31 ways to live with class in 2012

Let's face it.  Some people are born Prince William, and some are born Eliza Doolittle.  Wherever you are on that spectrum, here are a few ways to add class to your life that I've picked up from classy, clever people I admire.

1. Write thank you notes - promptly

2. Make your bed - most days

3. Sneeze into your elbow or handkerchief - not the air that the general populace is breathing

4. Read the newspaper - necessary for making small talk during cocktail hour at weddings

5. Be patient with people - nothing says classy like keeping your temper in check

6. Decide how you like your eggs, or anything else cooked - thank you, Runaway Bride

7. Manage your time well - yes, that includes Facebook and reading, um, blogs

8. Be a gracious guest - hostess gifts, not outstaying your welcome, and being generally pleasant

9. Be the best version of yourself - don't try to be someone else, but know you have room for improvement

10. Give up your seat for people who are older than you

11. Keep the latest gossip to yourself

12. Pick up after yourself - banana peels, candy wrappers, ticket stubs, all these belong in the trash (except maybe the banana, which can be composted)

13. Avoid slurping, munching, crunching, and other eating noises

14. Stay clean, if you can, and if you can't, don't fuss - if a baby spits up on you, freaking out is rude

15. Try new things

16.  Wear the right socks for the occasion

17. Own a current resume with your name on it

18. Know what you believe and be able to express it eloquently

19. Travel, and if you can't travel, read National Geographic

20. Mind your p's and q's - please and thank you are the foundations of courtesy and class

21. Treat people considered "less important" than you with courtesy - wait staff, store clerks, there is no "less important" person

22. Read - poetry, biographies, history, modern fiction, classics, if you don't like reading, get it on tape

23. Own dress clothes

24. Keep in touch with people you love

25. Learn how to listen

26. Cook something - even if you can only cook one thing, that's one thing more than before

27. Smell good

28. Never be too busy to help

29. Keep your priorities straight

30. Eat your vegetables

31. Smile

Much love,

Little Miss Sunshine

Can we stay up until 60:30??

Babysitting is one of those meaningful, philosophical, find yourself, lose yourself, answer life's big questions kind of experiences.  I would recommend it in lieu of going on a pilgrimage to a monastery or taking a vow of silence in the forest because it pays better and more interesting things will happen to you.  

You could have small children crowded on your lap for a story.  Monks don't do that.  You might realize that love and discipline go hand in hand when they're trying to give themselves a chocolate tummyache or pull the five year old version of an all nighter.  Forests don't eat chocolate. 

Go out in the forest and sit on your bum for a day if you'd like.  It will be nice and… leafy.  Meditate in a monastery and drink tea and attempt pseudo philosopher status.  It will be… quiet.  But if you really want to know about human nature, about your strengths and weaknesses, about your ability to multitask and perform under pressure, just go babysit. 

If I were a recruiter for a big name corporation who really wanted to see what you were made of, I'd magically procure a 4, 6, and 8 year old and leave you with them.  If I came back and they were jumping on couches and had faces smeared with chocolate, I'd know you struggle with boundaries and those kids were better at closing deals than you.  If I came back and they were all quietly tucked in bed and the house was clean, I'd know you're either a great motivator or a workaholic - your blood pressure would give you away.  If the kids said you yelled and fussed, I'd know I could never trust you with my big name, high maintenance accounts.

After spending several hours with small children, you will have likely discovered the following:

1. Can we stay up until 60:30?  Should not be answered with an explanation of a 24 hour day, but "whoa, that's wayyyy too late."

2. Good hiding spots diminish exponentially as you age.  Stick with ordinary spots that exploit a 4 foot high vantage point.

3. The exact number of chocolates it's ok to have before bedtime, because of course, you know that. 

4. Not wanting to go to bed is universal. 

5. You will be strict, or you will be walked all over, take your pick.

6. They will cry.

7. They will pout.

8. They will want just one more drink.

9. They will feign a fascination with literature if one more story means a delayed bed time.

10. They will try to tell you that mommy dearest told them they could stay up until she and daddy darling got home.

Don't fall for their tricks.  Explain, but be brief.  Sympathize, but be firm.  Above all, don't lose them or let them set themselves on fire.  That's important.   

We're not supernannies, but SG and I did have them in bed by 8:30 and gave up no territory at the Battle of 8:40, 8:50, or 9:00.

Who you going to call?

Little Miss Sunshine

Sit Still and Look Sexy

Dear Head of World Advertising,

You have failed.  I know you thought you had me.  And you did, for a while.  I was actually beginning to think I knew what men wanted.  I bought the mascara you had J. Lo selling, thinking what men wanted was darker, thicker J. Lo lashes.  You do quite a thorough job, you know.  You dress the girls on commercials and make sure they haven't a blemish.  Anywhere.  You plaster your magazines with "health and fitness" tips for unattainable airbrushed abs that your editors spend hours shadowing and shaping on PhotoShop.

The girls you have selling lingerie for Victoria's Secret think all men want is sex, and if you give it to them, then maybe they'll want you as a person.  They're wrong.  You had me thinking men wanted  

Skinny legs in skinny jeans

 

And smoky eyes that said - you want me

 

And plenty of skin in all the right places

I wasn't so sure they were wrong until the other day when I was reading this blog.  That's not what men want.  They want beautiful best friends, not porn stars.  They want living, breathing real people to share their lives with.  They want women worth fighting for, not cheap eye-batting, slinking shadows of girls. 

You tell them what they want, just like you tried to tell me.  You tried to convince me that sexy is beautiful and beauty means worthy of love.  You tried to convince me not to speak my mind because that could get controversial and people might not agree with what I have to say.  Forget climbing trees and singing in public.  Better to sit still and look sexy, you said.  You told them chivalry is dead.  You screamed it through a hundred feminist megaphones and a thousand confused looks after they tried to lighten a heavy load.  You told them women are something to use to feel better about yourself, kind of like a Kleenex. 

Well, Head of World Advertising, this letter is to notify you, not only that you are the scum of the earth, but also that I refuse to  subscribe to your propaganda any longer.  You have wrought enough havoc.  Men and women were made for more than that.

Not cordially yours, not yours at all anymore,

Little Miss Sunshine

Aaaaand, we're back.

No more quiet birds.  No more desert.  We're back to Vegemite in the pantry and the good old beachy beach views from the house.  SG and I are back to the Land Down Under.  Weirdly enough, I can hear our host mom singing the American national anthem from the kitchen.  (That's not a normal Australian thing, you just have to know our host mom.)

We're taking a second go round where host homes are concerned.  We're back to the couple we started with, then house sitting for their neighbors again (the ones with Attila the dog), then maybe back with Ian and Joan.  It's a peachy spot, with a ten minute walk to the beach, and not a bad walk down the hill to church and work. 

Christmas break was wonderful.  I mean, wonderful.  There was time with the brothers, the parents, the besties.  I got to go dancing, there was Christmas, it was great.  It was so great, in fact, that I considered not getting back on the plane.  I really did.  I thought, well, I could just not get on the plane and drop off the face of the earth.  It's not as though Pastor John is going to fly to America to come get me. 

As that was complete stuff and nonsense, I marched my American behind onto that plane to finish what we started.  Australia has its perks, after all.  There are Ian and Ilma and other Ian and other Ian (there are lots of Ians here).  There are the friends like Chez and Sammy and Eliza and Catty and Jake and Cath and TJ (who loves it when he gets a blog shoutout) and Joel and Will and the rest, who are so cool and seem to like us for some reason.  There are all the church people who have adopted us as their grandgirls.  There are the adventures I get to have with SG, like going to the cricket in Melbourne and getting slightly pinkish at the beach from too much reading in the sand. 

It was hard to leave home, but it's good to be back.  Being a church intern isn't easy.  Sure, you have low living expenses and you live by the beach, but sometimes it gets complicated.  Sometimes I think it's way beyond my scope of ability to think through foundational doctrines and then figure out applying them to how church works.  

But hey, it's not like we're trying to do this alone.  God is walking close beside us, teaching us all kinds of things along the way.  Positions like these expose your weaknesses in an annoyingly edifying way.  All of a sudden I have a whole lot of respect for ministers who do this as their life's calling. 

Thank you for your cards, your hugs, your continuing prayers and support.  Keep right on praying that God turns Australia to Him, as He is more than worth the attention of a continent.  Keep right on praying that SG and I would be a team that trusts God to work in dark places and also in our own hearts as we walk with Him. 

Love you so much,

Little Miss Sunshine

If you're going to be a sailor

I know lots of things about sailing.  I know there are lots of ropes, and a few sails.  I've read Voyage of the Dawn Treader and seen Muppet Treasure Island so I'm pretty much an expert.  It's a good thing I am because today I went sailing.

Some adventures you have to plan for, like hiking Everest or kayaking the Amazon.  Some adventures you need only say yes to.  This was of the latter variety.  My host dad was heading out the door to go sailing and offered me the chance to come too.  I was planning on an afternoon of reading and blogging, but suddenly adventure was thrust upon me.  What to do!?  I almost declined, but in an instant, the wise words of my dear friend Liz came.  Her adventure advice is just to say yes to things.  So I did. 

Host Mom dropped us off at the yacht club where I met the captain and the rest of the crew.  The captain looked kind of skeptical when Host Dad asked if I could tag along.  He said OK, and I assured him I could follow directions.  We climbed aboard the Jolly Roger with Captain Brown-with-a-little-salt-and-pepper Beard, I mean, the sailboat with Ray, and things were clipped, unclipped, and hoisted.  Things get hoisted a lot on boats.  Besides hoisting, there are a lot of other words to keep track of.  Starboard, port, bow, stern, jibe, spinnaker, and tack are just a few.

It was a race, so we tacked (zig-zagged using the wind) out to the line and waited for the starting gun.  Everyone has a job on the boat.  One man steered, one stood up at the bow and managed the jib sail, etc etc.  I had two very unique and important jobs.  I was the monkey and the stand-er still-er.  When we were sailing against the wind, I was the monkey.  This means I jumped from one side of the boat to the other, always staying on the high side to balance the weight.  When we were sailing with the wind, I was the stand-er still-er against the boom so it wouldn't swing about.  Very important jobs, those. 

Only a couple times did I think I was going to be pitched overboard.  Both times I was hauling in a sail that was being exchanged for a different kind and my foot slipped, sending me sliiiiding.  That was exciting.  I figured the worst that could happen is I get tossed and they throw me a life ring.  No worries. 

There are some things you have to be careful of if you're a girl and you're sailing with a bunch of blokes. 

1. No girly laughing.  They probably won't invite you back to sail with them if you're giggling about how much fun you're having.

2. No using sailory terms like "swabbing the poop deck" or "walking the plank" or "scurrrrvy" anything.  You are not a sailor.  You are just sailing.  That doesn't count.

3. No freaking out.  These poor sailors have enough to do, keeping things ship shape (haha pun pun pun) without dealing with a spastic girl who's reliving Titanic.

4. Mind the boom.  I don't mean mind like let it bother you.  I mean mind like watch out for the boom.  The boom is the horizontal bar that the sail's connected to, and it will knock you in the head without a second thought.  Don't forget to duck. 

5. Don't stand on or sit on ropes.  I know they're everywhere, but do your best. 

I like sailing, mostly when something exciting is happening.  We didn't win the race, in fact, we came in dead last because of a kerfuffle in changing sails on the last lap around the buoy.  [Linguistic note: in Australian, you say buoy "boy" instead of the American "booo eeey".]  The ship falls and surges like they do in any great sailing story.  The breeze is nice, and the salty spray comes off the bow now and then like a little mist machine. 

One of the most trying not to squeal and giggle times I had was near the very end.  I failed and kind of screamed because we saw dolphins!  There were at least three of them jumping and splashing around the front of the boat.  They'd go under and come out the other side and pop their heads up.  They were beautiful in all their rubbery grey sleekness. 

Maybe I'll take up sailing… but first I have to learn to tie knots and figure out what in the world "sailing, sailing over the bounding main" means.

Little Miss Sunshine, sailor, 7th class

Run Away

I want to run away.  I hope she's forgotten.  I think of falling asleep, rendering me ineligible.  The weather looks inclement.  There is no way I could do it.  To me, not trying is much more appealing than trying and failing.  This is much too big.  Impossible thing she is asking me to do.  She is perfectly capable.  Me?  Forget it.

And.  Yet. 

She didn't forget, as I'd secretly wished.  I didn't fall asleep, as I'd schemed.  My inner conqueror is disgusted.  Of course I could do it.  It was only a matter of putting step in front of step, knowing and believing it was not an impossibility. 

So we leave. 

Needtobreathe, TobyMac and B.o.B close at hand, dear Nikes tied in double knots.  There is the trailhead with the hill and the exposed tree roots.  You have to watch coming down by the storage shed, the sand is an easy spot to turn an ankle.  The gazebo.  Trotting through the park.  She says we should go to barefoot bowling sometime at the lawn bowling club.  She's listening to Ben Stuart, arms swinging rhythmically back and forth.  I'm listening to TobyMac, trying to forget about my legs, attempting dance hand motions without throwing off my groove.

Shrubs, trees, glimpses of beach.  People with dogs, other pairs of runners, walkers.  They serve as little distractions to the big task that is slowly being accomplished.  She asks me for ten more minutes.  I feel good, minus my feet being asleep, so I say yes.  Eventually, we make it back to the house.  I am alive.  The insanity didn't get the best of me.

This is just physical challenge, but what of other impossible things?  What of a doctorate or a book written or a garden that provides produce year round?  Are they impossible the way this is?  The way this is slowly being done, step in front of step?  Is the obstacle to doing something with your life not inability but lack of faith? 

In the biography of Hudson and Maria Taylor I'm currently reading, faith is a constant theme.  Not ever advertising financial need, and thought of as crazy for doing so, Taylor wrote after being criticized for living from hand to mouth, "Yes, from God's hand to my mouth.".  During even a crisis of this great faith, Taylor prayed, "Thou, Lord!  Thou shalt have the burden.  All the responsibility lies on thee, Lord Jesus!  I surrender.  The consequences rest with Thee."

He has parted the Red Sea, healed the sick, fed thousands.  What more of a sign do I need to assure me that He is trustworthy?  When He says Go or Stay or Get out of the boat and walk on the water, He can be trusted. 

Challenged to stop running away,

Little Miss Sunshine

When Awkwardness Strikes

Since my first post about awkward things, 

1. more awkward things have happened to me  

2. more awkward memories of my life have surfaced. 

1. Unpredictable hugs

It could be your cousin's significant other, your great guyfriend from middle school, or worst, that good looking someone you met through mutual friends this summer.  The time comes to say goodbye and you… well, what do you do?  Whatever it is, you pray and hope it's the same thing as the other person is thinking.  Side hug?  Handshake?  Frontal assault hug?  Front hug with the bro hand clasp in the middle?  If you're not on the same page, you could end up a trainwreck of arms.  Goodbye, finesse, goodbye, smooth.  Helloooo, awkward.

2. Saying hey to the wrong person

Being the friendly person you are, you say hello.  You know that face.  Half a nanosecond and you realize why you know that face.  Ooops.  That was the lady in the cereal aisle who helped you find the raisins.  She doesn't remember you.  That was the guy who always walks his Weimaraner at the same time you're walking home from church.  That was the slightly crazy lady who asked you for major relationship advice while standing in line at the bank.  (True story.)

3. Poor merging skills

Whether they're having a serious conversation, or a sad one, or a highly confidential one, you came in at the wrong time.  It's a party, so you figure people should be talking about the Australian Open or Miley Cyrus or their dog.  You bound up to a conversation and say "hey guys" with face aglow.  Then it hits you.  The Cone of Silence has just been lowered.  You have two options.  Stay and look penitent, or run and find someone who is talking about the latest episode of the newest show that doesn't matter. 

4. Matchy matchy

You can't wait to debut this piece of wardrobe genius.  Awesome argyle scarf, jade and gold ring, caramel knee high boots, whatever, it's lovely and you're excited.  Little do you know, dear friend, that you aren't the only one who is excited.  Someone else is wearing what you're wearing.  You can avoid them.  You can get chatty and ask them where they got it.  You can say, hey nice dress - like I did when I showed up to my tenth grade piano concert in a fabulous black and white formal ONLY to find some other girl wearing the SAME DRESS.  Embarrassed?  Never.  Embarrassment is admitting defeat, which you can never do on stage in a fabulous dress.  The show went (and continues to go) on.

5. In your haste

Let's face it.  Sometimes you're in a rush.  You just got back from the grocery store to pick up a graduation card for your uncle's girlfriend's daughter.  There's hardly time to shrug on a low key sundress, slip on some sandals and fly out the door.  You arrive to the graduation party with your big happy family smile on.  As soon as you catch your breath, you realize.  In your haste, you've forgotten something.  Deodorant, teeth brushing after garlic at lunch, a safety pin to prevent wardrobe malfunctions… whatever it is, it's not good.  Here's the advice from the no middle ground girl.  If you can make it hilarious, do (if it won't overshadow the uncle's girlfriend's daughter).  If you can't, blow it off and see if you can find whatever you forgot in that random bathroom drawer on the left.

6. Totes awk txt msgs

You type out an angry text that you aren't planning on sending and your kid brother hits the send button.  You're texting your bff about a mutual friend and accidentally put them both in the recipients list.  You get a Merry Christmas text from a number you don't recognize.  TEXTING CAN BE SO AWKWARD!  If you have weird humor that only your dog understands, don't try to put it into a text.  If you're asking someone out or breaking up with them, don't try to put it in a text.  Don't just be tech savvy, be text savvy. 

7. It's it's it's… can I bring it by?

You show up to class on time, ready to learn and grow and glean wisdom from the fields of education.  So, what's that big binder everyone's turning in to the teacher's desk?  Great question.  Turn off the deer in the headlights and start sleuthing.  Ask some under your breath questions to the person next to you.  Yeah, it was that assignment you put off and then forgot.  The teacher looks at you questioningly.  You smile.  Inside you're thinking, how fast can I put that together?  Half an hour?  Sure.  You sidle up to the teacher's desk after class and tell her you don't have it, but ask if you can bring it by the office this afternoon.  There are teachers that this will absolutely not work on.  There are teachers who could care less and would take it at the end of the semester.  For goodness sake, be sure you know the difference!

That's all for now folks, tune in next time to hear about my life's awkwardness turned into second person stories.  (Yes, all of the above stories have happened to me.)

Little Miss Sunshine  

The time I was almost [legally] high

Caffeine is a drug.  You know that, right?  It's legal, of course, and most of you probably had your serving in the form of a straight black mug of joe, cinnamon spice skinny soy latte blah blah hipster blah, or Earl Grey tea, depending on your personal expression of hot drinkness. 

Sunshine has been on drugs two days in a row.  Of course I mean the legal kind.  (Although, isn't it weird Sherlock Holmes was a druggie?)  Yesterday, it came in the form of ignorance.  SG and I decided we'd treat ourselves to some breakfast out, thinking that would be cheaper than lunch.  We're still learning eating out in Australia is never cheap (unless you're talking fish and chips).  I just wanted a plain old cup of coffee.  In Australian, I should have said, yeh, I'd loik ah flat whoit thanks.  Instead, I said, yes, I'd like a tall black, which the barista further corrected by saying, you mean a long black?  Oops.  My Australian still needs some work. 

A flat white is a cup of coffee with milk, no foam.  That's what I should have ordered.  What I got was a mug of coffee so strong and black it could've taken the paint off that new car you got for Christmas.  (Does that actually happen, or is it just on TV commercials at Christmas time??)  Hoping to make it more bearable, I added two sugar packets and geared up for some kind of transformation into a muscled construction worker, an opposite beauty and the beast metamorphosis, if you will. 

I made it through alright, and breakfast was delicious. 

Then it happened.  All of a sudden, the caffeine kicked in.  Whew, baby.  I wanted to run, yell, fidget, and my thoughts were as many and varied as the crowd in Times Square at New Years.  There was some hyperventilation, and some funny faces.  If you know me, you know that yelling, running, and funny faces are all standard Sunshine features.  This legal drug just kicked all those up an Emeril Lagasse notch or twenty.  I got home and bottomed up a whole water bottle to dilute some of the madness. 

You would think I'd learn.  Caffeine makes you crazy, anxious even.  I did it all again today, except this time I made the flat white myself.  We were hanging out at church doing church intern stuff and we stopped for a cuppa with Mr. Matthews (who's doing much better!).  I made myself a cup of strong coffee.  Who likes weak coffee, right?  Right.  Oops, forgot that Sunshine on caffeine is crAzy. 

We left the church and parted ways as SG and I had different errands to run.  I walked home through Main Street, where the market was going on.  People were everywhere with their dogs, children, and various other tagalongs.  My thoughts were raging crazily.  Something about caffeine makes everything seem tragically heartbreaking or gloriously wonderful, of infinite importance or pitifully blasé, all of those things, just really really fast.  It was just caffeine, I swear. 

Thought sampling from the walk home…

There's the apple strudel man again.  He has the best apple strudel, I should tell those customers that.

That's a big dog. 

People people people people wow crowd.

Cricket.  Need to tell SG about cricket tomorrow.

Robert the Bruce isn't just history.  He connects to things.

How does Robert the Bruce connect to me being a waitress at a Mexican restaurant? 

He fought for freedom, and I'm free to be a waitress?

Mmm.  No, that's too much of a stretch.

Maybe it would be easier if I were an ignoramus.

I wouldn't have as much to be confused about and try to sort out.

Caffeine is a drug.  I should use that as the first line of my next blog post.

I could tell them about trudging up this hill.

Trudging reminds me of drudgery. 

Is it drudgery trudging up this hill?

I wonder if they're going to repaint that house to match the repainted fence. 

Maybe I should take up decaf? 

Love from the beach,

Little Miss Sunshine

The Man with the Fatal Flaw

SG: Well, how did your Christmas break goal go? 

Me: BAH. Epic fail.  I didn't find a husband. 

SG: Whoa.  Uh, I'm not going to respond to that.   

I am about to tell a story on myself.  Isn't that the definition of a writer?  Someone who tells stories, sometimes at the expense of themselves (or is that a comedienne?).  I would refrain because I may come across in a less than sparkling light, but I'm not really one to refrain from things, unless they involve olives.  I often find myself refraining from olives.  If you think I should have refrained, you are free to say so, as long as you tell me why.

I didn't set a New Year's resolution, but I did make a Christmas Break resolution: find a boyfriend.  You may laugh, but I was serious, sort of.  I didn't exactly expect to be successful, but figured it wouldn't hurt to make one such goal.  After all, I conjectured, I had two weddings, a couple holiday-ish parties and some Sundays at church. 

I was skeptical of the first wedding because the bride and groom were, um, probably in the top .001% of smart people in America.  Those kinds of people are not always known for their good looks and charm, but these two broke the mold.  Lo and behold, the groom had a brother who was not a shame to look at.  I would give him a general TDH classification (tall, dark and handsome).  This could be him.  He gave a superior best man speech, complete with sincere tears.  There was a dance floor.  I was dancing.  His brother, the groom, was a good dancer, so there was a high probability that Mr. Best Man had some family talent as well.  I waited and I waited and I wore my fabulous leopard dress and I smiled and you know what happened?  Nothing.  A big fat nothing.  I surmised that he had a girlfriend.  Jordy kindly suggested, in a sweet, maligning way that he probably had several.  

The parties were no better.  There was a slight prospect at one, but we were never introduced, so that was a flop.  I know we don't live in Victorian England, but as outgoing as I am, I still own reluctances about sidling up to boys and introducing myself.  The events were dwindling.  The second wedding was smaller than the first, and that particular best man, though one of the most charming men I have ever met, probably would not be attracted to a girl who climbed rocks and trees. 

Then I met him.  *Wistful sigh.*  Oh reader, let me tell you.  He was a dreamboat.  According to Merriam-Webster, that means he was "highly desirable or a very attractive person".  We met through mutual friends at an… event.  (Here's where telling stories on yourself gets tricky sticky.)  He was kind and good looking and let's just say, hypothetically, if he really wanted to lift a small car, he probably could.  He seemed sweet and easy going, easy to talk to, all of that. 

Enter the fatal flaw.  I'm not talking about a silly fatal flaw that's not really a fatal flaw like he has a crooked nose or he bites his nails or something.  Fatal flaws are seeeeerious.  This one isn't insurmountable, like he hates learning (a teacher's deal breaker) or he's dead.  I was trying to think of insurmountable fatal flaws, but that doesn't even make sense because you can't date dead people because that's WEIRD. 

The most ludicrous part of this whole thing is I don't really know him as a person.  I know things about him that I like, but it's not like we sat down and talked for an hour at this...event.  The other most ludicrous (I know, there should only be one superlative because that's what makes it a superlative) part of it is that I understand that, but I'm still hoping the fatal flaw will be overcome and he will sweep me off my happy feet when I get home in July.  Does he know any of this?  Of course not.  Will I absolutely die a slow death of mortification if you tell him?  Yes, reader, I will.  I hope we have an understanding.  You probably don't know him anyway.

I'm not too surprised this was a failed Christmas goal.  That's not to say I didn't spend time with scores of fabulous, upstanding gentlemen, but none of them were crazy enough to ask me out while I was home for a month.  And that's OK.  I think I keep expecting to see a man in the airport or out running or walking across the church campus that has "Sunshine's Man" written across his forehead.  That I'll just know, it'll be instant spark and playing catch and intellectual conversations and of course dancing.  Maybe that's unrealistic?  I haven't heard too many love stories that started with "he had my name emblazoned on his forehead, so I just knew".  Actually, I can't think of any that started that way. 

Undaunted, and as sappy of a romantic as ever,

Little Miss Sunshine

Tiger Wrestling and Tree Climbing

(In light of the last post, I sound a little bipolar, but it's just two sides of the same coin.)

The only succinct name I can think of is joi de vivre but that's probably because it's French, which makes it sound fancier than "joy of life".  I'm not talking about the feeling you get when you're sitting on a couch wearing flannel in front of a fireplace during a blizzard.  I'm not talking about the feeling you get when you are physically lifted out of slumber by the smell of bacon and coffee.  Those are both quiet niceties that make you think, Wow, isn't life great. 

I'm talking about a loud nicety, to put it poorly.  It's a sudden attack of wanting to shout and dance and twirl and run and laugh until your sides ache.  This thing might come upon you without warning.  It could be the result of seeing a stranger help a woman stow her luggage in the overhead bin.  It could come from standing on top of a mountain.  It could come after one bite of cantaloupe, or an hour of digging in the garden.

Fine if it strikes you while you're alone in your room.  You can carry on and raise a ruckus.  Fine if it strikes you in the middle of a line dance.  You can kick your heels and do jazz hands and smile so hard it feels like your face is going to split.  But pity the person if it comes upon them in a public place where decorum reigns. 

Like a library.  You know I love libraries, and I'm not opposed to keeping them quiet.  That's all good and reasonable, but oh dear, if you're struck at once by this fever of gladness, and you happen to be in a library?  All you want to do is go galloping through the non-fiction and hallooing through the reference section.  Or an airport.  All you want to do is run at top speed and kick your heels and quote great quotes with great gusto.  But everyone's just walking through the terminal, rolly suitcases in hand, getting where they need to go. 

The decent half of me thinks that's right and fine.  Keep public spaces free of uproar.  Maintain dignity and decorum.  This is the half of me that likes wearing pearls.  Libraries should be quiet.  Women should cross their legs and men should take off their hats indoors.  This is the half of me that likes tea parties.  There is a time for uproarious ruckus, but it's mostly confined to sporting events and celebratory parades.  This is the half of me that likes teacher cardigans.

The indecent half of me thinks that's lulling the world into a calm, dignified stupor.  Dignity is for Presidents, and there's only one of them at a time.  Decorum is for board meetings, but only if it's conducive to getting things done, whatever gets done in board meetings.  This is the half of me that races down the pasture on a horse without a saddle.  I mean, what if we slowly lost our ability to see in color because we became so sedate?  There is so much to cry out and dances to dance and grassy hills to roll down.  This is the half of me that climbs trees and hangs upside down from chin-up bars by my ankles. 

I mean.  The people who once walked in darkness have seen a great light, and for those who walked in darkness, light has dawned on them.  (paraphrase from Isaiah)  We have been given great and precious promises, and a hope that is an anchor for the soul.  That promise has a name.  His name is JESUS.  He is our rescuer, our only hope, our source of life.  HULLO.  That's enough to make me want to twirl through an airport and wrestle tigers and sing musical theater songs from the top of a maple tree. 

LOVE TO YOU,

LITTLE MISS SUNSHINE

(that was me hollering)

Sad in Happy Places

Sometimes I get sad in happy places.  Sometimes it's a sad that comes a few days before I leave a place I love.  Sometimes it's a sad that comes during a wedding or conversation about love stories (which I love) because I haven't had my own yet.  This is entirely inconvenient for several reasons. 

1. I do not like being sad, because when I am sad, I start to like being sad.  This sounds like gibberish born out of my week of little sleep, but let me explain.  Being the dramatic, occasionally sentimental and idealistic person that I am, sometimes I think sad is a romantic garret on a grey and rainy day, or a desolate plain windswept and desperate in its openness.  Sometimes I forget that sad is an emotional response to something, and that's ok, but you need to be sad for a suitable amount of processing time and then return to un-sad.

2. Being sad in a happy place means that you can't enjoy the happy place, and by gum, what's the point of being in a happy place if you can't enjoy it! 

We are never promised that we will always be offered a detour to avoid being sad.  What we are promised is we will never go alone.  Sometimes I forget that.  I still get tricked thinking that people who follow Jesus are handed a get out of jail free card and can rest assured that sadness or human loneliness will never be a part of life. 

Even an ability to cognitively process events so they make sense and seem rational can't save us from disappointments or grief.  He died because the oncogenes were triggered and the cancer took over.  The car crashed because the wheels slipped on black ice.  We can make sense of things, but that doesn't take away the intense emotion attached to them. 

Our hope is in Jesus, and in that we rest.  Sometimes it is the dreamless, sweet sleep of a newborn, and sometimes it is the desperate rest of a man who has just latched on to a floating piece of flotsam tossed in the waves of a shipwreck.  The rest is no less present, just of a different nature.   

When I chose the word "fight" for this year, I did so with the bravado of someone who has forgotten the difficulty of the battle.  It sounds like a nice word, its intent is victory, but inherent in the word is the presence of an enemy.  The victor might rise, but with maimed limbs and bloodied face.  With the fight, there is a cost that accompanies the victory.  Not all things can be taken along to the battle.  Selfishness and pride must be laid by the way, and fierce independence must be replaced with community.  The fight for joy and relationships and contentment will have none of self-centeredness. 

Jesus said, "follow me".  He didn't say where or through what, just "follow" and that his presence is a promise.  

Little Miss Sunshine

Sell Sell Sell!

My dad is a salesman.  He's amiable and convincing and very good at making people want things they'd never heard of until he started talking to them.  This does not make him akin to a used car salesman, who has the reputation of being greasy and unrelenting.  If any of you are car salesmen, I'm sure you're not like that, just all the rest of them.  Growing up in a house with a salesman bringing home the bacon meant I heard about closing deals and hard sells.  This leads me to the rite of passage into the adult world known as "job interviewing". 

Job interviews are like sales calls, except you're not selling a set of encyclopedias or stethoscopes, or even French collard greens.  You're selling yourself.  That sounds a bit cheap, like you're making a deal with the devil.  You're not really, you're just trying to convince someone you have what they want and make them willing to give you a contract, salary and benefits in order to get it.  Convincing someone they can't live without you means that

a.) You are fully convinced in your own mind that you can do the job better than the girl in the grey sweater dress who's interviewing after you.

b.) You aren't fully convinced you can do the job better, but you've got to sell the idea anyway or you'll forever be living on refried beans and tuna wondering why you got a college degree in the first place. 

c.) You aren't fully convinced you can do the job, you tell the interviewer that, and sit crying in your car for a full 7 minutes afterwards wishing you had more false confidence. 

Job interviews make me nervous.  I'm the well dressed secret agent, and the woman sitting across the desk from me is an expert interrogator, looking for chinks in my armor.  She could notice that I didn't do the best job taking off my nail polish from last week's wedding, or that my eyes wandered around the room nervously when I answered question 5.  But maybe that's going a little far.  Sometimes when I pretend I'm in the most dramatic of situations, it's easier to steel myself into unshakeable finesse. 

Yesterday, I wasn't really thinking about secret agents being interrogated.  It was all I could do to procure successful situations from my student teaching experience to hand over on a platter to the principal across the desk.  She was nothing like an interrogator, though I've never met one personally.  She was more like an elementary principal, smiley and upbeat, with a hint of I-have-about-1,000,000-things-going-on-right-now.  Either she was too distracted by those 1,000,000 to notice my chinks, or they didn't bother her too much because the interview seemed to go well.  She even used the c-word a couple times -CONTRACT. 

Whoa.  What?  Me?  A teacher?  Of children?  By myself?  Oh dear.  I guess there's a first time for everything.  I guess the daringest dare devils didn't have the luxury of doing a trial run before they climbed Everest and kayaked the Amazon.  They just packed some sandwiches, laced up their adventure boots and said, well, I don't know what they said.  It was probably in a different language. 

Yes, I'm learning how to sell myself.  After all, I do have a degree in building blocks and differentiated instruction and Vygotsky and play dough.  It's not as though I'm a professional snorkeler who's trying to be a guide across the Sahara Desert. 

Much love,

Little Miss Sunshine

Going to the chapel and we're going to... watch Chris and Jenna get married!

The hair was sufficiently shellacked, the jacket belt tied in a square knot that took several attempts, and the shorts under the dress in place as a wind contingency plan.  We arrived at the wedding, and I promptly began hugging almost everyone in sight.  Because I've had a serious case of itchyfoottravel-itis the last 8 months, I've missed two of my best friends' weddings and not seen lots of the nearest and dearest since graduation in May. 

The wedding was beautiful.  Like the bride and groom, there was nothing fussy about it, and according to a reliable source, it was only 22 minutes long.  The groom tried to joke with his groomsmen while the bridesmaids were coming down the aisle, but promptly burst into tears when Jenna walked down the aisle. 

The bride wore a strapless white satin gown with a sweetheart neckline and minimal rouching on the bodice, with about an eight foot train.  It fit her silouette just right, and her personality too.  The bridesmaids were in black and the groomsmen in purple vests and black tuxedos.  Like a good Baptist wedding, the reception was in the fellowship hall and there was no dancing.  You know how I feel about dancing, but it was for the best, as I wouldn't have been able to catch up with friends if I'd been Cupid shuffling.

Sam and Han's house was full that night.  Chris and Rach, Mark, Stew, Liz and I all spent the night, which was prefaced by pizza and salad, hanging out with SG and Alex, and playing this crazy dancing game.  This crazy dancing game had an "eye", whatever that means, that could read your whole body movements and whether or not you were mimicking your ghetto awesome hip-hop avatar on screen.   Let's just say I got the most enthusiastic dancer award, but Han still ate my hip-hop lunch. 

We were all together, but we didn’t have class the next day, there was no looming group project, and no apartment manager checking on the noise level.  We were adults, and we still had fun.  I was relieved.  After the crazy dancing game, we needed something that required less energy, so we played Funglish.  It took us probably ten minutes to guess "ear of corn" after Chris used "yellow", "round", "small", "long" and "sort of human", but it took us an hour to recover from laughing about it.  Laughter is more readily at hand when you play games after 11. 

The next morning we sleepily emerged from all corners of the house like burrowing animals after hibernating for the winter, and Chris, Mark and I ventured off to the store determined to find the grocery store without technological aid (in the tradition of the American pioneers).  We made it back alive with breakfast ingredients.  Breakfast turned into brunchy lunch by the time it was served, but that's OK.  We're twenty-somethings, and they do that, I think. 

That night, I had the chance to go to the Village Church Dallas campus and listen to Matt Chandler preach and worship among friends.  Afterwards we made it to Starbucks after about six u-turns, and Cody, Pres, Grant and I chatted about climbing ladders, Charles Dickens and intermural sports. 

It was a wonderful weekend full of stomach-aching laughter, hanging upside down on chin up bars, and just enjoying great company!

Sitting at the airport thankful for the luxury of weekend getaways,

LMS

     

Dallas, land of big hair and BBQ

As you read in the last post, I stayed out late dancing, so the next morning I rolled out of bed, threw some clothes in my rolly suitcase and had a strong cup of coffee.  Daddy gave me a ride to the airport and dropped me off at good ole Terminal 4.  When I found my gate, I met a little girl with a hedgehog.  Not a live hedgehog, mind you, a plush one.  Not just a plush one, mind you, but a driver cover!  Of course, I started talking with this little girl and her amiable grandparents who were flying to Dallas with me.  They told me about how she played golf and about her cousin who started playing golf when he was 18 months old.  Whether that is a slight grandparental exaggeration or not, I cannot say.

I sat next to a mother and daughter who watched a movie and got off the plane in Albuquerque.  That's where the interesting people got on.  They weren't interesting in the way that people you try to avoid on airplanes are.  They were the sort of interesting you secretly hope will sit next to you because they seem nice and won't fall asleep on your shoulder and drool on your mom's leather jacket that you borrowed to go to Dallas.  They were chatty in just the right dosage.  The wife had her Kindle out, but would talk with her husband about the kitchen tools he was looking at in SkyMall and to me about how she almost cut her finger off with a submersible blender.  Ouch.  Oh, and they were rich.  They have a house in Santa Fe and her leather travel bag was the kind of leather you know didn't come from Walmart.  Oh, and there was the fur coat made of beaver and fox.  But they weren't snobby rich people, just nice ones.

We landed, as planes generally do, and I power walked myself down to the baggage claim where I promptly started screaming and tackled my friends Mark and Rachel.  We drove off to Mark's apartment where I tackled Marcus and got the Mark and Marc apartment tour.  After that, I climbed on the back of a motorcycle with Marcus and we zoomed off for a short tour de Dallas.  [Yes parents, I was wearing a helmet.]  This made me want a motorcycle.  Speed, adrenaline, a valid excuse to buy leather pants, what's not to like? 

That night we gathered at Chris and Rachel's apt for games and dessert.  Rachel beat the tar out of Rachel C and I at this crazy trains game.  But that's OK, I don't mind losing in such good company.  The rest of the evening involved the boys talking a lot about the difference between Indi racing and Formula One, and the future of the Dallas Mavs.  It was a good lulling to sleep conversation and I almost dropped off curled up in Rach and Chris's double soft armchair. 

The next morning it was off to World Market for champagne, Target for flutes, and Starbucks for a caffeinated pick me up in the form of a gingerbread latte with whip (a standard Sunshine feature).  The last stop I knew, I knew, I KNEW I should have left my wallet in the car.  It was REI, and even though I had just read an article about how people are more susceptible when things say "SALE", I FELL FOR IT.  Oh loathing susceptibility to marketing tactics!  It was a little pack, red/burgundy, hydration equipped and I could use it for day hikes or walking around Australia!  I escaped with only one purchase.  Whew.

Back to the house to toss things back into the suitcase that had escaped in the last 24 hours and into the car with Rach for a mini-road trip to Arkansas to see friends and go to a wedding.  Right now I'm in the car with Han, Sambo, and Rach, garbed in my sale rack leopard print one shoulder dress…  I don't know why people pay full price for anything, really.

More on weddings, words and waffles later,

Little Miss Sunshine

I think your tractor's sexy...

There's a chance I've mentioned this before, but two things I love in life are dancing and country things.  When you combine these two into a night of country western two stepping, I'm in hog heaven, whatever that means.  Big and Rich or Shania are blaring from the speakers and I'm twirling as fast as my black boots will allow.  Mmmm. 

This week, I thought I was doing a brave thing.  Two of my good friends had canceled on me at the last minute (for valid reasons) so I was driving by myself.  In my Don Quixote, adventure seeking sort of way, I started wondering whether any of my other friends would be there.  Going dancing by yourself would be a brave thing, right?  Or stupid?  I wasn't quite sure, but I kept driving and resisted the urge to pull a u-turn and stay home for the night.  As is happened, there was a good group of my friends already there when I arrived.  So much for that. 

We danced and danced and twirled and spun and dipped.  I danced with all the friends, plus a few guys I didn't know.  It's difficult loving dance so much because sometimes there are guys who would be labeled "creepers" who ask you to dance.  There are two problems with this scenario.  The first is, I feel rude saying no to a dance.  It would take a lot for me to turn down a turn on the dance floor, and I'm just not very good at saying nnnnnnn, at saying nnnnnnnn, at saying that word that is opposite of yes.  Second, some of those creepers are incredible dancers.  Take man in black for a minute.  Total creep, just kind of an over the top flirt, etc.  However, MIB is one of the best dancers on the floor.  What's a girl to do?!  Say yes, fly around the room in ecstasy and promptly wash her hands and utter all manner of ewwwwwww sounds in the privacy of the ladies' room?  He didn't ask me to dance, so no trips to the ladies' room for me. 

At this particular venue, there are several kinds of people…

1. The ballroom crowd - those who, by the shake of the hips and the point of their toes, are clearly accustomed to the likes of rhumba, waltz and fox trot, not the corn fields and smell of dairies.

2. The fun crowd - those who come to learn and have a good time because they enjoy dancing (the majority).

3. The true grits - those who came straight from the saddle and had a little cornbread and beans in the truck for dinner on the way.  I danced with one such individual - cue dramatic western movie music.

I was standing in the southwest corner of the room, doing my best to communicate (HULLLLO, I want to dance).  It must have worked because

There I was, not dancing at all,

When a cowboy appeared who was thin and tall.

He asked me to dance, and yes said I,

He led me to the floor and said, My name's Ty.

His hat was as black as a night in Odessa,

Pulled down so low that I had to guess, sir,

What exactly his face looked like .

Dancing with tall, dark cowboys is fine, especially when they smell good, but dancing with the friends is great because you can pause to figure out the lead in to a move or try a new stunt.  Adrenaline is one of my nearest and dearest friends, so I don't mind being flipped, tossed and dipped.  One of the crew particularly likes doing those things, and asked me if I'd try something.  Somehow I went from a cradle hold to imitating Superman flying atop his shoulder, followed by a whirl of whooshing and landing in a dip.  I promptly asked him if I could please do that every day for the rest of my life. 

Other fun things come through watching the pros (usually Type 1, above), or borrowing swing dancing moves from my college days.  That's how I ended up having the centrifugal force joyride of the evening, swinging down around and up, hair sweeping the floor, lungs close to screaming.  It's a good place to be. 

I was committed to leaving at a reasonable hour.  I was.  I really was.  I was going to go home early, clean my room, get a full night's sleep and wake up fresh to finish packing and catch my flight to Dallas.  First it was, OK, one more dance.  Then I had the good fortune of telling that to my friend J and explaining that I had a flight the next morning.  She asked what time my flight was.  11:35?  Ha, she said, you don't need to leave.  She was so right.  Leave dancing or keep dancing?  Is that really a question?  I don't know what I was thinking.  Sleep is so overrated.  Dancing is so underrated.  So I stayed.  We shut the place down again and I was high as a kite for about 48 hours just from twirling and swirling and flying through the air. 

Ahhhhh.  Dancing. 

Love,

LMS