. More particularly that I don't... I want to say this delicately. I don't really have them. I never really have. And, shocker, it hasn't really posed as a serious problem to me in my life except in the case of job interviews. When you say, "I don't really have a five-year-plan" it kind of makes you look like a slacker but what an interviewer should hear is, "I could probably be happy here forever. Never really know." It's bothered a few people in my life. Those super motivated types who never really understood that I didn't have long-term hopes and dreams.

I mean, I have things that I would like to do. Since Arryn turned 30, I've been thinking about it a lot and there are a few things that I would like to do before I turn the big 3-0 in two and a half years. Not because I feel like 30 means anything monumental but because it's nice to have a cut-off date for things. Do you want to know what's on my Thirty List? Only a few things. Okay, I'll tell you.
-I want to take a train to the North West portion of the US, pit stopping along the way. Preferably going from Kansas to California and North from there. I never wanted to visit California but Anne Lamott has made me really want to explore the San Fransisco Bay area. I want this trip to take at least a week and a half. Is that greedy?
-I want a bed that has a headboard that I can lean against to read. I've never had a bed that permitted such a luxury. If I lean against the wall in my current bed, it rolls out from under me.
-I want to maintain a reasonable vegetarian diet for at least a year. Reasonable being, not inconvenient to the people around me. I have no qualms about eating animals. It's more from a perspective of exercise in self-control. Subsequently, I don't want to be wasteful of others' resources. If you invite me to dinner, I plan to eat your meatloaf. Or whatever.

Yeah, those are just some things that I want to do but they're not goals. They're not a measure of success. They're nothing with a high-end. Just some life experiments and treats. Totally attainable.

I think when it really comes down to it my highest goal is to be helpful, loving and honest to everyone around me. That is my measure of success. I don't care about jobs or money--I've never really had much and I'm making due in a beautiful little world without it. I think I'm making due because I'm currently so surrounded with so much Unconditional. That's what I'll call it. This place--this apartment in this town with these people, my friends--the friends that I've had for a decade and the friends that I've had for a week--it all came to me exactly when I needed it as I've needed it. I'm grateful. It's hard to not choose to be happy when you're so thankful at everything that you see. That is--most days. Many times I am out of my mind with worry or insecurities. I don't want to give off some hippy, happy idea that's not the case. But mornings like this where it's dark like it's going to rain and people are mowing the lawn before it starts. The coffee is mixed exactly like I love it, I'm listening to oldish Wilco and I'm planning to make dinner for my friends, tonight--it's hard to focus on those things that can bogg down a brain.

I know not everyone feels that way this morning, and that's okay. When you feel full you can share with those who are running on empty. I hope I do that in measure. Come to my house, eat tacos. Feel the loves.

Delicious, Delicious, Cocaine

Yesterday we got too serious. Today is full of screen shots and humor. And also deliciousness.
I saw this picture over at Tastespotting, today and I have to admit that I'm past the point of being frickin' annoyed about how everyone thinks they're just adorable for putting the word "crack" in front of a food item. What the hell kind of a world are we living in? "Say 'no' to drugs, kids. But you know what's soooo good? Like, delicious. Like--ugh! I can't even describe it, it's like caramel and whipped cream only instead of eating it you sniff it up your nose. No--no--no it's awesome. But it's so awesome that if you try it once you'll never stop tasting it's sweet, sweet awesomeness and you'll die. So... like I said, say 'no' to drugs. Even delicious ones that taste like caramel corn, I guess."
I mean what the hell, you guys? So I did a quick search and took a screen shot of the stupid, inappropriate usages of "crack" as found at www.tastespotting.com. I didn't even try hard. I'm sure throughout the internet there are millions of stay at home moms thinking they're super edgy.

I could have accepted "Crack Cookies", possibly. If they were all crackly or something but no way are you skating by with "'Crack' Cookies."
Okay, actually better known as, "I just want to find the quickest and most delightful way to kill you a little bit." Bacon: Heart disease, Bourbon: alcohol poisoning, Caramel corn: I'm going to choke you and glue your molars together, how does that sound?
Popcorn again? Really? You at least get points for using the word "addictive". You may be dumb but you're not stupid and I applaud that.

And now, all those brownies that are "just like crack". Delicious, delicious crack cocaine.
They're not known as that, that's what you call them at your PTA meetings and all the ladies "ooh" and "aah" but you know what? They go home and they talk to their husbands about how Patty brought these brownies and seemed to know just a little too much about illicit drugs.
Look at that! Again. You guys must be in the same PTA.
Yeah, we know you didn't come up with the name but you could probably come up with a different name. Try something realistic like, "better than brownies that don't contain peanut butter" or "better than getting mocked on the internet by some girl who totes stole that recipe after she screen shot that picture". (Not true, I didn't take that recipe. I only like real drugs in my brownies.)
Oh look at that. Garlic is like crack too, huh? Wow. I like it. It's delicious. Delicious and gives me bad breath but not delicious and makes me jittery and emaciated. So, whatever. Potato/ potato.
Oh my gosh! :) Garlic again! That's so... clever or something. Ah! Careful! Don't get addicted to the garlic chips. Don't start paying for these chips by the kilo or anything. Unless you're willing to do that... in which case, I'm looking to open up shop.
Seriously? That's too far. You're kidding me. This blog is called "whiteonricecouple" well... I would guess so. These are the same people who brought you the Garlic Knots that are worth ruining your life over. Real cool, guys.
Okay, now there. You see that? That is how you describe a friggin delicious cheesecake. No crack. D.A.R.E. to keep foodies off drugs, y'all.

Have we forgotten what crack is really like? You know what's like crack??



Now.
How delicious are those brownies?

So Much Cake Happened to Me

Last week I didn't write much of anything because I only had complaints to fill all of the space. This week I haven't written anything because I've been so happily, distractedly busy that there just hasn't been any time at all. Which is good, because I expected the opposite of this. In honor of the deliciousness of this week I'm going to get while the getting's good and double up on the gratitude and make a list of six things that I loved. Hopefully there will be tons of pictures. I didn't take a lot of pictures but everyone else did. I'll find them. I'll find them.


1. The time that Kiki ran away but then returned after the weekend was over.
She was gone for a weekend and then she came back. It's like she went to go visit a friend and forgot to tell me. Or something. What a teenager. The internet said that she'd be scared to come out in the day time so after the night time happened, I put a little bowl of food by the door. Before I went to bed, I went out to check and see if I could call her in but there she was just sitting in front of the door. Like we do this all the time. Like she's ever been on that side of the door. She has not. She's been inside for five years. She seems like such a natural at navigating the wilderness, though, that I wonder how often she sneaks out at night. Teenage rebellion, I tell ya.

2. The time I didn't know we were celebrating Justin's birthday. Justin was all, "come over to my house and play games!" And Katie and I were all, "Um... alright." And we get there and there's guacamole--so you know something's up. There are various guests. I made some new friends. I made a just wonderful first impression, more or less, by making an insensitive joke about priests and children... it was a risky move. I'm still not sure how it went over. Not one I'd like to try again. But the best part was the dinosaur cake complete with Stegosaurus and a fully functional volcano. "Fully functional" is a relative term and what I mean by that is that if Justin would have eaten the entire piece that had the volcano on it, he would have thrown up. Justin's birthday is later this month but he had everyone that he wanted to hang out with available to him now. So he threw a tiny birthday party for himself, I guess. It was cute.

3. The time that I wore bright red lipstick all day.
It was a best day ever, to be sure. The lipstick had nothing to do with it but the fact that I was comfortable wearing it out into the public--in the day time--it says a lot about the attitude with which I went strutting about towns. It was Arryn's 2nd Annual 29th Birthday so she and Tish and I spent a supremely schedule-free day together. The only things on the agenda were to eat, at least once, get her a tattoo, watch a movie. We did all of those things in no particular order.
We went to Wichita and wandered around Old Town until we found a place that looked like they wanted us to eat their lunch. We stopped at Cafe Moderne because their gelato refrigerator (like it's not cool enough that a refrigerator dedicated strictly to gelato in the first place exists) looked like a UFO. So, naturally, we wanted a taste of whatever was in that spinning disc. We ate the gelato. We found some coffee. We got tattoo'd. Well, Arryn did but it made me really excited about wanting a new one. I ran my tattoo idea past what's-his-name and he loved it. I love it. I love it so much I'm keeping it a secret.

4. The time I learned a little bit about not being so presumptuous. You know, there are a lot of bits about me that are different than what, I assume, a lot of people would expect from me. And a lot of times I tend to kind of shirk back and not reveal that much of myself to certain people because I just don't want to deal with someone else's reactions to my disappointment of their false expectations. I wouldn't say that I act fake or put-on, or anything. I just tend to keep quieter about a few different aspects of things. Religion, politics, sex, feelings etc.--they're topics that you just learn to avoid in order to keep conversation easy. This week, though, I kind of just took a "fuck it" approach and I was pleasantly surprised by the complete non-reaction that I received. Not only that but I realized that by reigning in these parts of myself to avoid judgement--I have, really, only been passing judgement onto others and making myself believe that I'm cooler than I really am. Hypocrites: they are everywhere. They are me. Peoples is peoples.

5. The time that Arryn's birthday party got tornado'd out. Friday night we had a party in the park and pretty much invited the whole world. Only about 1/3 of the whole world showed up but we had enough food, even if we didn't have a lot of variety. We had cake and that's the important part when it comes to celebrating birthdays. With so many birthdays this week--so much cake happened to me.
Tish made this cake from scratch, though, which is something that I have never, ever attempted. I mean, you watch this girl melt chocolate down and incorporate it into the batter and temper eggs and all sorts of other fancy things that I'm always too chicken to try. Who's birthday is next? Can I make you a from-scratch birthday cake? I want to try. I've always been too chicken but now it's time to face our fears and experiment on someone else's birthday.
Oh, but anyway, we're all having a great time birthdaying. I remember noting the change in weather and saying to a man that I had just met for the first time, "is it going to rain?" He said, "absolutely not." Sidenote: Sometimes in life, people are very certain of things about which they have no idea. Those people are usually at least a little bit wrong. This gentleman, however, was a whole lotta wrong. Like--the most opposite of right that one could possibly ever be in one's life. He's never been and will never be more incorrect about anything ever. So, there's the upside, Guy. He was nice, though. He brought a watermelon.
Everything was getting cleaned up and put away, everyone was just kind of milling around trying to decide if they really wanted to leave or not when a guest drove by and yelled, "You guys! We're in a tornado warning!" I'm not certain that I've ever seen a group of people dissipate faster. Most people were from in-town and ran to their own homes but my friend, Ellie, and her family came home with us and we all squished down into the little bitty basement. The little bitty basement is home to Ryan the Delightful but he is off on holiday and so mostly we just hung out in his house where he was not. It was sorta weird, but you just accept that this is what's happening and hope that you don't get smushed by a tornado. There were five little kids and they all wrestled and made friends with one another on the carpet (they did not break or really even touch anything). Penelope traveled from one edge of the carpet to the other and back. She doesn't crawl, she scoots as though one of her legs is totally lame. One friend is quoted as saying, "she reminds me of Lieutenant Dan". I don't know if that helps with your visual or not but it is incredible to see. I liked that there were so many people all in one place just hanging out, waiting for the storm to pass. This was the first time that I remember ever actually hearing a tornado siren. Don't worry, there was no serious trouble. Just a "rotating wall cloud" which sounds like a big deal to me, but then again I'm not a meteorologist or the type of person who knows what's up with the weather when I actually have no effin clue.
After the warning was over, we went to more spacious quarters. Then my sister called, which leads to favorite thing #6.

6. The time I saved a baby like, friggin, Bruce Willis running away from an exploding building. My sister, Sarah, was driving through this direction. She called and asked me if there was any severe weather warnings in KS. This shocked me because though the warning had passed, the storms outside were straight. up. horrendous. She told me where she was and all I could muster was, "Um... you just drove through all of the tornado warnings." She was kind of panicky, her four kids were panicky and her baby was super hungry and screaming like crazy. We convinced her to drive back to McPherson and get everyone taken care of and calmed down.
Mind you, this is one girl with three kids in car seats and all the diaper bags that go along with that. And with the rain coming down so hard, we knew that she needed all the help she could get. Arryn and I perched at the front door. I tossed my shoes to the wayside--they'd only slow me down. When Sarah drove up, we bolted. Arryn went to get the kids and I went for Owen, my 8 month old nephew. He was being kind of a maniac but I didn't let his attitude sway me from the task at hand. Sarah grabbed the diaper bag and ran. I finagled the little dude out of his car seat, clutched him to my chest, slammed the door shut and then ran like hell through the downpour and the puddles. He's screaming and confused and I'm thinkin' "Go! Go! Go!" Once we got inside, we were both totally drenched but he stopped crying and just stared at me. I know he was thinking, "You're such a bad ass, Aunt Lib. Also you just saved my life and I'll put you up in a retirement home when you are too old to care for yourself." I know, Owen. I know. (I'm not going to tell you about how halfway between the van and the house, I lost my britches. That's not respectable.) Two days later, my jeans were still damp in places. The rain--it was incredible and unsettling.

And that's just a small sampling of the great things about this week. I think that the majority of what is awesome is all based upon perspective. My perspective has been adjusted and I like it this way. I'm well aware that it won't always come so easily but I'll take it when it does.