Snake's on a Train - yes, that's a possessive singular

Yesterday was a decisive day in our Australian adventures.  We entered the world of the AFL, Australian Football League.  This has nothing to do with pigskin or futbol proper.  It has everything to do with, well, I don't exactly know.  AFL, or footy, or Aussie rules, is a game played on an oval with multiple goals.  The ball rarely stops moving, as it can be kicked, thrown, run with, etc.  The game we saw yesterday between Geelong (jah-LONG) and East Coast (eest koest) was a semi final.  We barracked (cheered for) Geelong because it's a local team.  I have reserved judgement about what team is going to be my team.  I have grand aspirations about choosing a team, knitting scarves in their colors, knowing all their players and keeping tabs on the match scores. It is entirely likely that none of this will happen and I will instead devote my extra time to learning French and baking scones (scons).

We rode the train to the match at the MCG, which was a fun experience.  While there were no snakes on the train, there were some interesting individuals, including a girl I swear thought she was Little Bo Peep.  I'm not stretching the truth.  The girl was wearing a knee length floral frock, lace gloves, and a straw hat, and I'm not talking about some kind of vintage modern chic.  She was in costume.  There was also the Indian guy we talked to on the way home who's been studying at a university here for a couple years.  He has lots of friends in the US and was interested to hear about why we're here.  I feel like just because we have an accent, we have a key to conversation with anyone we wish to talk to!

Yesterday morning, I was able to catch my brother and his girlfriend on Skype.  The audio wasn't working, so we resorted to writing notes on scraps of paper and holding them up to the camera.  I realize we could have just used the text option, which we did eventually, but I recently watched Mr. Magorium's Wonder Emporium and I was inspired.  One of the things we talked about was the demise of the English language.  I'm sure people are always talking about the demise of the English language, whether it's Victorian England or 21st century America.  But really... apostrophes are used to show possession, not plurality.  The more I read old books, the more I realize how many words we're losing all the time.  Words like putrefaction, mellifluous and pecuniary.  There are all these concerned citizens keeping watch over endangered species, but don't they realize that if they aren't careful, we'll hardly have any words to communicate the devastating losses of chinks of the food chain??  Yes, I'm being a little facetious.

This week, I will be absent from my keyboard and present at camp.  CAMP CAMP CAMP.  I love camp.  Haven't packed a stitch, so I'd better go now.  But I'll be there for a week, so you'll have to wait for an update.

Much love,

Little Miss Sunshine

Hi, My Name is Little Miss and I Am a Purple Platypus

Hi,
My name is Little Miss and sometimes I feel like a purple platypus.

I was home schooled.  I don't drink.  I don't believe in sex before marriage.  I believe that there aren't a lot of different paths to Heaven.  I don't believe you have to work hard to please God.  I don't believe life is about climbing the ladder.  I believe you win by losing and live by dying.

Yeah.  Try explaining any of those without sounding like a purple platypus.  As if those things were normal.  As if making any of those choices are run of the mill, no big deal.

This anomaly is becoming more and more apparent as I get to know people at work, around town, etc.  Growing up with a bunch of Christian home school friends didn't exactly give me much practice in explaining why I'm a purple platypus.  I wouldn't trade the experience, and I'm grateful for it.  That said, this whole being a lone platypus is somewhat of a novel experience.

Where do I start?  How much do I say?

What's that ring on your finger?
A. It was a present from my parents.
B. It's a promise ring.
C. It's a purity promise ring to my future husband that I won't have sex before we're married because the original plan for sex was to be between husband and wife as a model of the intimacy between Christ and the Church.

Where do I cross the line that forms the border between Speakingthetruthville and I'mabetterthanyousnobton?  I don't want to pull punches, but giving out black eyes isn't the gospel either.

I guess that's why God wrote: Speak the truth in love.  But what in the world does that mean?  Where do I start and finish?  How do I craft my words so they communicate a God whose love is transformational and unrelenting?

Maybe this is where "my sheep hear My voice" comes in.  The more I walk with Jesus, the more I realize our call is to walk with Jesus.  We got together with some new friends last night and talked about how people who follow Jesus are called to love people, but far and above that is a priority to love our Heavenly Father.  He is our object of worship, our one passion, our provider of life and our reason for it.  Out of this springs a love for people, not the other way around.

Pray I can make some sense of living as a purple platypus,

Much love,
LMS

Cheers

They like to say cheers here.  I like that.  They don't say it in regards to cheerleaders, it's more of a substitute for "ok, great". 

Life in Australia.  What do I say about life in Australia?  We moved.  Our house sitting gig was up, so our guardian angels got busy and Mr. and Mrs. P said of course we could stay with them until we drove each other crazy - direct quote.  So we moved in yesterday.  We have our own bedrooms, and Mrs. P said there's icecream in the freezer for when we want it.  :)  They're wonderful.  They said that when they visited the States, they received such hospitality that it's a pleasure to return the favor.  Wow.  Blessed. 

On Friday, school holiday begins.  It lasts two weeks, and the first week, SG and I are going to CAMP.  You know how I feel about camp.  I love love love it.  It's a Christian camp, but the focus is introducing kids to Jesus who don't know Him yet.  Aaaaand there will be surfing, hip hop dance groups, bands, and lollies (candy).  It's going to be fantastic.  During the other week I think we'll just... go kangaroo spotting?  Maybe we'll go to the city and wander around museums or something. 

On Saturday, we have the fabulous good fortune of accompanying the illustrious Mr. other P and his wife to the footie!  AHHHHHH.  It's almost like going to the Superbowl.  It's a big deal.  Everyone's a die hard fan.  Moms and grandmas are included.  They all have THEIR team and they follow the brackets closely.  It's kind of a crazy game.  You can score at different places in the field, you can kick the ball, throw it, run with it, whatever.  It's crazy.

Work is going well.  Had my first cranky customer Wednesday night.  Maybe he was just having a bad day.  We'll give him the benefit of the doubt.  It wasn't even the guy that I had to ask three times what he was ordering.  I apologized and said I didn't speak Australian very well.  He just laughed.  Whew.  But LAST night, I got my first waitress compliment!  Let me tell you, positive words can make your day miles more than good tips.  It was just a table of kids my age, and on the way out one of the girls said I had really good customer service.  I was floating.

Tonight we get to hang out with "the friends", who aren't really our friends yet, but we're working on it.  Our darling friend Ch invited us to her small group tonight, and we're going.  And we're excited!  Fellowship and study/prayer time is becoming more precious to me as I see its effects.

Love from down undah

LMS

Language laugh of the week, last night a guy ordered a millo... I asked him to repeat it twice and wrote it down phonetically.  I asked my boss, and he didn't know what I was talking about.  I had to walk back to the table and ask him to spell it!  Lo and behold, he wanted a merlot!  Ohhhh language barriers!

Curious George Takes Up Dancing

I, Georgia Delaney, am going to learn to dance.  There, you have it in writing.  You might not believe this to be so outlandish an aspiration.  Clearly, we are not well-acquainted.  Ballet when I was 5, and my mom thought I would look precious in a tutu; hip-hop when I was in 7th grade and just wanted to be cool like Hannah Tomlinson; swing dancing in college.  Dance and I go back a ways.  Our relationship, long though it be, is not a very good one.  It demands I step when supposed to, remember turns, not look at my shoes, and do it all with grace and ease.  Unreasonable.  However, I am turning over a new leaf.  I am going to learn to dance, to float and flit about the floor with the grace of Audrey Hepburn, who I shall never be like but shall ever try. 

I mean, why not?  That's what my friend Sophie says.  It's a little overused, but she takes it seriously.  No boring living for Soph.  If she got it in her mind that she was going to teach inner city slum children how to read, she'd do it.  If she decided to be a physics professor, she'd do it.  In my personal opinion, Sophia Jean Christiansen is a girl who lives mightily.  It's a pity dear old Soph lives about a thousand miles away, or I might try to talk her into coming dancing with me.  It wouldn't take much convincing.  She outlived me in the dance studio and has no fear when it comes to choreography.

It all started when I ran out of milk.  Running out of milk is to me what running out of bandaids is to the school nurse - emergency with a capital E.  So I hopped in my Jetta, flew around the corner to the grocery and intended to go straight to the dairy section, no wandering, no meandering.  Here I should say something someone famous wrote about the best laid plans or good intentions, but I don’t remember what they said.  Whilst I was wending my way to the dairy section, my best laid plans were waylaid by a cunning apron display.  Have I told you about my obsession with aprons?  I love them.  I love them philosophically, I love them socially, I love them pragmatically, so on and so forth ad nauseum.  Here I was, good intentions in hand, and there stood the apron display.  One in particular caught my eye.  It was a blue floral with peachy colored trim and pockets.  Mmmm.  Delish.  Enough about aprons, back to milk and dancing. 

After un-waylaying myself and successfully procuring a gallon of good old 1%, I strode back to my car, feeling at peace with the world.  Upon approaching my car, I sneered with annoyance at the presence of a flyer of unknown content.  Pest control services?  Not interested.  Lawn mowing?  No thanks.  Security system?  I AM my security system.  Further inspection rendered these assumptions inaccurate.  Hello, dance advertisement!  It read as follows:

Come and dance. 

The music is playing, the floor is polished.  All we need is you!

Social dancing lessons from swing to samba.

Today can be the day you learn to dance.

No partner necessary.

Beginner, intermediate, advanced all welcome.

I am generally impervious to advertisements.  I was, after all, a business minor.  I know how these things work.  They have years of strategy and rhetoric behind them.  I also know a few things about economics.  In the economy of Georgie, there is a demand for living with a "why not" sort of air, and I think this dance class will supply it.  Besides, I'm all about building community and preserving the arts and getting involved.  I refuse to fear dancing.

Most determinedly yours,

Georgie

Curious George Moves Away

Nobody told me it was going to be like this.  They sell stacks of home and garden magazines, all raving about how great it is to have your own place.  Every page has 101 Ways to Organize Your Pantry, 101 Paint Colors You Can't Go Wrong With, 101 Things Your Bedroom Needs.  I keep looking, but I still haven't found the list entitled 101 Myths Georgie Fell For.  At the top of that list would be Myth #1: Moving out of your parents' house will be everything you imagine. 

What they neglect to mention is that you will be lonely, alone, by yourself, solo.  Did I mention, the only one living in your house will be you?  Sometimes I make rash decisions.  I'm wondering if this is going to be one of them.  Don't get me wrong, the smart green window boxes bursting with red geraniums and the old wood floors are fantastic.  There's room in the backyard for a garden, and the kitchen will do for dinner parties with friends I don't have yet. 

Dash it all.  I'm going to be fine.  If there's one thing Georgia Delaney is going to be, it's fine.  What was I brought up, an orchid?  Heaven's no, a sunflower I was brought up and a sunflower I will be. 

The unpacking is coming along ok.  Mom, being Mom, came for the weekend and helped clean the place from top to bottom.  Katie tried to help unpack the kitchen but got frustrated trying to organize the dishes because I have so many and they're all different colors and sizes.  She's not too keen on scrubbing bathrooms, so she just sat on the floor and watched me unpack my closet.  When everything was unloaded thanks to Dad and Brett, and the Mom was reasonably assured that she couldn't do anything more, they packed themselves into the Honda and drove away.  They left me, feigning buoyancy, standing on the front steps waving. 

It sure seemed like a good idea when I was signing the rental papers.  Cute tiny house, big enough for me, a couple hours away from the parents, job at a museum telling people about how artists respond to politics and culture with their art.  All good.  New adventures.  I'm the adventurous one, I'm the independent one, blah blah blah.  What was I thinking?  I was thinking I was tired of sharing a room with Katie, who leaves her dirty soccer socks everywhere.  I was thinking I was tired of having all of my stuff packed away in boxes in the garage because there wasn't room for it in the house.  That's what I was thinking. 

Well, now I have room for my eclectic vase collection and my brainstorm board with all of my sewing sketches.  Hurrah. 

Quite disgruntled to be so easily beguiled by decorating magazines,

George

At the intersection of Pennsylvania Avenue and wonder

One.  Perhaps, if well-endowed with years, occupying a century.  Perhaps, if possessing a gift of wisdom, leaving many with lessons worth remembering.  Perhaps, if used faithfully, a road sign saying "All you've ever truly searched for can be found in Jesus the Messiah".  Perhaps is a word pregnant with potential.  It is poised like a spinning top, ready to fall to one side or another at any moment.

Life is a journey.  Life is a dance.  Life is a race.  They say lots of things in attempts to put parameters around something so grand, as if to fence in a rainbow. 

When I try to think about life, it feels almost as futile as counting stars.  Life is abstractions like joy and wonder.  Life is particulars like 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue and the number of squares on a checkerboard.  Life it the coming together of abstractions and particulars, like the way you feel when you walk across a stage and they hand you a piece of paper that says "we'll mail your diploma soon". 

Some talk about it in terms of a life force, some mysterious power that flows through people and things, holding the universe together.  It takes on the personality of an electric current, animating the things it flows through.  Some talk about it in terms of being all there is.  Life, death and the dirt they bury you in.  There is no mysterious anything, it's best if you just mind your own business and try to enjoy what you've got. 

What about the phloem?  Cells that live in the stems of plants to help move water from one part to another.  What about the way you feel when someone you love very much dies?  Feelings that go deeper than words because of a relationship between two human hearts.  Ooey gooey butter cake?  If life was just being born and dying or just mysterious force, what's the use of ooey gooey butter cake?  Length of life is quantified in time.  Quality of life is quantified in relationships and legacy.  More fence posts around the rainbow. 

Trout have speckles.  Cedar chips smell good.  Love for someone moves you to attempt the impossible.  And to think, something so full of promise and pain and we only sit crosslegged atop the tip of the iceberg.  We're only here for a few years.  There's a world brimming with people to meet, markets to wander through, and sunsets to get lost in.  There will be horrors unspeakable and emotional scars of conflicts unforgiven.  But we are given our small sliver of the timeline to inhabit how we choose. 

Teach us, O Lord, to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom.  - Psalms

Grant us the eyes to see the hearts that hurt, the ears to hear the glory of cellos, and the wherewithal to appreciate the smell of biscuits in the oven. 

LMS

Facts and fashion predicaments

Reader.  I've happened upon a predicament.  Said predicament is as follows.  There are things in my life that happen that veritably scream to be written about, that probably should not be written about.  Prime example - my husband hunt.  The term alone would probably depopulate men for a good 15,000 mile radius.  Secondary example - people.  Assuming you know a few, you'll agree with me when I say the creatures are hilarious.  I would gladly caricature a few, except for one problem.  They're real people.  Real people sometimes get their feelings hurt when caricatured, and that is not something I'm willing to be responsible for.  Quite the predicament.  This morning while I was blow drying my hair, which is getting quite long and time-consuming to dry, I was pondering this very predicament.

I don't know how you will find my solution, but while I was gazing into my own soul in the mirror while drying my hair, I thought telling stories on oneself and other selves would be much more convenient if one had the guise of writing fiction.  Fiction writing enables writers to take what is real, put it in a blender, add an arbitrary amount of milk and peach yogurt and serve up something delightful.  I could tell stories how I wanted, create a character named Georgia Delaney Hawthorne who is brave and impatient enough to cut her hair daringly short... remember I was blow drying my hair at the time.

Anyway, then I could write as I pleased and call the ramblings "Curious George" not because I particularly like the children's stories, more because Georgia is called George after Nancy Drew's dear friend who is a girl with short hair.  Also Curious George because said monkey's owner wears a yellow hat and I am rather fond of yellow.  I could tell you stories about Mrs. Grantham, who is married to Mr. Grantham - naturally - who George befriends and sometimes thinks unscrupulous thoughts about.  I could tell you stories about Michael and Corie, the aged Mr. Dearing whose prayers should be framed and hung in a church, and Emma.  You would never know if Mr. Dearing really existed, or if the thoughts that George had about Michael and Corie are the thoughts I have about... well, anyway.  I'd still give all the old factual updates about what's really going on in Australia, of course, but these tales of Georgia Georgie George would be for our mutual amusement and enjoyment.  What think you, fair critics of my rambles?

In other news, sometimes I hate my conscience.  There are various reasons for this statement, but the one today is I want to wear leggings.  Australian fashion has not been one of our topics of conversation here, mostly because there are more important things to talk about, like food and people and sunsets.  However, being around oodles of young moms at the playgroup SG and I are helping with, we've noticed something.  AUSTRALIANS WEAR LEGGINGS AS PANTS!  This may cause you to give the head tilt of confusion for one of two reasons.  Either you are wondering how I have missed lots of people all over the world wearing leggings as pants, or you are wondering why people think leggings are an appropriate substitute for pants.  Fear not, I am not as removed from the fashion world as you might think.  I have noticed this increasing frequency of leggings as pants.  However, in the circles I move in, this is not an appropriate answer for the What shall I wear today? question.  However #2, here, it is widely accepted and not usually frowned upon.

In my case for leggings, I cited the great adage "when in Rome".  Also, have you ever worn leggings?  They're like fabric skin, except warmer, and they come in many colors.  Also, I have reasonably attractive legs that would not dishonor the image of leggings as pants.  This is the line of argument I was taking when my conscience took the floor and immediately cited my brother, who said "leggings should not be worn as pants".  This rankled things a bit, as I hold my brother's opinion in very high regard.  After letting the gravity of the situation sink in, my conscience followed with Crouch's ideas on making culture.  Could we truly so blithely leave culture making to the social powers that be?  Oughtn't we be engaged in shaping culture ourselves?  Subscribing to culture by wearing leggings as pants was not shaping culture.  Shape or be shaped.  Then he let the Summit fly.  How in world can sensible young men remain sensible young men when women are walking around in leggings?  Surely the demise of chivalry cannot be long behind the demise of modesty.  I could not exactly fit unsensiblizing men into my credo of doing all things for the glory of Christ the King.  I was a fish without a lake, a pat of butter without bread, a debater without an argument.  Blasted conscience, you have preserved my quality of life once again, and begrudgingly, I thank you.

Recommendation of the day, add potatoes to your omelets.  The last two omelets I've made have been a smashing success due to the presence of potatoes.  I thinly slice them and let them cook in the skillet for a few minutes and then add my eggs, cheese, pesto, spinach, etc.

Affectionately yours,

Little Miss Sunshine

Soul Salve

There are some things in life that just soothe the soul.  It might be watching NASCAR (I had to throw out the most outlandish suggestion first) or building things.  I don't know what your soul salve is.  One of mine is cooking. 

I can connect so many dots while I'm cooking.  It uses all my senses, it connects me to my past, and it gives me a few rules and then says, what the heck, do what you want.  Another great thing about cooking is it gives me the opportunity to wear an apron, specifically the one I made last summer out my childhood bedroom curtains.  Maria Von Trapp are quite connected when it comes to climbing mountains, fording streams, and re-using curtains.

SG and I have done a little experimenting in the culinary arena.  It's not unlike Iron Chef every night.  We're house sitting at the moment and the home owners have said to use whatever we'd like in the pantry.  I've told you about the unusual state of their pantry... The other night we made crab cakes and sweet potato fries.  It sounds gourmet, but it was so easy!  Last night we sizzled up a zucchini and beef stir fry that was just the thing for a spring dinner.  We ate it on the couch while we watched "The Secret Life of Bees".  The book is incredible, and the movie isn't bad either.  I finished PG Wodehouse.  The humorous way that man has in expressing himself is delightful.  The story was a trifle long, but worth the read.  I was surprised how much better I understood the story having lived in Australia for just a month.  Suddenly words like pinch and tick off take on quite different flavors. 

SG's quote of the week: I hate big dogs because they have big poop... (upon returning from a walk with Attila)

Today we went to Australian barbie #2 with a few of our dear old lady friends.  This was a picnic of epic proportions... grilled lamb chops, eggs, bacon, onions, tomatoes, bread, salad, and cake!  We feel so welcome here.  :)

Sometimes I forget that my readers are also my prayer warriors.  Things you can pray for

Wisdom in knowing how to start a youth program here... there's nothing right now, and it's not for want of youth in the area.

Edurance in not growing weary while doing good.  This is turing out to be a little harder than I at first reckoned.  Wonderful, but not easy.

Passion for the glory of Jesus for SG and I, the pastor, and the congregation.

Hunger to know Jesus and His truth among the people of the community.


LOVE YOU MUCH,

Little Miss Sunshine

Sleuthwork and Homesickness

As much sleuthing as I've been doing lately, perhaps I should go back to school for forensics…  figuring out what exactly a UCA church is, figuring out where the kids' menus are at the restaurant, and now, figuring out who exactly we're house sitting for.  I wonder what people would think of my family if they were house sitting for us.  They'd see stacks of school books, concluding that we're either in the curriculum business or mom's a teacher.  They'd see various accoutrements belonging to various activities - horsey things, volleybally things, musical things.  They'd see home made granola, a full fruit drawer and a freezer full of veggies. 

This episode of House Sitter in the Adventures of SG and LMS has been quite fascinating, particularly in the kitchen area.  Let me tell you, these people have a crazy kitchen.  We still haven't found any measuring cups!  And let me tell you, we've scoured cupboards and shelves for them!  Their pantry deserves its own paragraph.  Suffice it to say, they have enough sauces to run both an Italian and a Thai restaurant for a month.  They have such a strange assortment of things… pine nuts, sprinkles, bearnaise sauce, oodles of noodles, canned coconut cream, bottles of excellent olive oil, cans of crushed tomatoes.  The tupperware is minimal, and it took us days to find the cutting boards. 

We're trying to piece together a case for what these people eat, but we haven't made it very far.  We've conjectured that they don't bake much, since we can't seem to find measuring cups, and they must do a lot of meat and pasta if they have all of these sauces.  They like fancy food and international flavors because their sauces range from organic ranch dressing to fish sauce to jars of Indian somethingorother.  They have loads of place settings, so a fair bit of entertaining goes on. 

As for the homesick part of this title, well, it happened.  Skype is a wonderful thing, but I spent most of my Saturday on it talking to many of the nearest and dearest.  It was horrid.  I treasure being able to see their faces and I so value the conversations I get to have with my family and friends, but it definitely put me out of sorts.  I've been quite alright up until this weekend.  It's just inconvenient because it's explainable, just not too curable.  I'll be home for Christmas, and there's no way I'm quitting Australia.  I'm happy here and I think God has me here for a lot of great reasons.  Somehow those things should be able to make me not sad about not being at school or home or having my own classroom like my ed friends.  Right?  I think the Holy Spirit acts like a kind of soul sling in times like these.  You feel kind of sinky inside, but He just holds you up.  He doesn't lift you in a kind of happy all the time way, it's more of a sustaining encouragement.  He just keeps saying - I will never leave you.  Ever.

 So, don't worry Mom and Pops, everything here is fine.  It's just hard.  People work is slow work, like watching your hair grow slow.  Like planting a garden instead of buying frozen peas slow.  It's thinking work, too.  You have to think about who your audience is, what's important to them, how they operate.  You have to think about what's important and why it matters.  You have to boil down lots of Christian theology and thought and philosophy and see what's left at the bottom of the pot when the water's gone. 

Tomorrow is a day off.  It will be spent reading.  Always reading.  It will also be spent with J and baby S, possibly the most beautiful child I have ever met.  Seriously.  It might also be spent running or with hilarious old men who recycle to raise money for missions.  They are very… charming in a chuckling, sarcastic old man way.

Much love,

LMS

On choirs, love and nachos

Today, we went to a choir concert.  It was a women's community choir and one of our church friends sings in it, so we tagged along to cheer… clap, from the audience.  There are some things I would like to point out about choirs.  First, although never intended, there are some things at choir concerts that can go dreadfully awry.  Mostly these things are eyebrows, lips and nostrils.  I know that everyone has a different style of singing and has been trained in different ways, but surely there is no reason for anyone to look so similar to a woodland creature before it becomes roadus killus.  There are all sorts of funny things that you can do with your mouth, but it's probably better that you save them for while you're brushing your teeth or cajoling an infant into eating squished squash. 

Although I am particularly prone to this fault, I don't advocate being the most expressive expresser who ever expressed an expression, especially in choir.  But really, have a little humanity.  I think some people are so keen on their musical excellence (valid enough) that their face goes on hold and unfortunate things happen.  Be sure to tell your face what you're singing so it'll match.  I maintain that Jessie S is the best balance of composure and expression I've ever seen in a choir singer.  She doesn't feel the need to have her mouth wide enough to sail a ship through, nor does she crack her lips and make you wonder how any sound at all escapes, she just smiles and sings. 

SG and I were talking this afternoon after we returned from the concert.  We just love music, and choirs and concerts.  I know I just wrote all that rot about horrible eyebrow shudders and mouths all awry, but I do love a good concert.  They sang a whole range of pieces, from Blackbird by Lennon, to Someone to Watch over Me by the Gershwins, to Jesu by Bach.  They even had a few spirituals.  Never thought I'd hear an Australian women's chorus singing black spirituals.  The effect wasn't quite the same, but it wasn't bad. 

Listening to good music just makes me want to fly and run and dance.  Sometimes I'll close my eyes and pretend I'm somewhere else.  The somewhere else depends on the music, of course.  When it's a waltz being done in a symphony, I'm usually swirling and swishing around a ballroom in a royal court.  Today during You Raise Me Up, I was definitely walking the cliffs of Scotland… and it was windy.  It's a pity because as I was looking around at the concert between eye-closings, there were few young people.  I know it's a nerdy thing to say, but teenagers should be flocking to these things.  Classical music is prime real estate for expressing all kinds of emotion, it's beautiful, and it's downright classy.  Thankfully, there are people like this guy http://www.rzim.org/resources/read/asliceofinfinity/todaysslice.aspx?aid=10963  out there. 

This next paragraph will be strange, skip if you'd like.  Sometimes when I hear a lot about inclusivity, peace, love, healing, community, I want to go break something and shout angry shouts.  I find this a bit odd, as all of those things are concepts that I believe to be important, Biblical, and even pleasant.  They are things I would endorse, subscribe to the importance of and even teach about.  But really, there are times that I feel like if I hear one more thing about a word that has soft and fuzzy connotations, a dinner plate is going to be flying like a saucer across the room.  End of rant. 

First night of work.  Check, or as they would say in Australia, tic.  I was on with C and E and it was a busy Sunday night.  Sunday nights are supposed to be slow, but this one was not.  I still like waitressing, and I still have my job.  Tic, tic.  I learned how to run the dishwasher for the glasses, but still haven't mastered running credit cards.  I made my first mistake - forgot to put in the orange juice order for table 1.  The girls were sweet and said I was doing well under pressure and picking it up quickly.  As I wrote about when I was working at camp this summer, you come into an established situation and you kind of have to enter sleuth mode.  Who's got what personality, what is the boss picky about, what are the unspoken rules that everyone except me knows.  You start behind the rest of the runners, but I like a challenge.  So far, so good. 

Love from down under,

LMS

On the Nature of Blogs and Bloggery

Have you noticed?  Now you're wondering what the heck you were supposed to be noticing that you obviously overlooked.  No, it's not my birthday.  No, Michael Jackson hasn't been found alive in Rio.  No, they haven't found a way to make ooey gooey cake both delicious and nutritious.  What you may or may not have noticed is bloggering has exploded like a plate of lasagna in the microwave.

Occasionally, I like to browse through the blogs of note, just trying to keep tabs on what's hot, or what the Blogger people deem noteworthy.  It's just like checking out foxnews.com or ESPN or something, just keeping a tab on the pulse of the culture.  Well, let me tell you, bloggery has nothing in common with a pulse.  There are blogs for EVERYTHING!  No regular, steady rhythm, unless you were to zoom way out and summarize with "everyone blogs".

There are food blogs, dude blogs, how to track your mood blogs.  At the risk of sounding like Dr. Seuss, which wouldn't be a bad thing, I'll continue.  There are politics blogs, economics blogs, and free your dog from ticks blogs.  Some of the popular ones lately have involved topics like weather (limited marketability, *snooze), fashionable older women (I'm dead serious, it's one of the blogs of note this minute), and something about a guy taking a road trip and eating lots of McDonalds.

I have mixed feelings about this bloggery pandemic.  On the left hand, people are writing and expressing themselves.  Sometimes this can be therapeutic and provide an avenue to share difficult experiences with others or just practice writing.  But really, some of these people should realize that a sea of internet friends is not as effective or wonderful as a handful of honest to goodness friends.  Tea friends, Glee friends, whoever you happen to be friends.  No amount of internet relationship building can replace authentic person to person relationships.

On the right hand, everyone's blogging.  You don't have to have any talent, you just have to be a Gerald, Jack or Sophie with access to a computer.  I would hope that, as the hope of democratic republics, that bad blogs or dumb blogs would slowly lose readership and quality would prevail, while still preserving the freedom for anyone to give it a go.

On the hand that I don't have (the third hand), I'm in Australia.  That isn't terribly significant, save in the sense that I'm separated from family and friends by an ocean and scads of time zones.  Because, and thankfully, they love me and give a rip about what is occupying my time and efforts, I blog.  It's an easy way to disseminate information to the people who care, and I enjoy writing.

Today I had the utmost pleasure of skyping with several of my dearest friends, who happened to be congregated in Dallas for the evening.  I had mentioned that D and M said something about a swing dance club being located somewhere around here.  I wasn't too sure about going because I would likely be going alone.  I am nearly a dance addict, while Sarah prefers to spend her time doing other things.  Their recommendation was to go for it, say yes to anything within reason.  Their logic?  If it goes horribly wrong, at least you will have something to write about.  Thankfully, the parents I acquired through being born have been most gracious in allowing me to try new things and use my own judgment.  So, if I find the right venue, a-dancing I will go!

Off to read some Wodehouse.  The man is hilarious.

Little Miss Sunshine

Well call me a waitress...

They called!  And they said, come at 6:30 on Friday and wear black.  Those could have been the instructions for a number of things - backstage tech crew, secret service, or attendants at a funeral.  But it wasn't any of those things.  It was, in fact, the time and date of my running with the gauntlet, trial by bulls or running through the fire… rather, well, you understand.  There I was, a shaking in my borrowed black flats, since the only black shoes I packed were heels.  Nevermind the shaking, I walked in, said my hellos to D and M and then we were touring.  Kitchen.  Table log.  Napkins, menus, cutlery.  They handed me a pad of paper and a pen, and that was the end of my training. 

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, they sent me off to table whatevernumberitwas and said, can you take their drink orders?  No wasn't exactly a good option, so I went with yes and tried to remember everything I'd ever heard a waitress say in all my years of eating out.  Yep, I used everything from "Hi, welcome to…" to "How's everything going over here, folks" to "Can I get that out of your way".  To put credit where it's due, D and M and later, C were fabulous.  They were kind, patient, and made sure I knew what I was doing and where to be when.  I'm looking forward to working for them. 

I was taking orders, putting them in the computer, making lattes, and taking hot plates out to tables.  Tables in the 20s are the counter (the "bench"), 30s are outside, and everything else is inside.  All the lattes we make are skinny, whether you order them that way or not.  And the security guard's Yugoslavian, and he's been to America.  It was a good night.

Funny things about Mexican restaurants in Australia - they don't give you to-go boxes if you have leftovers, you only get one pequenito bowl of chips and people point to things on the menu when they order because they have no idea how to pronounce "quesadilla".  Yep, I'm far from home.

Towards the end, I asked M how I was doing and when I'd find out if I got the job.  She said I was doing fine and D would probably hire me tonight.  And he did.  And my first shift is Sunday at 5:30.  And I've got to scrounge up some more black.  My closet has a lot more tangerine, teal, salmon, and cornflower blue than black... 

Sometimes you just have to pray, God, please just work it out, and help me to do my best with whatever that is.  Tonight, He answered with, Here's a job.  Go show people how people who follow Me clean tables, do customer service and apologize when you bring them the wrong thing. 

Every good and perfect gift comes from the Father,

LMS

Books and books and books!

General complaint of yesterday… WHY DID NO ONE HAVE THE DECENCY TO TELL ME THAT A TALE OF TWO CITIES WAS SUCH A GOOD BOOK!?  Friends, I finished it.  Wow, the last 25 pages I was reading as quickly as I could (partly because the library was closing in 15 minutes) and trying to figure out what was going to happen.  I understand now.  I understand why Dickens's works are classics.  Because I love you, I will tell you, READ IT.  If you hate it a third of the way through, fine, but give it a shot.   

Moving on, I found The Code of the Woosters by PG Wodehouse on the shelf at the library.  Once upon a time, many many many years ago, there was a place called Xanga, and there lived a blogger there who loved PG Wodehouse.  I'd never read anything by him, but I remembered her ravings, and picked it up.  I started it this afternoon.  Classic witty British writing, and I love it already.

Book number 3 is the most practical one on the nightstand at the moment.  Student Ministry and the Supremacy of Christ by Richard Ross.  Dr. Ross just happens to be the professor of the online class I'm taking this semester.  And he wrote the book.  Cool.  I'm 100 pages in and it's already a favorite.  It's a combination of practical "this is how you train and support youth volunteers" and theological truths like the reason that youth ministry matters is because Jesus is King and calls everyone to get on board with His adventures. 

It's a perfect read for where I am right now - trying to figure out what youth ministry is, how to do it, and where to start.  Ross argues that youth ministries are falling flat or losing kids after high school graduation because they aren't giving them Jesus.  They're giving them activities or a small version of Jesus that could fix daily problems and fit in your pocket, not the Jesus who overcame death and is seated at the Father's right hand calling us to follow Him with everything. 

I also picked up a collection of short stories by W. Somerset Maugham.  Never read him, but he had such a fabulous name, I couldn't help myself. 

Props to my roommate who made nests of coconut and sugar and cherries tonight.  Deeeeelicious.

Off to read, of course!

If you have book recommendations, just leave a comment.  Has anyone read any Solzhenitzyn?  Pardon my faulty Russian spelling. 

LMS  

We called her the lunch lady...

She came up to us in church and handed us a note.  It was something about having relatives in America and wanting to have us over for lunch.  In my imaginative brain, it had a delicious aroma of mystery and intrigue.  So we called her the mystery lunch lady.  We called the phone number printed on the paper and after a little broken English and working through some details, we now had a time, date and address!  The pastor was able to drop us off at her house, so we didn't have to walk.  We were greeted excitedly at the door with hugs and kisses by a Vietnamese woman, Lee, who introduced us to her husband, whose German name I don't remember.

When we asked if we could help, she whisked us into the kitchen and started giving us a Vietnamese cooking tutorial.  She teaches cooking lessons as an adult education class once a week.  She showed us how to mix the contents for spring rolls and wrap them in the thin paper dough.  She re-rolled some of them because we made them too fat.  :)  Using chopsticks, she set them afloat in a wok with oil bubbling in the bottom.  When they were done, we gathered at the table and she poured the fish sauce and soy sauce into dishes and we ate.  And we ate.  And we ate.  She just kept bringing out more dishes!  In Morocco, this happened, but you had an idea of how many courses were coming by how many table cloths were on the table.  There was no table cloth trick here, and we topped it all off with smoothies made of avocado, strawberry, mango, banana, and orange!

This morning I had my interview.  Oh, what a trouble it was picking an outfit.  I didn't have my freshman roommate fashionista, Abby, to dress me, but SG was a good help in giving advice.  You just have to figure out what you want to say, and what the clothes you have do say.  Skinny jeans?  Sweater?  Scarf?  Dress?  I settled on my navy trousers, white longsleeve tee, kelly green cardigan and apricot scarf.  Gold earrings, gold flats.

I was nervous, but luckily, Little Miss Sunshine has a particular gift for false bravado.  Nervous?  Who, me?  Neverrrrrr.  So I walked up to the restaurant, and sat down to wait for my appointment time.  I gave my interviewers my best "Hi, I'm Little Miss Sunshine, and you want to hire me" handshake.  I think it worked.  They asked about my waitressing experience, of which I have none.  I focused on my Mexican food-rich background, food prep experience at camp, and education background - major multitasking.  They didn't even ask me any of the usual, "so tell me about a time when you had a problem you had to solve" questions.  I'll keep you posted.

A Tale of Two Cities is almost finished.  I'm in the home stretch.  So many twists and turns in the last 100 pages!  As for the dog project, Attila was actually snuggling with me on the couch last night, so I think that might mean that I'm a dog person now?  Maybe?

Much love,

LMS

Fajitas, tree climbing, and book reviews

I finished it.  No, not A Tale of Two Cities, which I'm still reading.  I just finished What's So Amazing About Grace by Philip Yancey.  I think you should read this book.  I don't care if you're a Bible scholar, never picked up a Bible, don't plan on ever talking to God, or talk to Him every day.  You should read this book.  It's so well written and on a topic that is often lost in the world today.  It makes you think, Nope, this is too good to be true.  But it IS true.  Read it.

SG and I have been looking for jobs.  We want something part time to make a little travel money and get home money.  Australia being a civilized country, we naturally cracked open the Saturday local paper and looked for someone who wanted to hire crazy American girls to serve coffee, paint houses, answer phones, whatever.  There was even a plumbing apprenticeship I considered, but you had to have a driver's license.  I got a call today, which I returned this afternoon.  I talked to a woman who said the place was a Mexican restaurant.

Friends.  Can we talk about the irony of this statement?  I, Little Miss Sunshine, was born to Mr. and Mrs. Sunshine, who grew up in Small Border Town in Arizona, USA.  I, Little Miss Sunshine, was eating tacos and chimis before I could sing along with Barney.  I travel literally as far away from home as I can get, and the job I have the opportunity for?  A Mexican restaurant!  This is my moment.  I've fried my own tacos, made my own enchiladas with cream sauce, this could be my culinary magnum opus!  Oops, got a little carried away and forgot this was a waitressing position.

Waitressing is one of those things.  It's like surfing, like driving on the left side of the road, like reading War and Peace.  I want to try it to see if I can do it, but I'm not entirely sure I'll be successful.  They don't really tip here, I don't think, they just pay better.  That's a pity because the customer service/ remembering names part of this job is something I could do.  Balancing four scalding plates on one arm and floating through an obstacle course of customers is another matter.  What if I spill flaming hot fajitas on someone!?  What if I forget an order?  Oh dear.  On the other hand, I could be a legend.  A walking, talking, history making waitress legend.  I could develop my own curriculum for successful waitress training.  Never know until you try... kind of like that tree I climbed yesterday.  Look for the dark mass towards the top of the tree.  That's me.

Reason #532 I'm glad to be here with Sarah: she's a better runner than I am.  We did a 33 minute run this morning, lots of hills and a sprint at the end.  It was great, and I almost quit lots of times except that I was running with Sarah, so I had some dignity to preserve.  :)

Love from down under,

LMS

Environmental Concerns

I have come to a preliminary conclusion.  Partying hard is becoming a lost art.  I say "is becoming" because now and then it still happens, but unless we step up to save this dying breed of party, it's going to become a sadly extinct species.  I'm not referring to the species Parteus Orgeus that fuels the fun with varying conscious-altering techniques, which leaves one enjoying the substance instead of the party.  I'm not worried about the survival of that one.  I'm referring to one Parteus Rollickus Frolickus.  Terming this kind of partying as art is appropriate because it requires some finessing and skill.

First, you need a place.  A good habitat for a Parteus Rollickus Frolickus is a farm, complete with stars, fields, and warm homey farmhouse.  This is not a necessity, as the species can survive in more urban sites like studio apartments and community parks, but a farm provides a wide range of possibilities for the active and ever busy Rollickus Frolickus. 

Second, you need people.  I was going to say friends, but that's not entirely necessary either.  These can't be just any sort of people.  At least some need to be the sort who would find themselves on the roster for a Polar Bear Plunge, read old books, tell stories effortlessly, milk cows, or sing at the top of their lungs with little encouragement.  You can have a few boors there, just so long as they're at a place in their life where they're beginning to realize life has some zest to be seized, if only you'll seize it.  Multi-generational parties can definitely assist with the fourth element, which you will arrive at shortly.

Third, you need food.  This is a general party rule, and this species is no exception.  Not too many specific guidelines exist for this category except that it's helpful if the food is homemade, not cookies that come in plastic-wrapped trays from the store or guac from the store.  Note: While alcohol may be included in this list, it is never present in excess. 

Fourth, you need something to do.  Activity will primarily be shaped by the first and second party elements.  Some Rollicki Frolicki thrive on events like birthdays and Christmas, while others come together on behalf of good company.  This something to do might involve sports; singing soulfully around a piano or guitar; dancing in lines, around fires or concentric, revolving circles; or regaling stories of past generations or last week's blind date. 

The life purpose of a Parteus Rollickus Frolickus is bringing people together to celebrate life.  It can be more specific than that, like celebrating the independence of a nation or the coming of spring, but sometimes you just need to get together and enjoy good company.  If you have a mixed batch of friends, like most humans on earth, you probably have some friends who are prime candidates for taking care of an R.F. and some who are not.  Do your unendowed friends a favor and introduce them to the species. 

General notes: Activities should not revolve around technology.  I know iPads are cool, and you may still be addicted to WOW, but try to keep the conversations and activities centered on real life, physical things, or at least honorable ideals like courage and fidelity.  Breathing normally should be kept to a minimum.  This can be achieved several ways.  You can hold your breath in anticipation of the conclusion of Uncle Jack's harrowing tale of escaping Mrs. Hatch's rabid ferret.  You can laugh so hard at your friend Will's rendition of Cash's "Ring of Fire".  You can leap for your life playing hay bale tag under the stars until you're heaving with hay fever and exhaustion. 

The inspiration for this post was provided by an RF I had the pleasure of attending Saturday night.  There were cousins singing and dancing, bonfires blazing, digeridos doing whatever they do, good food, and great conversation.  It was a joint birthday celebration of several family members, and was well attended by family, friends, and two grateful American girls who got to tag along. 

Contentedly yours,

LMS, who is dedicated to the art of saving the Parteus Rollickus Frolickus

Upon Further Review...

In the vein of my brothers' blog, I thought I'd do a little review of Australian life. 

Favorite Aussie TV show: Farmer Wants a Wife.  Old MacDonald meets The Bachelor, this show pairs several farmers with a few girls each.  Most of them don't have farm experience, so the audience can poke fun at the city girls trying to push cows and muck stalls while watching the farmers try to make a decision.  Instead of high dollar dates at exclusive resorts, they go for picnics in the farmers' pastures and make out while watching the sunset from a tailgate… as much as you can watch the sunset while making out. 

Favorite Aussie word: "bogan"  It is akin to the American word "redneck", having connotations of country backwardness, or hickishness. 

Best way to spend an afternoon: curled up on a couch reading The Guernsey Literary & Potato Peel Pie Society with a certain Attila puppy's head on your lap (I'm making so much progress with this dog thing).  This book was recommended to me by several people, including Steph.  Shaffer's characters are spot on and I love them all.  It's a good light historical fiction for an afternoon on the couch.

Most disconcerting American story thus far: a new friend told me about an American girl he knew who put anti-abortion stickers all over someone else's car and freaked out when she saw an Obama sticker.  I had to tell him that I was definitely pro-life and not an Obama fan, but people don't generally do crazy things like that. 

Most endearing old man: There's a tie between old Ian and Allistair.  Ian landed planes on aircraft carriers for the RAF during the war and has the sweetest smile.  When he prays you can almost hear the angels saying "amen".  Allistair is a Scot, and a cheeky one at that (that means witty or sarcastic in Aussie English).  He and his wife Mae are the cutest pair with charming accents to match. 

Most eaten foods in the Sarah/Casie house sitting career: omelets - we eat them with onions, tomatoes, mushrooms, cheddar, pesto, or whatever's on hand; toasted sandwiches - usually with the same stuff as the omelets have, minus the eggs; pasta - penne, lasagna, wilted greens, tomato sauce, carrots, pesto, anything can go with a pot of pasta. 

Favorite techno-travel gadget: SKYPE!  I love talking with the fam or catching up with the best friends for free! 

Weirdest thing about living in a different country so far: Beginning to not notice when Australians and Americans are on TV. 

Best Aussie party: The huge family reunionesque birthday bash we crashed last night, complete with a barefoot hike to the beach, bonfire, and quesadillas!

Much love for you and Christmas,

Little Miss Sunshine

Seaside

It just lies there sometimes.  Flat and calm as slumbering January.  Sometimes it heaves and shudders and gets assertive.  And sometimes it frolics and splashes like lambs in a paddock.  I've never lived near the sea, just read about it and visited San Diego.  When I was little I read a lot of old books.  Some of these old books had sailors  or people who lived in houses by the sea.  Sarah of Sarah, Plain and Tall misses the sea when she moves West and gets this faraway look in her eyes when she's looking at the waving grain but seeing the waves of the sea.

I'm beginning to see what all those sea people see when they look out their bay windows and watch the waves and scan the beach.

When I run, it's usually parallel to the ocean.  My legs know they're supposed to be running, but really what they want to do is dash down the beach, kick off their shoes and land me straight in the water.  The bigness of the water makes me want to holler and crow and never say another word because there aren't enough.  One of these days I'm going to do it.  Like a planet pulling an asteroid off course, the sea's just going to suck me right off that running trail and straight into its salty cold self.  I don't really know what I'll do once I get there.  I'm no Dana Torres.  I don't even like swimming around without goggles.  I'll probably just splash and wade and twirl and get thoroughly soaked and cold before I trudge my way up the hill to the house and figure out a way to get unsandy without making a mess on the red sinky carpet.  

Literary nights with peppercorn cheese

I don't think you know this.  I, Little Miss Sunshine, LOVE the library.  I love how it's calm (even though it makes me want to do cartwheels and whistle sometimes), I love how if you shook out the words from every book into a big jumbling heap on the floor, you'd be swimming in them.  I love how you can almost find a book about anything!

Sarah, my compatriot, being a good English major and fitting general friend requirements for LMS, also loves the library.

We got library cards last week.  And we took pictures.

One of the many posters on the library walls advertised a local writer's reading night.  Being the girls we are and liking the things we like, we went.  When we arrived, we found ourselves the only ones in tennis shoes, the only ones in jeans, and the only ones under 55 (I'm being generous).  We looked at each other, picked and seat and listened.  One after another, local authors read short fiction, poetry and things they had written about their lives.  There was a woman with white hair and a black headband and great elocution who read her poetry that's been published and awarded, and she kind of had a pointy nose.  I liked her rhythm.  A man who loved his dog wrote from the perspective of his dog during puppy class.  A couple people wrote about romantic intrigue and a couple wrote about travels.  And they had peppercorn cheese. And wine, which we didn't drink, and crackers and more cheeses!  The peppercorn was the best.

When I hear people reading pieces, it makes me want to write.  I don't know if it's the competitor in me or the creator in me, but I see something good and I want to try it for myself.  Their next reading session is in October or December or something.  Sarah is a writer, so she has buckets of things she has read and could read.  My bucket is empty, save blog posts and university stuff, but maybe I'll write and write and write and something will be salvageable.  I hope it is poetry, but that's ambitious.

In the meantime, or the nicetime, Sarah and I are job hunting.  Guns propped on our shoulders, camo clad, we are stalking our prey.  Cafe?  Library?  Or the confusingly ambiguous "Early Years Project Officer"?  Whatever it is, we want to make some travel money.  People keep telling us we just have to see the rest of Oz (Australia), but their next sentence isn't, "So we'll just buy you a ticket and put you on a train".  I think that means we need a job.

We're house sitting again.  They have a dog.  His name is Attila.  He's not scary, just big and loud and labradoodly.  The house is grand.  Old, dark wood everywhere and sinky red carpet.  We sing at the top of our lungs so we don't get intimidated by the bigness of this house.  It's always interesting to see what people have in their pantries.  When you're house sitting, it's ok to snoop in the kitchen because they say you can eat their food while they're gone.  These people have a fetish for pasta and sauces.  Plum sauce, fish sauce, mayo dill sauce, balsamic vinegars and pestos and tomato sauces.  I think we're going to be all pasta-ed out by the time we leave this house.

And we have FRIENDS!  I mean, we had friends before, but I mean we have friends our own age!  How do I know this?  We got an invitation!  People don't invite you to things unless they like you, right?  We're going to a bonfire tomorrow!  I don't even know what to wear to an Australian bonfire that starts at two in the afternoon.  Should I be going for "spring is here, I feel sun dress-y" or "skinny jeans and a cardi because I'm an intellectual" or "I'm fun and athletic, so I'm wearing shorts and a hoodie".  So many things to say with clothes!


Love from the beach,

LMS