Some things that are true

love Christmas. We’ve had the tree up at our house for a few days now.

My cube at work is decked out with Christmas lights and a two foot tall tree, and an almost matching computer wallpaper and snowy screensaver.

You might call this obsessed but I call it BUDDY THE ELF, WHAT’S YOUR FAVORITE COLOR?

Holidays + off to a wedding tomorrow (or tonight, depending on when you read this) = Iwanttobemarried fever. I mean, it is like the flu… I am mostly okay with the whole being single thing but once a year or so, I come down with AllIwantforChristmasisahusbanditis, with a touch of IwishIhadsomeonetomakegooglyeyesatduringcrazyfamilygatherings (sorry I said that, family, but you know I speak the truth), followed by an epidemic of IneedchildrensoIhaveanexcusetowakeupearlyandopenpresents (did I mention I love Christmas?). BUT another thing that is true is that because of Jesus, I do not have to stake my joy in marriage and I can be confident that His grace is enough. Amen and amen.
I bought a pair of jeans the other day. They have an elastic band. And I like it. I am both amused and horrified by this. Next on the list is a pair of sensible shoes. Someone stop me before I get to the embroidered sweatshirts.
It is 33 degrees outside and I am sitting on the couch under three layers of blankets, shivering. I’m concerned that I won’t survive the actual winter. Am I really the same person who braved a blizzard for Cherry Coke earlier this year? 
This may or may not have been the highlight of my day today.

I just realized that picture looks like I murdered a pastry but it’s Cherry Cobbler Cake. My boss made it for our monthly Treat Day at work and I may or may not have had two slices. It’s what Buddy would do.

What are you doing for Christmas this year?

Hey girl, hey

So I had this dream last night that I flew a helicopter from Kansas City to St. Louis twice in one weekend.

Because I mean, WHO DOESN’T?

Also, I am feeling pretty famous these days. I always order the same thing when I go to Jimmy John’s, and there’s this girl at my local JJ’s who just starts making my sandwich almost before I even order it because she already knows what I want.

Then today, I grabbed lunch from a local deli. They ask for your name and then just call it out when your food is ready. The girl at the counter knew my name without me telling her and the lady who was calling names looked for me before she called my name (also, I think I should get free things from the deli because her name is Lucy too so we are name twins and if that doesn’t deserve a free Cherry Coke once in a while, I don’t know what does). I’ve pretty much fulfilled my lifelong dream at becoming a regular like Norm in Cheers (oh snap, outdated pop culture reference!).

I’m also happy to report that my packing woes have been resolved. And by “resolved,” I mean that I moved. Hallelujah, thank you Jesus. It took four hours to clean my apartment and our garage is full of all the things we can’t find room for in the house (when two girls – both with lots of stuff and things and trinkets and etc – move in together, a storage unit that some people might call a garage becomes a non-negotiable) but it. is. finished. I have a roommate, a living room that can comfortably seat more than one person at a time and a kitchen drawer that doesn’t open all the way because the previous previous owners remodeled the kitchen themselves and didn’t account for the door frame. Sillies. The house is funny and the light switch that you think should turn on the light in the living room really turns on the light outside, our bedroom doors won’t stay open without a doorstop and our deck isn’t attached to the house. It’s a quirky little abode but I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Then also, there’s the whole roommate thing which I thought was going to MONUMENTAL and DIFFICULT and WHOA WHAT DID WE JUST DO after two years of living alone. And well, some moments have been like that. Two sinners living together means friction will happen. But I think for the most part, it’s been a healthy one… like sandpaper and iron sharpening iron. Most importantly, though, having a roommate means I feel less guilty about buying cookies so we can share them instead of me eating the whole bag a sleeve at a time. Saving money on rent and stuff is nice, but obviously, it’s all about the cookies.

So I wanted to close this post with a picture because a post without pictures is like Apple without Steve Jobs (moment of silence) but alas, I can’t find the picture I wanted to show you so I will just have to describe it. There’s a billboard I pass every day on my way to work. It’s a black and white photo of a 1950s0-1960s (?) guy wearing a suit, aviator sunglasses pulled down his nose. He’s looking off to the side like he’s checking a hot lady out and there’s just a caption next to him, in an amazing orange font, that says “hey girl, hey.” And I cannot tell you why it makes me smile every time but, it just dang does. So if someone could maybe find that print for me, that would be great and future husband, I hope you’re taking notes because I feel like that would be a fun idea to play with for proposal time or birthday gift time or oh hey, it’s Tuesday time. Also if your name could be Ryan Gosling, that would be fantastic, thanks.

(I kind of hope that last paragraph morphs into a fantastically weird dream tonight.)

Well, it’s no hey girl, hey., but it’s the best I could do under the circumstances. Also, please note that I am on a roll with the old school pop culture references. Expect a post about Popples soon. 
Sweet/weird dreams, y’all!

They call me Loocee

As it turns out, time flies when you’re:

Babysitting
Small-group-ing Gospel Community-ing
HLAA-ing
Transcriptioning (which is totally not a word but I do what I want)
Working
Going to the audiologist (which really just happened that one time today but whatevs)
Buying wedding and baby shower gifts (please don’t unfriend me on Facebook if I just give you a gift card. It’s a nerves-are-frayed issue on my end. xoxo)
Les Miz-ing (yes, I’m still on that. Hey, future husband, I hope you like musicals or at least come with a lifetime supply of earplugs)
And a lot of other random things in between, including eating out and NOT working out which, if we’re being honest, is kind of wonderful but also awful (sorry, future husband. I hope your love language includes Snickers bars). Can I get an amen, sista?

Oh hey, can we just talk about all the babies for a minute? I mean, there are so many of them. Big ones, small ones, some as big as your head (and for those of you planning a smart aleck-y comment, none of them are mine). Mostly, they’re at church. I spend a lot of Sunday mornings helping corral them all. It’s fun. And exhausting. And sometimes lalala and sometimes OHMYGAWSH. Then I have a few friends who have delightful offspring who think it’s wonderful when Loocee (they call me this, it’s true) comes over to toss them in the air help watch the kids. There are many small children in my life and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

But friends, since this is my blog and I tend to overshare, here we go. I get that I kind of painted myself in a corner here with the lovely bunch of kiddos, and I really have only myself to blame for this but sometimes I feel like The Babysitter, you know? Not a Person or a Lady or even That Girl Who is Way Too Obsessed With Lost. No… just The Babysitter. Even better, The Single Babysitter – because we all know that single people have noooooooooooo life (she said, tongue firmly in cheek). 😉

It’s hard to find the balance. I do want to serve my church family well on Sunday mornings and I do want to be a good friends and help out during the week and I do genuinely enjoy watching the kids. But I also want to feel like a grown-up. I do have a life and priorities and bills and friends and work and need my own downtime from it all as well. It can be disheartening to feel people only want to know when you can babysit and not when you can come over for coffee. It’s tricky, this balance thing.

So also, I went to the audiologist today (I know, right? Smooth segues are obviously my spiritual gift, not really) because over the last few months, I’ve noticed that I’ve had to ask people to repeat themselves more and I’ve been turning the volume up on the TV and CD player (Whaaaaat, CD player? I am so old school) more than usual. I mean, hello, yes I know I am hard of hearing and that happens, but it was outside of what I’d come to know as “normal.” So I scheduled a hearing test and what-iffed my week away… silly, really. What if I was losing more hearing or needed a cochlear implant or new hearing aids? Meh. What, indeed? It wouldn’t be the end of the world, not in this day and age of technological advancement.

Of course, all my what-iffing was for naught, as it was really more of a “Srsly, you need to come in every six months so we can check on your hearing aid filters” issue than an “Oh snap how did you lose so much hearing in a short amount of time” kind of deal. In fact, the word he used to describe the hearing test was “stable.” So psh and eye-rolls to me… especially when I got back in the car and I had to turn the volume down for a change!

Also, today, I was reading The Internet – the story was about the Army Corps blowing up a levee in a Midwestern state. The headline got cut off, however, and instead implied that the Army plans to blow up Missouri. I just felt I should probably tell someone about that because I bet that’s the kind of thing that gets lost in the shuffle of royal weddings and dead terrorists.

(Graceful exits are also my spiritual gift, not really.)

You might be a redneck if…

… you have some hoity-toity, high-falutin’ ideas about how to clear the snow from around your car.

Let me preface this by saying that it was so nice of the maintenance crew to clear the walkway.

However, it was rude of them to pile the leftover snow next to my car.

Okay fine, plan B. I will do it myself. But I have no shovel in my life to keep me warm at night, so I asked around. No one had a shovel. Shameful. We live in the Midwest. It snows regularly. We should know better. Personally, I blame the education system.

Anyway, shovel-less + lots of snow = problem. A kindly friend tried calling the maintenance crew. No one answered.

See? Rude.

(But I guess there was a blizzard going on. And one time they came out on Labor Day to fix my lack of hot water issue. So we’re good.)

My shovel dreams shattered, I tried using a broom to clear the mess instead. Hilarious. It was like using a hairbrush to clean up an avalanche. Not going to work is not an option. So what’s a girl to do?

I will tell you. She says to herself, “Self, you don’t really need a shovel, per se. You just need a large, flat object to dig yourself out. You. Can. Do This.”

So I did.

Your eyes do not deceive you. That, my friends, is a cookie sheet. Jeff Foxworthy would be so proud.

Oh wait, there’s more. I brought these lovely ladies in for reinforcement.

Meanwhile, I looked something like this:

Hawt. Oh, future husband, you have so much to look forward to.

Every single girl’s fantasy

Sometimes, when it snows, and I have to bundle up in five layers of clothing and pull on my boots and make the trek all.the.way across the parking lot and brush off just enough snow off my car so I can open the door without bringing the blizzard inside, throw my purse and lunch in, put the key in the ignition and turn on the heat so the ice can start melting off my windshield while I hack through all of it with a tiny ice scraper and try to reach all 5’2 of me across the hood to brush off all the snow with an old towel and repeat this cycle all the way around the car for 15 minutes while my thighs freeze and I can no longer feel my fingers even with gloves on before crawling into my toasty car to rest for a few seconds before actually leaving for work, I think, “this would be so much easier if I was married.” (I know, this is what we call a first-world problem.)

Call me sexist or a disappointment to all independent women, but my idea of the perfect man is one who makes grocery store runs, reaches high places and empties the dishwasher. All you veteran married/girlfriend-ed ladies out there are probably laugh, laugh, laughing at my naivete but just let me have my dreams, mk? Some girls swoon and sigh over that one special day where they get to dress up in white, eat cake and dance with their new husband. On the other hand, nothing sets my heart aflutter more than imagining that magical moment when my sugar pie honey bunch will take out the trash for me. In exchange, I plan to bake a lot of cookies and sit through a lot of football. BOO-YAH. I would totally rock that wife gig.

So hypothetical future husband, take note. You’re off the hook (mostly) for flowers and dancing and candlelit dinners. Just take care of changing the oil and we’ll call it even. XOXO.