tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-46906043379285402212024-03-20T02:26:10.096-07:00Something Incredibly WittyLife is funny. These are a few reasons why.LadyColburnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07430902887353217965noreply@blogger.comBlogger50125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4690604337928540221.post-58422087128021058832013-01-21T21:02:00.001-08:002013-01-21T21:02:17.622-08:00Oh, what a day.<br />
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Since I've had a child, I've realized something of the utmost importance:</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span style="font-size: x-small;">What used to take me 15 minutes, now takes an hour and a half.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Allow me to elaborate. This morning my husband called. He's on a business trip in Las Vegas and needs me to overnight him a few things that he left behind. No big deal, normally. I decide to make an event out of it. Pack the baby up; head to the grocery store; grab a card and some valentine's candy to include in the package; oh, and walk to the store and the post office in an effort to increase my cardio. Clearly, I've thought of everything and am the world's greatest, most thoughtful partner. Check.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span style="font-size: x-small;">We arrive at the Post Office, proud and smiling.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Except, today is Martin Luther King, Jr. Day. The Post Office is, in fact, closed. Excellent.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Trying to make the best of it, Kate and I head home for a quick lunch--and to investigate UPS and Fed Ex locations that are open nearby. We gobble up our food, gather up our gear, shlep our stuff to the Fed Ex place, and bring along a stuffed animal for Kate. As now it's</span><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> </span><a href="x-apple-data-detectors://4" x-apple-data-detectors-result="4" x-apple-data-detectors-type="calendar-event" x-apple-data-detectors="true">12:45 pm</a><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> </span><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">(15 minutes away from Kate's nap).</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Against all odds, we get to the Fed Ex store and the child has not fallen asleep in the car. A victory! We pack up our supplies for Daddy. We make friends with the store clerk. I'm about to pat myself on the back for being the best mother (and wife) on the planet and I realize I've forgotten my phone... which has Chris' address at the hotel, among other important information that's necessary for mailing the package. Sigh.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span style="font-size: x-small;">We settle down, hold back tears, and manage to get back to the car to begin our journey home--knowing that we'll immediately turn around to go back to the store. This wouldn't be so annoying, except for the fact that we live in a condo complex with underground parking... meaning I cannot just leave Kate in the carseat while I run in and grab the phone. I have to unbuckle her, put her on my hip, run up two flights of stairs, unlock the door, find the phone, fill out the Fed Ex label, run down two flights of stairs, buckle Kate back up, and drive back to the Fed Ex store... only to unbuckle her and start the process over again.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span style="font-size: x-small;">But, long story short, we did it. My child was exhausted, shoeless, and meowing at the other customers in the store. And yet, the package got mailed (even though the clerk forgot to put the card in the box... but that was the least of our concerns).</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Package mailed. Baby asleep</span><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> </span><a href="x-apple-data-detectors://5" x-apple-data-detectors-result="5" x-apple-data-detectors-type="calendar-event" x-apple-data-detectors="true">at 2 pm</a><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">. I've just decided we're eating out tonight.</span></span></div>
LadyColburnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07430902887353217965noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4690604337928540221.post-81956761357057940482011-07-08T14:08:00.000-07:002011-07-08T15:44:18.886-07:00Something incredibly awkward<span style="font-size:85%;">Last night we had our hospital tour. In all honesty, it was awesome. I'm so happy with our hospital choice; the tour actually got me really excited for the big day. I had such a great time that I think some of the other people in our class were a little annoyed by me, because I had--easily--the best experience of anyone else. Allow me to explain.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">The same woman who taught the breastfeeding class (who I mentioned in yesterday's post) was giving the tour. She recognized me and Chris right away and even had me answer questions/act as her assistant as the tour wore on. Clearly, I was established as the teacher's pet--which, normally doesn't bother me. But I'm so intimidated in mom circles, that I couldn't help but feel like all the other moms were shooting daggers my way.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Eventually, we got off the elevator at the Labor & Delivery floor, and the entire class was in the waiting area. Our tour guide was sharing some logistics and explaining what we were about to see. Well, who should walk through the door but MY obstetrician! It was awesome. She came right over, said hello to me and Chris, rubbed my belly... I mean, the woman all but gave me a hug. Chris and I looked at each other, and immediately, we were put at ease. </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Shortly thereafter, we walked through the hallway and into the waiting room. We were about to enter one of the delivery rooms (all of which are private, by the way) and therefore, we passed by the nurse's station. Well, who should we see at the desk but my friend Julie--a labor and delivery nurse at the hospital. Neither of us thought to check her schedule, confirm when/if she'd be there, or even alert each other to the possibility that we could run into one another. This time, there was more squealing, more hugging, and more hushed conversation as the tour guide said, "Well, you just know everyone, don't you?" </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">But all of this is not the reason why I'm writing today. </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Here you be: As part of the tour, our guide mentioned the possibility of listening to soothing music while you're laboring and delivering as a means of relaxation. Both Chris and I had heard of this, but we never really considered it until being in the room, looking at the bed, and imagining ourselves going through the miracle of birth. </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">So, onto the awkward. I'm assuming that labor will take me a while. And I'm assuming that if I bring CDs, I'm probably going to get annoyed with one person's voice for all that time. Make a playlist on your iPod, you say? Well, yes. We thought of that. But how long do you plan for? What if it runs out? Do you just repeat? Will I get annoyed with the fact that I might not be surprised at what comes next? For these reasons, I'm thinking Pandora might be a nice option. But here's where it gets uncomfortable. I'm listening to one of my created stations right now. It's easily my favorite--lots of airy female vocalists and even-tempo songs. I listen to this at work regularly, as it relaxes me and helps me focus. HOWEVER (and this is a big however), many--if not all--of the songs feel or sound like break up songs. Like sad bastard break up songs. </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">It's weird to listen to sad bastard music while you're giving birth, right? I mean, I've never done this before. I don't know. But I'm assuming that's not the "dream" introduction to the world that you'd like to give your daughter: "Hello, little one! Welcome to the world. This place is pain-filled--sometimes horribly so--and hard to navigate. But some bitchin' art usually comes out of it." Or the memory you'd like to share with her when she's old enough to hear the story of her birth: "So, lovely. You were born. And I'll never forget it. Sara Bareilles was singing 'Gravity,' and the words-- </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">'You're neither friend nor foe, </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">though I can't seem to let you go, </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">the one thing that I still know, </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">is that you're keeping me down...' </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">have very special meaning for me."</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Don't think I'll be winning any "Mother of Year" trophies with that one.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">So, I find myself at a loss. Music? No music? Different music? Length of music? Medium of music? </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Whatever advice you'd like to share is appreciated. I promise. No judgements.</span>LadyColburnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07430902887353217965noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4690604337928540221.post-18245464092034261702011-07-07T15:30:00.001-07:002011-07-07T15:59:19.340-07:00Mom-dumb<span style="font-size:85%;">As in, sometimes I feel like a mom and sometimes I feel really dumb. Most of the time, these two categories are directly linked. Take today for example. I'll be 34 weeks pregnant tomorrow (oh, by the way, I'm pregnant. Like, really pregnant) and for some reason, I got it into my brain that my baby isn't moving enough. Why? Well, I'll tell you why. The internet. As much as I love this highway of information, it's also littered with mis-information or VERY BAD information. Which leaves mothers-to-be anxious, worried, and overwrought. Or maybe that's just me.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">All this to say, I kind of freaked out. To which my husband said, "Um, Jessie? The baby's kind of running out of room in there. She's probably just hanging out."</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Common sense is so amazing! </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Why don't I have any of it?</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Not long after that, my dad's voice came rushing to my mind: "Jessie, when things start to go wrong in pregnancy, they start to go really wrong. There's blood. There's pain. It's not pretty. Don't spin yourself out of control."</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">But like a dradel on 'roids, that's exactly what I did. I scoured the internet, looking for other people who were suffering the same trauma. It turns out, there are some *really* stupid people out there. And to be honest, stupid people frighten me. Which then makes the terror worse... because then I start to fear that I'm actually one of the stupid ones. (Are you getting tired of reading this? I'm sort of getting tired of writing like this. I hope I mellow out soon. But what can you expect from a girl who hasn't had a drink in 8 months!?!?)</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Which brings me to my next point: birthing class. We went to a class last night and talked mostly about breastfeeding. The teacher was cute, and asked us who was craving sushi? Beer? Any kind of hard liquor?</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Literally, I was the only person in the entire room that raised her hand. And I raised it each time. Sushi? Hell yeah. Beer? Definitely. Hard liquor? Yes, my 4th of July was sorely lacking--thank you very much. But I mean, come <em>on</em>. Seriously? The judgement from other moms is *insane*. The teacher even commented: "I love this woman. At least she's honest." </span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">So, to all of the other moms in that damn breastfeeding class--I'm calling you out. In fact, I'm willing to put money on the fact that our husbands will run into each other at the same sushi place when I force mine to get me a spicy tuna roll and eel hand roll the SECOND the doctor clears me. Oh, and a saki. For the road.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">But there are also moms (and women in general) who make life easier to bear; who help shoulder burdens; who free you from needless anxiety and worry; who encourage you to write because they know you love it, even though you think you don't have anything to say. They call you when they know you're overwhelmed. They email you back RIGHT away when you're nervous. They never make you feel stupid. They remind you that you've never done this before and it's going to be ok. It's going to be gnarly. But totally awesome and ok. Thank God for them.</span>LadyColburnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07430902887353217965noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4690604337928540221.post-55403719835579607972010-10-18T16:51:00.001-07:002010-10-18T16:57:05.994-07:00Ran-diddly-andomIt's funny. Good writing makes me want to write.<br /><br />I've stumbled on a few blogs recently that I really enjoy. Both of them are written by women who have such compelling and different voices... yet, there's something similar that I can't quite nail down. Perhaps the fact that they're both extremely talented is enough of a connection. But it's more than that. Neither of them are pretentious or self-glorifying, which I think people in the "blogosphere" can so easily be. For lack of a better phrase, they're so clearly <em>them.</em> Which, truth be told, is a bit awkward for me to say--considering I don't actually know either of them.<br /><br />But. Here they are: <a href="http://www.kellehampton.com/">Kelle Hampton</a> and <a href="http://www.sarahmarkley.com/story/">Sarah Markley</a>.<br /><br />Check them out. Enjoy their voices. Be inspired.LadyColburnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07430902887353217965noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4690604337928540221.post-6621615244180316492010-09-23T09:25:00.001-07:002010-09-23T09:30:48.025-07:002 out of 3 ain't bad... right?I guess it depends on what you're talking about. In this post, I happen to be talking about what I casually refer to as "The Morning <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">Trifecta</span>."<br /><ol><li>Taking a shower</li><li>Doing my hair </li><li>Putting on make-up</li></ol><p>I almost NEVER accomplish all 3 on any given morning. In fact, if I'm honest, my hair is sorely mistreated. But, I will say, I've gotten quite clever at messy buns and half completed braids. This makes is appear as though I've tried to get my hair to do something... but really, I've spent the extra 15 minutes snoozing. Because apparently, I'd rather sleep than look cute.</p><p>Dear Lord. </p><p>I don't even have kids and I'm already sacrificing appearance for comfort. The writing on the wall is clear: I will not be one of those moms that's well put together and adorable. </p><p>But, I'll be comfortable. The kids will be comfortable. And hopefully, <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-error">that'll</span> be enough.</p>LadyColburnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07430902887353217965noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4690604337928540221.post-72727140691143838862010-09-11T10:08:00.000-07:002010-09-11T10:19:34.427-07:00Vitamin D-ficient<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I have new insurance, so I thought it'd be a good idea to go and have my annual physical. I went to my new doctor in my new HMO and was having quite a pleasant visit. I mean, how pleasant are annual exams usually? </span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I really liked my doctor and we had some unexpected things in common. I was surprised by how much she was willing to share about herself, and how warmly I responded to her candor. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">All was going well. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">That is, until she began to leave the room:</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"We're going to have the lab check all your levels, and we're going to keep an eye on your Vitamin D. It looks like you don't get a lot of sun."</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I was taken aback. Surprised, even. I felt the need to explain myself.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"I know. I'm white. And I do try to stay out of the sun. But I exercise a lot... I just use a hat and sunglasses to shade myself. Because I burn so easy. Because I'm so fair." I said everything so fast, even I knew I sounded desperate. And a little bit dorky.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">She looked at her clipboard, flipped a few pages, wrote something down. Then said:</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"Oh, well sure. I just think you might be deficient. If you are, it's no big deal. You just have to add a vitamin supplement to your diet."</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Well, here I am 7 days later with the lab results in hand: </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">All labs are fine except vitamin d level is low. Recommend 2000 <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">IU</span> of vitamin D3 daily.</span></i></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Maybe I should be a vampire for Halloween.</span></div>LadyColburnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07430902887353217965noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4690604337928540221.post-55687540439779209312010-09-01T12:21:00.000-07:002010-09-01T13:58:36.381-07:00Spiritual Discipline of the Latte<span style="font-size:85%;">I've been meeting with a spiritual director once a month for the last 6 months or so, and I can safely say, it's been pretty fantastic for me. She helps me recognize God in unexpected ways... and I love that. Sometimes I talk myself into semi-neurotic circles of doubt and confusion, and she has a way of helping me recognize God in the midst of chaos and paradox. I think the biggest discovery we've recently made is the idea of God being paradox: Powerful <em>and</em> merciful. Strong <em>and</em> gentle. All knowing and outside of time <em>and</em> personal and intimate.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">The thing I struggle with most in my relationship with God is trying to make sense of all the suffering and evil that takes place in the world--and knowing that God could stop and prevent all of it. But doesn't. Why not? I mean, really. AIDS. <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">Darfur</span>. Haiti. Cancer. Rape. Sometimes I'm simply overwhelmed by it.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">There's this one scene from Blood Diamond (with Jennifer <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-error">Connolley</span> and Leonardo DiCaprio) where they're talking about the monstrosities that took place in Africa during <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">Apartheid</span>. And Leo's character says,<em> "I wonder. Will God ever forgive us for what we've done to each other? And then I remember, God left this place a long time ago."</em></span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Or maybe you remember that "Dear God" song by <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" class="blsp-spelling-error">XTC</span>. I just heard Sarah <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_4" class="blsp-spelling-error">McLauchlan</span> do a cover of it on the radio the other day. And the last verse is still ringing in my ears: </span><br /><em><span style="font-size:85%;">You're always letting us humans down</span></em><br /><em><span style="font-size:85%;">The wars you bring, the babes you drown.</span></em><br /><em><span style="font-size:85%;">Those lost at sea and never found,</span></em><br /><em><span style="font-size:85%;">And it's the same the whole world 'round.</span></em><br /><em><span style="font-size:85%;">The hurt I see helps to compound</span></em><br /><em><span style="font-size:85%;">That Father, Son, and Holy Ghost</span></em><br /><em><span style="font-size:85%;">Is just <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_5" class="blsp-spelling-error">somebody's</span> unholy hoax,</span></em><br /><em><span style="font-size:85%;">And if you're up there you'd perceive,</span></em><br /><em><span style="font-size:85%;">That my heart's here upon my sleeve.</span></em><br /><em><span style="font-size:85%;">If there's one thing I don't believe in...</span></em><br /><em><span style="font-size:85%;">It's you...</span></em><br /><em><span style="font-size:85%;">Dear God.</span></em><br /><em></em><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">I mean. This stuff breaks my heart. And not because these people don't know Jesus. It kills me because I can see and understand why people believe in this. For me, sometimes the only thing that keeps my faith alive is the vain hope that there <em>has</em> to be something better. There just <em>has</em> to be. This can't be it.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">So anyway. The latte.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">After meeting with my director this week, she suggested I do a spiritual discipline with my favorite treat: the latte I treat myself with once a week (usually on Fridays). She advised me to take some time and really experience it with all my senses. To let this be my "devotional" or "God time." So, today I decided to do just that. Here's an excerpt from my journal about the experience:</span><br /><br /><em><span style="font-size:85%;">I love feeling the drink roll down my throat and feeling it settle in my stomach. I love the lingering <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_6" class="blsp-spelling-error">taste</span> it leaves on <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_7" class="blsp-spelling-error">the</span> back of my throat. It's almost like I taste more of the flavor after it's been swallowed. Maybe God is like that, too. He's in our midst and always present--but it's not until after we think He's already left that we feel his presence more strongly. I still have the taste of coffee on my breath, my tongue, even though it's been a while since I took a sip.</span></em><br /><em></em>LadyColburnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07430902887353217965noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4690604337928540221.post-74734783537174014612010-05-18T11:52:00.000-07:002010-05-18T12:00:14.676-07:00Have you ever been called ugly to your face?<span style="font-size:85%;">I have. And I'm not even lying.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Today, while purchasing some items for our church's Mexico house-build trip, I had one of the most ridiculous interactions of my life. And I'm not exaggerating. I have a witness. Her name is Laura <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">Agee</span>.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">I put my 7 items on the counter, and paid with a credit card. The cashier then asked for my ID, which I fully expected.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Then, something entirely uncalled for happened. She uttered these words:</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">"Oh... you don't look as beautiful as you do in this picture."</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">How does one respond to that? I was so taken aback. All I could do was shrug my shoulders and say, "I don't know."</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">I looked at my friend Laura, eyes as wide as saucers, asking--albeit telepathically--<em>Did she really just say that?!</em></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">After the cashier had put my items in a plastic bag, and muttered something about an Avery address label rebate, she said, "I was just kidding."</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">I smiled and performed a fake laugh, crying on the inside.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Then, she said something even stranger:</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">"So, your name is Jessica?"</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">"Yes," I replied. (She's just looked at my identification, and looked up my Staples card in the system. Her verification question to me only moments earlier was, <em>Are you Jessica?</em>) Why, in the name of all that is normal and right in this world, would she ask for my name again?</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">I've decided that this lady is a lunatic. And therefore, I will not take her insults to heart. Builds character, right?</span><br /><em><span style="font-size:85%;"><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-error">Sheesh</span>.</span></em>LadyColburnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07430902887353217965noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4690604337928540221.post-87718772891365348012010-03-02T15:15:00.000-08:002010-03-02T15:31:11.922-08:00What's with today, Today?<u>Reasons why today is lame:</u><br /><ol><li>Everyone has commented on my outfit today, most of them have been negative and/or insulting. I wore shorts to work today. And a pink shirt. It's spring. It felt appropriate. However, many of my coworkers--along with people who've popped in the office--have decided it's too cold for such attire. Need I remind you, we are living in San Diego? Or that it's March? Or that it's 65 degrees outside--and around 70 inside? <em>Sheesh.</em></li><li>I couldn't, for the life of me, prepare my breakfast in a timely manner. First, I couldn't find the bowls at work. Second, it was hard to open the cereal box. Third, it took FOREVER to cut the strawberries. Fourth, I kept dropping said strawberries. Fifth, I somehow managed to spray strawberry juice onto my khaki shorts. <em>Lovely.</em></li><li>I have a stye in my eye. It hurts. It's ugly. And I couldn't put on makeup to cover it up.</li></ol><p><u>Reasons why today is grand:</u></p><ol><li>While it took years for my breakfast to finally be ready, it tasted wonderful. We tried a new granola--organic granola with peanuts--and I, for one, will never go back to Flax Plus "original" again.</li><li>My lunch was superb: leftover sweet potato & leek soup with rice and half of a leftover Rico's California burrito. </li><li>Chris and I have recently gotten into a rut which is, quite possibly, one of the most joyous ruts I can think of. We have become addicted to <em>Boston Legal,</em> and every night, we race home to watch as many as we possibly can before we fall asleep on the couch. Free library rentals are my favorite.</li></ol><p> </p>LadyColburnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07430902887353217965noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4690604337928540221.post-58485209026530249952010-01-28T16:23:00.000-08:002010-01-28T16:57:24.737-08:00It's raining, it's pouring, the old man just got a rabies vaccine.The trouble with getting behind on blogging is that if you wait too long--nothing seems important enough to say. I mean really. It's not like I can have just any old story break the silence now. It's been... far too long. This mode of thinking, however, has continued to feed the procrastination monster that seems to have completely taken over my once able mind. With that said, I hope I haven't built myself up too much. Because this one is a doozy.<br /><br />But I digress.<br /><br />I've come out of hiding to alert you about a current epidemic sweeping my office. Swine Flu? No way. The common cold? As if. No, dear reader, I assure you, it's much more terrifying than that.<br /><br />What has beady eyes, toxic poop, and a devilishly horrifying scurry?<br /><br />If you guessed <em>mice</em>, congratulations.<br /><br />Our office manager has had not one, but <strong>two</strong>, sightings in her office alone. There have been countless others, and now--I'm officially concerned. You see, the office manager and I have a shared wall and ceiling. Meaning, I could be the victim of the next attack.<br /><br />Yesterday, at approximately 2:47 pm, a mouse <em>literally</em> fell from the ceiling. After landing on a filing cabinet, he launched himself across the room, and dashed behind some picture frames. The disgusting creature was then stalked by our Director of Communications and Facilities Manager, only to have met his fateful end at the hands of <em>Doug, the Mousey Hunter. </em>And that's just the beginning.<br /><br />Today another rodent was found dead under a desk. And our print shop specialist is convinced he saw a mouse run across the lobby this morning. Earlier this afternoon, I heard a rustling in my office which sent shivers down my spine. What if I come face to face with the vile thing?<br /><br />I, for one, can't shake the image of the entire species taking root in our ceiling. I have visions of the indoor roof tiles giving way to a gray haze of vermin falling from the sky.<br /><br />They are everywhere.<br /><br />Oh god. What was that sound??LadyColburnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07430902887353217965noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4690604337928540221.post-32245206543675175312009-07-11T19:13:00.001-07:002009-07-13T14:24:35.422-07:004 weeks went by? You must be kidding.<span style="font-size:85%;">I had GRAND plans to post while I was on vacation. </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">I had visions of updating about our amazing trip to Paris; our fabulous travels with Renee; our <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">ridiculousness</span> in Belgium; our theatre experiences in London... </span><br /><br /><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;">But, alas and alack, I'm reminded of a quote from Ernest Hemingway (that I'm most certainly butchering here): "You don't take a pencil on a lion hunt." Meaning, of course, that you can't really document the most exciting parts of your life... mainly because you're too busy living them. And I can say, without a doubt, that there has been a lot of living crammed into the last four weeks.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;">It started with our trip to Europe. 5 days in Paris--check. 4 days in the south of France--check. 3 days in Belgium--check. 4 days in London--check. Stopping in 4 countries and traveling for 24 hours to get back to the United States--check.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;">Then, we quickly turned around (about 26 hours, to be exact) and got on another plane. This time, to Oregon. Jimmy was there (the little bro), and John (the bigger of the little bros) flew out, in an unexpected turn of events, for the 4<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">th</span> of July. There's no time quite like family time--especially <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Dzundza</span> family time. And it's not just because all of us are so <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">ridiculously</span> good looking. There's so much more to us, (we have our own language, for example) and us kids are so rarely all in the same place; it was a real treat to have some dedicated time together.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;">After the short reunion, Chris and I flew back to San Diego. I was at home for about 2 hours--mostly to have dinner, repack, and buy a one piece bathing suit. Then I was off to camp at Forest Home with the senior high students from the church. Another fabulous week of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">frisbee</span>, late night <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">conversation</span>, laughter, and good memories.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">And here I am, on Monday, at my new job.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">I'm currently reminding myself to breathe.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">What. a. trip.</span>LadyColburnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07430902887353217965noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4690604337928540221.post-40933112611378065012009-06-16T03:35:00.000-07:002009-06-16T03:57:43.484-07:00The Case of the Missing Bag<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCW0J8DrZsbA4nqWCuXc57hJWjrn3dEZxoMhZeBCVTzuajQVojhJDMk4GIZKty39iCmv8PSJT4EAfZeQlK7qjD3On5eJMLyeaQVKczcVQcPRoL4wR2lqW1JQetbZQEDT4cs_kPldd8olQ/s1600-h/jdc_bag_reunited.jpg"></a><div><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Never joke about losing a bag.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">It's never all that funny to begin with, and then when it actually happens--you only have yourself to blame. Well, in this case, you only have your husband to blame.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“Hey Jessie, what if your bag doesn’t make it? Is that covered under </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">traveler’s</span></i><span style="font-style: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> insurance?” he joked.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“Yep, they'll reimburse me up to $1000 if they lose my bag, and $300 if it’s late by 24 hours or more.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">For emergencies." I said. "Do you think $300 boots could be classified as an emergency?”</span></p><p></p></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbVU6HfT2gz_PB8rjrJNjLCuAHDD3xKYPdbFv3kZRu4yJ0SPkBcOTAnnJQ1n_CsFQFIhs_rm95GIdfNvQojYrNtTDVgKZUrQWAUHHatWqIhk3Pq188XvdgaDhOVGKeBmFNRQA_1EU5jwY/s1600-h/jdc_bag_what_happened.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbVU6HfT2gz_PB8rjrJNjLCuAHDD3xKYPdbFv3kZRu4yJ0SPkBcOTAnnJQ1n_CsFQFIhs_rm95GIdfNvQojYrNtTDVgKZUrQWAUHHatWqIhk3Pq188XvdgaDhOVGKeBmFNRQA_1EU5jwY/s200/jdc_bag_what_happened.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5347874231581420194" /></a> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">After traveling all night to get to Paris, we soon discovered that my bag was held up for security reasons in San Diego (the bag pictured above belongs to Chris).</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">So, instead of being on our flight, which arrived early (7:03am, Paris time), it most assuredly was not. I held out hope for a while, but when I saw the last person from our flight walk away from the carousel with luggage in tow, I knew for certain that my trusty friend didn't make it. At least not directly.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Turns out, the folks at American Airlines thought my luggage could use a little side trip to Chicago. So, we waited until that plane landed--which was only about 45 minutes later. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Thankfully, the folks at the airport in Paris were extremely helpful, and we were reunited in no time. All's well that ends well.</span></p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCW0J8DrZsbA4nqWCuXc57hJWjrn3dEZxoMhZeBCVTzuajQVojhJDMk4GIZKty39iCmv8PSJT4EAfZeQlK7qjD3On5eJMLyeaQVKczcVQcPRoL4wR2lqW1JQetbZQEDT4cs_kPldd8olQ/s200/jdc_bag_reunited.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5347875426208339154" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px; " /></span> <!--EndFragment-->LadyColburnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07430902887353217965noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4690604337928540221.post-19393278474667469482009-06-11T11:44:00.000-07:002009-06-11T12:06:26.570-07:00Ministry Assistant to Adult Discipleship<span style="font-size:85%;">Well, the background check went through and I started training yesterday. I'm at the church for a full three days this week, but I don't officially start until July 13. </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Here's a quick list of the things I'm really excited about (in no particular order):</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">1. My office--yes, office--has its own door and printer.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">2. I work 3 miles away from my house.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">3. I'm contributing to something bigger than a bottom line.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">4. My new boss is invested in me as a person, not just as a professional and/or assistant.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">5. I have a built in community of friends.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">6. I get to organize and edit.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">7. I get to help cast vision for our church.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">8. I get to help facilitate real change.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">9. I sing when I get home because I'm so happy.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">10. This feels right.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">The job is an amalgamation of a bunch of different tasks. Yes, there's a lot of admin work, but I'm no stranger to that. And, at the end of the day, I'm doing things to help make a ministry thrive and grow. </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">I'm so jazzed I can hardly stand it.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span>LadyColburnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07430902887353217965noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4690604337928540221.post-37035352357344910842009-05-29T10:08:00.000-07:002009-05-29T16:33:35.858-07:00All in the Timing<span style="font-size:85%;">I was in a play called <em>Words, Words, Words</em> by David Ives when I was in high school. It was originally published with other short plays by the same author in a book called <em>All in the Timing.</em> The premise of <em>Words</em> was simple: Given infinite, if you put 3 monkeys in a room with 3 typewriters, eventually they will type Hamlet. Of course, the genius of this play--and most comedic forays--is perfect timing. </span><span style="font-size:85%;">And I can't help but wonder if sometimes our lives read like such literary pursuits.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Allow me to explain.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">It's no secret that I'm not entirely pleased with my current place of employment (to say the least). In fact, most of my postings in the last year have been devoted to the fact that since Harcourt closed its San Diego office in June of 2008, I've been relatively limp as far as my career is concerned. I've mourned the loss of that place and that job for so long. And while I know it was important for me to walk this journey, I can't help but feel a little ridiculous. I spent so much time being bitter and angry... and now I'm feeling a bit bitter and angry that I let myself waste so much time being bitter and angry. (See, it's a vicious cycle.)</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Of course, it's easy to feel positive now.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Chris and I are planning a European adventure that I still can't believe is real. We're leaving in TWO WEEKS, and I for one, cannot wrap my brain around it. Our marriage is strong and our relationship is healthy. I'm visiting my parents and brother this weekend.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">And, yes, I was offered a new job. </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">I can't be explicit yet because the offer is pending based on the results of my background check. But, we're 99.9% there. I'll give you three guesses where it is.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Here's a clue... as my dad mentioned when I told him the news: "Jess, God wants you working in his house. And that's a good thing." </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Perfect timing.</span>LadyColburnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07430902887353217965noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4690604337928540221.post-73193293310542932202009-05-21T15:53:00.000-07:002009-05-21T16:14:32.036-07:00T-Shirt Genius<span style="font-size:85%;">Allison Morris blogged about a few of these t-shirt designs a while back, and I just have to follow up with a few of my favorites. I know my birthday has already past, but if you get a hankering to buy me a "Just Because" gift--these are all at the top of my list:</span><br /><br /><a href="http://www.typetees.com/product/494/So_far_this_is_the_oldest_I_have_ever_been">So far, this is the oldest I've ever been</a><br /><a href="http://www.typetees.com/product/487/Procrastinators_leaders_of_tomorrow">Procrastinators: Leaders of Tomorrow</a><br /><a href="http://www.typetees.com/product/774/I_m_A_Noun">I'm a noun!</a><br /><a href="http://www.typetees.com/product/493/Ninjas_and_pirates_agree_cowboys_suck">Ninjas and Pirates agree: Cowboys suck</a><br /><a href="http://www.typetees.com/product/917/I_listen_to_bands_that_don_t_even_exist_yet">I listen to bands that don't even exist yet</a><br /><a href="http://www.typetees.com/product/623/Haikus_are_easy_but_sometimes_they_don_t">Haikus are easy</a><br /><br />Hilarious!LadyColburnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07430902887353217965noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4690604337928540221.post-33889946272400157002009-05-14T14:29:00.000-07:002009-05-14T15:40:33.690-07:00What I Saw and How I Lied<span style="font-size:85%;">Recently, we read <a href="http://www.amazon.com/What-I-Saw-How-Lied/dp/0439903467/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1242338356&sr=8-1">THIS </a>book for Book Club. It's a teen novel, so it went fast. A little too fast. In fact, I read this book in about three and a half hours. </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Since it's only available in hardcover (which, after tax, winds up being $18.98!), I decided that I'd return it to the <a href="http://store-locator.barnesandnoble.com/storelocator/stores.aspx?pagetype=storeList&city=Encinitas&state=CA&zip=&x=38&y=15">retailer</a>. The day after I bought it.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">I don't normally make a habit of treating the book store like a library. But when I finish a book as quickly as I did--in hardcover--for that price!--it seemed fair. Plus, the subject matter made me really sad. (All those who like to read about how a mom and daughter unknowingly compete against each other for the same man, say "I". Oh, did I mention that Mom is <em>married</em>?)</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">I could picture myself staring at the book on my shelf, thinking, "I overpaid. And for a book I didn't even like very much." What future joy will come from that?</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Don't worry. The book store got the last laugh. When I returned the already read book, the woman working the counter was the same clerk I bought it from originally.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">"Just not the right one, huh?" she asked as I handed back the book and receipt. <em>It was like she could see right through me!</em></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">"Yeah," I lied. "Something like that."</span>LadyColburnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07430902887353217965noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4690604337928540221.post-228833015143434672009-05-04T15:47:00.000-07:002009-05-04T16:05:08.315-07:00Oh, Happy Day(s)!<span style="font-size:85%;">It was my birthday on Sunday, May 3. But really, celebrations started as early as Thursday, April 30.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">It all began a few weeks ago, when Chris told me we were having dinner with his lab on Thursday. However, <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">unknown </span>to me, this was a complete and total lie. </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Fast forward to Thursday evening, when Chris tells me that we need to stop by my aunt's house--on the way to dinner with the lab--in order to pick up some tubs for the birthday party we were throwing on Saturday. Chris was running late, and I was stressed that we were going to be even later to his professor's house. But, we got the show on the road, and managed to get to Aunt Deb's by 6:45. (The dinner was supposedly at 7:00.)</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">The tubs were waiting by the door, and Chris quickly loaded them in our car. I really wanted to visit with Deb & Tom's new puppy, so, I moseyed up the stairs. I hugged my family, said hello, and asked, "Where's the little guy?"</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Out of nowhere, my MOM bounced up from behind the couch--holding the dog. I couldn't believe it! Since she and my dad moved to Oregon, I hardly ever get to see them. And it was such a treat to be surprised by her--in the flesh!--for my birthday.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Everyone started laughing; I started crying; Mom started screaming; the puppy started dancing. It was the most wonderful moment ever.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Deb quickly added: "Chris planned a totally bogus get-together tonight. You're actually staying here and having dinner with us!"</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Best Birthday Gift... Ever!</span>LadyColburnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07430902887353217965noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4690604337928540221.post-78106139055637870252009-04-22T14:38:00.000-07:002009-04-22T15:06:43.618-07:00A Good Trade<span style="font-size:85%;">In an effort to be more fiscally conservative, Chris and I have been doing more grocery shopping and less dining out. Additionally, we've been trying to watch what we eat--and limit our intake of fast food. Being that we both work 40-hour weeks (sometimes more), dinner can sometimes be a big task. But we're slowly getting more creative with our cooking, and learning how to make semi-gourmet meals as fast as possible.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">More often than not, I end up bringing leftovers to work for a few days. (This also helps the budget. Eating out at roughly $7/day adds up fast.) However, there are days when I'm just sick of the meal--and can't eat it for a third day in a row.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Today was one such day. We'd made sauteed chicken with pesto bow tie pasta for dinner on Monday. It was great, and we were both thoroughly pleased with how it came out. I brought it for lunch yesterday--and for dinner, we cut up some of the leftover chicken and made quesadillas. But today, I couldn't stomach the possibility of having that chicken for lunch... again. </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">I shared my dilemma with a coworker who obligingly said,</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">"How about I give you my lunch money, and I'll take your leftovers."</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">"Are you serious? That doesn't seem fair."</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">"It's totally fair. I think that sounds delicious. And I really don't want to eat out."</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">So, I took my new found $7 and got myself a nice salad. </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Who knew that leftovers could be such a hot commodity?</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span>LadyColburnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07430902887353217965noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4690604337928540221.post-10778453297514159982009-04-13T15:05:00.000-07:002009-04-13T16:02:12.073-07:00P is for Pointless<span style="font-size:85%;">I have a confession to make. When I travel, I often like to buy $7.99 mass market paperback mysteries and read them as fast as I can. This weekend, since Chris and I traveled to the Bay Area to visit his folks for Easter, was a perfect opportunity to do just that.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">At the airport, I paid my dutiful $8.08 for a novel by Sue Grafton called <em>P is for Peril.</em> It had all the makings of a great vacation read: murder, romance, divorce, mistaken identity, and interior design. To sum up using a perfectly cliche phrase, <em>nothing was as it seemed</em>. But once I got to the end, I never wanted to read another Sue Grafton novel ever again.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">I wasn't expecting much; a simple who-done-it was all I wanted. But what good is a who-done-it if you come to the end and still don't know? Thankfully I hadn't invested a lot of time in it, but still. I was seriously annoyed.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Quickly thereafter, I decide to poke around online and see if I was the only one who felt this way. My google searches took me to countless websites where people confessed their disappointment:</span><br /><ul><li><span style="font-size:85%;">"After reading the last chapter, I actually tried to return this because I thought there were pages missing."</span></li><li><span style="font-size:85%;">"I have no idea who murdered <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Dowan</span> Purcell. HELP!!!!!!"</span></li><li><span style="font-size:85%;">"Are Anica and Crystal lovers?"</span></li><li><span style="font-size:85%;">"Wait. So there was a hospital cover up, right? Who takes the fall?"</span></li><li><span style="font-size:85%;">Was anyone else totally confused at the end?"</span></li><li><span style="font-size:85%;">"This book is two revisions and one chapter short of being publishable. Who was the editor?"</span></li></ul><p><span style="font-size:85%;">Feeling redeemed and <em>much</em> better about my reading comprehension skills, I mentioned the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">debacle</span> to a friend at work. </span></p><p><span style="font-size:85%;">"Oh I love Sue Grafton," he said.</span></p><p><span style="font-size:85%;">He then went searching through his desk and showed me a picture of the two of them at an author signing. "She's a really nice lady."</span></p><p><span style="font-size:85%;">"Oh, jeez," I said. "I can't hate this woman. She's the real life Jessica Fletcher."</span></p><p><span style="font-size:85%;">"She totally is! Give the girl another shot," he smiled. "No pun intended."</span></p><p><span style="font-size:85%;">I now find myself in the midst of another crisis: Do I give her another chance? Or move on to Jonathan <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Kellerman</span>?</span></p>LadyColburnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07430902887353217965noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4690604337928540221.post-30774945897492048312009-04-01T10:57:00.000-07:002009-04-01T11:01:39.099-07:00Stranger than Fiction<span style="font-size:85%;">Today I received an email from our IT Department. I've copied and pasted it in its entirety.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><em>All:<br /><br />Tough economic times call for tough economic measures.<br /><br />The cost for keeping our applications running is skyrocketing. In order to offset some of those costs, we will have to start charging all Partner Applications users a small per-use fee whenever logging into the site. You will only be charged once per login regardless of how many applications you run. The fee is $0.22 and will be deducted from your paycheck by-weekly. The new charge will take effect today.<br /><br />Please let me know if you have any concerns.<br /><br />Regards,</em></span><br /><em><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></em><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">I'd like to point out a few things:</span><br /><ol><li><span style="font-size:85%;">The misspelled "bi-weekly" in the second paragraph</span></li><li><span style="font-size:85%;">There is no name after "Regards,"</span></li><li><span style="font-size:85%;">This is potentially the worst April Fool's Joke ever.</span></li></ol><p> </p>LadyColburnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07430902887353217965noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4690604337928540221.post-64813096428878704022009-03-26T14:44:00.000-07:002009-03-26T16:16:20.392-07:00Crazy people are my favorite...sometimes<span style="font-size:85%;">In an effort to flex my performance muscle, I've recently started taking an <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">improv</span> class. I had my first session (of 6) on Monday night, and I really enjoyed it. </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">I did some <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">improv</span> in high school--sort of by accident--and really loved it. But I've never really pursued it, or attempted to get better. Turns out, I'm still pretty good; but this class is giving me the basic training I need to get better--as well as the creative outlet that I'm desperately seeking. It's truly a perfect fit for me right now.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">I was a little nervous to begin. <em>What if I suck at this? What if the teacher is lame? What if it's not as fun as I remember?</em> But I was surprised at how much came back to me--and how much I have to learn. The other beginners are great classmates: no one was hogging the stage; everyone was there to have a good time; it was a no pressure environment, etc.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">In fact, things were going so well, I almost couldn't believe it. </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">And then Gina showed up.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">We had 40 minutes left in the class. All of a sudden this 50-something woman comes barreling into the theatre.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">"I'm sorry I'm late. I've taken this class three times, but I want to take it again. And then I couldn't find parking. I forgot how difficult it is to find parking downtown. I was circling and circling and circling. Can I sit in?"</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Although I used punctuation above, this came out of her mouth in a single breath. She was about 5'3'' and of an average build. Her bobbed red hair framed her face neatly, but there was a depth of insanity that seemed to seep out of her. The class began to fidget almost immediately.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">My teacher nervously broke the ice. </span><span style="font-size:85%;">"Yeah, it's fine. We end at 9, but why don't you come and introduce yourself."</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">She got on stage, and by then it was clear we were doomed.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">The introduction was supposed to be your name, what you do for a living, and why you're taking the class. Basic stuff.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">What we got was a diatribe so ridiculous, it's almost hard for me to believe that it happened. I've done my best to paraphrase below:</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">"Hello," she started. "My name is Gina. I work for the federal government. And let me tell you, it's the safest place to be right now. Not the state, not the local, but the federal. I've been there for almost a year now. Hooray! (Picture arms in the air.) About three months after I started, they asked me to role play in my job. And sometimes, I really lose myself in the part. I mean, it's fun to think on your feet and pretend to be a drug dealer or criminal. This one time I brought a cane into the confession room and just started to hit stuff. I mean, people were scared. I was scared. Sometimes things just come out, like, 'Hey, there's a donut!' or 'Get off me!' Of course I have dreams of becoming an actress. Everybody does. But there are times when I really don't know where I end and the role playing begins."</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">This kind of chatter continued for a full 3 minutes. We were all sort of <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">mesmerized</span> by what was going on. My mouth was agape during her monologue. How could it not be? This lady was on par <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">with</span> a verbal train wreck of epic proportions. Just when you thought it couldn't get any worse, something even more insane would exit her mouth.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">My teacher finally cut her off mid-sentence.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">"OK. That's great, thanks for sharing," he said. I can only imagine what he must have been thinking.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">"Yeah, that's the end," she said, walking back to her seat. (Which by some happy accident, was right next to mine.)</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">But that woman is a liar. It's not the end. When class was over, she marched right up to the instructor and paid in full for the class. I understand his position: theatres are hurting right now, and an extra person in a six-week class is a lot of money. But still, I'm very concerned about future sessions. </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">I really hope she's sick next week.</span>LadyColburnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07430902887353217965noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4690604337928540221.post-55883704726228348172009-03-09T11:06:00.001-07:002009-03-11T11:26:32.421-07:00Freedom of Choice<span style="font-size:85%;">Over the weekend, I was thinking a lot about the choices I've made thus far:</span><br /><ol><li><span style="font-size:85%;">I'm married. </span></li><li><span style="font-size:85%;">I live in San Diego.</span></li><li><span style="font-size:85%;">I work with books.</span></li><li><span style="font-size:85%;">I go to church.</span></li><li><span style="font-size:85%;">I voted for and am a proud supporter of Obama.</span></li><li><span style="font-size:85%;">Et cetera.</span></li></ol><span style="font-size:85%;">But, it occurred to me recently that a big reason why I've been so bitter and angry about the layoff that happened almost one year ago is because I feel like I wasn't given a choice. My thinking was very circular: "This happened <em>to</em> me; <em>I</em> had no control; I'm a <em>victim</em> of corporate greed--(blah blah blah)--therefore my life is worse for it."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">However, I've</span> <span style="font-size:85%;">had a few job opportunities come to light--none of which have worked out. But effectively, I can't help but feel like I'm choosing to stay where I am. And ironically, there's a lot of comfort and freedom in that. Knowing that there are opportunities available--not <em>great</em> opportunities, but opportunities nonetheless--is really encouraging. I guess you could say that as a result, I feel less trapped. </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">I still feel, though, that I'm at kind of a loss when it comes to figuring out what I want to do with the rest of my days. I've always wanted to be a mother--but I don't want to be one right now. I've always wanted to be an actress--but that seems entirely unreasonable, and I don't necessarily want to put my kids through it. It's sad, but, in terms of real life goals, I'm entirely confused about where to take my life next.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Last night some friends and I were talking about the fact that I have a tender heart. And that I willingly seem to enter into people's pain (or joy) on a profound level. In a word: I'm empathetic. If I'm honest with myself, I really love people and could talk about relationships until I'm blue in the face. But... what kind of career does this lend itself to? It's not like I can be a professional friend.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">I guess I'm just going to have to sit with this for a little while.</span>LadyColburnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07430902887353217965noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4690604337928540221.post-28544695365924370682009-03-06T09:17:00.001-08:002009-03-06T15:59:34.821-08:00Spring Cleaning: A good habit or a task with a seedy underbelly?<span style="font-size:85%;">I have to confess, when it comes to cleaning, I'm relatively awful. My husband is patient and kind, and therefore, he can put up with me and my bad habits. But because I love him, and don't necessarily enjoy being messy, I'm trying to do a better job of keeping things tidy around the house. After all, cleanliness is next to Godliness, as the saying goes.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">But when enforced cleaning is required by my workplace, I get more than a little offended. Even when pizza is promised as a "reward for our efforts." </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">The reason I'm concerned is because a forced cleaning frenzy can't be a good sign. We've had 3 rounds of layoffs in the last 8 months, and I have a feeling that the powers that be in our organization are beginning to wonder why our office needs so much space in southern California. Perhaps I've become cynical; but I'd like to think I'm simply operating with an increased sense of awareness.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">If I had to conjure a guess, I'd say that this is the beginning of a bigger action. Either a.) they're thinking of moving us to a smaller, less expensive space or b.) they're planning on getting rid of us all together.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Recessions are my favorite. </span>LadyColburnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07430902887353217965noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4690604337928540221.post-91341848580394984762009-03-05T13:59:00.000-08:002009-03-05T15:13:10.871-08:00Sigh.<span style="font-size:85%;">I find myself in the midst of an <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">existential</span> crisis. There are many reasons for this; all of them professional.</span><br /><ol><li><span style="font-size:85%;">I was laid off from a pretty good gig last summer. Not because of bad performance; because the office closed.</span></li><li><span style="font-size:85%;">I'm not particularly thrilled with my current job--which was supposed to be a temporary fix to pay the bills until I found something better. </span></li><li><span style="font-size:85%;">It's been 8 months and I haven't yet found something better.</span></li><li><span style="font-size:85%;">I was passed over for a new job by someone who had more experience. </span></li><li><span style="font-size:85%;">I'm overqualified for yet another new job that would like to reduce my salary by about 30%. </span></li></ol><span style="font-size:85%;">What the hell?</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">I mean, I understand we're in an economic crisis, but seriously? I'm well-educated. I'm personable. I'm smart. I'm a quick learner. I'm responsible. I'm generally pleasant to be around. Why am I having such a hard time finding something that's worth my time? Is that so much to ask? </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">In all honesty, all I want is a position that's worth it. As Americans, we spend more time with our job than we generally do with our spouse. And so, if I'm going to be spending a significant portion of my <em>life</em> somewhere, I'd like to find a place that's fulfilling or inspiring or... better than what I'm doing now, which is merely existing. But I don't want to do that. I want to <em>thrive</em>. Maybe that's just not how American employment works. </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Still, I can't help but wonder if the American rat race is responsible for everything bad in the world. I'm not just being dramatic. Allow me to explain:</span><br /><ol><li><span style="font-size:85%;">People feel entitled when they come home because they've just spent 8-10 hours at a job they hate. They don't want to be bothered with volunteering, or donating, or recycling, or caring for anyone outside of their family--so they get sucked into tabloids, and reality TV, and Fox News instead.</span></li><li><span style="font-size:85%;">They develop cancer because their <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">cantankerous</span> work environments are literally toxic. There's never enough time to relax or take time away or exercise or take care of themselves because companies are laying off people left and right in order to stay competitive.</span></li><li><span style="font-size:85%;">People get bored and so they do stupid things like flirt and/or have inappropriate relationships.</span></li><li><span style="font-size:85%;">They get bitter and complain, which in turn, makes their friends and family bitter, too. </span></li><li><span style="font-size:85%;">People don't spend enough time with their kids. Then their kids get it in their heads that it's OK to spend more time at work than with their families, and they perpetuate the unhealthy cycle.</span></li></ol><p><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">OK</span>. So maybe nobody is out starting a war because they're pissed off at their employer. But they've become apathetic to the wars and injustices that are currently taking place. Which, in my opinion, is almost worse. And another shade of the same thing.</span></p><p><span style="font-size:85%;">It's so rare that I come across people who are actually excited and passionate about what they're doing--or feel that they're making a difference or contributing to the greater good. It makes me wonder if our forefathers came up against the same kind of opposition when they were trying to organize a revolt against European rule in search of a better life... Actually, probably not. Opposition means that someone actually needs to form an opinion and take a stand against something. </span></p><p><span style="font-size:85%;">A more perfect union. </span></p><p><span style="font-size:85%;">I wonder what they'd think if they saw us now.</span></p>LadyColburnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07430902887353217965noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4690604337928540221.post-60555352979490977792009-02-24T16:03:00.000-08:002009-02-24T17:14:02.941-08:00God of Small Things<span style="font-size:85%;">Lately our church has gone through some difficult transition (again). Namely, our contemporary music director has left. </span><span style="font-size:85%;">This has inspired me to look (even more) at where I can find God's truth and beauty outside of church walls. </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Don't get me wrong. I'm not bitter; I'm sad. And I'm trying to reconcile the fact that even the church isn't free from weird drama and office politics. </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Listening to the radio yesterday, I was struck by The Fray's new song: <em>You Found Me</em>. It's probably about a girl, but it starts like a modern day psalm.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><em><span style="font-size:78%;">I found God on the corner of 1st and Amistad</span></em><br /><em><span style="font-size:78%;">Where the West was all but won</span></em><br /><em><span style="font-size:78%;">All alone, smoking his last cigarette</span></em><br /><em><span style="font-size:78%;">I said, "Where've you been?" </span></em><br /><em><span style="font-size:78%;">He said, "Ask anything."</span></em><br /><span style="font-size:78%;"><em>Where were you, when everything was falling apart.</em></span><br /><span style="font-size:78%;"><em>All my days were spent by the telephone that never rang</em></span><br /><span style="font-size:78%;"><em>And all I needed was a call that never came</em></span><br /><span style="font-size:78%;"><em>To the corner of 1st and Amistad</em></span><br /><span style="font-size:78%;"><em>Lost and insecure, you found me, you found me</em></span><br /><span style="font-size:78%;"><em>Lying on the floor, surrounded, surrounded</em></span><br /><span style="font-size:78%;"><em>Why'd you have to wait? </em></span><br /><span style="font-size:78%;"><em>Where were you? Where were you?</em></span><br /><span style="font-size:78%;"><em>Just a little late, you found me, you found me</em></span><br /><span style="font-size:78%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">I've been thinking a lot about trying to get high school students to look at pop culture with an ear tuned to God. I feel like his fingerprints are everywhere... especially in mediums where intense creativity is required. </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Do any of you have suggestions about songs (or movie clips) that seem much more spiritual at second glance or closer inspection? I don't know where I'm going with this, but I want to do something with it... Here's the list I've come up with so far:</span><br /><ol><li><span style="font-size:85%;"><em>Believe</em> by The Bravery</span></li><li><span style="font-size:85%;"><em>Everyday</em> by Dave Matthews Band</span></li><li><span style="font-size:85%;"><em>Soul to Squeeze</em> by The Red Hot Chili Peppers</span></li><li><span style="font-size:85%;"><em>Hurt</em> by Nine Inch Nails/Johnny Cash</span></li></ol><p><span style="font-size:85%;">Feel free to leave a comment or shoot me an email. Thank you!</span></p>LadyColburnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07430902887353217965noreply@blogger.com7