My Lonely City

I asked my cousins, one night they spent with us, if they’d like one more bedtime story before they went to sleep. Of course they said yes, and the older girl asked me to read aloud a chapter from a book she’s been reading. It’s one of the Scary Monsters Don’t Do This or That series – I had one when I was young called Vampires Don’t Wear Polka Dots, which was actually pretty good. This one was Ghosts Don’t Eat Potato Chips.

Break for literary nerdiness: I recently re-read Jane Austen’s Northanger Abbey, which is in many ways a satire on the Gothic novel. In it, the main character, who has read rather a lot of Gothic novels, is led, or rather pleased, to imagine that her friends’ father has murdered or imprisoned his wife who died of a sickness some years before. This conjecture, and her other romantic flights of fancy, not only lead her to behave imprudently, though with no lasting ill effect, but they also prevent her from perceiving the true character of those with whom she deals before that character is brought up forcefully before her attention. This same conflict – between the imagined and the real, the fanciful and the present – informs the Ghosts Don’t Eat Potato Chips book and series. The main characters are staying at a – rather verbally abusive, it seemed in the chapter I read – relative’s house, and think the ghost of her long-dead husband is living in the attic. Of course it will turn out to be someone fairly innocuous, and everyone will laugh about how silly the kids were for being so carried away. And then life will go on, until the next book. No point, just some fun comparisons.

First, there is something about winter – especially this kind of grim, grey, threatening wintery weather – that makes one wish to sound important. I am actively fighting against that as I write.

And second, the expression “cool beans.” Beans are, generally, not good cool – they are much better hot. Much, much, much. I can only think of two exceptions to this – Vegan Yum Yum’s Chickpea Mash (I could live off this and nothing else. No, really.) and rinsed black beans in a crisp summer salad, with some raw corn and balsamic dressing. Other than these, beans are meant to be hot. So the expression “cool beans” makes no sense. Is all I’m sayin’.

In response to my overwhelming bitchiness from yesterday, I feel like focusing on something nicer. Did you know that Mr. Rogers was a vegetarian? And a Christian? And an awesome guy? I didn’t know. I used to think he was awesome, when I was little, then I thought he was very uncool, and possibly perverted. And now … now I want to be like him. In reading this article, I’ve found my new role model.

He Was Genuinely Curious about Others Mister Rogers was known as one of the toughest interviews because he’d often befriend reporters, asking them tons of questions, taking pictures of them, compiling an album for them at the end of their time together, and calling them after to check in on them and hear about their families. He wasn’t concerned with himself, and genuinely loved hearing the life stories of others. Amazingly, it wasn’t just with reporters. Once, on a fancy trip up to a PBS exec’s house, he heard the limo driver was going to wait outside for 2 hours, so he insisted the driver come in and join them (which flustered the host). On the way back, Rogers sat up front, and when he learned that they were passing the driver’s home on the way, he asked if they could stop in to meet his family. According to the driver, it was one of the best nights of his life—the house supposedly lit up when Rogers arrived, and he played jazz piano and bantered with them late into the night. Further, like with the reporters, Rogers sent him notes and kept in touch with the driver for the rest of his life.

This makes me feel like there’s hope for humanity after all. :o) Maybe not much hope – let’s not get carried away – but a bit. Check out the video of him testifying to a Senate committee about television funding. Cool stuff.

Do you remember this post? I feel just like that today.

Exactly. Like. That.

If I hear “it’s the Most! Wonderful! Time! of the Year!” once more, I’m going to rip someone’s throat out with my teeth. And that’s if I’m feeling charitable. I went to Wal-Mart during my lunch break today, the Friday before Christmas. NEVER do this. Opt instead for brain surgery without anesthesia, opt for Chinese water torture, opt for being run over by a busload of overweight tourists from New Hampshire – anything besides this insane scheme. When I finally escaped, there was a group of high-school-aged, trying-to-look-cool-and-thuggish youths swaggering in, reeking of braggadocio. I’d’ve just loved them to try accosting me; I was fit to beat something to a quivering mass of apologetic hamburger. I glared and marched, my heels clacking like battledrums on the crosswalk, just daring them to even look my way.

They walked right on past.

Bastards.

I saved a baby cricket from working in our office this morning; I know how scared I would be if I was snatched from my surroundings by something roughly two thousand times my size, but still. Just relax; I’m not going to hurt you. Really.

And then when I went to put him down outside, he sat on my hand for a few seconds, and I had to shoo him off onto the ground. I tell you.

So last night my friend and I went to one of our favorite restaurants in Norman, OK, Misal (seriously tasty tabouleh salad, and the veggie samosas are one of my new most frequent cravings), which was busier than it’s ever been because of some unknown event that was screwing up traffic like a game day. We sat behind (before? near? beside?) a large-ish family with two young children who behaved as young children often do. The boy, who was the younger and by far the louder of the two – probably three years? four? – was sitting directly behind me. So as I’m trying to listen to my friend’s conversation I’m hearing a simultaneous stream of “Strawberry shortcake? Where’s the guy? That guy? That guy! There he is!” as the waiter comes over and laughs. (The wait staff are all awesome, too.) So he orders strawberry shortcake, kind of. All sorts of fun. He leaned over the back of my booth at one point to gaze at my purse (which I moved out of his reach … ) but that got shut down pretty fast. It was really more a source of amusement than frustration or annoyance. As the family left, the (I think) grandmother came over and apologized to us. That was … nice, in a way. Refreshing, that someone acknowledge the disruption.

I feel like there’s a great piece of commentary that should slide in here, but I can’t think of it, so I’ll just sign off. Hopefully I’ll be back soon.

I rescued some starling chicks today! They had fallen from their nest into our backyard. I was so sad when I saw them on our lawn, looking small, lost, and scraggly.

I called WildCare yesterday evening, after giving them a day to try to get back on their own, and they told me what to do. (WildCare is an awesome animal hospital/facility in Noble that rehabilitates wild animals for re-release.) Since the nest is actually inside my neighbors’ dryer vent it was inaccessible; they had me put the babies in a cushioned basket near the nest to see if the parents would find them and move house. If it didn’t work, the woman I spoke with told me to bring them to their facility.

My husband helped me tie a basket to our fence, sheltered by a trumpet vine; I put on some gardening gloves (I’ve heard, but can’t verify, that parent birds will reject chicks who smell like humans) and placed them carefully in the basket. They were frightened and upset, but they knew they were in a nest again; they opened their yellow-envelope beaks wide and cheep-cheeped with gusto. I left them there, hoping for the best, and kept my distance the rest of the evening. I checked in the morning, and they were there; I hoped that by the evening the adults would have found and fed them.

When I arrived back home, they were still in the nest, but they barely moved and made no sound. They panted – I haven’t seen birds pant before (that’s what it looked like to me). I decided to take them to the animal hospital. As we drove, I watched the birds. They were afraid but curious, continually raising their heads to look out the window, huddling together, opening their beaks silently for food. One cheeped, once or twice, but that was all. They were not “adorable”. Their feathers are starting to grow, so they look rough and prickly; their quills look like straw wrappers with black fuzz poking out the top. Their yellow beaks looked too wide for their heads, opening and closing like folded paper. Their baby fuzz poofed like a halo around their heads. They were such small, perfect, beautifully strange things.

At the hospital, the interns were knowledgeable and kind; the babies are in good hands. Since WildCare’s objective is to release their animals into the wild at the appropriate time, I feel they will have a good life. I told the parents what I’d done, but – since I don’t speak Starling – they are probably, like me, still wondering, perhaps grieving, asking why their children were taken from them.

I realized that I never explained why the “It’s Greek to you…” marquis made me so angry: It so perfectly illustrates the snobbery, elitism, and guilty, defensive arrogance rampant in the Christian community. “We know you don’t get why we believe in Jesus. We don’t want you to, because having a secret makes us feel better about the way we’re failing to serve him.” Grow up, people.

There was a bird’s nest that was blown down from my in-laws’ tree in the storm last night. A dead baby bird and a broken blue egg lay beside it.

I’m in the office, and over the speaker the receptionist lets us know, “Mork the Plumber is on park 71 returning a call.” For some reason, I found this quite hilarious. I think he would make a great charachter. That’s nugget one.

Nugget two: Yesterday at church Pastor Ken said, “Without commitment, there is no meaning.” Chew, chew.

… but they still made me smile, so I’ll let you read them, too.

Actual Headlines:
(well, possible headlines, anyway)

Include Your Children in Baking Cookies
British Left Waffles on Falkland Islands
Plane too Close to Ground, Crash Probe Told
Stolen Painting Found by Tree
War Dims Hope for Peace
Red Tape Holds Up New Bridges
Man Struck by Lightning Faces Battery Charge
Study of Obesity Looks for Larger Test Group
Kids Make Nutritious Snacks (cracks me up every time)
Local High School Dropouts Cut in Half
New Vaccine May Contain Rabies
Hospitals Sued by 7 Foot Doctors
Iraqi Head Seeks Arms
Juvenile Court to Try Shooting Defendant
Enraged Cow Injures Farmer with Ax (way to go, Bessie!)
Squad Helps Dog Bite Victim
Two Soviet Ships Collide; One Died

And that’s that.

… but … still working out the details …

(Yes, Annette; I would like to talk this weekend.)

Matthew 5:4
Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.

Revelation 21:3
I heard a loud voice shout from the throne:
God’s home is now with his people. He will live with them, and they will be his own. Yes, God will make his home among his people. He will wipe all tears from their eyes, and there will be no more death, suffering, crying, or pain. These things of the past are gone forever.

Then the one sitting on the throne said:
I am making everything new. Write down what I have said. My words are true and can be trusted.

Can anyone really comfort me? If I have to say, “Yeah, I’m … okay,” one more time. I mean, what am I supposed to say? I feel like hell, but thanks for asking. I just lost my baby, how do you think I am? The baby I was just getting used to the thought of having. The baby I thanked God for. The baby I wanted. I don’t know how to comfort Jared with his pain – or even acknowledge the pain of my or Jared’s parents, which I’m sure they’re feeling as well – because I don’t know where to start with mine. I don’t know what to do. In some ways I don’t want to feel better yet.

I’m scheduled for a D&C (d-something-with-lots-of-syllables, c-something-with-lots-of-syllables, where they open your cervix and – literally – scrape out the inside of your uterus, like a menstrual period á la Jack the Ripper). Tomorrow. At eleven. I asked yesterday, when the nurse called to tell me about the test results, if it would hurt. Her response was “It’s a surgery.” I guess that’s a yes.

I think a lot of the people around me have an idea that when people “hurt too much” it’s bad for their faith. So they try to make those who mourn … feel better. Be encouraging, like. Rather than just “mourn[ing] with those who mourn” without trying to fix anything (Romans 12:15). I would like to be mourned with, not encouraged, right now. (But how do you mourn?)

IXOYE
It may be greek to you, but it means everything to me.

Does this not just piss you off? More later.

Oh, and I saw a man riding a motorcycle with his dog – a dog on the seat in front of him.

“Each year in the United States, there are an estimated 74,000 cases of turtle-associated salmonellosis in humans…”

Be afraid. Be very afraid.