A few of my favorite things.

When I was in Creative Writing class in High School we did an exercise where we simply listed things that make us happy. Things that make me smile. Things, no matter how big or how small, that make life worth living.

Since then I have seen books on the subject: simply lists of things to be happy about. From time to time I write these lists in my journal, sometimes even limiting myself to what I am happy about today. It's a good practice. I mean, yeah, it's easy to look at life and find some things to be happy about- even enough to fill a page or two. BUT, to be able to look at the last 24 hours, the situation at hand and reflect on what, if anything, there is to be happy about. Sometimes it's easier than others.

That is where I start today. What I am happy about today:
1- This picture of me and my siblings & "the girls" We were at Jonathan's baseball game sometime in 2002/2003 I think. I love these pictures.
2- Sharpies- all colors- fine tip
3- Crock pots
4- Saving your pennies (I cashed out two little cups of pennies at the bank today and got $19.32!!)
5- Origins Peace of Mind
6- Courtney hugs
7- Flavored lip gloss
8-New running shoes
9- Good Morning kisses from hubby
10- Trader Joe's Earl Grey Tea
11- New play lists on my iPhone
12- Sandalwood Candles
13- My first Running for Rwanda donation
14- 16 Handles coupon ($16 worth of fro-yo for $8)!!
15- Little Women -(it's been too long, I need to watch it soon)
16- Pretzels and Cottage Cheese - more specifically Pretzel Crisps and Whipped Cottage Cheese.
17- Getting $paid$ for getting a piece published
18- Making pancakes (honestly, I'm not a pancake fan, I never have been, BUT I love flipping them in the skillet
19- Widows and sunshine and not needing to turn on the lights during the daytime
20- Lavender scented cleaning products
21- Plan-free Saturdays
22- A painted bracelet from Vienna
23- Good & Plenty licorice candies
24- Standing up for what's right (with love and sincerity)
25- Receiving a letter from across the country from someone I love dearly and wish I knew better. (Perhaps California for the Chambers next move?)

Happy Friday. XO

The Couch

I am sitting on the new couch tonight, watching The Office and 30 Rock with my wonderful husband, and I realized that I never posted pictures for the four of you who read this blog. So, here is the couch, that is not so bad after all. I may have not picked it, but I do like it.

Closer to the Fire

If you know me, you know I'm always cold. So this time of year, I'm cold most of the time. Period. When LB was in NYC house sitting the apartment she was staying at had this lovely space heater. So cute. I want one! It was so nice to look at and the door even opened up, which the cats just loved. They pawed at the "flames" which I knew couldn't really hurt them but made me nervous nonetheless.

I want to warm myself by the fire, by the warmth and heat and comfort I feel by snuggling up to my Heavenly Father. Today I've been walking beside the still waters and laying in the green pastures. It's been nice.

I woke up with this song in my head and on my heart and it's been in my mind all day long.

I have a maker he formed my heart,
Before even time began
My life was in his hands

He knows my name
He knows my every thought
He sees each tear that falls
and hears me when I call.

I have a Father, He calls me his own
He'll never leave me,
no matter where I go (Paul Baloche)

He has a plan. He has a perfect plan for my life. The closer I get to Him, the easier it is for me to listen, know and do His will.

His ways are higher than mine.
His thoughts are not my own.

His will for our lives is so much bigger than we could ever imagine. And in times like this: walking beside the still waters, laying in the green pastures, having my soul restored and warming by the fire, I'm reminded that my life does matter. It matters because He's called me and I'm His child.

Confidence

I don't really know how this happened, but Chris convinced me to run a Half Marathon with him. Crazy right? Since I am the kale eating, minimal alcohol, limited refined carbs, work-out addict and he likes his recliner, watching Bones and drinking Peroni. We are such opposites in that I am so high strung and busy (this is not necessarily a good thing, Martha... Martha) and he likes to relax after the end of his long, busy, stressful days as an Asst. Principal. (Longer, busier and more stressful than my days by far.)

Anyway, he went to the information meeting and came home revved up, committed and registered that very night. So, I've run with him, I've invited him to run with me. And I finally signed up on Sunday. No backing out now. I'm not loosing that $55 registration fee! (and it is a great cause.) It's just gonna be a lot of hard work between now and April 3rd. Which, by the way, is the Saturday between Tenebrae and Easter Sunday- an extremely busy weekend for Chris and I with choir/ praise team/ music stuff at church. Anyway, if you haven't already been bothered by my emails, then click here to help me raise money for Rwanda.

So, on the same subject I've really be struggling with finding time to sit and be still before God. See the thing is: from 6:00-7:00AM I go to the gym. Downstairs. In our building. (Sorry y'all, but it is a nice amenity.) 7:00-8:00AM/ 8:15 get ready for work. 8:15-9:00AM commute by foot, bus, &/or subway. 9:00-6:00PM work.

I am starting to realize that my prayers muttered within my daily commute are really not what I need. They're not what God needs. Reading the daily devotional that is sent to my INBOX everyday is not exactly what I need either. I need time. Time that I have set aside to journal, pray, read the BIBLE. (I'm sorry but reading the Bible via Internet or iPhone just feels so disengaged. It's not the same as turning the gold trimmed pages of my very own Bible.) My Bible with verses I've underlined, highlighted, notes written in the side. I've become so haphazard in this. Like I am about taking my vitamins or doing my self breast exams or stretching before and after I workout. I do it if I have time. And that, my friends, is not good enough.

Monday I woke up at 6:00AM, but instead of heading to the gym, I made a pot of coffee and sat at my desk with my journal, some notes/ handouts from the Women's Brunch at our church this weekend and my Bible. The hour flew by, unlike the hour I usually spend on the treadmill or working with those darn free weights. It was so nice and I know in my heart I can not survive being physically fit but not spiritually fit. (And, I could write a book - perhaps I have???- about this issue, but I won't right now.) Hear me out. I'm not saying if you are health conscious- even more than your family and friends say you are too extreme- that you are necessarily wrong. I'm not saying that working out is "wasting time." I'm not saying trying to loose ten pounds is vain. Except when it is. And for me, it is.

I told one of my best friends earlier in the year that one of my goals for 2010 was to never go to the gym more than once a day. I've already messed up on this one. (Excuse:) The reason being, that in the morning if I do heavy cardio for 45 minutes I don't have time for weight training, so I go back in the evening. And then there are the times I am just bored, lonely, don't want to sit in front of the TV so I just ride "the bike to nowhere" for 20-30 minutes listening to Mariah Carey and Janet Jackson songs that were popular 15 years ago. And what's the harm? The problem is I miss time with God. I miss time with Chris. I miss time reading my new Anita Shreve book. I miss my life.

So, as inappropriate & unhealthy as it may seem that I am now in the process of training for a half marathon, I know it'll be fine. I just have to find time to sit with God each day, and not on the subway. And I know we all struggle with this. Sharing my heart with two people just yesterday one told me that she feels so far away from God right now. She shared with me that it had been a long time since she spent some alone time just talking and meditating on God. She can't even get through a song at church without crying; if she starts truly worshipping, she break down. And the other had been exactly where I am: fitting God into the morning schedule- that always seemed to include running, while God got shoved aside.

...cursed is the man who trusts in mankind,who makes human flesh his strength... blessed is the man who trusts in the Lord, whose confidence indeed is the Lord. Jer. 17:5-8

Listening to Christian music instead of secular music when I'm jogging on the treadmill can not make up for quite, meditative, alone time with the Father. It just can't.

This morning when I put on my size 4 pencil skirt, it was snug and pulled and was tighter than it was the last time I put it on. I hung it back up and put on some slacks. I didn't throw a tantrum. I think doing lunges twice a week is making my posterior wider! (Yeah, and lifting weights is making me bulk up too....) My confidence has been my flesh and my size and my abilities. MY abilities. What if my confidence was in the Lord? Imagine the possibilities. I want to be blessed. I want so desperately to be blessed. Even if that means I'm not a size 4.

Squash

Squash. When I think of squash I think of a crooked-neck, yellow vegetable. I think of zucchini. I think of brown, paper grocery bags overflowing with this stuff. Often the garden (and not just our families, but everyones) would provide a plethora sunshine yellow squash. The soil, the heat, the cow manure that we tumped onto the freshly tilled dirt by the wheelbarrows full; something made some year's squash yield tremendous. You couldn't give this stuff away. We'd just take it to church and leave in the foyer. Someone would ask, "Would you guys like some squash?" Heck no, we're trying to get rid of it ourselves!

I like grilled squash and sauteed. My mom even fried squash in cornmeal and put it in vegetable lasagna when I was a kid. Yummmy. What I'd give now for a free bag-o-squash.

Instead, I get to watch squash, but I much prefer eating it. So, this weekend at Grand Central Station, is evidently this big deal Squash Tournament. From what I read the winner walks away with $97,500. Where I work most of the employees are male, 25-30 and very European. British, Irish, Scottish, Australian, Austrian... etc. (You get the idea. And I know now you feel really sorry for me having to listen to the sweet music of foreign accents all day long. Spoken by 20-30 year-old chaps. See why I love my job? I mean yes, there are people of all ages and nationalities here, but our company is based out of London, so naturally we have alot of Brits.) So, they talk about "real" football, squash, lacrosse. I know nothing about this stuff. Until today, I thought squash was a team sport. Where I'm from we call this racquetball. (I do realize there are some differences, but technically...)

So, I like my office, my job the people. I get called Tex. Today one of the guys did a quick Google Map search of Athens, Texas. When he saw where I'm from, even though the closest he could get is Hwy. 175, he says, "It's like you live way out in a field or something." Yes, yes I did live way out in a field. Or something. Exactly. Then, upon further investigating Eustace, where there are three churches in the center of town and that's about it, he announces, "Hey, I like this place."

When I was asked if everyone has a gun rack mounted in their truck, I turned and walked away. Yes, as a matter of fact they do. And they all have horses, wear camouflage while riding their four-wheelers and own ostrich boots. Not really, but we do have a smoker so large that it has a hitch on the back and can be pulled by a truck. We fish in our own tank, have a deer stand in the backyard (pasture) and have to drive to the county line for alcohol- where they do not sell liqueur on Sunday's however.

So squash is not on my agenda this weekend, but getting our new couch (hopefully) is. This is the third delivery data that this inexpensive furniture place has given us, but you get what you pay for I guess. And we will be the first to admit, we don't expect this thing to last forever. And we don't expect to haul it wherever we find ourselves living next either.

SHOCKING FACT: I havn't even seen this couch. Yes, it's paid for and will be in my home tomorrow. Chris picked it out. See, the thing is, I know we wouldn't agree on a couch. I want something that looks nice and he wants something that's comfortable. I'm thinking: something L-shaped, something with an ottoman, something with maximum seating for minimal money. Chris is thinking: recliner. Leather recliner. Reclining sofa with heated seats, a beverage holder and a place for the remote(s). And in all honesty, for the lack of time I will spend on this couch, I really don't care. So, I let him loose. I'm kind of nervous imagining something that reclines on both ends with fabric the color and texture of soggy Cocoa Puffs. What have I done?

I will post pictures when we get this thing, since you are now as curious as I am. Tomorrow is a womens brunch at church and our pastor and associate pastor's wives are speaking. These are two women I admire and have heard about (all great things) but have spent very little time with. I'm excited to hear them speak, especially to a group of women. There will be more running this weekend too, and squeezing in moments with friends here and there.

The Chambers lives are pretty busy, but I wouldn't have it any other way!

The Positive Cynic

This is how a dear friend of mine described my writing. "It's like you are so honest and real. Your writing reveals the problems and fears in people, but remains hopeful. Like, even when speaking about someone you don't particularly care for, you leave the reader liking this person, or at least feeling a little sorry for them."

I'm not sure if this is a GOOD thing, but I believe it's true. So, I bash people and then I say, "but hey, we're all sinners." Okay, perhaps I'm not that bad, but from time to time I feel like my snarkiness is outweighing my sweetness and for that I feel a bit ashamed. (Thus the sweet picture here, at my parents home- see mom's new, beautiful kitchen? Sweet me and my sister Chrissy's sweet puppy Molly. So cute!)

Another friend said, "Stefani has the best 'non-poker-face' face." And it's true. You want to know how I feel, and I will tell you- if it's not written all over my face. Not that I think I'm right, per se, just opinionated. And maybe alot of the time, I do think I'm right. For instance:

-I think Chris should put his odor-absorbing foot powder in his shoes, versus on his feet. That's how my daddy did it.

-Popcorn should be popped in the microwave by pressing the popcorn button (if such an option exists) and standing by in case the popping ceases to avoid burnt popcorn. - Oh, and by the way, no smelly foods in the office microwave people!

-Fingernails should not be cut in public. Ever.

-If a package/ bottle/ container is empty it should be thrown away. In the correct recycling bin. Not back in the drawer, cabinet, refrigerator.

-Slower traffic keep right. Walking, jogging, driving, whatever... keep right!

Sometimes I think my way is best, even when I realize that there are others. (This is why I now pre-wash dishes before they go into the dishwasher & why we keep bread in the pantry vs. the refrigerator. Married life...) BUT, I think I expect alot of people. Like whomever spilt coffee all over the counter top in the kitchen yesterday at the office. I cleaned it up. I dug out the antibacterial wipes, I moved the coffee maker, and the utensil trays and I squatted on the floor in a suit mopping coffee off the floor, AND the I didn't spill it. But someone needs to do it. I think people should treat others like they want to be treated. (Sound familiar?) But, I know sometimes I am just mean.

Sometimes I want my way. I throw a 135 pound fit- well inside I do. And on the outside I make the 'non-poker-face.' Rolling of the eyes. Snarling of the nose. Emotionless blank stare- that reads, "You've got to be kidding me with this. Seriously?"

I need a finer filter. I really do. I hate feeling like NYC has made me blunt and upfront. The truth is, I think that New Yorkers are blunt and upfront. Many people I know and love here are very honest and forthcoming about their lives, feelings, setbacks, problems, etc. The reason: we are rushed and quite frankly, don't have alot of time. Time to get to know one another, time to get things done, time in the day, time that we may/ or may not be living in NYC. So, we're just honest with one another about who we are, not in a way to offend or step on toes, but in a way that lets people know the real person. Or maybe I'm just lucky and have found amazing people here, who I am lucky enough to call my friends, but I sort of see a trend.

Transparency is one thing, however, regretting 50% of the things you say in a day is another. And I'm not a sarcastic person, by nature. I wear my emotions on my sleeve, wrap them around me like a shawl and arrange them nicely in my hair. Just Monday Chris says to me, "You need to hang out with Molly more. She makes mom type dinners for McCarthy every night. Lobster, scallops, ....." Excuse me! "Does Molly get off work at 6:00 PM every night," I replied. He was just kidding. But he knows I hate being criticized (that was criticism right?, oh, it was a joke, right...) about my cooking.

1. Don't even get me started on "mom-type-dinners." I am just becoming comfortable realizing I will never be my mom. I can't cook like her. The last thing I want to do is stir up that bothersome feeling of measuring up to what I think I am compared to how great my mom is.

2. So, I guess tacos, lasagna, pork loin interspersed with soup, sandwiches, pizza, and pasta is a bit underwhelming? Sorry I get off work at 6:00 and my husband gets off work at 3:30. It sucks. I do what I can, and for the most part, I think I do a good job.

3. Molly and McCarthy aren't married. You fill in the blanks. Lobster? We'll go out before I cook a lobster in my home.

Currently, our church is considering whether or not to allow women elders. While researching and reading on the topic I found 1Timothy 3. Not that Chris is a deacon or elder in our church, but this is a good verse, and I want it to be true of me. I have read it before, but still. Being reminded is good.

In the same way, their wives are to be women worthy of respect, not malicious talkers but temperate and trustworthy in everything. 1 Tim. 3:11

God, help me with the attitude that I like to call sass.

"I'm going to catch a fever."

When Chris told me this last night, I said, "I love the way you say 'You're going to catch a fever, versus, get a fever.' You can catch a cold, the flu, pneumonia, a fever, I'm pretty sure you get. Or come down with." This was immediately followed by, "Can I blog about this?" To which he replied, "Sure."

Chris said he felt pretty bad all day yesterday and right at 3:00 he just KNEW he had a fever. He could feel it coming over him and he knew when he got home he'd simply get underneath the covers and shiver while his body sweat. "But when I got home, I felt better," he says to me.

Yeah, I've heard it all before. I felt sick, but after my mom came and picked me up from school my tummy was fine and I wanted to go play outside. And have a grilled cheese. And watch I Dream of Jeannie & Gomer Pyle. In all honesty, I never got sick at school, or missed much school for being sick. My sisters and I were (lucky??) enough to even get the chicken pox over the Christmas vacation. I was in third grade and I recall being a little ticked that I didn't get to miss school like my classmates.

I'm never really sick. Sniffles, runny nose, being drugged up on NyQuil: not my thing. I think it all has to do with being a breastfed baby- but that's another story. Perhaps it's the vitamins, the B-12, the 5HTP. But I have to be honest, I'm not real consistent in staying on top of my handfuls of supplements. It comes in waves, my allegiance to vitamins and minerals. And since starting my weekly chiropractic care, again, I have been pretty good about it- and I'm taking a Magnesium and Potassium supplement as well. Doctor's orders.

Evidently my foot and leg cramps were due to lack of electrolytes which these will help with. Also, Magnesium and Potassium are good, good, good for the joints. I like being prodded and popped. Lying face down like a rag doll while a complete stranger jostles me back into normalcy. Spine, neck, hips. Chris and I love our chiropractor- as weird as the "center" his practices is in is. They're all into healing circles and yoga and Tarot. I just go in there with my Hillsong blaring through my ear buds, the love of Jesus on my face, and inhale the eucalyptus. Our doctor knows we are Christians and thinks we are "the sweetest couple." Once he said to me, "Well, of course you are sweet, Stef. But that husband of yours! You are the nicest people."

Although I've had a cyst removed from my face, a cyst cut out of my back (day surgery, infection, Hospice nurse, wound packing... all for "nothing major"), two warts cut off my chin, worn glasses since age eight, visited several gynecologists, a urologist and and endocrinologist- none of whom could figure out "my issue", had chronic yeast infections for most of 2008, can't eat cruciferous vegetables without becoming room empty-ing gassy (but still do it, sorry Chris...), I consider myself pretty darn healthy.

I Don't do Kids.

This is a piece that is a bit of two or three previous blogs, parts of journal entries & emails- minus some juicy tid bits. (Yes, this is edited for general consumption.) Getting paid to tell all your secrets is one thing, simply telling them is another. Sorry! I submited it to a contest at Real Simple Magazine titled "Growing Up," but, I didn't win. Sorry if it sounds too familiar. Or offensive, rude, mean, self-righteous, ambivalent or otherwise snarky.

Every four weeks, as Tuesday rolls into Wednesday and the sun rises on Thursday, I convince myself that I’m pregnant. Thursday by 5:00PM I’d be buying myself a stick to pee on, but I haven’t had to yet.

Particularly in the past few months, this has become a source of much anxiety, the terror weighing heavy on my almost thirty-year-old chest. I am married and never miss my pill, but we really don’t want kids. When it comes to sacrificing my selfishness, I don’t gamble. But what if I am in that 2% that happens to get pregnant while on birth control?

Each fourth Tuesday my womb becomes ripe with fetus. My belly hardens and my hips widen. Exhaustion sucks me dry. I search the Internet for full-time jobs and larger apartments within our budget. Drinking four cups of coffee every morning is no longer acceptable behavior and I worry about the mercury levels in the can of tuna I ate on Monday. My life is over.

After all, why wouldn’t I get pregnant now? It seems like half the girls I know are pregnant and fat. Which is something else that I am not looking forward to, gaining all that damn weight. I had two baby showers to attend last weekend alone. And I just finished reading An Exact Replica of a Figment of My Imagination, a terribly sad memoir about a stillborn baby.

I wait. Like some bimbo girlfriend I text my husband, “We’re not pregnant” as soon as it’s obvious that my egg is unfertilized. “Whoo Hoo,” he texts back. Just like that, my panic melts and I pop open a Diet Coke.

Last month my pseudo-pregnancy readily emerged as I opened another buttery yellow envelope: a baby shower invitation. My dear friend Lora, who I left in Texas two years ago when I moved to NYC, is pregnant. Because of the 1,500 miles between us, I resentfully checked the “Will Not Attend” box on the RSVP card. If I were there, I'd be a huge part of the pre-baby preparations. I'd work on a scrapbook, or learn to cross-stitch, or design something worthy of hanging on the wall. I'd wrack my brain for the perfect, sentimental, keepsake-type gift; one that would make her weepy, like tiny crocheted booties.

Amongst the practical gifts: the onesies and bottles and diapers and burp cloths, I would offer the most thoughtful thing I could think of. Practical gifts are not bad; I’m the one who usually gives baby wipes, bibs, and hooded towels, but this is my dearest friend. I would spend hours pouring myself into this tangible reminder of our friendship.

I'd have helped paint the baby room. I’d use a stencil or do a tiny border if she wanted me to, even though she’s a much better painter and I struggle to stay within the lines. She wouldn’t care. I'd hang the Noah's ark window valance and help put all the tiny baby clothes on tiny baby hangers. I'd be hosting the shower, ordering duck-shaped cookies and planning games. Why? Because I'd want to. But I am here and she is there, which left me with little option. So instead, I had to forgo my bikini wax and picked out something boring from her registry at Babies-R-Us. Something called a BabyBjorn.

At 6:00PM one Saturday night Lora texted me; her water broke. Completely restless, I found sleep only after two glasses of red wine but woke abruptly at 2:45AM. Consumed with thoughts of her, I texted a single line saying that I was awake and thinking about her and her unborn baby. To my surprise she responded, “No baby yet.” We wrote back and forth until I told her I had better try to get some sleep and that I loved her dearly.

Lora, my friend since 6th grade, was embarking on something selfless and brave. I lay awake in bed until 4:50AM. I reminisced, prayed, and wrote an entire chapter of a book in my head. When the sun broke through this never-ending night, my friend would be a mom. I wondered: Are we grown up? Are we grownups?

I no longer worry about acne, but spider veins. I make sure all my face lotions and skin serums have SPF so I can avoid the wrinkly neck. I know I should get rid of my plastic, beaded necklaces and the sundress with the pink birdies stitched around the hem. Not that I want to appear matronly, or avoid baring my shoulders, I just think that to be treated maturely, my appearance needs to say, "I am a beautiful, strong, confident woman" not "Hey, I partied hard last night and can't find my underwear."

I recently passed a book display at Barnes and Noble and the girl on the cover of What to Expect When Your Expecting looked much younger than me. Is this what getting older feels like? When your closest friends are buying homes, making partner, and having babies? I don’t do kids; on most days it’s all I can do to keep my bonsai tree alive.

While there is not a baby in my near future, I do feel older. I feel like I need to get my moles examined, not carry so much crap in my massive handbag, and quit wearing headbands. However, control-top underwear will not be folded next to my thongs anytime soon. I am fine living in an apartment the size of my mother’s walk-in closet and eating Lucky Charms for dinner from time-to-time.

Even last summer when I went out dancing with my younger sisters, I felt like the oldest girl in the entire club. After playing Michael Jackson, Jay-Z, and the Beastie Boys the deejay put on something my twenty-eight year old body could not find the beat to. I became a wallflower. I enjoyed the time with my sisters, but quickly realized how I didn't fit into this scene.

But it's hard to avoid the hip, short, tight clothes. I am in the best shape of my life, and all too often get caught up in the appearance thing. Sometimes, I want my hoochie days back.
When people assume I am younger than I am, I often misinterpreted it as a complete insult. Most recently I was asked, "Did you move to the city to go to college?" Do I appear that insecure, immature, or irresponsible?

I desire to project a mature me. Not boring or old or predictable, just confidant. I don't need a $350 handbag to fit in. I don't need the trendy shoe of the season to be accepted. And I sure as heck don't feel comfortable shopping at stores with names like Strawberry, Rainbow, and Forever 21. When I was twenty-one I was a complete wreck. I don’t want to be twenty-one forever. Just because I can fit into low-rise jeans doesn’t mean I should wear them.

Recently, I spent an afternoon shopping with a twenty-one year old friend. She can wear sparkly, pink leggings and turquoise shirtdresses that barely cover her tush. I don't want to. I don't want to wear a t-shirt that says, "Make Smores Not Wars" or "If we are what we eat, I'm fast, cheap and easy." I gave her my oversized peace-sign earrings and seashell necklaces. But I kept my red velvet heels, my pink Coach purse, and my spaghetti-strap dress.

I’m ready to move forward, to run with reckless abandon into my 30’s. But, I am not ready to be a mom, to take care of something so delicate and helpless and 100% reliant on me. The night Lora birthed baby Tessa I wrestled with my youth. And perhaps it's becoming comfortable simply being myself as much as it is growing up. I don’t feel grown-up, or like a grownup but I guess it’s sort of relative. Maybe like so many other things in life, it’s a continual process.

I can't be good at everything.

So, after 8-10 classes I am quitting Bikram yoga. Yes, I've had enough. And I have to tell you this really, really bothers me. (Just ask Chris, he was there for the drama/ melt down/ anxiety attack that happened in our home this weekend.)

Here's the deal. Physically, it's not the hardest thing. It's hard. It's strenuous. It's good for the body, but mentally I despise this class. I look around and I'm like, these people are not better than me, they are not in better shape than me, but perhaps- the truth is now setting in- that mentally they may have it together. The whole meditation thing.

The heat is one thing. Yeah, I mean it's hot. But I feel like I'm going to vomit from the moment I open that glass door to the "room" until I roll myself from up off the floor and hit the showers. But I know I'm not, I just feel like I am. I can not multi-task in Bikram yoga. I can not listen to music or make a grocery list in my head or add up the calories that were in my lunch or think about anything, at all! The last class I went to the lady in front of me was about 65 years old and looked like my Memaw, with bright orange hair and purple fingernail polish. And then there was the other 65 year-old lady --- in a sweat suit. The kind power lifters wear before they weigh in to make sure they get in the right weight class. She was also doing a double. (Taking two classes back to back.) I'm sorry, did I miss something? Are we just trying to kill ourselves here? I mean, I'd rather train for a half marathon than do this. So, that, my friends, is what I am doing.

I just can't handle it anymore. So, Bikram wins. But I'd still like to try regular old yoga sometime. And yes, I am training to run 13.1 miles on April 3rd. Thus, begins a short synopsis of the weekend at the Chambers home:

1. Saturday morning Chris and I headed to Central Park where we ran 4 miles. Chris has agreed to run a half marathon to raise money for Rwanda. I, on the other hand, am still a bit terrified at the idea. But I think I've been roped in. I am happy to say that the two ladies I was running with and I were able to RUN the 4 miles- granted at the pace of 11 minute miles- without walking. Each Saturday the "team" meets to run together/ fellowship/ talk about how crazy we are for doing this, etc. When we left I didn't know if Chris would ever return to a training run. Or lace up a sneaker ever again. He went hard. 0-100 without preparing his body for what it was in for. However after time, stretching, eating some boiled eggs, crackers and lunch meat, I'm pretty sure he'll be okay.

2. We used our crockpot twice over this three-day weekend and made pork chops (well, not really pork chops, but pork tenderloin that had been cut into 1" steaks) and a pot roast. Chris is a huge fan of the crock pot. When we moved here from Texas, almost three years ago, we sold ours in the garage sale. However, about a month ago Chris bought another one at Bed Bath and Beyond. I had to keep him from getting the largest one they sold, but the one we ended up with with pretty mammoth. My chops and his pot roast turned out pretty well. (He did the roast himself - which he loves doing- and it made our house smell just like my childhood Sunday afternoons.) In his pot we threw three baking potatoes, a yellow onion, about six carrots - they have to be real carrots, not baby carrots- just a thing I have, and a big roast which cooked for twelve hours. Chris also made his brown gravy which our dear friend Chef Christoph taught him to make. He prides himself in making the perfect gravy. We have leftovers which thrills me. - And I roasted up some Brussels sprouts and yellow crooked neck squash- Yummy! This is the best way to get Chris to eat his vegetables, not that he's all that picky at all. He just prefers the roasted taste over the steamed.

3. We finally got our closets in order, after moving one month ago. We had to "swap" sides. It's a long story that has more to do about the integrity (or lack there of) among NYC builders and how awkward our closet is. Let's just say, sleeping habits, lack of sunlight at 6:00AM, who has the most shoes and who has the most dry cleaning were all factors in this "swap." And it took place while I was downstairs, at the gym... Mmmmmmm, I wonder who made out better on this deal? It's okay, It's okay.

4. Monday we took a stroll around our neighborhood and purchased a few random things: Nutritional Yeast, super glue, and Chris' high-maintenance hair products. You may wonder how we came upon such a odd list of items, and I'll tell you. The one item we were planning to buy was Chris's $12.00 hair creme which reads, "gives your hair that lived in look" on the back.

Second, I wanted to stop by the health food store (a weakness for me) and get some Brewers Yeast. I know you are probably scared at this point, but this stuff is fabulous for you and I love it in my 100 calorie bags of popcorn. It's nutty, its salty, is about 40 calories and full of vitamins and protein and stuff that you can't get in Luna Bars. (However the NEW Luna protein bars have more protein than regular Luna & still 170-180 calories. Have a ever mentioned how much I love peppermint Luna bars? They are truly remarkable. And yes, if you are wondering, I do stock up on the pumpkin flavor Clif bars when they are here around Christmas.) So, at the health food store, we got some nutritional yeast, some walnuts, some soy nuts and some unsweetened chocolate almond milk.

We got the super glue at this hardware store that I've always wanted to go into. Chris was looking for a miter saw (sigh, boys...) and I was just looking. The store has all kinds of cleaning supplies, tools, gardening stuff, blenders, mixers and oh yeah, hardware stuff. We purchased super glue to glue the bumpers back a special cutting board that a friend made for me.

Church, cooking, movies, time outdoors- it was a wonderfully long weekend with my husband.

Christmas inside our home

Christopher and Stefani Christmas morning. (Photographed by LB.)

Stefani doing her baking while...

Christopher is doing what he does! (I love this man!)

Holiday treats in our new kitchen.

Our "real" tiny tree.

Time Marches On

I remember when Chris and I first moved to NYC and my dad would enquire what I was doing day-to-day. Where did I go on the weekend, for dinner at night, what museums had I visited. We were lucky in that we moved here in July and Chris didn't have to return to school to teach until August and I was without a job- so we just explored the city together for a few weeks, which was really very nice. However, even before the school year started we were in a routine.

Doing things costs money! Museums, plays, musicals, lectures, dinners, cooking classes, dancing classes, sewing classes- they all cost money. We quickly settled in to our new NYC life. (I think my dad remained unimpressed, wanting to hear stories of who we saw and what we experienced.)

We have been in NYC for almost three years now and many ways it's hard to recall living any other way. I commute through Grand Central Station each morning and eat my lunch there each day- now that it's cold. In warmer weather I prefer to walk up and down Madison Avenue in search of sunlight. I love Grand Central Station. It's old, it beautiful, it has a high ceiling and lots of sunlight. I love the energy there, all the people going and coming. I love people watching.

It's hard to communicate what goes on in this head of mine, but pretty much at any given time when I am pounding the pavement in these three inch platform booties, I am "writing" something in my head. Something that usually begins with a person I see, a conversation I overhear or something totally random, yet unexplainably New York , that comes flying my way. If the thoughts could just be immediately transported onto paper from my very brain- then I'd be in business. Usually, I forget these one-liners or life altering phrases before I swipe my Metrocard and barge my way through the turnstile, always leading with my right hip - knocking the metal bar around when prompted "GO."

People inspire me. They give me stories. I can always tell you the plotline for any person that I see: the man reading a magazine on the bus, the woman eating a salmon, caper and cream cheese bagel for lunch, and the head bobbing kid, tapping his foot and mouthing the words to a song all 100 of us passengers in the 4 train can hear. I have stories for all these people.

Like I had to stop and wonder how awful is your life if you have to use the payphone in the subway? Then I saw this middle aged woman on the payphone one day while I was waiting on the Uptown train platform. I could hear her crying over David Crowder Band playing in my ears. She covered her face with the paperwork and folder she was carrying; hiding from the whole wide world -hundreds of us waiting to board a train.

You get used to seeing the same homeless people at their posts: the man with the Juniors Cheesecakes bags, the man with the dreadlocks, the woman with the "bad heart" as she has posted on her piece of cardboard. These are the three I pass at GSC. I wonder where they stay at night and why they come to these exact same spots every day. I don't know what to do for these people. I don't even know what to do for the people I love the most when they hurt. And I'm not talking prayer or serving at a soup kitchen, I'm talking..."unto the least of these." I'm tired of being so self-righteous that I forget how very blessed I am and how much God can use me if I let him.

And it's not so much what we do, but why we do it that matters. Is our motive behind the action selfish or selfless? We all want recognition, success, to know our lives mattered for something- anything. We want to be seen and thanked and congratulated. Or maybe that's just me.

Leather Boots

These are the new boots I bought with my Christmas money. They are not the boots that I intended to buy, nonetheless, I love them and I have never spent more money on a pair of shoes. (A pair that I didn't end up returning after buyers remorse set in.)

These boots work for my skinny, size ten foot because they have laces. Period. My feet are ridiculously narrow. I always wanted cowboy boots (and I'd still love a pair) but my feet just flop around in there. As a little girl I had a pair of mauve cowGIRL boots. Yes that is mauve- pinky/ brown. The color nail polish that my Nana always wore. My mom bought them for me at Athens Feed & Seed for Christmas one year. Even though I was with her, they still got wrapped an put under the tree.

The boots I wanted, the brown, cowboy boots aforementioned, were nowhere to be found, except online. And even though I am an avid online shopper, I just wasn't feeling it because I knew they wouldn't fit anyway. And then I'd be inconvenienced to ship them back. Plus, I can't wear them to work. And if I'm going to spent $200 on a pair of shoes, I better be able to wear them to work. They're really great shoes, and totally ME, but not work me. And I'm not sure what I'd wear them with. I have to be more practical. (Not always, but... I really wanted some boots I could wear most of the winter.)

So, these boots are a little girly. A little dominatrix (because of the laces- well, maybe because of the eyelets & the laces.) A little too flat (I'd like a higher heel, but hey, I want to be able to move in these shoes.) Overall, I'm pleased. They are a couple notches above the pleather boots I've worn each winter in NYC thus far, throwing them out at the end of the season. Currently, my $25.00 BARGAIN that I got at Shoes Etc.'s going out of business sale (so sad...) last spring are still going strong. They may see another year! Perhaps next year I'll get some brown boots that are a little more casual. If my narrow little heel doesn't move around all cloppy and floppy. Dang skinny feet.

When I was little I'd have to wear narrow Keds & most of the cheepish/ cool shoes never fit me. I couldn't get shoes at Payless or Wal-Mart (poor me, right!). AND I would always ask my mom and deeply ponder, "If my feet are so long and skinny, why can't the rest of me be that way too?"

Thinking Warm Thoughts

Thinking purely. Thinking on things above. Thinking that our ways are not His ways and our plans not His plans. Thank goodness.

“We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospection”~Anais Nin

So after a 6:30 chiropractic appointment on Thursday, flowed by a glass of Chianti and wonderful conversation, that can only be described as spillage-of-the-heart, I began to feel much better. (Except my left arm and leg are still a bit numb-- but please don't tell my husband.)

God has given me a new song to sing and filled me to the brim with joy. Because I asked. God's a pretty simple, straight-forward kind of God. I was beginning to enjoy wallowing there for a bit.

Sunday in at church we sang, "Cover the Earth with Your glory. Cover the Earth with the sound of heaven. Open the heavens, oh Lord, pour out Your spirit." Our conversation Thursday night, our laughter, our recognizing that yeah, we really screwed up but God loves us regardless- in spite of it actually- that was a little sound of heaven.

The sound of good stuff. The sound of footsteps moving forward without being able to see the end. The sound of telling God,"I really want to give-up in this moment, but keep me strong and show me what your purpose is for this." The more we seek Him, the more we find Him- right? So, I've decided to just continue forward even when I don't feel like it, or don't understand or don't necessarily "get" all that is going on.

I just have to keep telling myself I'm never going to "get" it or it wouldn't be life. It wouldn't be following God or taking a step of Faith. It would simply be making a dang good plan and following it. And that may move me forward - but it won't please God and eventually I'll get tired in my own strength.

We're all looking for satisfaction, a feeling of accomplishment, to somehow feel, believe and KNOW that our life matters. We're looking for a career, a 401k, a thinner waist, a better address, an engagement ring, a renovated home, a family, a car with less miles, a flash of lightening across the midnight sky that will be the sign. But this is IT. This is your life. This is my life. What will we do with it?

Eclectic. Eccentric. Exotic.

That's me.

This is Stefani on Christmas morning looking very bare and authentic and real.

That's me really real.

Tomorrow is Friday and the end to the first "full" work week of the New Year. What a week it has been.

Next Monday my sister LB heads back to Texas so hopefully, this weekend will be fun, relaxing and full of sweet times with one of the dearest people in the world to me. Dinner one night and brunch the next day. Perhaps participating in the No Pants subway ride. A little more shopping.... (for running shoes).

She has been house/ cat sitting for almost three weeks now and I know she's had a wonderful time. Now, if only I can convince her to move here, eventually.

Bikram and His Yoga

I’ve never done yoga or Pilates or really ever desired to. I totally believe the lies and misconceptions that if I’m not bouncing around, moving all extremities- limbs pumping, heart racing, muscles aching- then I’m not doing real exercise. I like to sweat. If I’m not sweating then I’m not working hard enough. So, when a friend told me about this great deal on Bikram Yoga classes I figured what the heck. The deal was 30 days for $30, not too bad, and as a way to try out hot yoga, something I may or may not like, it seemed harmless. Then I invited my sister to join in the yoga fun since she would be house-sitting in NYC for three weeks. I figured she could enjoy indoor exercise since running is sort of limited in the winter.

My sister had gone to one class before I did and I joined on Christmas Day. (I know this is not how a good Christian girl should spend Christmas, but we wanted to get out of the house- plus, it was one of the few days I had off work.) So this Bikram Yoga thing- it is possibly one of the hardest things I’ve ever done mentally.

That room is so hot that all distractions are melted out of your mind. Rational thought and quick responses do not come easily. Nothing comes easily. Standing on one foot. Tree Pose. Standing still and looking into my own eyes in the mirror for five seconds without fidgeting or wiping my brow or taking the rubber band out of my hair.

This class is hard, probably more mentally than physically, but that is my bigger problem anyway. The second class I cried. The third class I left- even though this is HIGHLY looked down upon and very disrespectful and taboo. Whatever. I was seeing spots. Most classes I get dizzy, lightheaded; pray for God to take me. And I’ve read that a person my size can burn 600-1,000 calories in this 90 minute class. I believe it. Often I have sweat dripping off my elbows during the first breathing exercise.

It’s weird too. Sweating so profusely in a mirrored room full of strangers- most of whom are wearing about as much material as a bathing suit. Me personally, I wear spandex running-type shorts and a sports bra. That’s it. I’ve never worked out in this little attire. But I sweat so much. It’s gross: all these strangers and all this sweat. The instructor dripped on me during my last class as I lay on my back in Savasna. Other peoples toes are in your face, you are all walking around barefooted, and you’re trying to focus and remain calm. It’s weird. I’ve never been in a yoga studio, besides this one here in NYC, so this may be the norm. Skin, sweat, no modesty or space.

I’ve been to about seven classes since December 25th and with each one I feel so proud of myself for completing the 90 minutes without having mental breakdown. I wish I knew what it was that makes me feel like there is a sack of wet rags sitting on top of my stomach, perhaps it’s the heat, but maybe there is something more. This whole thing is new to me, but that camel pose, oh my gosh. It kills me each time I try. And not physically- but within my whole body I just feel nauseous (now I sound like one of those people…)

It’s hard, but that’s okay. I like it. I will probably not continue my membership once mine expires on Jan. 23rd, since the normal cost is $180 dollars a month, but it’s been a good experience. It makes me feel strong and courageous for battling these constant thoughts that bounce around in my head like a ping-pong ball all day long. It forces me to slow down.

Stuck

For going on three days now, I’ve felt like this. Indifferent, Tired, Invisible. I’m tired of trying to love well. Tired of caring and doing- because I’ve begun to do it out of obligation, I’m afraid. In times like this I am ready to give up on all I’ve known and worked for and done. I don’t know why really.

This morning I ran almost three blocks to catch the Crosstown 86 Street bus because I didn’t want to walk .8 miles in freezing temperatures and winds that could cut through glass. Once I arrived at my subway stop I waited on the platform while three trains stopped at the station. Each subway car was bubbling over with people who were bursting out when the doors tried to close. Finally, I got on a subway and headed to work.

There are so many people in this city, appearing machine like in their going and coming, the way they speed walk from Avenue to Avenue, from subway car to subway car, up the stairs, to the escalators and back down again. It’s all business during this Monday through Friday commute to and from. Not much talking, not much smiling, not much eye contact. It’s just bending and lifting and racing about to get indoors; to get to the final destination for the next eight, nine, ten hours of life- the part of life that a lot of us hate more than any other part, but spend so much more time doing.

Doing. This is a word that is beginning to wear on me a bit. I think that I do a lot, but never get a lot done. Does this make sense? That in my efforts to do I am just skimming the surface and never diving deep enough, never totally submersing myself and becoming consumed with much of anything.

I’m starting to become the machine of this city. To lose my grace and charm and character – maybe. Or maybe I’ve just given into it for the past few days because it’s easier than trying to fight against it. It’s easier than trying at all, as sad as that might sound. It’s easier than thinking or being nice or using the skills and desires and patience that I know are within me.

When I got to 317 Madison Avenue this morning, the doorman says to me, “Excuse me but if you don’t work here you’re going to have to check in at the desk.” Really?! Excuse me Mr. Concierge who never acknowledges me, never returns my greetings or smiles, I have worked here for almost four months. This is not the day to say this to me. This is not the day to open your mouth and blurt out your ignorance. I didn't say that though. I just smiled, said I did work here, and proceded to the elevtor with the lit arrow above it.

When the door shut on the elevator door and I pushed 19, I was alone for the first time since stepping out of my apartment on the 32nd floor on 92nd Street. (Even that elevator was crammed with my landlord, his assistant, a gimp, sickly looking Greyhound dog, the dogs owner, some guy just trying to get to work like myself, a mom, dad, and two year old kid with his huge stroller.) So, alone, headed to the office where I work, I wanted to collapse into the corner and fall to the floor. I felt the anger, frustration, the “I really don’t want to be here today” all well-up inside of me trying to gush out in the form of tears- and for no good reason. But instead I took some deep breaths: in through the nose out through the mouth. Repeatedly. Closed my eyes and opened them. Tried to remember that I have an easy job, an easy life. This is nothing. This is petty. This is just how it is sometimes, funny even, laughable. But not to me, and not right now.

In the door and I am ON. After all, a receptionist is supposed to always be friendly, courteous, helpful and never cross or moody. Leave it at the door. Bah. I am the voice on the phone. I am the smile behind the desk. I am the one who can tell you whatever it is you want to know. (Or at least that's how it seems so often, by the questions I am asked.)

So, I get my coffee, my water, my 100 calorie muffin and gather myself. The goal is to remember that I’ve left it all at the door and convince myself that this WILL, in fact, be a good day. It will. Then I proceed to call the IT guy to troubleshoot a phone problem that an employee is having. When he tells me, “I don’t handle your phones. That would be John,” I say, “Yes I know that. I’m so sorry to bother you. I just walked in the door. I’m having an awful morning. I'm not awake yet.” Perhaps I should have said that I have no good excuse but it truly feels like I’ve only been using half my brain for the past month. And the problem is only getting worse.

Too Much Sass

I just finished having a late lunch with my little sister, my twenty-three year old sister, at Grand Central Station. In less than two minutes I can be from my office to the clock in the center of Grand Central Station. I love my life.

Upon seeing my new flashy, sassy boots says to me, “I like them, and they are so you, but I would never wear them.” I told her how I loved them so much I wore them around our apartment all evening, even caressing the leather and wrapping the laces around my fingers as I sat on the couch at 10:00pm. When I told her I didn’t even want to take them off to go to sleep she says to me, “You’d have to knock me out to get those shoes on my feet.” These are shoes, just shoes. Not some torture devise, although some might argue…

I love them the same way I loved my black patent leather tap shoes I had when I was three-years-old, with the two eyelets and the big silk bow. Or my FIRST pair of red velvet shoes (yes, I've owned more than one), only they had gold butterflies on the outside of the toes which is how I remembered which shoe went on which foot.

The thing is my sister and I are so opposite. She likes spending money on mountain bikes and running shoes and camping gear and All-Clad double broilers. I like make-up and jewelry and shoes and handbags. This is why she bought me a pair of under armor underwear and a super absorbent camping towel for my birthday last year. And I got her some lip-gloss and a necklace.
But, I love her. We’re sisters and ourselves and honest and open. I can’t image not being great friends with my sisters.

Throughout the holidays my schedule was pretty loose; my sister has been here two weeks and will be here until January 11. My mom and two of her friends were here New Year’s week and we had a friend of Chris’s and his fiancé (his friend’s fiancé, not Chris’s) sleeping on our futon for four nights. But now, it’s all about reining it in, bringing the disorderly disarray to a screeching halt and getting back in a routine of some sort.

I try so hard to make sure everyone is taken care of and happy and pleased and is getting the desires of their heart met that it wears me out, because really, it’s not my job. I can only offer so many beverage options, wash so many towels, put so many varieties of tiny bits of cheese out for people who are probably lactose intolerant anyway. I hate saying that I am a people pleaser, but I want everyone to be 100% pleased 100% of the time, which I do realize will never happen, regardless of my efforts.

I have a control issue. I demand a lot out of myself- and from all you guys too! It’s so wrong. So, in all honestly I’ve been too self absorbed and lazy to write. I realize that I have an easy life, no pets, kids or oversized houseplants to tend to, and still I feel like I don’t get enough “me” time in each day. It’s the commute. And the cold/ dark weather. It’s the up at 5:30AM, go to gym, to work, to lunch break at my desk, to rehearsal, to CVS to get some more freaking toilet-paper and contact solution routine I’m in.

I do nothing, but I feel drained. I do nothing hard, I mean. I’m not productive in a way that I’d like to be, and yet, I crash at 10:30PM, before I even get to crack open one of the six or seven brand new books sitting on my bookshelf. Maybe I have a thyroid problem. Or a brain tumor. Or an imbalance in my hormone levels. OR maybe the fast pace of this city does begin to wear on you if you don’t take care of your priorities: community, fellowship, prayer and reading the Bible.

My gaze has begun to turn inward. My focus on myself. And this, I feel, is a daily, even hourly choice. To not become so self absorbed that you don’t even want to look at your checking account to face the reality of how much money you have spent on yourself- your desires, skin care, therapy and yoga classes. It’ pathetic, right? I’ll march on (in my new leather boots). Forward. 2010 or Bust.