circle the object that does not belong (hint: it's not you...)

Kids do them all the time: Pick the person or thing that does not belong in the set. They're usually incredibly easy. Celery doesn't belong in a fruit basket. A giraffe doesn't belong in a barnyard. A winter coat doesn't belong with a collection of beach toys. But when we grow up and have to try to live in the real world, it's much harder to figure it out. (As usual I can't see it beforehand, and end up having to do it the hard way.)

Recent events in my life have left me pondering more than usual about all the places where I just don't belong. I'm not talking about places like the auto parts store, where I feel uncomfortable but can usually figure it out or ask for help. I'm talking about the places where it's clear that my presence is unwanted or even unwelcome, and my gifts are unappreciated. At what point is it reasonable to start wondering, "is it everyone else, or does the problem lie with me?"

When I was in kindergarten at South Christian, I came home every day crying. I remember mornings when I would sob and beg my parents not to make me go to school. I don't remember how long it was, but they moved me to another parochial school. At the beginning I liked it, but in retrospect I don't know that I would say it was any better. During one Bible class when I was in kindergarten, I told their minister that I was saved and he told me that I wasn't. In first grade, one of the other girls picked me up and told me that I was too small to be in first grade and that I should go back to kindergarten. I was a small child and never fit in with the rest of those sturdily-built Dutch kids. I never fit in with them socially either; I usually managed to have one friend, and I got invited to birthday parties the first few grades (though I'm sure it was because the other girls' mothers said they had to invite all the girls in class so as not to be rude, or perhaps because they felt a little sorry for me), but I was never one of them. I toughed it out through 8th grade and then left for high school in the public school system.

To say that high school was a shocking change would be an understatement. I went from a class of ten to a class of at least three hundred. At the beginning I was sick to my stomach for at least a week straight because I was so nervous. By my senior year, though, I had figured it out and was eager to graduate and get away from the parts that I didn't like about it: the he-said/she-said rumor mill where everyone lives life under glass. I was in choir the first three years, but quit my senior year because of all the politics. The same kids always got the solos and the parts in the musicals.

In college I joined the riding team, but never fit in there either. The rest of the girls were a like a clique and I never managed to find a way in. At away shows, I wanted to go to bed at a reasonable time and have it quiet so I could sleep. They wanted to stay up and hang out with each other, almost like a sorority. In the morning they would get up early to take showers and do their beautification routines, while I would sleep in (having showered the night before) and didn't bother with makeup. The last year I competed, the team doubled in size after the table at Bronco Bash netted several new members. I made friends with a few of those girls and am still friends with them today, although I ended up quitting the team because of the coach and because I was no longer a full-time student.

When I got my Z28, I was so enthusiastic that I joined a discussion forum and later also joined a car club. The majority of the members were interested in mod-fests, but I just wanted to hang out with other people who loved their cars. I ended up having to leave after the dictat--er, I mean president was very unkind to me. Only two or three people noticed that I left, and cared enough to ask me what happened.

When I started reenacting and met someone who would end up being my boyfriend for almost four years, I joined the group to which he belonged. I was the only female member, and was told that I was not allowed to vote or hold office. Trying to find a way to contribute to the group (because the only people who ate the food I brought to or made at reenactments were my boyfriend and a few of his friends), I started working with one of the other members to create a website for the group. For two years he and I tried to get the group to go for it, but they never did. After the umpteenth time the group voted to table the idea, the secretary created his own website for the group. My only way to contribute was taken away. ...That's the shortened version of the story, and doesn't really make it sound as terrible as it was. I left that group and now do not belong to any group at all. Fortunately I'm a civilian reenactor so it doesn't matter so much, but I'm still left feeling that "here's another situation in which I don't belong."

In my life I've left two churches. The first time I was still a kid and left because my whole family left. I don't remember any details about why we left, just that we didn't like the direction in which the church seemed to be headed. Along with several other "concerned members" from that congregation and other local congregations, we formed a new church. After several years that church forced my parents to resign, threatening disciplinary action. After they left I stopped attending; how can I attend church at a place where my parents are not welcome? The church consistory threatened me when my absence grew longer and longer, and I resigned my membership.

Now I have been forced to stand up for my personal beliefs by resigning from my part-time church job. I have not yet decided if I will continue to sing in the choir there. On the one hand, I feel very blessed to be able to praise God through music; on the other, I am not sure if I can be comfortable there even if I am just singing in the choir. Fortunately I have until after Labor Day to figure out that part of the situation.

Thankfully there are places that I do belong: with my family, with my small handful of friends, in the barn, at work at my main job. But I still wonder why I don't do well in group situations. Is it others, or am I the problem?

new research on moving and pet ownership

Taken from Craigslist via the Fugly Horse of the Day blog:

Great News for Pet Owners in West Michigan!

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Date: 2009-04-22, 2:24PM EDT


After an exhaustive effort, I now have research to prove that you can take pets with you when moving!

Yes, it's true, and has been verified by many outside sources in the know. This includes:

*Moves to neighboring states
*Moves across country
*Moves within Michigan
*Moves within the city that you currently reside.

It turns out that in every city they having housing that allows pets. So, the best course of action would be if you(the pet owner) sought out one of these housing options(that allow pets) instead of inquiring on housing that does not allow pets(since you have a pet). I know, it seems complicated so let me use an analogy.

Example: If you are a smoker and want to rent a hotel room, you will want to book a "SMOKING ROOM" Now, if you call about a "NON SMOKING" room, you will not be able to smoke in said room. Which is bad, as you are a smoker, and enjoy smoking.

See how that works! Simple!

Also, while my research is not entirely complete, there is strong evidence that suggests you do
NOT need to give up pets either prior to or proceeding the birth of any of your children. You can have pets and kids. Seriously, it's true...look it up. They(your children) might even learn some traits such as compassion, responsibility, and accountability(I know big words, look them up) if they(your children) are raised in a house with pets(the ones you committed to prior to the children)!

I thought my findings were just too good to keep to myself. So, pass them on to any pet owners you know!

the big three-oh

In less than a month I will be turning 30. People who don't know me very well (and I suppose even some people who do know me!) are surprised when they find out this fact. I am told that I look more like 21 or 22 than 30, and I take this as a compliment; when I'm 50, 60, 70 I hope the trend continues.

I don't feel nearly-30.

Mentally anyway. Physically, I've come to realize that my body doesn't work quite the same way anymore. If I sit cross-legged for a while my legs are a little stiff (which is a shame because that's one of my favorite positions for sitting), it's harder to get up when sitting on the floor, and I have to stretch before doing an activity like riding lest I pull a muscle.

I've also quit expecting my body to look like something it's not. I am not a 15-year-old cheerleader and I should not expect myself to look like one... not without working out several hours a week and perhaps some plastic surgery. Heck, even when I was 15 I didn't have that body! Letting my subscription to Cosmo expire a few years ago has helped with my body image tremendously. The majority of the people in the world do not look like that, and every page is airbrushed and computer-altered. And besides, supermodels and movie stars have plenty of time to do nothing but work out and make sure they look smokin' hot. They also have small armies comprised of personal trainers, chefs, stylists, managers, etc. Meanwhile, in the real world, we real people have real life stuff to worry about, like jobs and bills and families and trying to have hobbies and social lives.

But mentally, I do not feel nearly-30. In one of the final episodes of ER, Dr. Corday tells Dr. Rasgotra during an interview that moving to another hospital would be good for her career. The other doctors at County are always going to see her as "little Neela" and will not take her seriously as a surgeon the same way that doctors at another hospital would, because they had not seen her "grow up" from a first-year intern. I wonder if that's the same concept that applies to me. I've lived in the same town my whole life, and many of the people I know today have known me since I was younger (some of them much younger). Will I always be frozen in time at a younger age to them, no matter how old I get? More importantly, will they always be "my elders", or will I ever be able to see them as fellow adults, as peers? I struggle with that, even with some people who are only a few years older than I am. (If I moved away and started over, like Neela did, would things be different? That's a moot point, though, since it's not going to happen. Home is home for me, the roots are deep.)

A week ago I was home by myself and spent part of the evening flipping back and forth between a James Bond movie and a rerun of TLC's What Not To Wear. The "victim" of WNTW was Dottie, a 34-year-old realtor and mother of one. (OK, so I'm not a mom, unless the cats count as kids, but just run with me here.) While I admit (I hope? I hope!) that my style is not as bad as hers (the only time I ever go anywhere in pajamas is when I'm sick and going to the doctor's office, and I don't own any skintight polyester unitards or anything that could be called a "sex outfit"), I do wear casual outfits to work every day. Jeans are the norm for me, as are sweatshirts and t-shirts, sneakers and flat sandals. Granted, I work at a casual place (my boss wears jeans every day too), but I still wouldn't want Stacy and Clinton critiquing my wardrobe.

And now, it has started to sink in: In less than a month I will be turning 30. I will be turning 30.

Until recently, 30 wasn't a big deal to me. But now at times I'm just a teensy bit freaked out. I'm supposed to be an adult, a for-real adult, but I don't exactly feel like one and I hope no one notices that at times I'm faking it.

how does the shoe feel on the other foot?

First, you have to read this article. (Thanks, Sara.)

So is Mr. Denn Hollander (oh how I wish he had a different name!) for or against the double standard that has plagued women for decades? Perhaps he'd like to see to it that women get studied in history and literature classes just as often as men do, so we wouldn't have to have separate study programs. In school I would have loved to hear more about Rosie the Riveter and WASPs during studies of WWII. Or about people like Dorothea Dix and Dr. Elizabeth Blackwell in the 19th century. But instead I had to wait until I took a women's history class in college to hear about some of those women, and I had to study on my own to find out about others. Women's studies "[spread] prejudice and [foster] animosity and distrust toward men with the result of the wholesale violation of men’s rights due to ignorance, falsehoods and malice,” says Denn Hollander. Gee, and no men in the history of the world would have given women a reason to do that, would they?

Discrimination feels completely different when it's happening to you instead of someone else.

Next I'm sure he'll go after the NAACP for being racist.

why do we do (or not do) what we do?

Last Saturday I went to David's Bridal with Lins, sis-in-law Christina, Lins's 5-year-old niece, and her Mom (Mrs. W.). The store was quite busy, but fortunately we all had an appointment. The saleslady who was supposed to be helping us became less and less attentive as the afternoon went on, until by the time it was Lins's turn to try on gowns Christina and Mrs. W. got fed up and started pulling gowns off the racks themselves. Still, every 15 minutes or so the saleslady would appear and say "I'm sorry, I feel like I should be spending more time on you guys." I felt like saying: "Don't apologize, just fix it. If you feel like you're not spending enough time with us, then do something about it." But instead I said nothing. At the end, Mrs. W. thanked her for "all her help", even though in my opinion her help was lacking in both quantity and quality.

Once I was waiting in line inside Culver's, and someone else who had just come in the door cut in front of me. I stood up for myself and said "excuse me, but I was in line and you cut in front of me." Afterward I felt like a huge bitch and wished I had just said nothing and waited longer.

Why are many of us, as women, like that? We apologize for things that we can't control. We lie and say everything is fine when actually we are not satisfied. We don't stick up for ourselves. If we do stick up for ourselves, we are labeled as bitches (whether by society or just in our own minds).

in which I have nothing to say

After the Martha's Table worship service, it is my habit, as hospitality coordinator, to visit each table and say hello to the folks as they are eating their dinner. I introduce myself, tell them why I'm greeting each table, and try to mix it up each time so I don't sound like a broken record. The majority of the time, the folks are too focused on eating to have much desire to converse with me or ask questions. Buuut, a few weeks ago (the last time I was at Martha's Table) I met a homeless man named Ron who had a great deal to say.

At Ron's table I asked if the guys seated there were feeling peace. The rest said yes, but Ron said no with emphasis. I asked why not, and he spoke with cynicism and near-rage about the fact that he would spend the night trying not to freeze while at the same time trying to avoid the police who won't let homeless people sleep where they please. He also spoke at great length (despite his table-mates' attempts to turn the conversation to other topics) about what an evil and hypocritical place is the Gospel Mission, in his estimation. "When I leave here I have to find a place to sleep and try not to freeze my ass off," he said to me. "What would Jesus have to say about that?" The tone of his voice was a challenge.

I can say with confidence that very few times in my life have I been unable to find something to say to someone. This was one of those rare times. What would Jesus say to this homeless man with so much anger in his heart? "Think on the treasures you have stored in heaven" seemed empty considering what this man was going to face when he left the warmth of the church building. "God never gives a person more than he can handle" or "the bruised reed He will not break" would surely have sounded like verbal slaps in the face. "Perhaps your faith is being tested, like Job" also would have sounded hollow and completely bereft of any understanding of Ron's current situation. "I don't know what Jesus would say about that," I told him. I looked over at Pastor, sitting at another table, involved with the folks who had joined him there to eat. I willed him to look up and catch my eye, but he didn't, and Ron continued to spew his vitriol.

The best I could find in my mind to say to him was that life can almost always be worse. How, he wondered, and I pointed out that he seems to be a healthy man: He has two eyes, two arms, two legs; he would leave under his own power and was not lying alone in some hospital bed. Ron complained about how it could be so much better, and I said that it's important to focus on what he does have, rather than what he does not. "Would I love to be a famous singer? Of course. But I'm not, and I try to focus on what I do have in life because it's much more cheerful." More grumbling.

When I was finally able to extricate myself from the conversation, I promised to pray for Ron. Fat lot of good that will do me, I'm sure he was thinking. But I did, and I still do. Anger is like cancer, and he has a severe case of it.

When I left the church that evening almost everyone else had already left. It had started to rain, a cold rain that threatened to change to sleet or snow. I hurried to my car and drove home in silence, feeling very thanful indeed for the blessings in life that I normally take for granted.

this is how I know my dreams don't mean anything

I'm at some sort of fair or carnival with numerous rides designed to gyrate a human body in unnatural, unexpected, and even frightening ways until the person pukes. This carnival must be set up on a plateau on the side of a very big hill or a mountain, because in the distance in the valley I can see a pristine blue lake. My family is here, and so is Jim McK. from church. He brought three Sunday School kids with him. The weather is fine at the carnival, but in the distance on the pristine blue lake waterspouts are forming, spinning, dancing, and then shrinking and disappearing. Not a one ever leaves the water. Jim is very upset because a psychic saw the significance of the numbers five and three and told him that something bad was going to happen. He thinks he's going to get killed. Five, the number of adults, and three, the number of children. As dusk falls we sit in beach chairs all in a line, five big ones and three empty small ones, watching the kids riding the ride in front of us and screaming. The stars come out. Then Star Trek/Star Wars ships start flying out of the stars, completely silent except for the occasional pew-pew-pew of one of the Star Wars ships firing. One hurtles out of control at us silently, and Jim and I jump out of the way. It crashes right into his beach chair and smashes it. In the sky it looked huge, but on the ground it's no bigger than a sedan. Then my cat jumps on me and wakes me up.

why yes, my glass is half full!

On Sunday morning as I was walking through the church parking lot I heard a robin singing. I looked up to find the source of the cheerful song and in a moment had spied him sitting at the very tip of the sanctuary roofline above the stained glass window. It wasn't a spectacular day, weather-wise, but this bird was singing anyway.

The next day I was walking through the church parking lot at the same time of day to attend the every-other-Monday staff meeting. The same robin was in the same spot at the very peak of the roof. He was singing again despite the chilly temperature and the fact that the weather was trying its hardest to rain.

I felt like that robin was singing just for me. It didn't matter to him that the weather was grey, chilly, and wet. He was up there anyway singing for the blessings he has in his wild and feathery little existence: life, fresh air, his mate (I presume), a territory to call his own, and rain that makes the worms squirm out of the dirt. All of us, myself included, could stand to think more like him.

my first official blog post

This is my first official blog post.

Not sure if I like this "scribe" template. Of all the options, this is the one I disliked the least that was not also copying a friend's layout.

I wish I had something monumental about which to write, but I don't.

Monumental thoughts will come........