Scottish Music (techno remix [of course])

I feel like this entire post (however brief) is a techno remix. My day has rather been that way.

You know. Something like Scotland the Brave (techno remix). Really, the things people think of... seriously, how did the world cope before techno remixes? Though, I have a strange feeling that my ancestors probably made up their own versions of techno which sufficed quite well.

Yeah. I feel like I should live my life in fast forward now. And do handsprings everywhere instead of walking. And drive a SSC Ultimate Aero. Or perhaps just Chitty-Chitty Bang-Bang.

But - unfortunately - I can't do handsprings.

i find no one's position more enviable

I have this little ditty I roll around in my head a lot. It goes like this, "If one can not be content today, why should one expect to be content on the morrow." (Make sure you say it exactly as Mary Bennett would.)

Then I have an amplified version which I pull out and read in my head probably {much} more frequently.

That saying goes something like this, "If I am not at peace, if I am content in where the eternal Creator of the Universe has me right now, then why in the world do I think the next step in life will satisfy me?!?"

Right.

There are times when I internally (and externally) mumble and grumble about (and now for some reason, the little cursor thing that shows where I am typing has gone invisible; so this post is now guest starring the Elusive Cursor [definitely related to the Elusive Scarlet Pimpernel]) where I am in life.

For some one who has lived literally her entire life outside of society's pretty little box, it is humorous that I should feel at odds with where I am. But it is not at all humorous that I should feel at odds with where God has me (though, I don't think I am; I do -ashamedly- allow my selfish nature to have a field day every once and awhile before I rein it back in and put the lid back on it).

When I step back and survey my friends (hi, y'all) I find no one's position more enviable than the one I currently am in.

No, that is not the horrifically egotistical statement it appears to be.

I do not glory in my present state of character or nature (dudes, I have been reading Jane Austen lately, in case you haven't noticed). But I do glory in God's graciousness. If I am where He - He who marked off the dimensions of the earth's foundation - desires me to be then I should find no one's position more enviable.

(Sweet! The cursor has returned; must have been on coffee break... which reminds me... I need a coffee break also.)

i am a very foolish soul

Don't argue with me. It is true, exceedingly so. I am a very foolish soul.

I feel like Mr. Tumnus in The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe (which I am currently reading to my youngest brother so expected many delicious references to the story hereafter) after he invite Lucy to tea in order for him to kidnap her and turn her over the the White Witch.

Lucy refuses to believe the truth of his actions, but he pleads and sobs that it is true, that he is in league with the White Witch. His intentions from the very beginning were ill, though he eventually recants them and returns Lu to "the far land of Spare Oom where eternal summer reigns around the bright city of War Drobe".

But excuse the Narnia-trail.

I am a very foolish soul.

I allow these little things grow up inside of me. No one else can see them; no else knows. Half the time I don't even fully realize their existence until they have grown so big and ghastly that I cannot escape them. It takes an inordinate amount of elbow grease and prayer to uproot them.

They are easy to hide; they don't make the slightest peep - that is until they are revealed.

It is strange that man can so ignore the state of his own heart and character; how oblivious to the machinations of one's own soul, do we often stand.

Then comes the fall, the crashing descent into utter foolishness. With what humiliation and shame-facedness, I stand before God.

How could I have not realized my own folly? What was this thing that I allowed to leech onto my soul for so long? I cannot even try to justify myself with the claim of good intentions.

And I am reminded - again - that there is little else that is as clarifying to the complete abjectness of oneself apart from Christ than to have the truth of one's soul laid bare.

"Search me, O God, and know my
heart;
test me and know my anxious
thoughts.
See if there is any offensive way in
me,
and lead me in the way
everlasting."
-Psalm 139:23-24

The Paint-Splattered Blogger

I am spending my weekend taking a spin on the color wheel, turning my doing dials up a notch.

I am repainting a room with the other ladies in my family.

(With appropriate University of Texas football game-related breaks for the younger two, and appropriate University of Arkansas football game-related breaks for the other.)

So, after the pigment settles and the paint clears, I will back here.

But until then I have to run to Home Depot for another gallon of paint.

supercalifragilisticexpialidocious

Thanks, Daniel; it is perfect.

I had to re-title the other two choices for them to all fit. So now instead of Funny, you have Ha! And instead of Favorite, you have Fav.

When I re-titled them, they all reset to zero (Logically, of course. What if I had gone through and changed Interesting to Utterly Gollum-istic? Ha, exactly.)

And now - as we have all been aware of somewhere in the back of our minds since toddlerhood - supercalifragilisticexpialidocious is the new interesting.

soliciting your help

I am not quite sure how to feel about when people click "interesting" on the Reactions section below my posts.

(Don't stop; it is there for the clicking, I promise.)

But all the same.

Interesting is such a vague word. I originally meant to change that choice to a more concretely descriptive word but never got around to changing the default settings.

Interesting is a word that depends so much on intonation, on emphasis.

You could click it thinking, "Oooookay... that was certainly interesting. Morgan is, well, yeah..."

Or you could click it thinking, "That was interesting. Enjoyably so."

See? Mhmmm... exactly.

I need to change the "interesting" button to something else pretty soon to relieve myself of the killer curiosity that strikes every time someone checks the "interesting" button.

So, any suggestions on a replacement word?

a pirate

I met with a pirate the other day.

He must have walked the plank, or been marooned, or perhaps been on the wrong side of a mutiny, because he was on foot.

I think he was hiding a peg leg within his jeans and shoes.

He was struggling back to find a ship. He was shouldering his belongs and marching forth.

If I had stopped to talk, he would have greeted me with: "Ahoy, there, me heartie! Arrr, what colors ye be flying, matey?"

But I didn't stop and neither did he.

And, like two ships in the dark, we passed each other.

Those Fraulein Maria Days

I perhaps was asking for it by playing The Sound of Music soundtrack on my way to babysit. But there is something intrinsically inspiring about singing along to I Have Confidence on one's way to babysitting responsibilities.

I drove past a repairman getting out of his car. He stared, unsure. I gave him the "Yes good sir, I am belting out The Sound of Music soundtrack. Therefore, doubt not your sanity, but instead mine" nod.

It was beautifully ordinary day. I was achieving Mary Poppins' standards for awhile (this is case "awhile" extended as far as me getting out of the car and knocking on their door.)

Then I kicked off my flip-flops and rolled up my jeans and commenced playing Find the Secret, Magic Crystal in the sand box. I was in charge of playing the part of the sneaky, crooked treasure seeker (the role played out by a giant plastic lizard, of course).

Not quite ultra anti-Mary Poppins, but rather veering toward a more Maria-esque activity. For some reason, I know that Mary Poppins would have maintained complete decorum while playing in a sand box. I didn't.

Then we played hide-and-go-seek.

Ha.

My flip-flops broke. My flip-flops broke.

I tossed them in the back of the pick-up truck (ooh dear, and there they still are; I need to go retrieve them) and attempted to continue on barefoot.

The morph from Mary Poppins (who never even misplaces her talking parrot-head umbrella!) to Fraulein Maria was complete.

The country ground isn't friendly like a city lot is. I stumbled (ouch, berry brier) and hobbled (gravel driveway, ohoohohohohoh...!) my way through the game.

I was only lacking a pine cone to sit on or a canoe to fall out of. But withstanding the MIA pine cones and canoes, I think I still did Maria proud. Mary Poppins, well, that is a different story.

Hum Diddly Diddly

Griffin: "There are tears from the saints /For the lost and... and the insane!"*
I look at him, amused.
Griffin: "They are crying for you, Morgan. They are crying for you!"


A new [real] post soon.



*a play off of these lyrics

Welcome to America: Where it is Chic to be Faux Busy

We are all faux, faux busy. We can hardly breathe.

Betwixt bandballetdateswork and practicesbanquetserrands we haven't a chance to relax.

We have gotta get our nails done, our hair done, and our microwaving cooking done.

And before all the PTA4H&YMCA meetings.

We have gotta find ourselves a housekeeper, a landscaper, and a personal trainer.

Who has time to visit friends? Or call your mother?

We are all faux busy trying to keep up with FacebookandMyspace, not to mention those 10,000unreademailsinourinboxes.

BoardmeetinginToronto next week. Footballgameinthenextschooldistrict on Friday.

We are faux busy I don't know how anyone coped before cellphonesBlackBerrieswirelessinternet. How did they find the time?

They must have not been faux busy as us. Ofcourse.

yesterday

[Babysitting Stint #1]

These kiddos are dreamers. And living, breathing Imagination Stations.

Me: "Whatcha doing?"
Six year old girl: "Looking at this feather."
Me: "Oh. What bird is it from?"
Six year old girl: "I don't know. I am trying to read it."
Me (with a wink): "Oh, is it in English?"
Six year old girl: "No. It is in Bird and I don't remember how to read Bird!"

It rained and we took a nature exploration walk in it. Nicely damp-ish. We found rocks ("oh, this rock is beautiful," in a hushed tone of awe). And half-rotten acorns. Those were beautiful, too.

I took the oldest one and we collected the eggs from the hen coop. The residents of the coop have dwindled down to one persnickety hen. She doesn't like you to touch her eggs. Believe me. It was two against one, but somehow - even then - we didn't outnumber her.

We played King, Queen, and Princesses with Lexi playing the part of evil King Frankie, the King of the Frankfurts. I was the good, but passive Queen... and, of course, the babysitees were the beautiful, perfect, misunderstood princesses. They were cast into the dungeon a dozen times only to eventually triumph and reign supreme.

They are very fairytale-istic.


[Babysitting Stint #1½]

I came home to find my house overrun with more strange children.
(not quite overrun and the children weren't quite strangers but it sounded good)

One came to visit me in my room. She is two and as mature as can be.

We played hair salon. She brushed my hair (in a couple of different directions) and we chatted.

Two year old girl: "Don't worry; this won't hurt."
I look up. She is carrying a pair of scissors towards me and my hair.
I confiscated them.

The resident law student stuck his head in the room to say hi - he had just gotten home from classes.
A minute later he is sitting opposite from me getting his hair combed. He never stood a chance, poor boy.

He eventually escaped. I think her attempt to put strawberry chap stick on his fingers nails was the final straw.

Then she discovered my bottle of lotion. I don't mind lotion on my hands, feet, arms, and legs... but, no. She wanted to put it on my face. And she did, globs of it. My face will never feel the same.


[Babysitting Stint #2]

As I started my dad's truck (an A/C-less, cranky creature which I dearly love to drive), I heard a "Oh, Morgan!"

Out from the bed of the truck dashed wide-eyed a five year old brother, pell-mell and helter-skelter. That is one way to ruin a good game of hide-and-go-seek.

They ate pizza. And we played chess (I lost twice... badly).

Ten year old boy: "You can drive?"
Me: "Yep."
All four kids in unison: "Oh, yeah, you're eighteen!"
Me: "No... I am twenty."
All four kids in unison: "You are TWENTY!?!"
Twelve year old girl: "Wait, did you have two birthdays in a year?"

Then for thirty minutes they sat at rapt attention while I told them "true stories" from my past. My life has never been (and never will be again) so fascinating. They laughed and sighed (and probably would have cried if I had told them a heart-wrencher).

Ten year old boy: "My uncle recent got elected as a politician."
Me: "Really? Wow."
Ten year old boy: "Yeah, he is really funny."
Five year old boy: "He is a funny-tician."

Then it was time for bed.

Me: "Okay, go get your PJs on."
Five year old boy: "Well... I probably shouldn't. I might accidentally set the house on fire. You never know..."
(long pause)
Five year old boy: "We are Aggies, you know."
In case you are wondering, I died.

I had forgotten to bring a book to read until the parents returned. So instead I contented myself with their Shel Silverstein books. And I was very content, indeed.

The drive home was dark and damp.

(Number of cars I met: 0
Number of deer I met: 32 and counting)

And then I got home (are those bruises on my knee caps already?!) and ate Honey Nut Cheerios in the dark house.

of course

My bathroom looks [temporarily] like a Calcuttan bazaar.

I feel like the Raja of Paja. I am sure Mary Lennox would understand. She would justify my stealing of her favorite phrase, "raja of paja." I like it too, the phrase that is.

I also like "spit spot." How handy a phrase.

Mary Lennox would have found Mary Poppins a very good influence, I believe. And, of course, Sara Crewe would have been a beneficial companion for Mary Lennox. Frances Hodgson Burnett should have introduced them. Of course, Ms. Burnett could have made Mr. Craven be Ms. Minchin's cousin. That would have been convenient.

And you can't deny that those two are simply meant to be related (Mr. Craven and Ms. Minchin, of course.) But then that would implicate poor, dear Mrs. Amelia Minchin in the relationship, too. Hmmm... most unfortunate.

I feel horrible about her having to be sister to Ms. Michin but then to also give her Mr. Craven as a cousin (and therefore Collin as a second cousin!) would be cruel and unusual punishment, indeed.

But, then again Mr. Craven and Collin both improve and become normal, functioning humans (as does Mary, thankfully) by the end of the book... and by that time perhaps, Ms. Amelia moves out and lives with them after Ms. Michin's final and complete humiliation.

And Sara could come visit and meet Mary.

See, it was meant to be. And it would all happen before Mary Poppins could say "spit spot."

a letter

Dear Most Honorable Local Philanthropist,

I am writing this letter for one reason, and one reason alone. But at this point a problem arises, a problem which serves as a gulf betwixt my pen and this letter. I can't quite remember what the one reason was.

Instead I shall narrate my day to you. (What other courses of action are open to me? I loathe to toss this paper out with the salutation and first sentence written for naught. And I rest assured that the Secretary of the Local Philanthropist needs a dose of daily life sometimes.)

It was a rather unremarkable day. Nothing too extraordinary. (Dear Secretary who works often with words and letters, has not the word "extraordinary" always puzzled you? Extraordinary things should be riotously ordinary, right? If I were to describe something as super-de-duperordinary, you would imagine that it is pathetically, placidly ordinary, right?)

Regardless of the extraordinary debacle of extraordinary, the cat tipped over my newly-filled ink bottle on Matilda's pea-green shawl this morning. It could not have been more improved, though my second-hand (no pun intended) gloves underneath were rather unrecoverable. It was a small price to pay for accidentally saving Matilda's respectability. (Dear Secretary of the Local Philanthropist, if you have any predilection toward the color of pea-green please accept my apologizes and condolences.)

It wasn't the particular fault of the cat, though, it is a particular habit of hers. It was the fourth time in the past two days. Matilda's wardrobe has never been so improved over such a condensed period of time. But Matilda has a narrower view of the situation, unfortunately. She encamped herself in the sitting-room, sewing pea-green fabric in a maniacal manner. She had had plans to reestablish pea-green in her wardrobe by Friday, but the cat snuck into the sitting room.

As a result of the cat's actions, today I suffered through a shopping trip with Matilda to buy new fabric and ribbons. Pea-green, of course. (I am beginning to sincerely hope that you did not have an endeared great-aunt who wore pea-green. Not that great-aunts are not the exact creatures pea-green was made for, but endearing oneself to a great-aunt can greatly alter one's common sense. I had one great-aunt who came to tea one afternoon only to have the cat race into the room in pursuit of a field mouse. Matilda allowed that one event to cloud her logical thinking; the cat has been banned from the parlor ever since.)

Matilda has rather frazzled after the shopping excursion. I put on some afternoon tea (which forever reminds me of great-aunts) and then took it into Matilda, who was sewing the infamous pea-green color (which now will forever remind me of great-aunts) with a vengeance again. At that point...

Ah, yes, now I shall leave off of my engrossing daily narrative: I just remembered the reason for this letter. I know of a cat who is in need of a new residence. Would you be interested in adopting her? She is quite harmless and nearly extraordinary.

Sincerely,
The Local Neighbor