Top Ten...

Reasons Why I Haven't Written

10. I support the migrant ink workers in their struggles against capitalist oppression.

9. I didn't have any stationary with a cute unicorn or even cuter cat on it. (They are so talking about Lisa Frank...I loved her!)

8. Everything I write is impounded by a special Senate subcommitte studying the inkworkers thing.

7. I live in fear that I might dot an "i" with a heart or a smiley face.

6. I took a paper-folding class and every time I try and fold a letter it becomes a graceful swan or a scale-covered dragon.

5. All my goldfish formed a suicide pact and went belly up together.

4. Still pretty upset about Number 5.

3. Had to call a plumber after fish's funeral--don't ask!

2. When sitting down to write someone of your stature, I can never think of anything to say.

And the number one reason why I haven't written...

1. I'm the kind of mindless airhead that doesn't get around to writing old friends, even though I think about them all the time!

I got this card from a dear friend the other day. It came right out of the blue and frankly was just the thing I needed that day. And I love how mail happiness does that!

Normally, I'm the one sending cards and mail happiness to people. I have a probably very unhealthy relationship with greeting cards, but I buy them and send them on a regular basis. I know how they make me feel and I hope that I can give a little of that away too. I've never been one to talk on the phone, but I could always write. And these days, some of my favorite people are the people that I stay connected with through the occassional card or letter. I like that.

And speaking of mail happiness, I got some blog happiness today too! My friend...a true friend I'd say...found me and connected in my comments. For my friend, B...this top ten list so could have been from me to you! I hope you're doing well and I miss all the shopping trips. I need a good shopping partner down here!

It really is amazing what mail can do for a person!

Lakewood

I was in Houston this weekend and I had the opportunity to visit Lakewood Church. For those of you who don't know, Lakewood Church is the largest church in the United States and is pastored by Joel Osteen. That is a fact. From here on out, everything else said in this post is strictly the opinion of me, Steffany, the author of this blog.

I grew up in church. It was a Baptist church to be more precise. Our church is probably moderate in size. These days I would say that I know about half the membership directory, but in my hay day (while I still lived at home) I knew practically everyone. That fact comes from having grown up in church. My family went three times a week. I was actively involved in the youth department. I sang in the choir. The pastor knew my name. Since then, I've been a member of one other church and I regularly attend church here, but I haven't switched my membership. Through all my years, I've come to the conclusion that church isn't so much about the building or programs. It's about the people and the fellowship of like-minded believers.

My first experience with anything Lakewood or Joel Osteen came just a few months ago. My parents and I were in town looking for somewhere for me to live when I moved and it was a Sunday morning. We flipped through the TV channels and came upon the televised service at Lakewood. I will admit that Joel Osteen was a powerful preacher. The message was great and I actually found that it applied to me. I know that was when I first felt the desire to visit that church if I ever had the chance. And several times after that, I made it a point to catch the televised service on TV. I was still impressed.

Imagine my surprise and delight to discover that someone I worked with was a member of Lakewood Church. I plied her with questions like "Is he really that humble in person?", "Does he always have that plastic smile on his face?", and "What's it like to be a member of the largest church in America?". Thankfully, she was patient and answered my questions good naturedly. Anyway, when this weekend came up I asked her if we could go to Lakewood since we'd still be in town. She readily agreed that this was a great idea.

I had jokingly asked if the service was going to be like a rock concert. She looked at me a little put out and said no. Again, I jokingly said I guess that meant I couldn't ask him to sign my Bible. Yeah, that wasn't well received either. I assured her that I knew how to mind my manners and I would not cause any embarrassment for her. Unfortunately, I believe the effect of Lakewood has lost it's novelty for her. For me, it was an eye-opening experience and sort of left a bad taste in my mouth.

Let me explain.

Lakewood is a huge church, but I wasn't prepared for just how huge. We parked in a parking garage next to the church and took our place in a long line of people making their way up the ramps, across the street, and into the building. And the building doesn't look like a church either. It's very square and has a downtown business plaza feel. Anyway, when we went into the stadium...I mean sanctuary...well it's just as awesome looking in person as it does on the TV. We made our way down to the front section. I mentioned to one of many ushers that I was a visitor and I suppose that meant we could sit in the VIP section. It was roped off and everything.

At this point, I was sure that the message would be lost on me as I took in this massive sanctuary. There were three huge screens. On either side of the choir loft (that is a terrible description, but I'm at a loss of words to describe the two sides where the choir stood) were these rock and water type garden things. Yeah...the water flows and everything. The people...my goodness. There were so many of them. I kind of wondered if it was a camera trick that all the seats were filled. It isn't.

The church is huge and the sanctuary is lavish. There isn't anything bad or good about that...it's just a fact. I started feeling uncomfortable when the choir came in and it truly was like a rock concert. A Christian rock concert but one none the less. The choir was all but dancing up there in the loft. Hands were raised, people were clapping their hands, bodies were moving...some in a manner I don't think befitting of a church. I had asked my friend where Joel Osteen was and she told me that he and his wife come in during the first song so as not to disrupt the service. Disrupt the service? I wasn't sure what that meant.

It meant that if we lived back in Bible times and palm fronds were around these people would be waving them and crying "Hosanna". I kid you not...camera flashes were going off when Joel Osteen walked up to the pulpit. I wasn't impressed. At this point, I had to look inward and wonder what exactly I wasn't impressed with. I'm sure that Satan was playing with my heart and mind. I know that I wouldn't be able to live up to such a warm "reception" service after service, week after week without a little of it going to my head. I guess I wasn't able to leave the thought alone that he must take some pleasure in the way the congregation was behaving. I suppose the only people that know just how humble his heart is would be Joel Osteen and God.

Now, I did truly enjoy the message. I was able to put aside my distaste with the pageantry of the service and focus on that aspect. It was a good one. And just like all the rest, I was able to relate it to my own life. That is about the only thing I took away from Lakewood. My friend asked me if I wanted to go back to the visitors' reception and meet Joel Osteen and his family. At the beginning of the day I would have jumped at the chance, but by the end of the two hour service I politely declined. I think as far as my connection to Joel Osteen and Lakewood should go no further than my TV on Sunday mornings.

On the way back to her house, she asked how I enjoyed it. I told her that I enjoyed the message, but that Lakewood wouldn't be a church I would want to be a part of on a regular basis. I could tell she didn't get it and that was okay with me. She probably would find a small service at my church not to her liking. Some people can be satisfied with being part of something nationally recognized, on TV every week, not being known from Adam by their pastor, and all the production. I couldn't.

I'm still going to watch Joel Osteen on TV (I do like the way he preaches) but I can't help but wonder what Joel Osteen would be like without the stadium, the cameras in peoples' faces (yes, even during the personal prayer partner time), the national recognition, the thousands of members, the flashy house, all that stuff that keep him on the pedestal.

An Early-To-Bed-er

Last night I made a startling discovery....I'm actually an old fart in the body of a young and fresh twenty-something. It's okay. I had to take a moment to let it set in too.

This all came about because a friend wanted me to come over and hang out last night. Normally, I'd jump at the chance, but last night it was about 9:30 when she called. I should add in that I was coming off of a touch of the stomach virus so that might have played a part...though an extremely small one. Anyway, I glanced at my clock (9:34pm) and then I took in my surroundings (under the covers, in my bed, in my pajamas, with sleepy crusts already forming in the corner of my eyes) and decided that it was just "too late" for tonight.

And then that is when she lowered the boom on me..."You're such an old fart!". Okay, so I admit...I like to go to bed early. I still have a bedtime and I pretty much follow it regularly. I didn't like being called an old fart but I couldn't argue. Then came the worst part. "Oh well...it is past your bedtime. Sleep tight Granny! See you in the morning."

Apparently, being an old fart wasn't just a one time thing. I guess it's something I am all the time. So, it brings to mind a few questions.

What exactly is an old fart?

I think of old farts being old...really old. And they are grouchy. I'm not really old. I'm not even regularly old. I'm young. I'm in the prime of my life. I'm living the carefree life of a woman in her mid-twenties. Oh, I'm doing all that, but on the sleeping schedule of an old person. And I'm not grouchy. Okay, fine...I'm not grouchy very much. I think it's because I'm getting enough sleep people!

Is being responsible equal to being an old fart?

Just because I make sure I'm in bed where I can get a reasonable 7-8 hours of sleep a night doesn't mean I'm an old fart. It means that I'm a responsible adult. I make sure that my body has the energy to go and do all those twenty-something activities. By getting a good night's sleep, I'm being responsible with my body. Just the other day I read all kinds of benefits that come to your body from getting sleep. And, hello...the biggest one of all...I have a job that requires me to get up early (5:45 IN THE MORNING) so it just makes sense to get a good night's sleep.

What bedtime qualifies one to be an old fart?

When I think of old folks going to bed, I think of them hitting the sack in the afternoon. I definitely don't do that! So what if I go to bed about 10pm on most nights? I think that is a perfectly normal time to start winding down for the day. I think it just seems early considering that my accuser usually rolls into bed about 2am. Yeah...I don't have the sleeping habits of an old person. She has the sleeping habits of an infant...always up in the middle of the night.

Should I really have to defend my sleeping habits?

NO! My sleeping habits are keeping me healthy, well rested, and not so grouchy. I don't sleep with anyone so I'm not having to worry if someone is ready for bed. I should be able to go to bed at 10pm if I want to and you know what? Most of the time I want to!

So there it is. A twenty-something year old can also be an old fart when it comes to going to bed. Hmm...that wasn't as hard as I thought it'd be!

Like A Starburst...Sorta

It's the height of flu season at school. Monday there were four kids absent and I sent three more home with temperatures over 101. Today there were five kids absent and I sent one home with a fever about mid-morning. I think I'm turning into one of those germ-a-phobs who wash their hands every five seconds, bathe in hand sanitizer, and actually like the smell of Lysol!

I've been lucky this year that I've only caught one thing (knocking on wood) this year. It was bronchitis in October. But, today I started feeling a little tired and achy. My head began to hurt and it throbbed even more with every tummy ache complaint and sniffle. I feel like I should wear some bubble outfit tomorrow!

Anyway, I called my mom (who do you think the teacher complains to?) to tell her to pray hard that I didn't catch anything. I have big plans this weekend. There is a BBQ cook-off, cowboys, alcohol, cowboys...sorry. Where was I? Oh yeah, my head hurts. Well, she told me to go and buy this Zicam medicine. Supposedly, it nips the cold in the butt. I thought it was a nose spray kind of thing, but it actually comes in many forms....nose spray, chewable tablets, soft chews, rapid melt thingies...you get my point. It also comes in a variety of flavors. I chose the soft chews in strawberry.

After reading the directions (no orange juice for me tonight...apparently the acid can upset the stomach) I took one. It was like a starburst...less sweet and more chalky. Anyway, I hope that this cures whatever is ailing me. Or at least anything that might be thinking of ailing me.

I Do It Because

As I mentioned in the previous post, my blog has been sadly lacking these last few weeks. I claim that life is simply too busy for me to be posting at this time, but I think that is a fib I tell myself or more importantly that I tell the few people that regularly make a point to stop by here.

I began blogging because it seemed to be the "in" thing to do. And then I quickly warmed to the idea of using my blog as a journal of my every day life. Believe it or not, I do occassionally go back and re-read old posts. I've been at this blogging thing for a little over a year and a half. I can see how my writing has changed. I can see how I've changed. And most of the time that is a good thing.

And then there are days...even weeks...like these last ones that I wish I could truly use my blog for journaling all the inside thoughts. I can't. Too many of my real world friends and family stop by and take a peek. Don't get me wrong, I love that in a time where I'm so far away from them we can stay caught up and connected. There are just some things I wish I could put out there and not be judged because of.

I most enjoy blogging because you make connections with people. The majority of the time these are people that will never "know" you, but they build relationships and trust with you through the writing. They are an unbiased board off which to bounce ideas and get opinions. I like that.

And sometimes, I wish that my blog was completely anonymous. I wish I could write freely about the envy I feel for a friend who seems to have everything I want, about the fear I feel that I'm turning into someone I love but that I don't want to be like, that guy that just won't leave my head or heart alone, the dreams of going and doing something completely unlike me, or how alone I sometimes feel...even when I'm surrounded by people who care about me.

I could do it, but I'm chicken. I don't want to disappoint anyone. I don't want anyone to look at me with pity or to feel that they have to "fix" me. And lately, the things I need to blog about are the ones that I can't blog about. So, I'm keeping to myself for a while. I'm usually impulsive and act without completing the thought process, but for now I'm going to just ponder these thoughts on my own.

I know that answers and peace will come and that this time they have to come from within me.

Poor Blog

My poor blog! If you ran your finger across it big dust bunnies would stick to your finger.

Unfortunately, this isn't the night to dust if off.

I just felt like I should say something...so here it is.

Why are blonde jokes always about women? Are blonde men NOT as dumb as blonde women...not that I'm saying blonde women are dumb. But, still...I'm curious.

Far from profound but at least a date from this week.

What A Chore

For those of you who I haven't called to tell...last week someone stole my trash can. Yeah...you read that right. Someone STOLE (as in took without asking or returning) my TRASH CAN (that thing you put trash in).

In defense of the thief, I had left my trash can by the side of the road for a few days. What? We only have trash pick up two days a week and if I recall correctly that was a very busy week for me. Anyway, by the time I came home those nights it was dark and I didn't want to have to walk up the road in the dark to retrive my trash can. So, there set my trash can for at the most three days. I don't know...maybe that said to someone that it was up for grabs. Whatever the reason apparently someone needed it more than me.

And that brought me to my next problem...I had to go and buy a new trash can. I'm not really a trashy person, but frankly it was getting ripe under the sink and needed to be taken outside. My friend went with me to Wal-Mart and pushed the basket while I wheeled a monster of a trash can around. My old one (the stolen one) wasn't that big. It would hold one...possibly two depending on what was in the bag so I upgraded. It's huge. And green. (I'm just trying to help that mental picture out there!) Thankfully, it did fit in my car trunk and it's currently residing in the front yard.

Now, for the meat of this post. My least favorite chore is taking out the trash. Not that I injoy any of them, but trash is the worst. Believe it or not, but I only have about two years worth of trash hauling experience. While I was growing up my dad always took out the trash. I really believe that trash is an inheriantly male chore (no offense all you single gals out there...I'm a single gal too). I mean...think about it. Doesn't take out the trash dominate most young boys chore list? Don't most men (of the married variety) do the trash duty? Isn't there something manly in hauling a white plastic bag of trash to a smelly dumpster? Okay...maybe manly was pushing it, but my point is that trash seems to be a guy thing. And I hate that it is my thing now.

The gathering it up around the house isn't that bad and walking it outside to the trash can right off the porch isn't that bad. What I hate is wheeling that huge thing down to the road. I'm not sure how far it is from my porch to the edge of the road, but it's further than your average driveway. And, seriously, sometimes the trash smells. Are you getting the picture about why this is my least favorite chore?

Anyway, at least my new mean green trash can is bigger so the trips are fewer nowadays. And can you guess what chore I'm trying to put off by writing this post? I guess it's a lame dream to think the trash will sprout legs and walk itself down to the road, huh?