Why I Should Write Screenplays Instead of Novels

Proof That I Ought to Write Comedic, Romantic Screenplays, Not Novels

Point One: I'm a Dreamer

 I have dreams, and then I have vivid dreams. There are dreams that feel like dreams and then there are dreams that feel realer than real life. Do yours have that distinction? The best part about these vivid dreams are the fact that in most cases, they are full of things I have never before felt, or at a depth I have never felt them and with no exceptions, they come unexpectedly and have nothing to do with what I assume I will dream about. My brain somehow concocts the most intricate pieces of entertainment from my subconscious and imagination. As I sleep, I live them. A dream-dream will fade within the first hour of my waking up. Sometimes, if I'm jostled awake too abruptly by my "Somewhere Beyond the Sea" alarm, I'll forget them in an instant. But the vivid dreams exist as if preserved by some good fairy's charms. They aren't always romantic dreams either--once I had to be the assistant of a wordless FBI agent. I have run a week before on the fumes of a vivid dream just as I would if it was a real experience. They don't come often--perhaps every several months--but when they come, they are a delight. I had one the other night. I'll skip the details except for telling you that it was a perfectly innocent dream of a slightly-famous and highly-attractive man moving into the house across the road and falling in love with me. At one point in the dream he took my hand and laced his fingers through mine and, laughing, took me into the house to meet his parents and his eight year old niece.

I wish I could describe to you just how real it felt. Everything, from the feel of his fingers between mine to the slightly-stupid question I asked at the beginning when his sudden tenderness toward me sent me into much warm-cheeked confusion, felt extremely calm and real. Which is hilarious, because I've never met this person or had someone hold my hand that way, and the people who live in the house across the street have been there since we moved in. All the details are ones I have never consciously considered. The reality of the dream continued when, after visiting with the man's parents, I checked my phone and realized that it was 11:30 and I had needed to be at work by 9:00. I pulled a Cinderella then and fled the scene, sending a panicked text to my boss with something along the lines of, "Sorry I'm late--a really sweet/handsome man started talking to me and I thought it had only been fifteen minutes!"

Such a lame excuse, isn't it?

But I love dreams like this. I spent the entire day after that dream feeling loved and cherished and excited about something...what was it? Oh yeah. That ridiculously vivid dream. I laughed to myself over it, then told it to my siblings where it was laughed over and taunted further. One of my sisters put together a love-lorn playlist and we danced around the kitchen, putting dinner together to the tune of "Not That Girl" and "Marry Me." The point of this post so far is to let you in on my frame of mind before socking you with...

Point Two: I'm queen of serendipitous hilarity

Because, though fun, not only was our kitchen dance session amazingly pathetic but the reason for my flushed cheeks and starry eyes was some dumb dream about someone I will never meet and never think about without provocation. Still, I have told you before that I'm easily satisfied with small things and if it is pitiable that having a dream about someone holding my hand and saying pretty things to me sets me up for a fortnight, at least I'm not hard to please. As I have said, I felt quite airy and blushy this day and the dancing only made it feel more real. Whenever this sort of dream-thing begins to happen in real life, I already know I'm going to be hilarious. I'm going to be the person who is smiling about nothing. I'll be perfectly functional, but everyone will know I am in love. I mean, seriously: I'm made happier than a caterpillar in May to have a dream about something I didn't know I wanted.

I had almost gotten this ridiculous mood out of my system when I took my littlest brother upstairs to change into pajamas. In my room, I found my cat and she looked so sleepy and cuddly that I felt like rummaging her awake and dragging her into my fine humor. I get like this sometimes: I can't leave the cat alone, even if she's sleeping peacefully. I just have to bounce her. So I plopped on the bed beside her, then laced her paw through my fingers and continued the conversation from the dream with my other hand stroking her fine ruff.

And then it happened. The part I couldn't have scripted any better if I'd been writing that screenplay:

Just as I got to the cleverest part of the dream conversation and had almost determined to finish waking the cat by scooping her into my arms and dancing Aurora-wise about the room to annoy her, the dratted beast began to hack up a hairball. Not your normal, easy-going hairball. This one must have been lodged and stuck and never gonna come out, no sir.

"HACK, HACK, HUCKKKKKKK. HACK, HACK." 

I un-laced her paw. I sat up straight. I started to laugh.

"HURKKKKKK, HACK, HACK, HYUCK."

I dumped the choking animal unceremoniously on the floor and watched her body convulse. Get it out, darlin'. My little brother joined the circus and tweeted--yes, tweeted like a bird--every time she hacked and giggled in between It was quite the chorus, I tell you:

"HUCK"

*tweet!*

"HACCCCKKK"

*tweet*

That twinkly, rose-flavored feeling from the day--that in-love for no good reason about no real person--belongs strictly to dreams. It's wonderfully pleasant and I look forward with delight to the rare occasions when I get a vivid dream instead of the whisked-away sort. But the truth is, it's all imaginary. There is no guy in my life who wants to hold my hand and take me to meet his parents and tour his childhood home and laugh over the fact that we're standing in the front yard together and I really just asked if his windows had a good view. No one like that. Not yet. He might be on his way, but he isn't here and the house across the street boasts a tubby country boy and his slender wife and his little-man son and the only person who holds my hand is the three year old on her way to go potty. So while the vividness of the dream is a good substitute for things I have never experienced, the real parts of my life are much more realistic and quite hilarious.

 I'm not a Cinderella or an Aurora and I'm pretty sure that when my man comes, he'll probably not fit the description of the amazing man from the dream (you won't guess who it is. If you do guess, I won't tell you. But it isn't Tom Hiddleston) and he probably won't be your classic Prince Charming. In many ways, he'll probably be better. But I have one requirement for the elusive fella:

He'd better be up for dance parties and hair-balls.

The Pros, Cons, and Laughy-Bits Of Being A Nanny

A friend recently asked me if I thought she would be a good fit for a nannying position, and whether I liked mine. The short answer to both questions is "yes," but before advising someone into a career that requires consistency, high-energy, loads of creativity, and much responsibility (you're dealing with someone's kids, not insurance policies, groceries, someone's double-shot-latte-extra-hot, car repairs, or shoe size), I gave her some general advice about what worked so well with my job: my current boss interviewed me in person, then sent me a 30-question interview to fill out at leisure with some rather deep questions. At first, I worried she might be super type-A, high-maintenance, and a pain to work for. Then I remembered that the friend I got the reference from would have brooked nothing of the sort and had loved the job. My fears mostly eased, I filled out those questions, sent them in, and have been happily working with Sharon for the last nine months. She's the most wonderful, inspiring boss I could ask to work for. She loves her kids fiercely and is a clear communicator. What I had originally perceived as control-freak actually was a healthy-minded person laying out clear expectations so that neither of us got to the ninth month and looked back with dissatisfaction. I love my job. I won't say it's for everyone. A less-skilled person my age in my field of nanny-teacher-chief-cook-and-bottle-washer might find it overwhelming. I am pooped by the end of a work week and ready for my days off, but it is incredibly rewarding.

And every position is different. If you are looking at applying for what one person calls a "nanny," you might really be in for well-paid babysitting. In the case of another good friend, she's half chauffeur, half play-mate, with a dash of housekeeper thrown in. Just as each family is different, each job will have different requirements, expectations, and situations. And these things will change depending on the age and number of kids in the family. So I'm afraid I can't advise anyone straight out that they would definitely be a good fit for that nanny job. I'd have to know a whole lot more about the given situation than I do. There are, however, a number of truths universally acknowledged by The Surrogate Mother Trade (nannies). In an effort to humorously advise other people thinking of applying for a nannying position, I've drawn up a list of pros and cons to be considered:

Your name either comes up in one long string of Not-Listening ("Miss Rachel. Miss Rachel? Miss RACHEL. MissRachelMissRachelMissRachelllllllll?") or not at all ( "Miss Daddy,""Miss Mommy," "Miss Nammaw," and a great many other names that are variations on the theme).
Your body is not your own. Or at least, I have to work super hard to make it so. They're kids. They are going to poke and prode you multiple times a day and block up doorways to make it nearly impossible for you to go through. I'm accustomed to a certain level of it with my younger siblings and am slowly coaching Lila and Sophy out of it. But really, they're going to pile into your lap during book-time and flop on your back and thighs and arms and ankles when you're anywhere close to the vicinity of the floor. your knees will develop spots from constant kneeling at toddler-level to play games and "do it again." They're also going to share their sneezes, yawns, coughs, toots, and whatever else with you. Welcome to a taste of motherhood.
Just because you have no "moves" does not mean you get out of dance parties. Seriously. When the three year old can break it down and shake it off better than you can at twenty-two, you might have serious thoughts about quitting. Sorry. The whole fun of a dance-party is to show off your prowess to the adult and have the adult show off their ridiculousness to you. I've got the ridiculousness down.
There's no filter on the opinions. "Miss Rachel, I'm really thinking that looks like a lamb." (referencing an Arctic fox I drew.) "That definitely looks more like a turtle. That looks like a lung." (Couldn't she see my elaborate pancake-batter babydoll and breaching orca?)
The parents will show up at the most awkward (for you) moments. Burned the toast? The father will appear and jovially comment on the house smelling of burnt popcorn. Child (unbeknownst to you) has transgressed, will confess first opportunity in front of mother: "I been doin' bad sings, Mommy." Spent the last half-hour with a leaf-mustache pretending to be an Italian named Fernando and chasing the girls? A parent will come out the back door to relieve you of duty just as you scream and dodge out from behind a bush.
Their particular phrases will start popping up in your speech.
"Lila, get your elbow out of my booby or get off my lap."
"I'm just takin' an eye on Sophy."
"Does anyone need to go potty before we head outside?"
"That's my booty, not yours, so stop slapping it. Slap your own booty all day if you want, but leave mine alone."
"Sophy, is your attitude having issues...?"
Doesn't matter how much you despise sports, you will be playing soccer, basketball, football (or all three) daily. I've played more sports in the past nine months than I have in my entire life, I feel. I'm actually a really good kicker, for a kindergarten-team.
You have no privacy. Really. It's your job to teach your wards that the bathroom door stays closed, preferably until the person exits or at least till you hear the sink running. Be specific. It's not water running that gives you permission to fling the doors open. It's the sink. There's a shocking difference. This is a trial-and-error lesson that seems to take eons for children to learn. Prepare to be embarrassed.

So far the rough parts. But then you have the particular joys that makes those drawbacks perfectly worth every moment. These include such things as...

You get to share in every new thing these kids learn. "Can I give you an eskimo sugars, Miss Rachel? Dey don't kiss like diss (lips puckered) because your lips would sweeze. So dey scrub noses." - or - "Hey, Miss Rachel. I drew an arrow from the killer whale to the polar bear because they eat polar bears, right?" (This kid figured out the food chain on her own. So smart.)
You get to be there for so many "firsts. At lunch today, I put a purple Hershey's kiss on Sophy's plate. She stared at it. "What is it?"
What is it? The blessed child had never had a Hershey's kiss--didn't recognize it as something even edible. I took it in hand, thinking of how her life would never be the same again, and pulled the little paper tab, unraveled the shining wrapper, and exposed the chocolate inside. Her eyes were so round and serious as she saw the explanation behind this sorcery. "Ohhhhh, Miss Rachel."
Your favorites become their favorites. I think I've single-handedly converted my girls to eating dill pickles, eating kiwi skins, dancing to the new Annie soundtrack, using expressions such as "You never can tell with bees," and "What you talkin' about, Willis?", using "divine" to describe food, reading chapter-books, singing certain book-songs in certain tunes, asking for the lipstick du jour swiped on their lips and then kissed on their hand first thing upon coming into the house.
They are always on your side. The same kiddo who beat your tail in Uno eight games in a row is thrilled to see you win one measly round with a luck Draw-Four. The one you just had to discipline will fling chubby arms around your neck and say perfectly seriously, "Miss Rachel, do you yuv me?" and then claim your lap for every book afterward. The girl who will probably grow up to be a brain surgeon or botanist listens to your explanation of an analog clock, then pensively turns back to you. "Miss Rachel, you are smart."
Everything you do and say becomes the law of the Medes and the Persians. Things you frequently tell them today will resurface when they are sixty-five. Watch them correct you when they notice the slightest bit of variance from the Way You Told It First and insistence that the way you do anything is always the best way. You might regret having started such a high-energy tradition, but you can't help but love their loyalty. So many traditions...the "pause" button. The "party" button. The "When Flushing" sign. The You-Must-Sing-To-Me-Before-I-Tell-You-A-Story deal. The "talk for that animal" game. Sticking my tongue out while cutting an onion so my mascara won't run. The movie quotes that pop up every time they say a certain phrase ("Forget about it. Big guy says move 'em, we move 'em.").
You have a chance to set a number of things straight: Pluto is a planet. The middle finger has a terribly important job: to snuggle next to your palm and keep it warm. The only version of Winnie-the-Pooh books that matter is the original text.
You have the benefit of a youthful perspective. It's a well-known fact: having children in your life keeps you young at heart. Surrounded daily by such innocence, peace, and cheerful naivete, the world seems half as scary as I've learned it to be. In their eyes, life is an adventure, everything is possible, and small kindnesses matter. It's a precious thing to have access to.

"Hi, I'm Single and I Have Blisters."

Most days I am quite content in the fact that it may be a longgggggggggg time till I get married. Mama always looks at me with mock severity and says, "You have no idea how quickly things can change." She's always right, but that doesn't mean I'm hedging any bets. I have a full life here without a fella. I mean, between work, my family, and my writing (yes, it is a thing that intentionally distracts me from self-pity) would I even have time for a relationship? Can't get much better than painting my toenails blue and watching Once Upon a Time with my sisters, can it?

This is my "Yayyyyy Daddddddd" face.

Not that I'd really know...

Some days it just kind of hits me. Know the sort? The fact that no man in my age-group has ever told me he thinks I'm something pretty awesome, that he wants to get to know me better, that I'm the person he looks for when he walks into a room, that I'm the girl he's been praying for. Whenever I have days like this, I'm hesitant to verbally recognize the yearning because I don't want to set off a stream of, "It's okay, you'll find a guy someday. Just wait patiently on the Lord. He is faithful."
Of course He's faithful. Of course I'll (probably) find a guy someday. But no one said that the boots aren't going to pinch now and then.

Yes, sometimes it gets annoying. Case in point: two more friends got engaged this week. I barely see my cousin anymore because he's got a girlfriend and a new job and chill-time doesn't happen. No conversation goes on at home without turning to someone's wedding plans. Sometimes the Love Bug victim-count seems like it's hacking up there with the Black Plague and I start wondering who slipped the Thieve's Oil into my pocket because honestly, they can have it back. I wouldn't mind catching that plague. If falling in love is sabotage, then I have a death-wish.

I've gotten to the point where I laugh on these days and message my equally-single best friend and together we compare notes about how fabulous we are. Chocolate is good too. I know this feeling of utter....futility isn't going to last. Handsome men will be toads from now till kingdom-come, tiny blondes will probably still rank top on the list of Quickly Married Women, and athletic, rugged, cowboy types will probably still want a wife who will go running (or barrel-racing) with him for the next forevermore. I'll still rumble along cheerily as ever, I'll enjoy my job, enjoy my family, and enjoy playing bridesmaid, florist, hairstylist, cake-decorator, and event coordinator for the friends who are getting married. I'll have adventures and love life and meet people and go to social functions and be me. That's how life is.

And it's good. But life can hurt and I guess what I'm here to say tonight is this: it's okay.

Girls: It's okay that there's an ache under your breastbone and an incapacity to look at another wedding picture in your Pinterest feed. It's okay that you feel like punching the handsome-acquaintance-who-drinks-and-smokes (as your just found out) across his perfect nose. It's okay that you feel like sitting down with a tub of gelato and eating it--all of it--with your best friend or a sister while wishing for a saved, sanctified Captain Hook. It's okay that you let fly a snide remark about the eighteenth saccharine Facebook post in a week from that happily almost-wedded couple. Besides--sugar isn't good for you.

Family: It's okay that we are having a rough day. It's not that we think we'll never get married. We don't think God has left us in the ditch. We don't think we're going to be spinsters, we don't intend to join a dating website ASAP, we don't intend to fall into deep depression, start wearing sweat pants constantly, and adopt another cat. We're very simply getting a blister from walking this far down the road of singleness. We know our lives are precious, that there is adventure around every bend, and that we are blessed.

So people, let's have grace. Grace with ourselves, our families, and each other. Grace for the God who is leading us on this road that can seem as empty as the Oklahoma sky. It sounds weird to say we need grace for God, because the only grace we have comes through Him. But part of owning grace is acting upon it, and believing with grace that what He says is true takes real courage and doesn't come easily, some days.

I'm single. Tonight it stinks. Tomorrow it'll be a blessing. That's how it goes with singleness as with every other topsy-turvy stage in life. I am so blessed that Jesus has the map to this weird road. I think I'd be tempted to look for a short-cut.

Adventura: 3 Favorite Memories

I know you want more of Romania but I'm finding it difficult to proceed very far without PICTURES (Matthew, ahem) beyond those I took with my  own tablet. The other team members who were playing Trip Photographer are dating and at each other's homes and therefore are sort of MIA at the moment ... and yours truly is wishing she'd taken less pictures of the Decebal Head and more of the people I love.  Also, there is just so much that went into the trip that today, I'm going to simply share three favorite memories:

//Butterfly Whispers//

One morning in Arad we were given the opportunity to visit a small children's day-center down a twisting, forgotten street of the city. This charity doubles as a dentist's office and ministers to the neighborhood/street children. There were only a few children present that early in the morning: a few gypsy boys, the British care-giver's daughter, a gypsy girl (Corinna), and the daughter of a Romanian caregiver.
My favorite part about working with children in other countries is that the language barrier is not as much of a problem as with the adults. The children have no scruples against chattering at you in Romanian and are equally fine if you speak to them in English. There is no need to understand each other, really, because isn't the desire to play on a slide or chase each other around a room a universal theme? When the language barrier became too frustrating, the little girls would simply plant their feet and shout, "OANA!" till the Romanian woman came running to translate for them and explain the rules of a game rather like Ring-Around-The-Rosie. The three little girls seemed to gravitate toward a different member of our team and I found myself the chosen friend of a tiny, shy girl named Roberta. Roberta and I played chase for the longest amount of time. She was Oana's daughter and the cutest little thing I'd ever seen. At first she wouldn't let me pick her up but by the end of a solid half-our of tag, she was nestled quietly in my arms. We walked to the window and Roberta began to point outside and whisper in Romania about what she saw and what she wanted to do. It was the sweetest thing: the tiny whispers and the fact that she spoke in Romanian made me feel as if I was holding a fragile little butterfly in my arms and she was telling me things I'd like to know. We soon followed the others outside in "The Secret Garden" and my fearless little Roberta was whispering to the pet dog and pelting down the rickety slide, sliding recklessly on her belly into my arms. By the time we left, we had gotten rather attached and there were actual tears in Roberta's eyes as I set her down for the last time and waved goodbye. I couldn't help but feel glad that she was one of the children who had a steady, dependable parent. <3 I never got a photo of her but Mrs. Edmonston did manage to get a bit of a video and you can see a glimpse of my dear little Romanian butterfly:

Visiting The Children's Home

//Makeshift S'mores//

You will have heard of Stefana, our friend from last year. Stefi is one of the sweetest, most transparent young women I have had the delight to meet, and we only grew closer this trip. Leaving her was like leaving one of our best friends here in the states. I am so blessed by her testimony, her spirit, and her friendship. We spent several nights at Betel hanging out with friends local to Arad, and on the last night, I'd cracked open the bag of marshamallows I'd brought. Several sources had told me that they don't have marshmallows in Romania ... this is sort of a falsehood, for they do sell them. But they don't taste the same, they're expensive, and they are certainly NOT Jet-Puffed or whatever that good brand is called. ;)

Stefana has a sweet-tooth the size of Russia and was super excited when I brought out the marshmallows. She laughed and told us that she had tasted a marshmallow before but had never toasted them, though she'd seen it on movies. Then I had an idea: there was a kitchen in the church. Certainly we could roast marshmallows over the gas stove? We hurried into the kitchen, flipped the light-switch, and toyed with the knobs on the gas stove. Unfortunately, the gas had been turned off for the night and we didn't know Romanian stoves well enough to bother trying to get it back on. That was almost the end of our marshmallow roasting adventure, but at the last moment Alaina and I searched for a candle, found a tealight and some tiny matches, and lit a little blaze (not before I'd coughed and blown it out once, blown it out with one match, and otherwise foiled the candle several times). I speared a marshmallow on a fork and showed Stefi how to roast a marshmallow. It caught fire and she squealed but we blew it out and continued. It's rather tricky to toast these things over a tealight blaze! :D When the marshmallow was suitably gooey, I handed the fork to Stefana and watched her experience a toasty marshmallow for the first time in her life. She adored it and we laughed over the absurdity of our positions at eleven-thirty PM, crouched in a dark kitchen in Romania toasting marshmallows over a tealight. Stefana roasted her own (and possibly a third) and we let some of the gypsy women who live with friends of ours try one. (They said it was too sweet.) In the end, I gave Stefana the last half of the marshmallow bag and her eyes lit up with girlish excitement. She told us that she was going home to her husband in a few days and that she'd save them so they could have a date of toasting marshmallows over a candle. My work there was done.

//Give the Lady a Camera//

The trouble with travelling with a group of people you like a lot is that you always want a group photograph in nearly every spot and there really isn't one particular team member you'd like to cut out of the picture and force to snap the photo. At one particularly Alpine meadow spot, we pulled our little caravan over and arranged ourselves for a picture. We were about to send Sabine (red shirt, far left) to take the photo since he wasn't one of the Zaharias or the Americans, but then someone noticed a little old lady selling cheese at a stand. She saw our predicament and offered eagerly to take the picture. Amy (with the lingual aid of Pastor John) taught her how to work the camera and the little old lady cracked us up by arranging us, telling us to smile, and taking the picture. Amy went forward to view the product and, struck by the funny little scene, I whipped out my tablet and took a photo of the pair. 

This lady is sharp. She started jabbering about something and pointing and Pastor John said, "She see your iPad. Want to take a picture." I handed her my tablet, taught her how to use it (she was grinning ear-splittingly the whole time) and hurried back to the group. She took one photo and I helped her check it out. Not satisfied, our new friend demanded I show her how to take another and she went for Round Two. We thanked her, said goodbye, and packed back into the cars, but I'm certain I will never forget the little old lady selling her cascaval. <3

"What's the matter with the men?" - a musical venture

Because it is Valentine's Day and we are all single (and most of you are single) and because we love singing/lip-syncing/the Broadway version of Cinderella, we thought we'd give you a bit of a treat. Suppose we had a variety show: this might be on it...and it's the first take so do forgive us. ;) Hope it gives you a laugh!

Love,

Rachel & Sarah

Singleness According to Period Dramas

Tomorrow is Valentine's Day. In case you're wondering, I don't feel morose at all. My first book is hitting the world tomorrow, I've got friends coming in town and a no-couples-party planned for Saturday night...there is dark chocolate in the world and life is always good. No, life isn't always good. God is good and He gives beauty to life and because of that, I'm not pining away. We have a rather funny little thing planned here tomorrow so you'll have to stay tuned. For now: humor! I thought I'd do a post featuring Period Dramas on How Being Single Isn't All That Bad. Get Ready? Get Set? GO!

Mi, mi, mi, mi, miiiiii:

1.
Married people tend to have too much stuff.

"Look, Mater, you can't expect to bring the whole Panjandrum!"

2.
Husbands expect to tell you what to do. 

"A husband would expect to tell her what to do and Emma won't like that, I can assure you."

3.
If married or romantically involved, you are much more likely to catch cold from being exposed to all sorts of inclement weather and/or cotton mills.

"What care I for a cold when there is such a man?" 

4.
As a single woman, you are much less likely to be coerced into squandering your fortune on your lover's hare-brained schemes.

 "They say he sold his soul to the devil. If he did, I don't know what he did with the money!"

5.
And, of course, you don't have the bother of a mother-in-law.

 "Five thousand a year!"

6.
And while unmarried, there are always more chances to meet dashing young men unexpectedly

"You'll just have to live here then. Bye-bye."

7.
And do we even want to mention the fact that while single, there are chances to nurse handsome people back to health and thereby gain their admiration?

"I think I'd like to be a nurse; isn't that a romantic profession? Smoothing fevered brows and then some handsome millionaire patient will fall madly in love with you..."

8.)

As a single woman, you are free to gad about and state your opinions freely, including the fact that you think botany is really quite boring.

"I don't share your opinion!"

9.

While single, you can still dream that--contrary to your own upbringing--you'll marry and end up with enough money to pay all expenses and have a bit left over for keeping a cook.

"Ever since I've come to live with the Boffins, I've been constantly avariciously scheming!"

10.

And, of course, is there really anything as satisfying as spying on and making fun of the couples in your life?

Yeah, didn't think so.

Happy Valentine's Day, Darlings!

Cuz I know you need a laugh.

Busyness is never an excuse for anything so please pardon me while I don't make excuses that don't exist...
....
...
....
Anyway.
...
...
....

Right. Now that that's out of the way. I thought I'd give y'all a dose of my laughter. And by my laughter I mean things that have been making me laugh...not...yeah...not that. I love to laugh (isn't that on my profile and About the Lass pages? I think so.) and I love to make other people laugh. I laugh at myself and at other people and I think having a sense of humor is the biggest sanity-saver we've been given in this world. Having friends who possess good senses of humor is the second biggest sanity-saver, and thank God I have both. I literally do thank Him--often. I'm going to sort this post by category so here we go:

Me without You (Singleness)

10 Things to Never, Ever, Ever, Ever Say to a Single Person

I’ve been single most of my life. I have never really dated a lot compared to most of my peers. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’ve had my heart ripped out of my chest and found myself in a daze of “heart break warfare” complete with sleep binges and nights filled with ice cream topped with my own tears. Sadly, Taylor Swift wasn’t around then to really make me feel understood. But, that was one time and I’m lucky I only had to experience that once. But through my life, family, friends, nail technicians, and even strangers often always find a way to bring up my awesome single life.

 10 Things to Never, Ever, Ever, Ever Say to a Single Person Part Two

9. Have you tried Christian Mingle? Have you seen the couples on those commercials? They wear clothes from 1999 and the guys all have comb overs. 

 I laughed indecently hard over these two blog posts, sent to me by my awesome friend, Katie. Katie is my life-saver and we sent each other things like this to make ourselves laugh and avoid self-pity, lonesomeness, hilarity, bitterness, forlornity, etc. (And I'm only half-kidding when I say this)

 (Excercise/weight-loss) Flubbery

From the Movies and Pinterest Sarcasm & Wit :

Thurrrrr y'go. Laugh, snort, chuckle, snerk. You know the routine. 

(And if you didn't read those single posts, go back NOW and do so.)

Catch you kids later!

You might just be single if...

Today on the All The Single Ladies blog party, Meghan challenged us to do either a post with our favorite Pinterest "single" pins, or an amusing story that highlights the season of life we're in. Since this last year has been a really hilarious one in many ways, I have several anecdotes that you might find amusing to hear.

First of all, the topic of Ring-Checks.

Come on now--you know you do it. You see a person and you check their left-hand to see if they're taken. It's not as weird as it sounds when you realize that it's me saying this. And I'm always analyzing everything about everyone, so it's not as if I am husband-hunting my entire life. I just notice things. Including whether that rather attractive fellow across the food-court is wearing a gold band signifying NO VACANCY. ;)
(And for heaven's sake, if you're still taking me seriously at this point, please unbutton your shirt collar and realize that I'm being crazy and single here with a large dose of sarcasm on the side, so please take it all with several grains of salt. Sea-salt preferably, unless you're Jewish in which case it'd have to be Kosher salt. Which is very good on pretzels. Which I can't eat right now.)
Anyway, my sisters always teased me about my ring-checking propensities (I'm sorry! I can't help it!) until the day I finally realized I'm not the only person that does this. I was at a political function last summer with my brother, and we arrived late. Mind you, it was just the two of us attending, and we squeezed in next to these two men who were probably about 30 years old and the sort of Political Fellows who never have dates and have absolutely no lives but the current race. Well, these two chaps started casting glances in my direction, and whispering among themselves while the delegate at the microphone droned on and on. They'd sweep a glance over me and Daniel and whisper to each other, then look at us again and keep whispering. Feeling a little self-conscious, I tried to ignore them, but happened to look over just as the one with the impossibly blue eyes and the bald-spot fastened his gaze on my left hand, then turned to his friend with a confirming shake of his head. I was not taken.
Imagine my relief, then, when the two were called to leave before the speakers were finished and they had a chance to talk to me. O.o

Second thing that confirms my status as Single is this:

From my earliest girlhood I've made a practice of sending Valentines to all my friends. I mean, none of us grew up in homes with a dating mentality, so we weren't the girls who had a different "significant other" from the age of 12. Therefore, any Valentines fun we were to have we were forced to make for ourselves. Chocolate, cards, everything passed from their hands to mine and vice-versa. This year I sat down to make out my list of who I was sending Valentines too and I stared at the blank sheet.

And stared...

...and stared...

....and stared...

It took me several moments to get two people who were still single that I knew. TWO! When last year I practically hadn't time enough to make the Valentines for all my friends who were with me. Let's give us a nice word picture:

Last year we were Noah's ark about to sink with ze zingle ladiez. This year we might blow away in a kayak. 

No problem with that. It just means that those of you who will get a Valentine from me this year? You're special. You're part of a remnant. We're like...like the people in Red Dawn. Or in The Return of The King. "THERE MAY COME A DAY WHEN OUR COURAGE FAILS! BUT IT IS NOT THIS DAY!!!!!"

Number Three would be the fact that I shun Walmart this time of year:

I seriously do. I walk through Walmart and see all the cellophane and chocolate and red roses and I think, "If this is what love looks like, who wants it anyway?" I mean chocolate is awesome. I'm not a fan of red-roses, but the whole end caps and end caps and end caps of cheap stuff and I think....

Really? Really? 

And then I know that I would flip out if anyone bought me chocolate or red roses and then I think, "You're being cynical. Did you know that? You are. You totally are." And then I feel like buying myself chocolate since no one else is going to do it. And I end up buying dark chocolate and salted caramel. (Sea salted caramel--back to the  grains of salt!)

Number Four item that gives a nod to the fact that I'm single is:

My sense of irony. See, all those friends who have found a Someone over the last year and who didn't need my Valentines? They asked me to still make them one. I have a feeling they are feeling a little bit of remorse over leaving their single years behind forever an' always. So my list of Valentines To Be Made is actually a little longer this year than it was last. If that's not ironic, I don't know what is. So I amused myself by writing very very very saucy ditties in their cards (JUST YOU WAIT!) and made myself laugh with devilish glee as I sealed the envelopes. The cards for my Matched friends are awesome. But the cards for my single friends? Wait till they see them. You'll hear howls of laughter from here to Pittsburgh.

Haha. Oh my goodness. I have made myself laugh, and I hope I've made you laugh, and I also hope that you are enjoying this blog party as much as I am! I want you to realize that this week I am totally having fun with my "single state". I don't always think this wryly of this season, and you know I am a deeper person than some of these posts might seem. But sometimes I really think it's great toooooo:

"Let your hair down, hair down,

Get you some of this laid-on back!

Kick your shoes off, kick 'em off,

Get you some of this slow down fast..."

I will leave you now with a few of my personal favorites from Pinterest. Enjoy!

Don't Keep Calm!

In lieu of the fact that I am feeling starved of period dramas right now, and that Miss Laurie of Old-Fashioned Charm was having a Don't Keep Calm Contest, I thought I'd make up a few posters of my own for your amusement...

Quote from BBC's Pride & Prejudice

Quote from BBC's "Bleak House"

And of course a quote from Mr. Thornton of North & South. <3

You ought to enter!

{Desperata} an urgent missive

I knew it was too good to last. At present I share the sentiments of the fox who, after escaping from one horrible trap, falls in another ten feet distant that the crafty hunter thought to set for him. The pain of the injury is not the worst part. Nay, it is far out-shined by the sensation of humiliation in having to face this foe again.

Of what do I speak, my friends?

Let me wind you a tale of woe which, as the poet says, "holdeth the children from play and the old men from the fireside."

I am thought of by many as a clever woman...handy with words and fluent in literature. A woman of refined tastes who enjoys music, art, theatre, language, people, and many another genteel thing. I am thought to hold certain old-fashioned sentiments as relates to the countryside, romance, and dreams. I am known as a woman who loves travel and history, sophistication and the cosmopolitan side of life. I am thought of in this light and there is a deal of truth and reality in it. But what no one could ever accuse me of is the bare idea of being clever on the practical side of the brain. No one would think to accuse me of it because the possibility is laughable.

Logic, while shining as a beacon I could never attain, is not my forte.

I am lost when discussing strategy.

Debate and social studies, economics and many another thing are equally out of my grasp.

But nothing towers over these looming Unattainables like that nefarious creature, Mathematics. Oh how many years I was a slave to him, breaking to his will because I could not bend to it. Serving him at arm's length and tossing my pencil aside as soon as the last flourish of the final answer was finished. He was not much pleased with my service, for I was more often than not erroneous in my computations. But as every educated human must, I served this master for twelve years--yea, and beyond!

 The day of my graduation was a day of rejoicing among the nations. Even in that foreign camp of Arithmetic there was a measure of jubilation, for even my difficult master could not help but be relieved at the loss of such a pupil.

I lived for one short, giddy year of bliss under the delusion that I'd marry a good man, a clever man, who could teach arithmetic to my children. He would fill in where I could not. That I was, in short, finished with Mathematics for good and could spend the remainder of my days devoting my mental capacity to my chosen and beloved creative pursuits. But I erased from my memory a dark cloud suggestive of another meeting with my task-master. Surely, thought I, we shall avoid each others presence forevermore. What more can he want from me? I have paid my dues.
But it was not to be. My master had grown fond of me in his cruel fashion and demanded an interview. My courage quailed under what he proposed, wavered, and fell to his cold, flint-edged will, persuaded by my mother that it would be Good For Me.

A moment of weakness, though with my mother pressing on one side and my father {a sworn friend of Mathematics and Practicality} on the other, I had little choice in the matter. Even the companion of my bedroom, my dear sister, has defected to the side of Mathematics. She is predisposed to find his lessons easy, if not pleasant. He masquerades this band of villainy under the title "Stewardship Math"....I can only cross my arms and glare at this sad turn of events and hope my slavery will not smack of Algebraic equations.

This is the end of the long, sad tale. I have given my hand to Mathematics for a brief course in which he shall have his way with me. His capricious, practical, terrible way. There is nothing for it. He has convinced Mama that there are certain blanks in my education that only a rendezvous can fill. He has already entrenched my father in on his side. I am a doomed creature.

It is a relief that I do not believe in omens. Did I-- and were my mother right in saying perhaps I shall need my master's lessons in days to come--the prophesy for my marriage is not bright. For it appears that if I am in need of these further lessons as taught by Mathematics, my husband will be, among other things, a mawkish dolt who thinks of and delights in nothing but profit and loss, interest rates and credit cards, sporting scores and home repairs.

Heaven save me from such a fate if such things be true!

            With trembling fingers I sign this missive,

                                                                Desperata

(known to most of my acquaintance as Rachel: an unfortunate female of the non-logician variety)

In a Major Pickle.

"Oh nonononono. This is bad. This is bad. This is very very bad." 

-Said in a Flynn Ryder voice.

I made this button to efficiently express my feelings on the subject of today's Supreme Court developments. I'm in the depths of despair. :P What are your thoughts? It's a pickle, ain't it?

*I truly would love to hear your thoughts. If your opinion differs from mine I'd love to hear from you too, but please keep your comments kind and thoughtful. We don't need to start a Civil War over it. ;)