August 20, 2011

if karaoke was a love language, it would be mine

I am a pretty good convincer; it is one of my sharper skills. On the one hand, it probably has something to do with that I'm especially good at being convinced. But on the other, I have a lot of strong desires that sometimes other people don't share, so in order to not to do stuff alone, I convince. For sure in the top five of said strong desires are singing karaoke on a regular basis and also doing the Cupid Shuffle any/all the time. Karaoke isn't a tough sell, but I can't tell you how many times I have had to defend my love for the Cupid Shuffle and basically drag people to the dance floor. Sure, it can be tiring, but this is important work, people. And if not me, who?

So last night I was at my favorite place in all the land, Dubbs Pub, singing karaoke. A little backstory - I have been talking this place up to my coworkers pretty much since my second day of work. And finally, at long last, my dreams came true. Now, I can tend to get a little too excited about things, maybe even overshoot a touch when it comes to talking about something I like a lot, so I secretly worried just a little that once we got there my coworkers would call shenanigans and shun me forever for leading them astray. But that was not the case. Not even a little bit.

I sang, they sang, we sang together - and my heart was full, so full I thought it might burst. And then without warning, I heard a beat. I heard Cupid whispering as if just to me, "cupid, shuffle, cupid, shuffle..." and before you go putting on your judgey pants, here's the thing about the Cupid Shuffle: I just  like it. I know it's a dance and it's silly and inconsequential, but it is a silly inconsequential dance that makes me happy. Sorry I'm not sorry. On this particular evening, I heard my jam beginning and pretty much on autopilot, I walked-it-by-myself to the dance floor and prepared myself to recruit.

But you guys: these beautiful souls, my coworkers, required no convincing, because they were already there kick-now-kick-now-come-on-baby-kicking right alongside me. I thought I might cry. And it's not just because some people know a dance I know - no, it was more than that. Convincing is fine, I generally don't mind it, and like I said, I'm pretty good at it. But sometimes it is a nice thing to look around and see other people who already like what you like and then just enjoy liking it together. For a moment in time I did not have to organize or convince or recruit or rally the troops. Sometimes being social and having fun can be a lot of work, and that is annoying. Last night was fun and great and I didn't have to do anything but show up. And sing and dance, of course.

Let's all take a moment to recall that I looked for a job for a year and a half. How did I get so lucky to find a job I love where I also get to work with people who share at least two of my top five favorite things? Three if you count Yogurtland, and I totally do.

I knew I liked them; I told you about it. But this? I mean really. Beyond my wildest dreams.

August 13, 2011

it's saturday night

I babysat tonight. I am still babysitting, in fact, but the little tots are sound asleep in their little beds, all worn out from our all-afternoon-and-evening dance party. It's understandable, really, I'm pretty wiped myself.

Anyway I don't usually agree to babysit on weekend nights - mostly because my highly extroverted self can barely handle the thought of missing something, which is a real possibility on a Saturday night. But this time it felt right. Firstly, I adoooore these two, so much, so it wasn't hard to twist my arm. I also think it just sounded really good to have a sure-fire way to do nothing on a weekend night. Being a grownup is tiring, and I was jonesing for a night in. With these two cuties?

Done and done.

We were reading stories before bed [we had a lot of time - we read a lot of books - I did a lot of voices] and he asked to read one about Jesus. (Since I know now you're wondering - no voices for Jesus. Bert and Ernie, absolutely. Jesus though, that might get weird.) We read about Easter and in very simple terms, we read about the crucifixion. On one particular page we read about how soldiers came for Jesus to take him away, and the sweet kid said this: "I don't want to be Jesus. I don't want soldiers to come for me!"

Can I get an amen?

Without thinking - and honestly mostly with nightmare prevention in mind - I explained to him that that's why Jesus let it happen: he loved us so much that he let the soldiers take him just so the soldiers wouldn't have to come for us. And he thought that was just great. I tucked him in, went downstairs, and it wasn't until I was scrubbing mac n' cheese from bowls with cartoons on them an hour later that the beauty of that entire exchange hit me square in the face.

I've tried to wrap this post up a hundred different ways - they all worked fine, sounded good and spiritual, rounded things out nicely. But I typed and deleted them, one by one. Because when it comes to truth, generally speaking, the wrapping is pretty inconsequential.

aaaand ten minutes later:

No, you know what? I want to wrap it. Truth needs no wrapper and I hope that you will take it for whatever you need it to be. But what it is for me is a reminder that I am loved. A reminder that I deserve soldiers. And every day, I think it's fair to say, I really earn them.

But they don't come. And grace, every day, covers my shame. Covers my fear. Covers me.
And that, my friends, is nightmare prevention at its very finest.

August 7, 2011

blog is a funny word

I will pretty much support anyone who uses the word "bloggy."

But really - this is a fun little website of fun little blogs. And for blogging about them, I get to have my blog listed among other bloggy things! Isn't that fun?

August 1, 2011

the table's tale

A few years ago, my mom gave me a really cute end table that sat in my storage room for about 2 years because it had been decoupaged with random restaurant menus. I think it's fair to say that I am a crafty person, and I enjoy a good project every now and again, so one day, I undecoupaged said table and painted it roughly 25 different ridiculous colors in a fit of crafting genius. Today I looked at said table, sitting in the corner of my room in all its hideous glory, and decided that I was going to make it presentable. I was going to make it look like something a grown-up might own. I was going to paint it red and distress it and make it look vintagey and awesome.

Such a good thought.

I took it to my friend's house who was going to help me. We sanded it, primed it, and got it all ready for its magical makeover. Once the primer had dried, I valiantly charged outside to get my craft on. And just as we flipped it over to begin, I kid you not, my cute little table promptly fell completely to pieces. No, but like, literally. See?

We hammered. We glued. We said swear words and [thankfully] resisted the urge to beat ourselves over the head with the legs of this stupid table that would not go back on no matter how hard we tried to make them. It was, to say the least, an epic fail. And I was so mad because this table has been in my room for a year, standing on all four legs and holding things on it even! So why, why oh why, am I so untalented and pitiful that I can't even make a basic wooden end table go back together again?!

I was telling my mom my sad tale, and here was her reply: "Oh, you know where that table came from right? [I didn't] Oh yeah, your Nana made that table herself from a kit. Probably 40 years ago? It's been on the back porch outside for years." 

ooooooof course it was.

The moral of the story is this: sometimes things fall spectacularly to pieces and it has absolutely nothing to do with me. A lot of times maybe it does, and that is another blog for another time. But sometimes tables that seem sturdy fall apart simply because they are super old and were handmade by my Nana and have been bearing the brunt of midwest weather for years and years, not because I am a pathetic crafts[wo]man. Sometimes things fall apart and there's not much to be done about it except decide what to do with all the pieces. Decide how to move forward. 

The remnants of my table will likely make roughly 10 new craft projects for me, and I love that so much. 
But it will never be a table again. And that just is what it is.