March "went out" yesterday. But not like a lamb, no way, no how. More like a messy, boiling, catastrophic whirlwind of a windstorm. But... this is the new Teri! The new Teri does not complain! She dresses herself in the morning and meets the day's challenges (and disappointments) with smiles! crisp dresses! poetry!
Yes, poetry.
The new Teri replaces complaining with poetry. So---a Haiku about the wind:
"Roaring"
a Haiku by Teri
Dust assaulting all
Whipped into a storm of rage
I'm hiding indoors
There, now. Wasn't that nice? Seventeen pristine syllables instead of a diatribe on all things offensive to me.
Now, I have more Haiku to compose on the following topics:
Small, yippy dogs
Paperwork at doctors' offices
Certain family members
Intestinal viruses
All housecleaning
Politics
Grocery prices
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Back from Pakistan
I've spent the past few days in Pakistan, in my imagination, as I've been reading Three Cups of Tea by Greg Mortenson and David Oliver Relin.
Of all the places in the world to hang out, Pakistan wouldn't be on my list. I've even been to India - and while I was there I remember hearing things about Pakistan that were scary. And here this guy Greg Mortenson, an American mountain climber, ends up making it his second home.
The book details how Mortenson promises some kindly and poor mountain village folks that he will help them build a school for their kids. And then keeps his promise. No small task considering the travel, fundraising, and politics involved for an American to zoom in and start big construction projects.
Weirdest for me was that though Mortenson has a Christian background, I understand from the book that he doesn't embrace a particular faith himself. And throughout the book, as he serves and loves the poor and suffering, I kept wondering not just whether a strong follower of Jesus would do what Mortenson did, but whether one could. Oftentimes, doors were open to Mortenson specifically because he wasn't a Christian. And he didn't back away when the opportunities arose for him to learn to pray with Muslims, washing ritually and bowing to Mecca.
This book, though fascinating, isn't exactly an action-packed thriller, yet I didn't notice what page I was on until into the 300s. I wanted to follow Greg Mortenson around, adventure after adventure, and get a closer look at his heart. I am thankful to him and to David Oliver Relin for writing the story. Certainly, my views of Muslims, terrorists, and that whole area of our planet have been altered for the better. I was elated to read the Afterword where I learned that Three Cups of Tea "has been a freshman, honors, or campus-wide required reading selection in over eighty universities and hundreds of schools. It is also required reading for senior U.S. military commanders, Pentagon officers in counter-insurgency training, and Special Forces deploying to Afghanistan...." Hallelujah! And in some way, it benefited this Western United States suburban housewife as well.
My suburban housewife life blows away
Literally. I've picked up a lot of trash this morning blown into my yard by the near-tornado out there. Did I mention I'm supposed to be taking the kids and their baskets to an Easter egg hunt at lunchtime?
I look at the trash I pick up, caught in my bushes after its journey down the cul de sac. There was a piece of an ice bag. An Allegiant Air ticket stub from Monterey to Vegas. Some Papa John's pizza boxes (more than one blew across my desert landscape). A receipt for a purchase at the Post Office.
Came back in from tidying and Cayna is sobbing. "My Webkinz is dead!" she screeched. There, there, daughter. (You RARELY played with the thing -- I think it's been dead for a while and you're just now noticing.)
Assemble 15 eggs per child with Starbursts and Tootsie Rolls. That's sixty eggs for you non-mathematicians.
Clean up the spilled milk that John turned into a painting project on the dining room table. Try to talk to Monica about important housewife topics and Webkinz is blaring at my house while her toddler screams in the background at hers.
My hair is sprayed and teased into a mass of concrete curls and captured in a rubber band that matches my shoes so that I can look like an adorable 39 year-old at the park.
It's Holy Week, folks. Somewhere around here. Can you feel it?
I look at the trash I pick up, caught in my bushes after its journey down the cul de sac. There was a piece of an ice bag. An Allegiant Air ticket stub from Monterey to Vegas. Some Papa John's pizza boxes (more than one blew across my desert landscape). A receipt for a purchase at the Post Office.
Came back in from tidying and Cayna is sobbing. "My Webkinz is dead!" she screeched. There, there, daughter. (You RARELY played with the thing -- I think it's been dead for a while and you're just now noticing.)
Assemble 15 eggs per child with Starbursts and Tootsie Rolls. That's sixty eggs for you non-mathematicians.
Clean up the spilled milk that John turned into a painting project on the dining room table. Try to talk to Monica about important housewife topics and Webkinz is blaring at my house while her toddler screams in the background at hers.
My hair is sprayed and teased into a mass of concrete curls and captured in a rubber band that matches my shoes so that I can look like an adorable 39 year-old at the park.
It's Holy Week, folks. Somewhere around here. Can you feel it?
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
I'd rather not, but I know I need to
I gotta delve more into the issue of women in the Catholic Church. I'm perfectly comfortable not having women priests, but I'd like to have a more informed intellect about the whole thing. I know there are some profound writings out there by orthodox Catholics who affirm women and women in ministry (but not the priesthood) and I'd like to start with those. Then, eventually, I want to read something from the "other side". I wonder if there exists anything thoughtful, not too angry.
Somehow, in accepting the Church's say on male-only priests, I feel like a sell-out to my gender. But usually the ultra-feminist members of my gender irk me. I end up feeling like a jellyfish - all squirmy and translucent and not any real substance or brain. I hate feeling like that.
I think the thing that makes this topic hard to want to study is that I know people who cite the male-only priesthood as one of the things that keeps them from becoming Catholic. And ME reading up on it isn't going to solve the dilemma for them. But I still gotta figure out where I'm coming from.
Somehow, in accepting the Church's say on male-only priests, I feel like a sell-out to my gender. But usually the ultra-feminist members of my gender irk me. I end up feeling like a jellyfish - all squirmy and translucent and not any real substance or brain. I hate feeling like that.
I think the thing that makes this topic hard to want to study is that I know people who cite the male-only priesthood as one of the things that keeps them from becoming Catholic. And ME reading up on it isn't going to solve the dilemma for them. But I still gotta figure out where I'm coming from.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Three simple ways to save your housewife life
1) You may not think about this much, so it's a good thing I do. Bath towels are a veritable haven for pesky varmints like hairy spiders, scorpions, and in some parts of the country, possums. Even if you use your towel every twenty-four hours (or more), it doesn't take long for scary and potentially deadly creatures to take up residence therein. The solution? A simple shake. I've been employing this since a cockroach scare I had in the 90s. Most pests aren't expecting to be shaken, so they let go, fall to the floor, and can be squashed. (Except in the case of the possum. We don't have those out here, so I'm not sure what you do with a possum once you've dislodged him or her from your towel.) Note: it is essential to shake the towel away from your body. If you're not careful about this, the hairy spider/scorpion/possum might be shaken in such a way as to force it to latch onto one of your vulnerable body parts. Just be careful, is all I'm saying.
2) I have found no studies comparing the dangers of modern laundry rooms with the dangers of coal mines, but I think it's only a matter of time. With coal mines, there is the unavoidable danger of developing coalworker's pneumoconiosis. In short, black lung. And it ain't pretty. With laundry rooms, there is the unavoidable danger of developing lint lung. I can't prove it yet, but I think this might be just as nasty as black lung. You know when you go to clean out your lint filter in your dryer -- (you DO clean that out, right? If not, you are exposing your self to MANY other housewife dangers that I don't have time to get into right now, but they include blowing up your entire house) -- as I was saying, you know when you clean out that filter? -- zillions of lint particles are released into the air, and therefore your nose, and therefore your lungs. To combat lint lung, you can 1)wear a mask; 2)start using a clothesline outside; or 3)hold your breath while you clean out the filter. I recommend the third option since a mask will make you look like a dork and clothes on a clothesline are veritable havens for pesky varmints like hairy spiders, scorpions, and in some parts of the country, possums. If you start to feel light-headed while holding your breath, try cleaning the filter more often.
3) Methane is a gas produced from decaying organic wastes. Methane is not toxic; however, it is highly flammable and may form explosive mixtures with air. I'm wondering, on a given day, how much methane might be accumulating in my kitchen trash can containing PullUps, poopy diapers, rotten potatoes (I meant to bake them...), half-eaten sandwiches made partly from animal products, and mouse-pee-soaked cage bedding. My local gas company has a handy-dandy "Safety" section on their website for which I am grateful. It might have saved your life and mine. It states, as follows: IF YOU SUSPECT A LEAK: (or if you have a trash can similar to the one described above)
* Leave the vicinity immediately.
* Warn others.
* Do not light a match, start or stop an engine, use a phone, switch on or off lights, or do anything that might create a spark.
That's it, housewives! You heard it here first. Until you can hire a trained and properly-attired hazardous waste removal expert to take out your trash - get out of the house! I recommend going to Baskin Robbins. Just don't eat too much and clog your arteries and set yourself up for a heart attack. That's fodder for another post, my friends.
2) I have found no studies comparing the dangers of modern laundry rooms with the dangers of coal mines, but I think it's only a matter of time. With coal mines, there is the unavoidable danger of developing coalworker's pneumoconiosis. In short, black lung. And it ain't pretty. With laundry rooms, there is the unavoidable danger of developing lint lung. I can't prove it yet, but I think this might be just as nasty as black lung. You know when you go to clean out your lint filter in your dryer -- (you DO clean that out, right? If not, you are exposing your self to MANY other housewife dangers that I don't have time to get into right now, but they include blowing up your entire house) -- as I was saying, you know when you clean out that filter? -- zillions of lint particles are released into the air, and therefore your nose, and therefore your lungs. To combat lint lung, you can 1)wear a mask; 2)start using a clothesline outside; or 3)hold your breath while you clean out the filter. I recommend the third option since a mask will make you look like a dork and clothes on a clothesline are veritable havens for pesky varmints like hairy spiders, scorpions, and in some parts of the country, possums. If you start to feel light-headed while holding your breath, try cleaning the filter more often.
3) Methane is a gas produced from decaying organic wastes. Methane is not toxic; however, it is highly flammable and may form explosive mixtures with air. I'm wondering, on a given day, how much methane might be accumulating in my kitchen trash can containing PullUps, poopy diapers, rotten potatoes (I meant to bake them...), half-eaten sandwiches made partly from animal products, and mouse-pee-soaked cage bedding. My local gas company has a handy-dandy "Safety" section on their website for which I am grateful. It might have saved your life and mine. It states, as follows: IF YOU SUSPECT A LEAK: (or if you have a trash can similar to the one described above)
* Leave the vicinity immediately.
* Warn others.
* Do not light a match, start or stop an engine, use a phone, switch on or off lights, or do anything that might create a spark.
That's it, housewives! You heard it here first. Until you can hire a trained and properly-attired hazardous waste removal expert to take out your trash - get out of the house! I recommend going to Baskin Robbins. Just don't eat too much and clog your arteries and set yourself up for a heart attack. That's fodder for another post, my friends.
Monday, March 22, 2010
What is it about the Vietnam War?
Just finished another book centered on the Vietnam War. Totally dug the female author's perspective. She was an Army nurse in Vietnam for one year, and does a heck of a job remembering the entire time.
Would I recommend this book? Sure, but I'm trying to think about what it has to offer the thirty-something housewife of 2010. Especially considering most of my friends aren't necessarily history or war buffs. (If you are one of those things, this book is a must-read.)
This book provides a clear look outside my life as a homemaker and a parent and spouse and even a believer in the gospel. I think it's good and healthy to try to appreciate a diversity of people, experiences, and perspectives. Not to try to escape my circumstances (not at all), but to step outside of them for even the couple days it takes to read and become absorbed in a book. Maybe all I'm really saying is that I like a good story.
Home Before Morning is a good story. And a true one, written by Lynda Van Devanter. I loved getting to hear details (even some gory ones) of this woman's whole experience there. As a writer and an analyzer and a self-proclaimed therapist - I would have RELISHED getting to witness the process this woman went through to recall all this stuff and get it onto paper.
Plenty of books have brought me to tears, but this one did it over and over again. And I wondered, considering the many attitudes our society has toward the Vietnam War, and considering all the hopelessness I was reading from page to page, how it would all turn out for Ms. Van Devanter. The ending was completely inspiring. And I'll leave it at that. If you read it, you don't want me to ruin it. And if you don't, you're probably content to hear it ends well. At least this particular Vietnam story.
Would I recommend this book? Sure, but I'm trying to think about what it has to offer the thirty-something housewife of 2010. Especially considering most of my friends aren't necessarily history or war buffs. (If you are one of those things, this book is a must-read.)
This book provides a clear look outside my life as a homemaker and a parent and spouse and even a believer in the gospel. I think it's good and healthy to try to appreciate a diversity of people, experiences, and perspectives. Not to try to escape my circumstances (not at all), but to step outside of them for even the couple days it takes to read and become absorbed in a book. Maybe all I'm really saying is that I like a good story.
Home Before Morning is a good story. And a true one, written by Lynda Van Devanter. I loved getting to hear details (even some gory ones) of this woman's whole experience there. As a writer and an analyzer and a self-proclaimed therapist - I would have RELISHED getting to witness the process this woman went through to recall all this stuff and get it onto paper.
Plenty of books have brought me to tears, but this one did it over and over again. And I wondered, considering the many attitudes our society has toward the Vietnam War, and considering all the hopelessness I was reading from page to page, how it would all turn out for Ms. Van Devanter. The ending was completely inspiring. And I'll leave it at that. If you read it, you don't want me to ruin it. And if you don't, you're probably content to hear it ends well. At least this particular Vietnam story.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
Sunday Morning Muddling
On a good Sunday, right before Mass, I'm rational, coherent and serene as I heft the diaper bag and climb into the van. I'm aware that I'm going to hang out with the God of the universe in His house.
On every other Sunday, my reverence for that same God of the universe is overtaken by one or all of the following concerns: one of my children is wearing an outfit I wouldn't have chosen; I'm not holding in my belly effectively enough; John will inadvertently topple an elderly parishioner and the paramedics will be called.
How can I move more toward that "good" Sunday? I don't know. Just so you know, I truly don't know. I don't want you to keep reading thinking I'll conclude with a brilliant answer. I don't have one. I know it has much to do with prayer, accepting the grace of God, and probably a Valium prescription - but each of those presents hurdles of its own.
Today I arrived at our usual row and whispered "Good morning" to the woman in the end seat. She didn't reply and right there just a few feet from the crucifix I got annoyed. Can't she say good morning back? What a pill! (Never mind that the other 45 people I'd already greeted smiled and replied promptly. I was focused on the woman who didn't. I think I'm a little like Ray Romano's character on "Everybody Loves Raymond". He absolutely could not deal with not being liked. I also, apparently, insist on being warmly greeted and smiled at in all circumstances.) I noticed moments later that the woman was praying the Rosary. Oops.
There's the real life of a follower of Jesus, I think. I'm perfectly capable of harshly judging a prayerful old lady right in front of Jesus! And HE is perfectly capable of still loving and forgiving me. And that's what keeps me going back Sunday after Sunday. No matter how the morning goes beforehand.
On every other Sunday, my reverence for that same God of the universe is overtaken by one or all of the following concerns: one of my children is wearing an outfit I wouldn't have chosen; I'm not holding in my belly effectively enough; John will inadvertently topple an elderly parishioner and the paramedics will be called.
How can I move more toward that "good" Sunday? I don't know. Just so you know, I truly don't know. I don't want you to keep reading thinking I'll conclude with a brilliant answer. I don't have one. I know it has much to do with prayer, accepting the grace of God, and probably a Valium prescription - but each of those presents hurdles of its own.
Today I arrived at our usual row and whispered "Good morning" to the woman in the end seat. She didn't reply and right there just a few feet from the crucifix I got annoyed. Can't she say good morning back? What a pill! (Never mind that the other 45 people I'd already greeted smiled and replied promptly. I was focused on the woman who didn't. I think I'm a little like Ray Romano's character on "Everybody Loves Raymond". He absolutely could not deal with not being liked. I also, apparently, insist on being warmly greeted and smiled at in all circumstances.) I noticed moments later that the woman was praying the Rosary. Oops.
There's the real life of a follower of Jesus, I think. I'm perfectly capable of harshly judging a prayerful old lady right in front of Jesus! And HE is perfectly capable of still loving and forgiving me. And that's what keeps me going back Sunday after Sunday. No matter how the morning goes beforehand.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)