Things to be happy about today

As the thunderheads are gathering, once again, I decided within myself that I am going to dwell, focus, reminisce, yes- wallow-all-up-in all that I have to be happy about today. (Beginning with this picture of puppets.)

1. Leftovers from an office meeting that provided FREE BBQ lunch for me today! (and a bite or so of some delicious mac-and-cheese)
2. A long, reflective, delightful email from my husband while he's away
3. Expectantly awaiting the arrival of Baby Stockhammer (today's the due date!)
4. Being able to offer a dear friend a couch to sleep on for one week- starting tonight
5. Singing harmony- I love singing harmony so much so that it takes all that is within me to sing unison.
6. Kettle Corn or Lesser Evil - in single serving bags!
7. August is inspection month for my engagement ring- so that means it'll get all polished and cleaned
8. Jogging in Central Park tomorrow morning followed by Bagel Saturday at Bagel Express. (whole wheat toasted with low-fat cream cheese.)
9. Finishing up Get Our of That Pit! by Beth Moore
10. Beach Day on Saturday
11. Finding something to spend my $25 gift card on at Barnes and Noble this weekend

Just another day in New York City

Today I experienced the second most crowded subway ride. Ever. And I wondered this afternoon as I crawled out of the 120 degree Grand Central underground mayhem, as I still am now, if it was actually the most crowded subway ride and the other one only seems crowded in retrospect because it was the first. I don't know. But if you think you have been on a really crowded subway, you have not. You know if you have been.

My first experience was the first month or so that we moved here in 2007. It was a sweltering August day. I was headed to an interview. In a suite and lilac silk top that I was sure was drenched in sweat. The N line wasn't running into Manhattan so at Queensboro all of us "bridge and tunnel crowd" from Astoria switched over to the already packed 7 train. I thought I was going to suffocate. The ride lasted forever, making additional stops throughout Queens. And of course nobody was getting off in Queens. We were all headed into the city. (Glad those days are over.... I say a bit snobbishly.)

There were no rails or bars to hold on to, and luckily I was tall enough to reach the ceiling- just barely though. The guy beside me offered support as we lurched to an abrupt stop at each station. I could feel a hand on my butt. I was 100% sure someone was grabbing at my upper thigh- but what was I going to do with one hand palming the ceiling and the other keeping my bag gripped tightly under my sweaty armpit? I seriously, seriously considered just not showing up for that interview. I wanted to cry. I think the guy beside me suspected that. But it turns out he wasn't feeling on my leg- it was just his satchel bag. I think.

Today offered a similar experience. I knew the 4/5 trains were delayed---- between Brooklyn and Manhattan. Something to do with electrical wires... blah, blah.. But why does that effect the 4/5/6 trains heading uptown and downtown? Why are all the train running at "slower speeds" and why do I have to "expect delays?" So, we waited.... we waited.... The masses gathered. We all knew that the train would be packed. We complained. We were sweating profusely. I told my self at 11:15 I was going to go catch a cab. But, suddenly I see a 6 local train barreling down the tracks.

On the 4/5 I only have to make two stops from 86th street: 59th then 42nd/ Grand Central and I'm done. A quick jaunt. No biggie. But on the already packed 6 local train, we made several stops and I fought wholeheartedly against claustrophobia and having an all-out panic attack. So maybe I'm being a bit hyperbolic, but still.

I crawled my way onto the train with everyone else; jacket and huge oversized bag it tow. Somehow I managed to do that palming the ceiling thing again. In front of me was a huge, well dressed black gentleman in a pink dress shirt. "Just another day in New York City," he said. Sweat beads rolled down his neck. The lady beside me was about 5" tall and looked like someones grandmother. I mean I had a strangers hair in my mouth, and I really hoped I shaved my armpits well because the guy's face (or was it a lady?) beside me was right in it.

We are close. We are closer than I have ever been with a group of total strangers. Closer than I've ever wanted to be with a group of total strangers. I mean its really real in a subway this crowded. But, we survived for five or six stops, until it got a little more bearable.

It wasn't so bad. I mean, it was bad. Hot and really disgusting. Feet stepping on you, people shoving there way out, all the while hoping that at the next stop a lot of people won't need off, cause that means you'll have to move and get shoved and find a new spot. The train crawls into each station to a platform full of people expectantly waiting and really wanting to get on this train. And you wonder how one more body can be shoved in this tiny little cavity. "Just shut the doors already, my arm's asleep," you think to yourself. And, at this point, I'll have to run to work to avoid being late.

But, I think we all realize in those few moment, we choose to live here. It's part of it. You gotta take it all. If you want to have access to some of the best music and dancing and artwork and public parks and amazingly smart, talented, passionate people from all over the freaking world- then sometimes you have to deal with an inadequate public transportation system that might put you in less than desirable situations.

(photo from) http://gothamist.com/2008/05/13/confirmed_nyc_s.php

Comfort

My best friend and I loved sharing coffee together. Day or night. Regular or decaf. Iced, espresso, whipped cream, or sugar cubes. Coffee was our thing- from discovering our first Starbucks in a Barnes and Noble when we were sixteen, to lounging on her backyard patio. I have loved coffee and realize that alot of it goes deeper than the caffeine and various flavors. It's a comfort thing. I actually like the way it tastes and find it soothing, however odd that may seem. And even though I drink my share of iced coffee, there is something familial and joyous that is moved in me by hot coffee. (I'm the one who orders extra hot lattes and microwaves her coffee when it starts to cool.)

I miss my friend now. And I miss her patio that my husband and I helped design and create. I miss coffee and Pepperidge Farm cookies and her little green cream and sugar set. Mostly, I miss her laugh and the way she made me feel about myself.

I've decided that I am going to start treating myself the way I treated my best friend. I am going to think of myself like I think of others around me: beautiful, talented, creative and worth something. I am valuable because God says I'm valuable. I am worth it. So, often I say that I am a selfish individual, and to that I still say "AMEN." I struggle constantly with wanting more and doing for myself and living for what is easy- I think as long as I live in this body, I'll desire the things of this world. And God has reminds me that I am so blessed. BUT, when I say that I want to treat myself like I would my own child (not that I have one) or my dear, precious friend, or even a younger, innocent me- what I mean is I want to love well and live a life that points directly to the Father. Stop the inner critic. Silence the negativity. Suffocate the voice that mutters so pathetically, "Woe is me."

Psalm 19:14 "May the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be acceptable to you Lord, my Rock and my Redeemer."

Down with pride and down with apathy. Somehow I felt that beating myself up was the opposite of glorifying myself. This is not the case. For a long time I was the queen of self-loathing and it begins to get on people's nerves. But how can an almighty, righteous, perfect, creator of the universe use me? Mercy. Grace. I had to accept his forgiveness. I had to realize that HE LOVES ME. Period.

I thought too highly of myself, like my sins were too bad. That I was not worthy, that he could never forgive me. The truth is, he already had.

"Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven." Matthew 5:3 Is my identity wrapped up in my faith in God? Because that is the only place to find true comfort.

Personal not Private

I am learning that there is a difference between the two. Our relationship with our maker, is a very personal thing. It is a personal decision we make to be a follower, to become a Christian and even more personal are the experiences we have. And even though our experiences may be the exact same, or even similar, what we learn- how it impacts us is unique unto itself. What am I trying to say?

That we are called into community. We need other people in order to be happy and maintain some sort of sanity at all in life. We are not asked to "fellowship" with one another, but are called to community. So why does every church I've ever been a member of have a fellowship hall? Why not a community room instead? Community implies friendship and fellowship, yes, but it also delves a little deeper into a certain home-feeling. Where people are comfortable with one another and open. They share the same vision. Community means laying on the floor playing board games, singing loudly even though you can't and not caring that your socks don't match your trousers. (Well, to me it does....) Community means I'm honest about my addictions and prejudices. And I don't always wear make-up and sometimes you cuss and forget to bring snacks, but we don't care. We don't judge and we don't worry and we realize there are more important things than the color of the carpet. Like People.

Christianity should not be an "altar call" for folks to "Come on out and be like us. Get rid of your sins and follow Jesus and your life will be perfect." Then we usually say, "Well, not perfect, but you'll live a decent life. Happy even. And you'll have your faith when you have nothing else."

REALLY! As my Grandaddy would say, "Bull!"

We are not perfect, our lives are sometimes not so happy, and what about when faith seems too small a thing to stand on? Money seems like it'll provide more stability and pride offers alot more room for growth and we can all get better footing on a thing like fairness than a thing like faith.

We should invite people into our communities. Into our lives. Our real lives. Not what we want others to see in us on Sunday morning. You need love, come into our community. Your wife just left you, come into our community. Your house was repossessed and you need a place to sleep, come into our community. You are bitter and angry and don't understand life, come into our community. Cause we've been there, heck, we are there. And we don't understand life either.

A friend of mine recently told me that she had a much better week when she slowed down and saw life as Christ saw life; people and animals - even art and nature. She said she wasn't so angry when she took the focus off herself and her agenda and really looked around- taking a constant inventory of it all. All the limbs of trees and pigeons and people. So many people. People that need community just as much as we do.

New bed-sheets

There may be fewer things that make me happier than new sheets. Well, clean, fresh sheets are nice, but NEW sheets; new sheets are worth blogging about.

If only I had my husband here to sleep in them with me tonight.

He's somewhere in Nevada, chasing the sunset- cross country on a motorcycle. I am thankful that we are together as husband and wife. I fall more in love with him every day. I mean, I am doing okay all alone, but I am greatly encouraged by the fact that he will return home. That we have a home, together.

Three hours after sautéing squash the other night I smelled gas. And low and behold, the burner was still lit. Whoopsy.

I need someone to help me remember to turn the gas off, and ask "Do you have your keys?" when leaving in the morning. (I've locked myself out twice in the past month.) I need him to hug me and tell me I'm sexy and give me a reason to make cakes and queso and big, cheesy omelets. I need him to help me get that darn fitted sheet on the bed.

My Lovely NY Day

1. Jogged three laps around Jackie O. Reservoir - which I just discovered is 1.58 miles. I seriously had no idea I could run that far!!

2. Hit Chelsea Market with a dear friend for snacks and knife sharpening. I love me some kitchen supply stores.

3. Found a new case for my 1st generation iPhone, which I had recently been told there were no longer cases for. ("That phone is two years old miss. No one sells accessories for it." Whatever.....)

4. Riverside Park- a first for me

5. Eating coffee flavored ice-cream outside, on a bench

5. Going to the movies to see Away We Go which made me miss my husband terribly. I wanted him to come home immediately so we could start making babies. (I'm over the making baby thing now, but I'd still like him to come home. Sooner rather than later, but it doesn't have to be immediately.)

6. Stopped to grab a slice on the way home for $2.08 and walking away with.....

ALL OF THIS (for $2.08)

Deep dish Sicilian, thin crust Sicilian and Tiramisu

I winked and spoke Spanish to the nice little man. I think that's what did it.

Ah, I love New York!

You don't need light around other light.

¹⁴"You are the light of the world. A city on a hill cannot be hidden. ¹⁵Neither do people light a lamp and put it under a bowl. Instead they put it on its stand, and it gives light to everyone in the house. ¹⁶In the same way, let your light shine before men, that they may see your good deeds and praise your Father in heaven. Matthew 5:14-16

Um, so why would you need light, unless there was darkness? The darker it is, the more noticeable the light. The more brilliant it shines. The more people are drawn to it.

You don't need a flashlight when your walking to your car in the morning. You don't need to find your way unless you are in the dark. And with the light, others can see too. So much is illuminated. It can't help but be.

You don't have to be a weird, annoying, know-it-all Christian. If your light shines in the darkness, people will see it.

Writers Write

Sounds simple enough, Yes? I mean to be a writer you just have to write. But the writing, I mean really, it's not that easy. What will I write about? Okay, see I don't really have the problem of topic, cause I can write about anything. I like to talk. Just ask my husband.

My problem is answering the deeper, more philosophical questions of why do I want to write and who is ever, ever going to read it anyway? Seriously?!

I know that I write because I can't not write. So, that's that, but I am always not quite so ready to live on what writers make. Nothing. So, in order to justify my self-indulgent behavior I feel like I need to have a better reason. Say something like, "God created me to write" and I believe that he did, but.... I feel as though I should long to change the world with my writing, but I really don't thing that will happen either. Publishing is not what I'm chasing because even if I get published, what then...? I'll still be broke and will be looking for my next source of glee. It's a momentary high, but a high nonetheless.

Warts and all

I went to a fancy-smancy dermatologist in NYC today and she confirmed what I already thought... "Yes, they are warts." On my chin. I am a witch. No, not really. And honestly, the warts on my chin don't really bother me. Am I getting too married and too old that I am not bothered by such things? I don't think so.

So, I was given a cream and told that if it didn't "eat the skin away" then she could "burn them off." (Again, the things we'll do for vanities sake. Not that I won't do it, I'm just aware that it seems a little absurd.)

So, I have warts on my chin. And I eat peanut butter out of the jar and I take more than one Splenda from Starbucks and I reuse my plastic baggies and have credit card debt and have shoved a person or two when getting off the subway. But, God loves me. Warts and all.

Desperate Times

I received this today in an email:

desperate times recipe
1 slice of American cheese (that cheap nasty processed stuff but hey, it was in the fridge)
cut it into 16 pieces and sprinkle with
salt, chili powder, garlic powder on both sides
spray a cookie sheet put them on it and bake for about 7 min
take them off the plate when they finish and let them cool til they harden
they taste like goldfish crackers
very good

And I would be wrong if I didn't tell you that I ate this earlier this week:

Hot Pocket Omelet

Heat 1 lean Supreme Pizza Hot Pocket in the microwave

While HP is heating, mix three egg whites in a small bowl

When HP is warm, scrape out the insides onto a plate (meatballs, something that resembles onions, bell pepper shaped things, cheese)

*throw bready, Hot Pocket crust into trash*

Pour egg whites into a greased skillet

when it begins to bubble dump hot pocket filling onto egg

cook thoroughly, flip if necessary.

Yummy!

*this is not necessary if you're not following a low carb diet and actually like the way it tastes

Not my words, but my life

From Donald Miller's Blue like Jazz:
"Writers don't make any money at all. We make about a dollar. It is terrible. But then again we don't work either. We sit around in our underwear until noon then go downstairs and make coffee, fry some eggs, read the paper, read part of a book, smell the book, wonder if perhaps we ourselves should work on our book, smell the book again, throw the book across the room because we are quite jealous that any other person wrote a book, feel terribly guilty about throwing the schmuck's book across the room because we secretly wonder if God in heaven noticed our evil, jealousy, or worse, our laziness. We then lie across the couch face down and mumble to God to forgive us because we are secretly afraid he is going to dry up all our words because we envied another man's stupid words. And for this, as I said before, we are paid a dollar. We are worth so much more."

That's pretty much how it goes.

Independent Woman?

Really? Cause I'm not feeling it today. Today is an, "I am mad and the city day." See, me and New York we have an unstable, troubled relationship. Some days I am madly in love with the city. I love the crowds and the noise and the exotic foods and the expensive rents and the way I am identified as a New Yorker. I see my future children playing in the park and my life without a car from now until forever.

Other days are like today. The bus is too slow, I am tired of walking and arriving everywhere with sweat under my boobs. I'm sick of toting around everything that I would normally have in the floorboard of my car: books, journal, water bottle, light jacket, after work snack, shoes. The air is toxic the people are mean and I am not cut out for a place like this.

Today was honestly not as bad as some "I want to leave this place" days. I think the real reason I want at least a 24hr break is because Chris is not here. He is out there somewhere in America riding a motorcycle. He is seeing mountains and rivers and trees so tall that the top is somewhere in the clouds. And I want to be there. I want space. I want to hear nothing.

When I watch fireworks or the pulse of the ocean or hold a sleeping baby my mind is still. I want to feel like that. I try to be an independent woman: strong, fearless, sassy and brave. But I can't walk down the sidewalk in my 3" pumps and I'd rather sit in the park reading David Sedaris than be chatty with people I don't even care about in some mid-town bar while drinking an $8.00 glass of wine. I am not as cool as I think I am.

Embrace It.

So last night I was laying on my couch listening to Seinfeld and not really watching. Okay, not watching at all, I was totally in that place between sleep and consciousness. That place that feels so good that I don't want to get off the couch and out from under my blanket because I know when I do, I will not be able to get this comfortable in my bed. I'll start thinking about charging my iPod and making my peanut butter sandwich for lunch and wondering if the pants that I was going to wear tomorrow are at the dry cleaners.

So, I lay there. Listening to Jerry and George and Elaine. My windows were cracked letting in the 63 degree weather. So nice for the middle of July. And that smell of Eli's bread was just pumping in like heavy metal music; strong and loud, full base and doughy electricity. So, I decided to just embrace it, to not let it bother me any more. I'm gonna LOVE the smell of freshly made bread coming in my apartment, and I'm not going to have to eat it!

The smell is going to make me happy, not pissed off, and remind me of stainless steel mixing bowls and olive green linoleum floors in my mother's kitchen. The smell is going to make me smile, not make me bitter. I am no longer going to feel deprived or that I have to dive head first into a loaf of cinnamon raisin bread or a sesame seed bagel. I am not deprived, I get my doughy fix when I need it. The scent of freshly baked bread is going to take me to flour covered counter tops and mom's sourdough rolls in a basket covered with a linen that she cross-stitched flowers on. It's not going to frustrate me any more.

If you don't listen to God, then you won't hear Him.

And that is pretty much where I'm at. How do I hear God? I mean yes, we have all those Sunday school answers: read the Bible, seek spiritual guidance/ counseling when necessary, pray. But isn't prayer a two way conversation? And shouldn't I just be still and be quite and listen? This is so hard for me. Oh. My. Gosh. Is it ever.

II Corinthians 4:7-10
Now we have this treasure in clay jars, so that this extraordinary power may be from God and not from us. We are pressured in every way but not crushed; we are perplexed but not in despair; we are persecuted but not abandoned; we are struck down but not destroyed.

When I read this, I think, "Why did I sign up for this?" Why can't my treasure be in an platinum crate or a gold treasure chest or a marble vase? Why is it is a clay jar? Why am I crushed, perplexed, persecuted and struck down- and live to tell the tale? Because then, and only then, can I point to God. Only then can I understand, in my brokenness, that he is the only thing good in me. Without His light shining in between the cracks of this broken clay pot- I am just dust.

I realize how selfish and self-centered I am more and more each day. I joke about it, but it's so true. We, as people, are pretty shallow and insecure. I'm the reason I go to the gym, I'm the reason I buy organic, I'm the reason I get pedicures, and I'm the reason I don't want pets or kids. Not that any of these things are bad or wrong, I just pretty much go around satisfying whatever it is I want whenever it is I want it. A $5.00 yogurt, a weekend vacation, a new handbag that I "deserve." I can justify it all. But don't I believe that this body is just a shell for the soul? Stuff of Earth will pass away.

Romans 7:18 says, For I know that nothing good lives in me, that is, in my flesh. For the desire to do what is good is with me, but there is no ability to do it. - BUT, this is not all. We are not without hope. Galatians 5:1 says, Christ has liberated us into freedom. But in Stefani world this sounds too easy.

Verses 16-18 of the same chapter read: I say then, walk by the Spirit and you will not carry out the desire of the flesh. For the flesh desires what is against the Spirit, and the Spirit desires what is against the flesh; these are opposed to each other, so that you don't do what you want. But if you are led by the Spirit, you are not under the law.

Even though this is where I should jump up and down and scream "Yes! I'm not under the law. Thank God. Otherwise I'd been hung before I turned sixteen. I'd be wallowing in the filth of this world. I'd be desolate." Sometimes this is where I struggle in my Christian life. I want to do something to gain my freedom. I want to do anything to pay the debt, to justify this righteousness that I have been given. But I can't. Prayer, fasting, crying into my pillow late into the night and feeling guilty- just leaves me empty. It's not how it works. The price has been paid. It is a free gift.

Even though I want to earn it- to be perfect- I can't earn it and I won't be perfect no matter how much money or time I give or how much scripture I memorize. I've got to get over myself and my sin if I want to move on. Really. Grace is a gift that I will never fully understand. But faith is just that- unexplainable and undeserved.

Hebrews 6:19- We have this hope—like a sure and firm anchor of the soul—that enters the inner sanctuary behind the curtain.

I'm trying really hard to listen. To not be focused on me all day every day. I'm trying to sit really still and be very quiet. God loves me, and I didn't earn it and I can't escape it. It's a good feeling.

New York Attitude

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

I don't understand why people come to NYC and spend money on things that they can buy at home. Don't you have Banana Republic, Old Navy, Ann Taylor, and Sephora in your state? I mean yes, maybe the Foot Locker is the size of a Wal-Mart, and the Toys-R-Us does have a Ferris wheel in it, but the Lego's are just Lego's- only now they have to be carried around Times Square with the M&M's (that are just M&M's mind you) bought for $12.99/lb at the M&M store. Now, you have to get them to Charlotte, NC with you, Bubba. It may be a flagship L'occitane, but they still sell the same overpriced bubble baths and foot lotion. Macy's, Bloomingdale's, or Saks- I understand a little more.

Okay, I'm being snarky. (My sister pointed out a coffee mug to me just this week, "Here Stef, you need this." It read - You say I'm a bitch like it's a bad thing. And quite frankly, maybe sometimes I am. And I don't think it's a bad thing in those times because I simply call it attitude.) I know I'm being totally judgemental, after all these dollars are what keep our economy going, but still... Don't come to New York and eat at Olive Garden, California Pizza Kitchen or Subway. I will talk bad about you.

It's peek tourist season. Tourists standing at the bottom of the stairs trying to decide if they are heading in the right direction. Tourists standing in the middle of the sidewalk trying to decide if they are heading in the right direction. Tourists standing at the street corner when the lighted WALK sign appears trying to decide if they are heading in the right direction. I need to be nicer about the whole thing, not so bitter, I know. People love this city, they want to experience it. Heck, I love this city, that's why I moved here.

So, I'm telling myself (again) slow down, breathe, look around you, you're not as important as you think you are. These are people too, God's creation, people with ideas and feelings and maps and cameras. It's gonna be a good weekend.

"It took the had of God almighty to part the waters and the sea
But it only took one little lie to separate you and me
We are not as strong as we think we are
We are frail, we are fearfully and wonderfully made
Forged in the fires of human passion
Choking on the fumes of selfish rage
And with these our hells and our heavens
So few inches apart
We must be awfully small
And not as strong as we think we are" Rich Mullins

Drama

I've never read C.S. Lewis's The Chronicles of Narnia. (GASP) I just haven't. My mom read them to my sisters and me when we were young. But I couldn't get in to them even when I knew I should be. I read A Wrinkle in Time about seven times in Jr. High. I understood each word, but the sentences lost there meaning. Charles Wallace never did anything for me. I was not engaged. But I knew there was hype, my best friend loved the book. After all, it had won a Newberry Medal, but I just didn't get it. I was not interested in books about other worlds, Mists of Avalon, King Arthur, Tolkien. Harry Potter- BAH! I had enough trouble understanding the world in which I lived.

I remember the first time I thought that it wasn't fair that I was alive. I didn't ask to be alive, and now, there was nothing I could do about it. I was stuck here, on earth, as a nine-year-old with two sisters that I didn't always like (why couldn't I have been an only child?). I was the chubbiest girl in gymnastics and felt awkward in my leopard print leotard. I wanted the lead in our community theatre production of The Worst Christmas Pageant Ever, but was cast as an angel instead. I was too tall and too big, appearing more adult-like than childlike. I threw hairbrushes and liked to backtalk. I lived on a farm and didn't even have a horse, just stupid cows that didn't do anything fun.

There was no way out. And even now, sometimes I still don't get it. I understand things will and do happen to all of us that are miserable and terrible and bring lots of pain, sometimes for years. But I want to make sense of it all.

I don't blame God. The way I see it, why not me? Bad things happen every day to someone. I just wish I could wrap my brain around the supernatural. The way it all works out. But that will never happen.

I am drawn to books and reading, one- because I write, but two- because there is drama. There is a plot, tension, climax, resolution. Something happens. If nothing happened then the book would fail; there is no story, there is no change, there is nothing worth telling. The same is true about life. We thrive on drama. And that is part of the reason I didn't get Madeleine L'Engle. I had a problem with the story. I didn't get it.

Take therefore no thought for the morrow: for the morrow shall take thought for the things of itself. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof. Matt. 6:34

He gets me.

Sunday after we sing on the praise team together, Chris is leaving on motorcycle for his, "Great American Adventure." (More about that later, this post is about something else.) I realized last night just how much I am going to miss him.

When you're with someone that "gets you" you can't really explain it to someone who isn't (with someone who gets them). But last night we were making margaritas and eating guacamole and salsa and Chris says to me, "Gin, you've never had gin?" To which I replied, "No, not that I remember."

Then he explains, "Well, Stefani it's disgusting. You should try it. It's like I went out in my mother's front yard and took a big ole bite of Saint Augustine. That is what gin tastes like."

Maybe it's because it was almost midnight, or maybe it was the tequila, but I haven't laughed so hard and so long in awhile. I will miss our silliness while he is away for sure.

Being Stefani

In his essay Christianity and the Survival of Creation Wendell Berry states the "significance and ultimately the quality of work we do is determined by our understanding of the story we are taking part."

Do I realize that my life matters? Do I think about my decisions effecting more than just me? I can only be lazy and blase- maintaining a laissez-faire attitude- for so long. Then I even start to get on my own nerves. Being indifferent is such a terrible thing. Passionless, floating through each day.

Even knowing this if someone were to look at my day, it would appear that these are the things that matter most to me:

1. Working out/ exercising
2. Maintaning a pretty darn good physical appearance
3. Cleaning
4. Reading nonscense and mostly non-nonscense, scholarly books/ essays
5. Looking busy
6. Watching news programs
7. Oraganizing what is already organized
8. Walking around parks
9. Thinking about what I should really be doing
10. Trying to please my husband (although he's already happy with me) by being some version of a SuperWife that I have created

So what do I say that matters: my writing, edifying/ ecouraging others, loving my husband, taking care of myself and growing spiritually. I think I am falling short.

Touristy

My sister returned home to Texas yesterday. While she was visiting me here, she cut twelve inches off her hair. (Liberating, yes?) For me, I felt like a different person when I whacked my hair off last summer. In addition to haircuts and pedicures, we did visit some new places.

The Brooklyn Botanical Garden was very green- with all the rains we have had throughout the month of June. It was about 75 acres of manicured and well developed gardens. I wasn't overly impressed, but it was enjoyable and nice to get out of the concrete jungle. Less crowded than the public parks and you leave with a sense of having furthered your knowledge on plants and nature. (At least that is what I tell myself- it was an educational trip.)

We also visited The Cloisters- WAY up on the west side- 190th street. It is a museum of medieval art and architecture. I really wanted to hear how the actual location was an old church or monestary or even a previous residence of some old Manhattan money. But, it's none of those things, this place was built in the 1930's as a museum for Medieval art. (Funded by some old Manhattan money- John D. Rockefeller.) And it additionally bothered me because all the stained glass and door frames and tapestries from the 1300's and 1400's that were once at home in Normandy or Rome or Salzburg are now in Manhattan.

We also visited the MET, which again, overwhelmed and drained me. We saw Blue Man Group, stood in the mayhem of the Gay Pride Parade, and ate soft shelled crab at The Grand Central Oyster Bar.

There was also lots of frozen yogurt consumed.

Yesterday she left and after enjoying days of sunshine, it started raining again. This morning as I rode the M86 crosstown bus to the 4/5 train I thought about why I love this city. Sometimes I get pissy and mad, wondering why certain people or groups of people bother me- depending entirely on my mood or attitude in that moment, of course. Sometimes the chatty little girl on the bus is cute, sometimes I want her mom to tell her to "can it kid." Maybe her brother swings his legs and kicks the back of my seat. Does his mom even care that I paid $81 dollars for this Metrocard and I would like to arrive to my desination without a headache? Afterall, maybe I am already sweating beneath the padding in my underwire, maybe I left my book at home, and just maybe I have to retouch my lipstick and change shoes before an interview-- for another temporary job.

Yesterday a rough, rowdy group scared me enough for my heart to start pounding harder. I sped walked in my flip-flops and baby blue sundress until I was a distance that made me feel safer. After all, they were in my neighborhood. I was the one coming home with limes and cilantro and avocados. "They just don't belong here" I thought. Which I immediately responded to myself with, "They belong here more than you do sweetheart." They're real New Yorkers. Yes, I realize even New Yorkers come in all varieties: wealthy, poor, educated, street-smart (the opposite of educated in NYC is street-smarts) but they were from here. I'm not.

I like New York because you can have this sort of incognito life. I hate New York because you can have this sort of incognito life. You can get away with doing something questionable or out of character, but you can also get away with doing nothing at all and no one may ever notice. I could lay in bed all day eating chocolate yogurt and watching Designing Women reruns for weeks before anyone missed me. (Assuming Chris was out of town.)

It's the tourist way. Buy the t-shirt, visit the historical sites, stand with the thousands in the ah-inspiring places, take some pictures, write about it on a blog- but that's not living. That's vacation.