Thursday, August 9, 2012

Fish Frying

This post is headlined by the fabulous Ruby River, who begins kindergarten tomorrow - tomorrow! - and is sure to blow the whole school away. To prepare, we got her hair trimmed (a big event) and bought her a pair of knock-off Toms shoes called Bobs. I don't know much about this Bob guy, but he gets zero points for originality.

Is this the fanciest salon you've ever seen? It's more of a beauty parlor, really. I wish I could tell you the beautician's name was Madge and she had lipstick on her teeth, but tweren't meant to be.

 Yesterday afternoon, I suffered a curtain  breakdown of catastrophic proportions. I was overcome with anxiety that the "tapestry" curtains wouldn't be wide enough for the big front windows. Then I worried that they were too colorful. Then I was sure that they were altogether weird. They weren't for me. They'd argue with the wall paper. They'd be kiss ups to the chair.

Herringbone Curtain

I found these and my confusion swelled from inconvenient to insurmountable.

I sent an SOS text to my friend, who responded with back-to-back responses, "Blah. Boring!!!" "Would look like you chickened out." "Nope. No way. Bad idea!"

So I just argued harder and with more fervor.

Truth is? I'm a big hot mess. I'm like Calvin, who just shrieked himself to sleep over a broken ink pen that I dared to throw away when what he's really worried about is his first day at a new school.

We went to a kindergarten orientation then buzzed past New House, wherein I decided that they will be fine, and only partly because they are already paid for and machine washed.

Then I showed up at the above-mentioned friend's house at 9 pm with the curtains, the picture of the curtains held wonky to the window, some other random fabric swatches, the wallpaper and a piece of fine art.

The ladies officially talked me off the ledge and all is well again. For now. We celebrated with cobbler and Round II of skirt-sewing.

Side note: They finally believe me when I say I'm terrified of sewing. Also, cutting. And I can't do math in my head. And patterns give me hives. So while they sewed my skirt, I snapped their beans and we all pretended like it made perfect sense. That, my dears, is friendship.

(This is the fine artwork. I have big plans for it. Please ignore the magazines, just there to keep the edges from rolling.)
We kicked off our last day of summer vacation at Rise 'N Roll bakery. My doughnut was so sweet that I could only eat half. I don't even know myself anymore. All of a sudden, I'm giving perfectly good doughnut halves away, calling emergency curtain forums when I have bigger fish to fry and singing Billy Idol songs in the middle of the afternoon.

Hey, little sister, shot-gun.

Here's something else that may definitely not interest you: Every month or so I get this song in my mind, "If you get caught between the moon and New York City, the best that you can do is fall in love." I haven't heard it in years and years. It always puts me in a good mood when it pops in for a visit.

I know it's crazy. But it's true.

Speaking of frying fish, I fried some up tonight. Cory gave it 5/5 stars. Calvin said, "If this was the Olympics, I'd give you the gold medal!" But he's totally a corrupt judge because he didn't even try the mango salsa or the chipotle cream.

And this? Dinner last night.

Dear Summer,
Please don't ever leave me.

Dear Bacon,
I'm sorry that I never make you out of fear that you'll stink up the house for the rest of the week. Because honestly? The house still smells faintly of bacon and I find it immensely comforting.

And now, another word on bad words. I've enjoyed the spirited debate on this post. I'm cool with a little debate, people. I'm fascinated by the things that connect and divide us. It's healthy and worthwhile, when it's done in love.

It seems the debate took a turn from my intended purpose, and I'm okay with that. But as a reminder, my point was that Christians shouldn't be offended by the language of non-believers. Period. It's not our business. I spent most of Tuesday with someone who said a handful of "bad" words throughout the day. Her saying those words was the last thing on my mind. I don't want her to believe that her words are "bad". I want her to believe that she's worthy of every good thing. I want her to believe that she  was created in beauty and with purpose. I want her to believe that she can go to Jesus, right this very minute, without a split-second of sprucing up.

When we are so bothered by "foul" language that we can't go there or there or there, we're in a big heap of trouble, because at that point, we're putting legalism ahead of love. 

As for what Christians should/shouldn't say, my opinions are numerous. We could talk semantics and hermeneutics and cultural constructs until we're all well past blue, and we might still disagree. As for me, I know when I have said something in sin. I know when I've been wrong. That - the personal condition of my heart - is where my finger should point. I should keep a tight reign on my tongue. I shouldn't slander or gossip or lie. I shouldn't tell dirty jokes or revel in the things that are clearly sinful. I shouldn't speak in a way that hurts another. I should absolutely worry about being legalistic. And I should interrogate the condition of my heart on a daily basis, constantly looking to Him to sweep me to the shore of His truth and away from the things that aren't of Him.

To that end, I stumbled on this interesting take.

And while we're already here getting down to some business, there's this article, "Would Jesus Bake a Cake for a Gay Wedding?"

(One of my favorite lines: "There is no sliding scale of sins and if you’re going to withhold baking a cake for a gay man, you better shut down the whole dang bakery because no one is really worthy of your red velvet!") (#nocakeforyou!)

So you know what I love today? I love hearts that want to think things through a little. I love my baby boy, who has morphed into the wiriest, sneakiest, most affection little dude on the map. He exasperates me daily and makes me question my abilities by the hour, but he's so cuddly and rad. I love my Calvin, who spent part of this rainy day planting some flowers for me in my little Igloo water cooler. I love my Ruby girl, who embraces change with the spirit of a New World explorer. I love my husband, who is just as fed up with the current pace of our lives as I am. I love that date night can happen at 9:15, after the kids are in bed and the dishes are done, with a Red Box and a bowl of cereal. I love night air that's certifiably sweat-pants-worthy.

I love this life, this world. I love you, even if we don't always agree on every little thing.