The Side of the Cereal Box

Yesterday at lunch, Jeremy was telling me about a recent school project he’d done about something cancer-related. (He’d done his report on lung cancer.) I asked about what other students had chosen, and he listed a few then said that they didn’t have much new to say regarding prevention: “Radiation is dangerous.” “Don’t smoke.”

“Wear sunscreen,” I added. Then reeled.

“Wow! I just remembered that song!” I turned to Sarah to see her reaction (which was recognition), while Jeremy sat there lost. I explained a little bit about it, but I decided that it might be better to post the lyrics here - for him and other newcomers, and as a bit of nostalgia for us “old folks” who had to try to top it with our own graduation speeches (a feat I don’t think any of us accomplished).

I have to say, I really enjoyed hearing it again. It takes me back.

Everybody’s Free (To Wear Sunscreen)
by Baz Luhrmann

Ladies and Gentlemen of the Class of ’97:

Wear sunscreen.

If I could offer you only one tip for the future, sunscreen would be it. The long-term benefits of sunscreen have been proved by scientists, whereas the rest of my advice has no basis more reliable than my own meandering experience. I will dispense this advice now.

Enjoy the power and beauty of your youth. …Nevermind; you will not understand the power and beauty of your youth until they’ve faded. But trust me, in 20 years, you’ll look back at photos of yourself and recall, in a way you can’t grasp now, how much possibility lay before you and how fabulous you really looked. You are not as fat as you imagine.

Don’t worry about the future. Or worry, but know that worrying is as effective as trying to solve an algebra equation by chewing bubble gum. The real troubles in your life are apt to be things that never crossed your worried mind: the kind that blindsides you at 4 P.M. on some idle Tuesday.

Do one thing every day that scares you.

Sing.

Don’t be reckless with other people’s hearts. Don’t put up with people who are reckless with yours.

Floss.

Don’t waste your time on jealousy. Sometimes you’re ahead, sometimes you’re behind. The race is long, and in the end, it’s only with yourself.

Remember compliments you receive. Forget the insults. If you succeed in doing this, tell me how.

Keep your old love letters. Throw away your old bank statements.

Stretch.

Don’t feel guilty if you don’t know what you want to do with your life. The most interesting people I know didn’t know, at 22, what they wanted to do with their lives. Some of the most interesting 40-year olds I know still don’t.

Get plenty of calcium.

Be kind to your knees. You’ll miss them when they’re gone.

Maybe you’ll marry; maybe you won’t. Maybe you’ll have children; maybe you won’t. Maybe you’ll divorce at forty; maybe you’ll dance the funky chicken on your 75th wedding anniversary. Whatever you do, don’t congratulate yourself too much, or berate yourself, either. Your choices are half chance, so are everybody else’s.

Enjoy your body. Use it every way you can. Don’t be afraid of it or what other people think of it. It’s the greatest instrument you’ll ever own.

Dance, even if you have nowhere to do it but in your own living room.

Read the directions, even if you don’t follow them.

Do not read beauty magazines: they will only make you feel ugly.

Get to know your parents. You never know when they’ll be gone for good.

Be nice to your siblings. They’re your best link to your past and the people most likely to stick with you in the future.

Understand that friends come and go, but, with a precious few, you should hold on. Work hard to bridge the gaps in geography and lifestyle because the older you get, the more you need the people you knew when you were young.

Live in New York City once, but leave before it makes you hard.

Live in Northern California once, but leave before it makes you soft.

Travel.

Accept certain inalienable truths: prices will rise, politicians will philander, you, too, will get old. And when you do, you’ll fantasize that, when you were young, prices were reasonable, politicians were noble, and children respected their elders.

Respect your elders.

Don’t expect anyone else to support you. Maybe you have a trust fund, maybe you’ll have a wealthy spouse, but you never know when either one might run out.

Don’t mess too much with your hair, or by the time you’re forty, it will look eighty-five.

Be careful whose advice you buy, but be patient with those who supply it. Advice is a form of nostalgia. Dispensing it is a way of fishing the past from the disposal, wiping it off, painting over the ugly parts, and recycling it for more than it’s worth.

But trust me on the sunscreen.

I’d resolve to post more often, but I hate to break a resolution within a week of the new year.

This is my new doggie! Isn’t she sweet? She’s a rat terrier (we think), and the vet says she’s a good, healthy dog (less than a year old). She’s already learned how to sit (sort of). (And she’s already housetrained too! Thank goodness!) Now if she can learn “down” (or learn not to get up - on the furniture, on people - in the first place) and to not take off running outside everytime the door opens, we’ll be in great shape.

Beyond that, she’s very hyper, very needy (she loves lovin’ and playing with her rope toy or Sophie’s monkey), and very interested in chasing the cat around the house. So Patches has decided she’s not too fond of her (she’s reluctant to give up her cage - strange as that sounds), and Sophie seems to be putting up with her, at least. I’ve been trying to make sure that Sophie doesn’t get ignored or anything. I still play frisbee with her, and I brought them both treats from Ritter’s the other night. I also took them both for walkies yesterday. Sophie’s really good at teaching Minnie how to behave (like sitting patiently to wait for food). Now if she could just teach her how to stay away from the cat stuff…

Last year, for Christmas, I decided to make a bracelet for a friend of mine (who loves to wear jewelry, lots of it, and all sorts of styles). I started off really excited, then progressed to really confused, really agrivated, and, finally, really never-going-to-do-it-again. But I just couldn’t stay away from it. The creativity of combining color, texture, patterns, style - it was just too much fun! So I started making more - for any reason or for no reason. I built up quite a collection and started thinking about maybe selling it (a la Ebay, mostly), but I also started thinking about the Popcorn Festival in Brazil.

The Covered Bridge Festival is known for its miles of craft booths (as well as for its astronomical prices for vendors), but the Clay County Popcorn Festival is still young (this year was only its 3rd year) and very affordable. But I wasn’t sure I would sell anything. So since my mom was building up quite a collection of handmade baskets, and since everyone who saw them suggested that she try to sell them, I suggested to her that we go in together on a booth at the Popcorn Festival this year. I managed to sell about 40% of what I took (which was awesome!), and Mom made some great connections (a consignment shop here in Brazil, a lady from Jamestown who does Breast Cancer Awareness gift baskets for local hospitals and who also suggested festivals around the Indianapolis area), got a few orders, and sold a couple baskets as well.

And, as always, we came out of it with some good laughs.

The first one belonged to me. After we arrived and got our booth information, we parked the car and began unloading and setting up. While trying to decide which way we should face, I was wandering around to see what would be around us. The booth areas had been spraypainted on the ground with numbers (like ours: 4), but behind our booth was an area marked out with the label: B. Smith. I told Mom, “Well, I don’t know why this person is so important that they get their name on their space instead of just a number.” We were further surprised when that person didn’t even show up on Friday (although our contracts had said we had to be there for the WHOLE festival).

But when we arrived Saturday morning, we saw several additonal folks set up behind us: a soapmaker, a loom weaver, and, directly behind us, …a blacksmith. B. Smith. hee hee hee

That same day, Mom decided to weave a basket on-site. She went to find water and discovered a spout across the road from our booth. It had a strange curved handle on it, which, when tilted… did nothing. She began to think, “Is this an old-fashioned pump?” It wouldn’t surprise me in Forest Park. So she began to pump the handle, feeling very rustic and connected to the past, and just before she gave up, there was a little spurt of water. So she continued, getting little blurps each time and slowly filling her bucket… ’til a man coming out of a utility shed shouted to her. “Ma’am?” She turned around, “Yeah?” “Hold the handle all the way up!” So she did, and a flood of water came gushing out. It wasn’t a pump; she just hadn’t lifted the handle up high enough/long enough. lol

Later on, the fam came (plus Keith and Michelle). Chloe was entertaining the other vendors all day with her dancing, playing in the hay, and periodic visits to the rocking snail. (They were all asking on Sunday if she was going to be back.) There were a lot of events going on each day at the festival, and at one point, Bubbs was looking through the program and exclaimed, “Scruff McGruff was here? I haven’t see him in…” “Yeah, didn’t he go to 107?” I asked - recalling that he had visited our elementary school at one point to talk to kids about “taking a bite out of crime”. Dad replied, “Yeah, I think he was a year ahead of Andrew.” I was not amused… until retelling it later at Pizza Hut when I was too tired to not laugh.

Yes, after eleven+ hours in the booth, Mom and Dad and I went out to Pizza Hut for dinner. They had a family special that we tried to order (a large pizza, breadsticks, and drinks), to which the waiter replied, “Thin crust okay?” Uh… “‘Cuz we don’t have the hand-tossed in larges right now.” …”Don’t you make the pizzas?” I asked. “Yeah, but the dough takes 48 hours to rise and…” “Oh. …Wait… That still doesn’t make any sense!” Mom cut me off, laughing as she asked, “Couldn’t you just put two thin crusts together?” Skippy looked confused (surprise), so we just said, “Give us a few more minutes to choose something else.” So we went with the “two medium pizzas” deal. Mom and Dad got Chicken, Green Peppers, and Mushrooms. I ordered Ham and Pineapple… and got Pineapple. Who orders a Pinapple only pizza? Probably the same person who orders Beef or Pork Topping. “What part of the pig is the topping?” I asked my dad. We were laughing a lot, partially from exhaustion, I’m sure. And it only got better as we played the table games they had set out - cards from “Such and Such” (which “Sucks and Sucks”) and Buzzword (which we couldn’t resist narrating quiet and low as, “The buzzword is…” - a la Password). Buzword got us laughing because of Saint/St. (the latter of which Mom pronounced as “street”); so it was, Mount Street Helens, and the Street Louis Seaway. Such and Such got us laughing because at one point, as Dad was reading a clue, I thought he said “A Cute Myocardial Infarction…” It was, in fact, “Acute Myocardial Infarction”, but they sound the same, you know! When I realized the difference, and the mistake I’d made, I laughed hysterically and then had to explain my outburst to Mom and Dad who subsequently burst out laughing too.

Sunday was a little less ridiculous (as far as funny stuff goes). The only real event was when Bubbs tried to leave the park to come back to Grandpa’s and the car wouldn’t start. (Not so funny.) The car is currently at a garage here in Brazil, …and now it has company. My cousin Amber’s car began making funny noises on the way back yesterday morning, so she’s having it looked at (it may be something with the brakes; it looks like something is resting on the wheel/rim/whatever). She says we rubbed off on her.

Whatever does she mean?

Lately, I don’t know why, I’ve found myself becoming more and more self-concious about the fact that I like sci-fi. Not all sci-fi, mind you. Those cruddy made-for-TV movies like Mansquito and Frankenfish make me wanna bury my Janeway uniform in the sand. I’m talking intelligent, humorous, adventure sci-fi like Stargate and Star Trek and Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. Now, some sci-fi tendancies are okay with the general population. To have a passing interest and minimal knowledge of things like Star Wars is acceptable. But the more you watch or the more you know, the more you have the capacity of freaking people out.

I may have freaked a few out at the cookout yesterday when I ran through a storyline rundown of Stargate SG-1 (from Season 5 to Season 8 - with particular attention to the concept of ascension and the rules thereof). The longer I talked, the quieter it got. So although I could have kept going - and the geek in me wanted to keep going - I stopped. A similar situation has happened at work (more than once), when I start languishing on Friday nights and nearly panic if I realize that I’ve forgotten to set a tape! (No comments, please, on the “TV running your life” stuff. That’s a dangerous sawdust/plank issue that I think is best left to generalization and someone else’s blog.) The point is, I don’t know why I care what the other person is thinking. …I suppose I could say that in a lot of cases, about a lot of other things.

I mean, that’s what keeps me from blogging half of the time. I’m worried about what my readers are gonna think! Anything from, “Wow, I can’t believe she thinks her fish is mad at her,” to, “Ha! Ha!” Is that bad? Even if it’s just “human nature”, is that a good excuse for hiding in your shell? I mean, granted, a shell is protection for a soft-bodied creature who, without it, would be vulnerable to predators. …I think that’s why I picked one up to begin with. I’ve had run-ins with predators before. …I don’t like it.

(Who does really?)

…I remember that, as a kid, I was always disappointed when a turtle would shrink back into its shell anytime my hand came near. I always wanted to pet its scaly little head and feel its mushy little shoulders. It had no way of knowing, of course, but I just wanted to love on it. I had no intention of hurting it. I may have ended up hurting it accidentally, but it would never have been deliberate. …Although I’m sure there are those kids out there for whom it would have been deliberate…

So the turtle cuts its losses: avoids injury, but avoids love too…

…I think I found my animal.

No one was meant to work this many hours in the week. Oh, I don’t mean my current tally of hours; I’m including the rest of today at the Algates’ (add 6.5), plus tonight at Ritter’s (add 5.5 or more), plus tomorrow night at Ritter’s (add 6.5 or more). That brings the grand total to 49.25 or more. And that’s less than I was supposed to have! Thanks to the downpour yesterday, I got sent home from Ritter’s an hour and a half early. Otherwise, that would have taken me, essentially, to 51 hours for the week. And if it were only ONE really long week, that might not be so bad. But, so far, I’ve been keeping up this pace for a month and a half - with another month and a half to go. I’m about to keel over.

Not from the “strain” of babysitting. (Please, I’m blogging right now. What does that tell you about the stress level? Jeremy’s playing a computerized version of Capture the Flag, and Katie and Nicole are reading. This is an average day.) And not necessarily from working (on average) 27 hours a week at Ritter’s (though that comes with its own strain: my hip’s been hurting since Wednesday night). So what bother’s me? Well, apart from Sunday (which is a guaranteed day off), I’m never at home. Mom makes dinners that I get to reheat later (if there’s even any left, and there’s rarely a little of EVERYTHING left); Sarah, Keith, and Bubbs go see (or rent) movies (that I’m dying to see); I almost never see Cris, and I even miss little things with Noah, Hope, and Chloe. I don’t like feeling like a hampster who can’t get off the wheel.

I could cut back my hours (at least at Ritter’s). That would give me more time at home. But less possibility of doing anything besides sit at home - even in the most basic sense! No money for gas, eating out, or movies. No money for clothes (not even when desperately needed), no money for gifts, no money for hobbies (like reading or making jewelry). And you know, I’d even considered trying to sell my jewelry, as a way to make some extra money instead of just making stuff to give away. That went over real well. (Anybody want $30 worth of 4th of July charm bracelets?)

And I know there are those out there saying, “Get a real job!” Sure thing. Got anything entry level that pays more than what I’m making now? (Don’t you dare say teaching: 1) because I’m not going to and 2) because you’d probably be wrong about the pay.) And it’s not just that. I made commitments that I fully intend to honor (”who keeps his oath, even when it hurts”?). First of all, I LOVE being at the Algates’ and spending time with J, K, and N. (If I could do this full-time, I’d never wish for anything else.) Second, I applied at Ritter’s with the intention of completing a full season. I imagine that’s part of why they hired me: they need people who can work during the day in the early spring and fall (when most of their employees are in school). I’m not just going to drop those commitments because something “better” comes along.

I imagine that once the summer’s over, most of the stress will be relieved. I’ll be working more hours at Ritter’s, but in longer stretches, fewer days, and with fewer nights. Bliss. After that, when Ritter’s goes into hibernation… Who knows. (For those of you with networking skills out there, I’d really like some sort of receptionist/secretarial work. My “experience” may not be all that most are hoping for, but I’m competant, I have excellent grammar/spelling/typing skills, I learn quickly, and, having worked at Ritter’s, I have all the customer relations experience I need (some phone experience as well).)

Anyway, before this blog becomes a cover letter and resume, I’ll leave it at this: 31.35 and counting…

I have nothing original to say, but oh how I love to quote those that amaze me with their thinking.

“God is the truth, but nowhere in the Bible does it say we’re entitled and guaranteed to perfectly perceive and understand the whole truth all the time. Quite a lot of stuff isn’t clear to us now, and quite a lot will never be, perhaps not even when we meet God in person. Theology is the study of God, and that means that it’s a study of an omnipotent, omnicient, and omnibenevolent being by beings who are none of these. We have no direct frame of reference for much of what God is like, simply because we know of nothing like him. All the people we know do fail, do betray, do make hurtful mistakes. God does none of these, and we struggle to wrap our brain around someone so unlike eveyrthing we’ve always known. Some inaccuracy or imprecision is inevitable.” ~Mateo Palos (excerpt from a comment on Cris’ blog: “Tough Question of the Day”)

I had a colossal fall at work last night. No, I didn’t break anything (on me or anything else), but it was a spectacular fall nonetheless.

It was around five o’clock - about an hour before I got off work. I was looking for something to do (since there weren’t any customers at the moment), so I grabbed a few of the candy containers to take them to the back to fill them (in preparation for the busy evening that surely lay ahead). I had Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups and Heath Bar in one hand and Chocolate Curls and Snickers in the other. I passed by Amber, who was preparing waffle cones, turned the corner by the sink, and passed Shalonda, who was washing dishes. I made a comment about how hot it was, and then realized that my right foot was sliding to my left.

As if in slow motion, I felt myself lift off the ground, saw the candy containers launch skyward, landed (HARD) right on my butt (my right side taking pretty much all the impact), and heard the clatter of plastic containers on the tile floor. Snickers to the left of me! Heath Bar to the right of me! (The Chocolate Curls and Reese’s PB Cup managed to hang on.)

And as I sat there on the wet floor, feeling so foolish I had to laugh, all I could say was, “Back’s wet!” (This is what someone usually hollers when they’ve been moping the floor in the back, just to warn the rest of us that it’s pretty slick and we should be careful.) I heard Mrs. Cox giggling from behind the nearest shelves. She and Mr. Cox came around the corner (as I sat there laughing) and asked if I was alright. I said, “Yeah, but we have some candy casualties.” “That’s alright,” she said. “We’ve lost worse than that before.” (She later described to Shalonda and I a fall she’d had last year when she put her foot through a fan (off and unplugged) that had been sitting on the floor near the shelves.)

We all got a good laugh out of it. And I think they all knew it was alright to laugh since I was laughing the hardest out of all of them. What else could I do? It was hilarious! I had Heath Bar all over my arm - little indents from all the little bits that I had mashed upon landing. My pants were wet. (Though I was a little sore for a minute or two.) And thankfully, there’s no bruise - though if there were, I’m sure that would be spectacular too!

I had a somewhat disturbing and largly exasperating experience at the Family Bookstore last Saturday evening. I had gone to purchase the new Superchic[k] CD, as well as the new VeggieTales. As I turned to head back up front to the registers, I was casually glancing at the bookshelves, thinking, “I could use a new ‘God book’ to read.” I was really thinking I’d have to head for the “Charistmatic Interest” section, as it seems more and more of the authors I read are tucked away in that scandalous section. But blocking my line of sight to that section was a row of three bookcases - two with the heading, “Family Life”, and right next to that, “Single Interest”.

I shook my head and laughed. We have two bookcases lined with covers displaying happy, smiling families that the (usually disgruntled) singles can’t help but see as they seek out their “interest” section, while the “Single Interest” bookcase is lined with book covers sorely lacking in any people presence, other than the occasional photo of a doctor (the book author) who’s developed a new “guaranteed” method of match-making. Apparently, there are no happy single people.

Because apparently “single” is a temporary, transitional state, and you’re only single because you’re still looking for someone to marry. We come into this world with a deficiency that must be cured before we can get on with our lives, finding fulfillment and all that. This is the conclusion I came to, since (out of an entire bookshelf worth of books) I only found one book that wasn’t about preparing for marriage, planning your wedding, couples devotions, finding “the one”, etc.

It’s no wonder there are so many bitter, despondent singles out there, even within the Church! We’re giving the impression that, even though we say things like, “Getting married doesn’t make you whole; you’re a whole person now,” what we really mean is, “You’re whole now, but you’ll be so much more when you’re married.” As if there is still something missing, and that’s a bad thing. We tend to discount Paul’s assertion that it’s better to be single - in order to better serve the Lord - because, hey, if no one got married, the human race would cease to exist. (And afterall, he did give us an “out”.)

But it is good to be single!

It’s also hard. We fight with our longings, pray through tears sometimes, get moody and bitter and jealous - and that’s without any help from anyone else! It’s worse when we have (well-meaning) relatives and friends pressing the issue - with teases (however gentle) about a “friend”, or asking what kind of person we’re looking for, or trying to set us up. It makes it hard to be/stay content. And we know, you just want us to be happy. Please, understand that it is possible to be happy and single at the same time - even happy about being single! I am happy and single, and I’m happy about being single. I may not be single forever - in fact, I probably won’t be. But I’m not going to waste my time being miserable, looking for a “cure” for singleness. I’m going to enjoy being single and spending my days in a sacred romance with my God, my Lord, my Savior. That’s all the romance I’m looking for right now.

You know, at first I was thinking I’d place an ad on my blog saying I was available to babysit on Valentine’s Day, but now I’m not so sure… I usually go to the IHOP (International House of Prayer) on Monday nights, and at one point I’d thought, “Well, are they even having their usual service?” And then I thought, “…Why wouldn’t they?”

I mean, what better way can you think of to spend Valentine’s Day than with the One you love? (And let me tell you, these people are HEAD OVER HEELS IN LOVE!)

…So I think I might have a date for V-Day after all.