When the Cat's Away...

It seems to me that kids and dads {and mice} get a bad rap about their living habits when the wife and mother goes somewhere for a period of time two days or longer.

For some reason, it's almost expected that these hapless ne'er-do-wells will toss off all trappings of healthy living and shamelessly revel in reckless abandon surrounded by fast-food wrappers and greasy boxes as the individually wrapped sporks and logo embossed napkins pile up haphazardly wherever they fall. {Because, really, is there anyone who knows how to use a spork in a safe, sane and non-embarrassing manner?}

Quite obviously, this onerous belief is a take-it-or-leave-it-truth. 

The mother of my siblings and myself left yesterday evening on a four-day trip to California with her sister and parents. She deserves a vacation and we're all glad she was able to go. Back on the home-front  however, a decision must be made. There are clearly two ways this family can cope with the situation, as outlined in classic literature. {I shall use one writer's example from two different books to delineate my point.}

A. We can eat all the white sugar in the pantry {Farmer Boy - Laura Ingalls Wilder}

B. We can spring clean the house from floor to ceiling {sans spilling stove-black on the floor because, obviously, our stove is stainless steel and doesn't take well to blacking} {Little Town on the Prairie - Laura Ingalls Wilder} 

Translated into our modern lifestyle, the scenarios look something like this: 

A. We embrace the fact that there are vegetables in the refrigerator {not to mention ample ingredients to put together a wholesome and balanced meal} while recognizing that there is no one in the house to insist upon our actually eating them. 

If this course is taken, the shorter the mother's vacation the better.  

B. Thanks to mom's tutelage {and the fact that we're homeschooled} we are all capable of a. cooking a balanced meal, b. ensuring that everyone eats all aspects of the balanced meal and c. using force if need be to ensure that the less appreciated portions of the menu end up in the digestive tracts of the younger siblings as opposed to the floor, garbage disposal or trash.   

If this course is taken, the glow of health and fulfilled responsibility is a pleasant sensation. 

Since mom hasn't gone on a vacation alone in time out of my memory, we naturally went with course A. She had not yet boarded the plane before we'd made a run for dinner. 

The menu until Wednesday reads gleefully like this:

Yesterday night we had Popeye's Fried Chicken. I have no idea if you are familiar with this fast-food chain or not, but they claim to serve Louisiana-style fried chicken. I've never been to Louisiana so I am not an authority. I am also not a fan of fried chicken, but their biscuits are divine golden rounds of hydrogenated fats.
 
Today we're having gyros from the restaurant up the street and tomorrow we're having a slight breakdown and making tacos. Equilibrium is restored with pizza on Tuesday before we go back to normal with the Lent dinner at church on Wednesday.

I hate to limit the fun, but I'm currently working on a portion-control study which is more or less an exercise in trial-and-error. Thus far, I have not noticed many significant changes. That, and I'm slightly suspicious that our bathroom scale is malfunctioning.

 Till next time,

Home Alone

There are dangers, my friends, in being home alone. 

Dangers. 

You can lock the doors, fasten the windows, block the cracks, strap the phone to your side with "911" on speedial 5 (I've had a session with our phone keypad and found that it's the button my finger will go to with the most reliability in response to an emergency. I'd advise a similar session with your handiest calling device), even sit in the bathroom with the door locked on the inside, but the danger is still present. 

It's not always a man in a mask or a convict in stripes (though I think we've updated to orange now...). It's not always a raging beast clawing at the door. Sometimes, the danger is much, much closer to home. 

And sometimes it's much, much more disguised.

And then, of course, sometimes it's in a mustard yellow, microwave safe bowl with sprays of white flowers on the side, guarded only by a singularly defenseless strip of plastic wrap that's already been tampered with.

Twice. 

Ladies, it's puppy chow. 

Muddy buddies. 

Whatever you call them - I've heard differing interpretations - they're rice Chex coated in peanut butter and chocolate and shaken in a bag with powdered sugar. And...they're...delicious. 

I think you now understand - if you didn't before - my desperate plight. 

I've already eaten the ones obviously endowed with extra chocolate. I've already had several samples of the crumbles at the bottom, complete with extra sugar that didn't adhere to the mixture, and the plastic wrap's defenses are starting to wear down.

I can feel its presence in the other room, though I have wisely removed myself from the near premises. 

But I know it will only be a matter of time.

A matter of time before I am the person who managed to finish off a third of a bowl of muddy buddies singlehandedly. 

I will hold out as long as I can, but reinforcements must come.

Preferably someone who will share them with me or eat the rest.

Or I am, and forever will be (until tomorrow, at least), sunk. 

Completely and totally sunk.

Just a Hack (Don't Panic!)

Well hey there all of you, this is Jamie!

Since Jocelyn hogs up all the publicity with her public blog, I guess I'll just have to sneak on when she's not looking and hack hers so you guys can read my posts. (Heehee!) (You have NO idea how long it took me to figure out her password. Aiee, that girl should consider a future in the FBI!)

Jossie always says that my brain (if it exists - she claims to have heard rumors *stern glare*) runs on a different universe's wavelength, but I tend to disagree. She's just a fuddy-duddy.

Anyway, I've decided to stop letting her make my announcements because she always makes it sound like I'm some sort of morbid hacksaw artist who finds no greater pleasure than in killing off all my innocent characters in violent infernos. (I actually am, but that's beside the point. And it'll go to Jocelyn's head if I say she's right. ERG!) But I'm the one writing all this good stuff, so she'll just have to live with whatever it was that I was going to make her live with.

So now that The Redemption Ring is all spilled out, my brain and fingers have been itching to wrap themselves around my capless black papermate with the toothmark-scarred end to scratch out another mess. The only problem was that I didn't have anything to WRITE ABOUT!

(Yes, I have just consumed two cups of caffeinated tea with cream and sugar, thank you for asking!)

Undeterred by this utter blankness of mind (blankness = mental betrayal), I set forth to garner a story.

It was trickier than usual this time, since The Redemption Ring had taken the best idea from the zillions that are simmering around in the back of my brain. The rest of them - well, let's just say I was going for something new.

Jossie and I have been reading Francine River's A Lineage of Grace (which is a series of five books; each one about the Biblical women in the lineage of Christ - namely Tamar, Rahab, Ruth, Bathsheba, and Mary. Quite the lineup, I know!) So far, we've read Unveiled (Tamar) and Unashamed (Rahab).

It made me interested in the whole idea of storifying Bible stories. There's nothing wrong with how they're written in the Bible, obviously, but it is generally a little vague on the details (understandably so, too. It's not supposed to be a novel). And I love details.

I also love the story of Joseph.

I've been toying with the idea of storifying it for a long time (ever since I saw Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat for the fiftieth time...) and the little tidbits that Francine Rivers tossed into the story of Tamar sparked my interest enough to actually go and give it a try.

I mean, could you get a better story than this? Hatred, betrayal, being sold into slavery by your own brothers (!), a hero that the Bible (which is usually skimpy on the details of appearance) informs you is "well-built and handsome" (NIV) or, as I like better: "strikingly handsome" (MSG), well, there is that *ahem* lovely bit with Mrs. Potiphar..., and then there's the drama of being tossed into prison, yanked out, elevated, promoted and adored, the storybook-perfect brothers-coming-to-Egypt-to-save-their-starving-families, plus wonderful themes of forgiveness and trust. My word, it's PERFECT!

I've found it terribly exciting to dig into the story (lots of translations give you different perspectives!) and find out the little details that make the story that much clearer. If all I ever get out of this is a stack of scribbled pages and a deeper understanding of Joseph's chapters in the Bible (and maybe another page on my beloved Scribbles), I'll be happy! Extremely so! :D

So, just an update on my most recent escapade; I'll let you know further details when further details come forth and present themselves.

Jocelyn is going to kill me for this already, so I'll sign off before I blunder into a worse fate.

Tata for now!

And on our left...

So here I sit with my chocolate-malt ice cream bar; my current favorite album Meredith Andrew's The Invitation playing through my earbuds; an open window with an Indian summer breeze blowing through (*bliss*); and an unplugged laptop whose battery will take a nose-dive soon if I let this get too long. :(

My homework is done; I have a few hours before I leave to go to a friend's house for dinner and a Biblestudy (another installment of The Truth Project - hurrah!); I have a novel to edit; a journal entry to write; and a major discussion to have with my sister about doll costumes and NaNoWriMo plots (heh-heh).

I really wanted to do NaNoWriMo this year, but I'm afraid that'll have to be postponed due to the necessities of life called "college" and "career" (pish-posh; I didn't ask to grow up). I am determined that I shall do it someday. Maybe I'll do the spring one, depending on what God hands me life-wise by then.

Speaking of God, I stumbled across a phrase in my Bible reading this morning that I absolutely loved: sweet fellowship. Fellowship is sweet. And fellowship with God is the sweetest of all when you take the fruit He has given you (i.e. the Bible) and bite deep and find the sweetness beneath the skin. Prayer, too, is sweet fellowship. When you can open your heart to God and tell Him your fears and hurts and thank Him for your joys and the gifts He pours out on you. That is wonderfully sweet. Which makes me wonder why I never take advantage of it like I can. I'm one of the worst prayer-warriors a person could ask for. I constantly forget to pray or rush through my prayers. It's definitely something I really need to work on.

You're probably beginning to wonder if this post has a point that I'm getting too after an obscenely long introduction. I might as well let you in on the secret:

This post has no point.

Sometimes I just feel like typing and spilling things out and wandering through the caverns of my brain (always a dangerous thing to do).

If you want to come along for the ride, climb aboard. It's harmless, I assure you.

Though I can't promise much when it comes to the scenery.

Yesterday my brother and sister and I were having a discussion about how people make cds these days and how there are so many assistive devices that the person doesn't really need to have much talent besides song-writing (and I would say that many songwriters are sorely lacking in that area as well, though I'll demonstrate unusual self-control and not name names) and a voice that can hold up under the basic notes of a given range. It sure pops a delusional bubble when you find out that the song is mostly perfected electronically (they don't even have to sing in tune anymore, they just correct it with a machine).

Oh well.

I suppose the pioneers of yesteryear would say it's cheating to use a microwave.

Ok, I'm puzzling myself.

I am so excited about Christmas.

(See? I warned you about the scenery)

I can't wait for the music, the decorations, the special programs on the radio, the family time, the presents, the church services, our family tradition of watching like nine different Christmas Carol movies (not to mention It's a Wonderful Life, A Christmas Story and The Nativity Story)...

I...can't...wait

I had something I wanted to talk about here, but I've forgotten what it is... Hmm...

I've been told I'm really morbid because I like books where people die and movies where people die and I like to write about people dying (if you've read my short story Holly and Ivy, you'd notice this). To me, death is a bigger emotional punch than a wedding or a baby or falling in love. Like Anne Shirley said (yeah, I know. I refer to her a lot...) "I'd rather make people cry than laugh".

Personally, I like to do both.

But death? There's something about it that fascinates me in writing and movies. Especially in writing. Exploring the emotions of the people around the dying person, thinking up the medical, physical and emotional aspects of the dying person's character, and everything else that goes with such deliciously morbid material - I love it.

It makes people look at me queerly, though, when I rave about a person dying in a scene of a book or film. I've found out that more people like happy endings than sad ones and they think I'm strange for liking the sad ones. There's just something about a sad ending that gives me more satisfaction than when everything works out perfectly. Plus, I love killing off characters and making people mad at me for doing it. :) You don't realize how much you really liked a character until they're dead, I always say.

Actually, I've never said that before, but you wouldn't have known that if I hadn't told you, so...

I'm lost.

This seems to be a trend right now.

I'll sign off now and let you get back to your lives - which are probably infinitely more interesting than this.

Though if this was boring you wouldn't have gotten to this message.

Haha.

All right, my computer has just informed me that it's dying. That's one death I don't like.

Tata!

'Till next time,