Friends, venture with me, if you will, to the place of preteen angst. For me, I shall envision my Caboodle, stocked with blue mascara and glittery lip gloss; scrunchies of every shade and color; and Doc Martens. Those objects sweep in the memory of my desires to be cool and funny and pretty and smart and older and just a little edgier than my parents liked.
I’m assuming it’s a totally different experience for guys, but I don’t know. You fellas are as complex in your simplicity to me now as you were then. Just check out Kirk Cameron there on the left. Who knew the simple act of one-sleeving it could be so appealing?
Friend drama, boy dilemmas, parent problems — they all seemed so epic. And the lack of any meant I wasn’t important enough, noticed enough, awesome enough. My life hung in the tension of defining who I was in the coolest terms possible, while making sure everyone agreed with my definition. What a painful time. Growing pains are not as fun as Mike Seaver would have you believe.
Thank God my audience at that time was limited to the handful of friends and family who made my universe. But how (potentially) tragic for those whose universe literally spans nations. Like Miley Cyrus.
Cyrus captured tweenies’ hearts as Hannah Montana, a fully clothed, innocent-enough character on the Disney channel. But Disney ushered her into the limelight, much like Christina Aguilera and Britney Spears. No need to detail that sexy, provocative limelight, which casts more darkness than light.
It seems Cyrus has crossed over, her transition from preteen to woman for all to see. Her image now fits the mold of nearly all Hollywood women … donned in black leather scraps placed together as an outfit, serving up sass and sex appeal in an illusion of power that says “do what you want and you’ll be happy.” The epitome of worldly desires that lead to death and destruction, if you ask me.
For Hollywood celebrities who come of age with a fan base bigger than their parents (hi, mom!), their influence has power. Impressionable viewers see Mike Seaver or Hannah Montana on their favorite show one day and the tabloids the next — though the gossip surrounding each is much different. And, like, 20 years apart. How much damage (or influence) do you think this has?
When I was creating this website, I should have added a page for my awkward e-mails. You see, I get paid to swoop into weird situations and write some resolution, sense and overall serenity into it. So my e-mails aren’t awkward, but the situations oftentimes are. But I can’t publish my clips of e-mails or divulge the juicy details, for privacy reasons, so it would be a boring page. I guess I could just publish this little ruby of a picture to illustrate what I do:
I captured this photo a few weeks ago when we were out to dinner with friends. A woman walked by the busy waiting area and dropped something at the feet of my husband and his friend. Notice the man foot by the feminine pad. That’s an awkward situation right there.
Things like this happen all the time. Well, maybe not things exactly like this, but misunderstandings, clumsy exchanges, conflicts and poor communication can taint our reputations and injure our relationships.
For a few of my clients, who don’t claim communication as a strength, the simple act of sending a carefully worded e-mail can make a difference. I can be a new perspective in the situation, listen to what the problem is and help to identify the necessary steps for repairing a relationship or clearing up a misunderstanding.
Next time you experience or hear about a delicate situation that needs a well-written response or an open dialogue for resolution, contact me. Because strong and precise communication is key to building relationships and resolving conflict. Always.
My dad recently received an e-mail from an old friend, whom he hadn’t talked to in decades. The typical pleasantries were exchanged, until the e-mail thread took a turn for the interesting: His friend included an informal request for assistance in arranging marriage for his two oldest daughters. Here’s an excerpt from the e-mail:
We, including our daughters, are still looking for Muslim boys for our 2 daughters. If you know someone that would make a suitable match we would very much appreciate a suggestion or a reference from you.
The e-mail provided a picture of each daughter (age 32 and 34), described their physical qualities, and explained their educational/work backgrounds, and their interests. It concluded with the parents’ names and contact information.
This tradition may seem outdated and culturally irrelevant, but it is still part of some Americans’ lives.
Photo taken by my talented husband. See more at nicklambphotography.com.
I can see the benefits. I am blissfully married now, but it was a long journey to get here. In high school, I read I Kissed Dating Goodbye, followed by, indeed kissing it goodbye. The next several years were marked by a cross ring on my left ring finger to loudly proclaim my dedication to Jesus (or to adorn a very naked finger that reassured me I was alone by choice). For Christians who remain on this path, their marriages may end up being semi-arranged — by friends, pastors, parents, etc.
When I realized mid-way through college that being a Christian didn’t mean I had to close the door on dating, no one was aknockin’ so it didn’t matter anyway.
So dating started a little late for me, but it wasn’t without pitfalls. Had I asked my parents to find me a husband, I might have avoided some awkward and unpleasant situations.
One dating moment I wish I could take back? When my neighbor who took me out for the first time described what he does for a living. Amateur UFC didn’t mean much to me, but a description of cage fighting elicited a look of horror that I couldn’t fully wipe off my face. Oops. Sorry, guy.
Your turn. What dating pitfalls do you wish you had avoided?
My flesh feels like wallowing today. When my soul feels like resting and I rest, it’s good for me and I’m refreshed. When my flesh feels like wallowing and I wallow, I just want to wallow more.
My back still hurts, and I’m waiting to hear back from several magazines on queries and submitted articles. Nonresponse is heavy: No news is news. Not to mention that each time I walk by the full-length mirror, my thighs remind me of matured Redwood trees, if a giant took the trees between his fingers and squished them so they were stubby and the leaves and branches fell off. Not a good day for leggings.
So I feel justified in watching TV while eating the best snack ever manufactured: White Cheddar Cheese Flavored Popcorn. The bonus? The puppy can follow at my feet, sucking up the overflowing kernels that fall from my clawed fist dusted with cheese flavoring.
I did this for the duration of one episode of Intervention. However, mid-wallow, I realized that my value as a writer doesn’t come from the number of articles published or the number of readers who identify with what I write. My value as a writer comes from the gift and passions God has given me, and my identity is through him.
So, I licked cheese powder off of each finger, grabbed a pack of frozen peas for my back and sat down to grace the world with a description of my Sequoia thighs. You’re welcome.
Somewhere between these freak shoes
and these sexy little kittens, 
my back decided to call in sick.
Thursday, I took Kona puppy for a long walk in those ape shoes. Friday, I danced my heart away at a wedding, keeping my heels on.
Friday night, I moaned and groaned each time my body moved in bed, because my lower back wasn’t having it.
By Saturday morning, I couldn’t move much. I would exclaim, “Ahhhhghhhh!” at sudden motions that made my back spasm. It was awkward and uncontrollable. I cried because of the pain, and because I felt like a wuss for crying, and because I wanted to go out for breakfast and not to stupid Urgent Care. And then I nibbled on nuts in my pocket, as we sat in the waiting room, because an empty stomach and low blood sugar contribute to my overall anxiety.
I don’t know what caused my back to hate me. But I have a feeling it involves the shoes. So if you see me sporting these little gems, you can assume that my back is happy.
These are the books I’ve been reading. I already read America Anonymous and Wasted, and I’m currently entranced in Sybil. Next up? Prozac Nation.
These subjects — addiction and mental illness — are two that I’m passionate about. Some of the reading is research for my writing, but beyond that, it’s just fascinating and I enjoy it.
Tonight my husband told me I need to lighten up. Possibly because I started crying over stuffed mushrooms. Any recommendations on lighter reading?
If you asked my husband what happens when a new mother takes time off to be with her newborn, he’d tell you that she would take a matronly leave of absence. At least, that’s what he called maternity leave a few nights ago.
If you asked me why my iPhone vibrates, I’d tell you it’s because the ring is loud and it makes me uncomfortable when it demands attention in public, causing people to stare at me while I root around in my purse. My husband would tell you it vibrates because of motors and something about what a guy named Tesla invented.
I love how we both communicate so differently, how certain words hold different meanings and certain meanings come across to both of us differently. It’s taken me awhile to learn our communication styles. Here are a few tips I’ve gleaned — These are real-life examples of our dialogue:
Denverites love dogs. My husband and I took a recent walk in the Highlands looking for happy hour, and along the way, there were dogs tied to trees and street signs. They casually waited while their owners enjoyed a $5 glass of Malbec from a nearby patio.
This was not the case for my husband and I, because a) our dog would never calmly wait if she were more than 2 feet away from us or if she didn’t have a giant bone to chew on for the duration and b) All three restaurants we walked into, we also awkwardly walked out of a few minutes later, because we sat ourselves and then no waiter or bartender came to help us. Then we fretted that we weren’t supposed to seat ourselves, and we were breaking the norms of the establishment. Restaurants, a simple “Please Seat Yourselves” or “Please Wait to be Seated” is all I want.
Back from our night out on the town, my husband was wrestling around with our dog. She performed a perfect jump that planted a blow to my husband’s nose, and he started bleeding and nearly passing out. A trip to urgent care again proved my point: Denverites love dogs. When we walked in, the receptionist and nurse livened up as soon as they found out what happened. “What kind of dog?? Oh! How adorable. My neighbor has a chocolate lab, and he’s so full of energy!” My husband nodded his throbbing noggin, patiently listening to a graphic story about a dog’s claw that pierced through a man’s lip.
I absently smiled, stealing glances at my husband to check for signs of internal bleeding, brain damage, hypothermia. Blood tends to trigger my hypochondriac tendencies. After the doctor blandly tested the Hubs for a concussion and felt up his nose, he gave the diagnosis. “Eh, you should be fine.” Then he perked up! “My two dogs are crazy! They’re big and they bowl me over when they get excited …”
Last week, I had a problem. A condition, if you will. My software genius husband diagnosed it as analysis paralysis. But when I looked that up in wikipedia, I spent too many minutes trying to understand the first sentence. So then I made a pretty image to mark my paralysis by analysis, and I called it good.
Here’s what happened: I decided that it’s time for this blog to reflect who I really am. That means I need to merge it with my personal, more anonymous blog. Along the way, other decisions arose, like if I should switch this Web site from Drupal to WordPress, what that would do to my Google rankings, if I really care about my Google rankings, what plugins to use, and if potential clients will be turned off when I start writing about the puppy, God and lessons from the hubs. You know, things that make me tick.
Overwhelmed by these decisions and then hit with a wicked head cold, I opted to spend the week on the couch, watching Joan of Arcadia between mind-numbing naps.
But now I’m back, and the blog is in the midst of a transition. I apologize to all RSS followers who received notifications that I added 10 blogs overnight. And for non-RSS followers — good news! There’s now an easy way to read my blog — just click on the “RSS Feed” or “Email Updates” on the top right of the page. There are still a few more growing pains to come, as my husband helps me import my personal blog entries.
What a learning experience! Not only am I exploring content management systems, I’m also adopting high-tech smart-talk, like paralysis by analysis. Next up, I’ll be an architecture astronaut. … Who am I kidding? That’s about as fun as a cold cup of javascript.
There’s a sign on a busy street in our neighborhood that advertises “free food for Jesus” every Saturday. I guess it’s better in my neighborhood than another one, like my parents’, because there must be lots of people named Jesús where we live. It’s primarily a Latino community. More people can benefit from free food here.
Last night at happy hour, my friends and I were discussing how to bridge the gap between the white people and the Latino people in our area of Denver. We also talked about how that happens through churches. Is it up to the church leadership? Do we need speaker swaps between different churches? Do we provide translations to sermons in different languages? How do we deal with varying education levels when it comes to teaching and preaching?
What does trusting the Holy Spirit in this mean? My recent experience tells me that any plotting and scheming on my behalf is futile. If we all only focused on abiding in God, while still praying for reconciliation and sanctification, the fruits would be natural. That means no Spanish ministry committee meetings, structured “fellowship” potlucks, or three-tiered mission goals for the local community. These things might be the natural fruit of a church seeking God, but they shouldn’t be Plan A for reaching the community.
Our urgency shouldn’t be in making our church look like our community, or in serving, or in loving, or in sharing Jesus with anyone. Our urgency should only be in our need for God. We can trust his desires for our community more than our own, and when ours are aligned with his, we can simply relax and thank him for letting us be a part of it all.
Maybe I’m naïve. But I’m also speaking as a literal bridge between two very different cultures. Half of my extended family is white and half is Pakistani. Thankfully, I’ve never attempted three-tiered conversation goals when I speak to either side. But as a person bridging two ethnicities, I know that any real connection between people comes from genuinely living life together, free from agenda or even the most well-intentioned goals.
As this church or car dealership or home (not sure which it is) offers to feed Jesus on Saturdays, they are making a statement to the community, albeit a confusing one. Does your church make a statement, through actions or words? Do you personally? How do these add to or diminish separation among different groups within the community?
I realized something this weekend. My three-mile run turned into a walk, but I wasn’t discouraged by my lack of endurance, because I was enjoying the sunshine and the Saturday afternoon. And I was thinking about God things. The peace and joy that accompanies a content heart isn’t just nice; it’s what living in God’s will is. It’s abiding.
As I learn what all this abiding business really means, I find my anxiety-prone heart drawn to the idea that a relationship with Christ means I can stop worrying. He commands my trust. When he gives me the gift of faith, I don’t just set it on the shelf for a nice occasion or a rainy day; I use it up hungrily. He promises me things, like green pastures, abundant life and freedom.
My first step to claiming those promises, after believing them — which is more like a split-inducing leap than a step anyway — is to abide. And that’s also my last step. I don’t have to do anything else. I can’t do anything else.
So this blog — as well as the rest of my career, daily tasks, job goals, etc. — is no longer a check box on my list of things to do. It’s fruit. It will naturally come if I’m abiding in God. It will grow and not be a product of my own effort, but of God’s direction and guidance. Or it won’t, and my fruit will be elsewhere. Or it won’t, because I have no fruit and need to run back to God.
This new way of life counters my control-loving, plotting and scheming tendencies. It also rejects the “industry standard” that emphasizes blogging daily, tweeting hourly, writing through writer’s block and forcing myself into a box under the guise of creating a niche.
Submitting to God’s truths means repenting and letting God have control. It’s hard and uncomfortable. The closest I’ve come in the past to considering my work to be fruit is when I kept my crackberry glued to my hip. But those days are over, I’m turning over a new leaf and letting God do the rest. And I now have an iPhone, so that’s gotta help too.
Here’s why the puppy made me cry, this time: She’s deceitful.
She’s used her wily chocolate lab-ness to forge a way into my heart. She rests at my feet during the day when I write. She sends herself to her crate any time she feels tired. She “leaves it” when we sternly say said command, if she shows too much interest in something. She has started walking at our side on walks, not tugging or chasing down geese like she were training for a gold medal. She’s turning into the dog of picture frames. You know, the friendly, family dog whose picture you replace with your own, but not before thinking, “What a picture perfect dog.”
Until tonight. As a consolation for not venturing onto the hopping streets of Denver in search of green beer, we stayed in and I made macaroni and cheese. It’s a consolation in our book; stop judging. And to counter the creamy, cheesy, carby goodness, we were going to have a salad. I was so excited for the lone cucumber in our refrigerator, I even sliced stripes down the side, like they do in restaurants and on cooking shows. Then I chopped it and set it aside until the timer beeped.
Enter Kona, who has never eaten human food. She jumps up, weasels her way around the sharp knife on the cutting board, eats the entire cut cucumber and saunters off to sit at my husband’s feet. I didn’t realize it until minutes later, when chastising her was futile. And now, all that’s left to our salad is spinach and nuts. Pathetic.
OK, so it may seem like a dumb reason to cry, but it’s not only for the lost cucumber. I thought we had developed a level of trust, and I see I was mistaken. Back to square one, Kona puppy. I may forgive, but I don’t forget.
What does it look like I’m running here? Monkey business? Good, because I AM.
I just finished a project for a baby shower. It was the perfect excuse to finally learn some of the ropes of Adobe Illustrator CS4. I usually avoid it like the plague and stick to Adobe PhotoShop CS4. I know, bananas, right?
The parents-to-be registered for safari animal decor, so the invitation theme was taken directly from one of their registered items, the ever-fun Pop Monkey (picture to the left).
I used the live trace feature to create a vector image of the monkey. I also found some Creative Commons licensed leaves, which I used to create a vector image as well. From there, I brought the images home, to Photoshop.
Change up the weird monkey hands, add a pleasant monkey smile, give him some texture, and you’ve got yourself an inviting monkey card. Just to give my computer’s RAM a run for its money, I opened up yet another Adobe program: InDesign. The inside and back of the card were completed here, and I also made monkey envelopes.
Here are the finished products. Because of a tight budget, they were printed in-house. Had there been a little more spending room, the monkey texture would have shown up nicely on glossy cards professionally printed.
This is why I love freelance! So many opportunities to monkey around and learn new things every day. You know what I always say: Running your own business is like the monkey bars; sometimes you have to let go to move forward.
OK, I don’t really say that. I just wanted another excuse to say monkey. I’m done.
P.S. You can check out some of my other invitations here.
I’m not wearing any makeup. It’s a perk of my new job. I also run errands, soaking up the glorious freedom of self-employment, with my hair un-did and in yoga pants. But that doesn’t make me any less beautiful. (gasp) Anyone else feeling awkward that I just called myself beautiful? read more…
I’m feeling cranky this morning. My Google Reader has 304 unread items in it, and one of the blogs accounts for 53 of those unread posts. I add your blog to my Reader because I want to read it. But if you’re churning out posts like a ticker tape machine, I will unsubscribe. I’ll do it.
Another thing I don’t subscribe to? The rule that you need to blog every day. As RSS feeds gain momentum, quality will outweigh quantity. I won’t need readers to remember to visit my blog, I bring my blog to them. So they’re not going to get frustrated coming to a stale page and lose interest. On the contrary, they will thank me when they’re not overwhelmed by 53 mediocre posts.
Can I also share with you my least-favorite tweet? Here she is: “In case you missed it earlier, new blog post: the 7 reasons social media can make your dreams come true. http://bit.ly/annoying.” There are no less than six annoying things in those 127 characters. The first person to name all six — or add more of your own — will receive an autographed copy of my latest book.
No, I don’t have a latest book, yet.
To add insult to injury, technology has found a new way to annoy me. Nay, disgust me. The following was a recent spam comment on my blog, with product names and companies X’ed out:
“This might be a bit off-topic but I believe there are a lot of smokers here on quepash.scroggles.com. I have recently decided to find a good manufacturer of e-smokes. I’m done with paying so much for tobacco smokes.A friend recommended XXXX. According to their website this is how they described their product:
‘XXXX offers supreme Electronic cigarettes with disposable cartridges that compose of the highest smoke volume in the industry. With a collection of flavors and nicotine levels, XXXX’s™ patented product offers convenience and performance that is unmatched. XXXX products have been independently tested for safety.’
I’m thinking of buying them. Anyone else have experience with this e-cigarette?”
Here’s the problem: we have a nearly full bottle of pomegranate juice in the fridge. It cost $10. It makes a good vodka-pomegranate cocktail. Thus our night begins.
5:45 p.m.: husband concocts said cocktail, thanks to Costco brand vodka: Svedka. Liberal on the Svedka.
6 p.m.: we have 1/3 of a loaf of 5-day old Italian bread sitting on the counter, begging to not be wasted. So I make homemade breadcrumbs. For chicken parmesan, which is husband’s favorite dinner.
6:45 p.m.: favorite dinner deserves candlelight and a cleared off dining room table, and of course wine. we just bought a 1/2 case of shiraz, which may or may not have a screw top. OK, it does. Stop judging us.
7 p.m.: we eat slightly burnt chicken parmesan, because undercooked chicken is both my fear and a health hazard. better safe than sorry. conversation calls for two glasses of shiraz, each.
7:45 p.m.: somehow conversation drifts to IP addresses. husband takes the liberty to delve into an explanation ranging from the DARPA initiative to the transatlantic cable to subnet 192 addresses to my personal Web site.
8:25 p.m.: I drift in and out of focusing on the conversation, trying to understand each layer of the interwebs and also bitter that my husband knows each layer and I don’t.
8:30 p.m.: I resolve to know each layer of something, anything that husband doesn’t. Shall I refresh my memory for diagramming sentences and become a true sentence architect? Shall I memorize a poem from Rumi and perform it for at least 20 minutes, before leading a riveting analysis for my husband?
I’m not sure what I’ll do, but it will be something. I will load him up on food and drink and then unleash my deep knowledge on something he doesn’t understand. Any suggestions?
When I started my freelance business, I assumed it would be tough. It’s a lousy economy, an impossible time for aspiring writers and an all-around bad idea for a perfectionist who hates making mistakes. I thought trusting God in this decision meant persevering through mistakes, rejection and dried-up bank accounts.
But I was wrong.
I have made mistakes, and I will continue to do so (hopefully my clenched teeth, balled fists and the pitter-patter of a heart in overdrive will ease up). But the rejection has been overshadowed by opportunity! I’ve had referrals, inquiries and contracts to sign. I love the work that people are actually paying me to do! My days aren’t filled with scavenging for paid gigs; now I’m beginning to think about being strategic with my time and energy, and only following up on jobs that make sense for me.Trusting God will inevitably mean persevering when things get uncomfortable or even painful. But right now, trusting Him means enjoying the gift of this season.
Check out more pictures like the one I took of the lemons above, here. It’s a new season, indeed!
I was in Mesa, Ariz., last week working for a new client, Self Development Charter School. I left a snowstorm in Denver and flew into warm, sunny weather in Phoenix. It was like fastforwarding to May!
Visiting classrooms and working in a school environment also gave me a glimpse into a different season of life. Just smelling the chalk (I was relieved that they still use chalkboards!) and seeing the colorful backpacks brought back memories of my own childhood. Check out the pictures I took while I was there:
(Click on each to see the full photo)
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Through art, literature, Biblical analysis and cultural mores, Randy Elrod reveals in his new book, Sex, Lies & Religion, that we have been lied to about our sexuality. God’s truth, according to Elrod, is that spiritual and sexual redemption is experienced through communion with God.
As in, Holy Communion (yes, the one you take in church) is like an orgasm. Sound a little bit like inviting your in-laws to join your date night, as you watch a Demi Moore flick from the early ‘90s, wearing lingerie and feeding your husband grapes? Awkward. But that’s part of the lie – Elrod says — that our sexuality is something to be ashamed of, hidden or feared.
Elrod breaks down what the church has historically told believers about sex and abstinence, where we’ve believed it or rebelled against that in art and literature, what our cultural now says and what the Bible really says.
Especially refreshing is the unabashed discussion of sexuality, including what few Christians can write about without tongue-in-cheek humor, so to speak, or relegating any specifics to a quick paragraph like an afterthought. On the same page as Bible scholars’ viewpoints on oral sex, Elrod asserts, “We must also actively study scripture to understand Christ’s motivation in order to imitate Him in our own sexual communion.” That brings “What Would Jesus Do?” to a new dimension. I think we might just see a comeback to those bracelets.
Elrod is spot on in revealing lies about sexuality and in proclaiming freedom, which can only come from a relationship with God through Christ. God wants to give us abundant life and the desires of our hearts, and within the context of marriage, that does include a healthy, vibrant sex life.
Disclosure of Demi Moore reference: Elrod did not suggest inviting your in-laws to any such date night. I do not either.
Disclosure of Material Connection: I received this book free from cre:ate 2.0 Publishing to read and post a review on my site. I was not required to write a positive review. The opinions I have expressed are my own. I am disclosing this in accordance with the Federal Trade Commission’s 16 CFR, Part 255
As promised, I will unveil one of the great mysteries of our time: why do people use the pound sign in tweets? If you’re reading this and you don’t know what a tweet is, stop by here first, and then join us again.
Hashtags are the formal term for a unit of characters that begin with the pound sign, ie #iphone or #tednugent.
History: The original purpose of hashtags was to be a tool for searching keywords on twitter. If you followed the username Hashtags (which is symbolized by @Hashtags) and you then used hashtags in your tweets, those tweets would be included in the @hashtags database. So if someone searched #puppy, they would find all of the tweets that I posted about my furry, four-legged monster, if I included #puppy somewhere in the tweet. Any other tweet that used that hashtag would also show up. You still with me?
In reality hashtags make a tweet look cool, but do little else. I see a lot of hashtags like this: #springcantcomesoonenoughandwintersucks or #lookinlikeafoolwithyopantsontheground. Who is that really helping? Are people searching these terms? No. Are the tweeters even following @hashtags or a similar keyword directory? Usually not. Do they make the people who don’t understand hashtags feel inferior? I think so. Do they clog up the 140 character tweet limit with jibberish? Most definitely. But, do they add another dimension to tweets that makes it all worth it? You decide.