I was getting so sick of misunderstood texts so I phoned my cell phone company and asked them to turn off my free endless texting feature. The guy who took my call was aghast, wanting to know why I didn't want to text anymore. In all the years he's worked there, nobody had ever made this request, not once. Not one single person.
But I bet that I won't be the last.
This is a ballsy assumption but I know that everyone reading this post right now can think of a time where a text they sent or received was misunderstood and it somehow adversely affected a relationship to the point of complete destruction, or at best, made for a really shitty day. Right? I bet all my underwire bras that this is true.
Texting is convenient, sure. But it should be treated like fast food; it's a quick way to fulfill a need but it should never replace the meat and potatoes of face to face human interaction. Emoticon has the word "con" in it for a reason. Texting doesn't pick up our eye movements, our blushing cheeks and furrowed brows. Even a smiley face can be taken as sarcasm-soaked anger.
Not even that but we all know how easy it is to send off a sentence we'd never even dream of uttering out loud. Removing ourselves by one step with a handheld device can make us brave enough to win us Douchebag of the Year awards. It's the easiest way to duck and run while saving face, because our face wasn't even in the frame in the first place.
Don't think I'm getting all Ruthy Righteous here. I suck, I totally suck. And if I didn't tell you the truth that I'm practically twitching in text withdrawal then I would suck even more. Phone calls with 800 kids and a crying baby is about as much fun as scraping dried bits of pasta off casserole dishes. But for me today, it's the healthier option. Maybe one day when I get more sleep and less mastitis I will be able to integrate texting into my life in a balanced way but for now, I'm not.
Lora, I already know you love Nathen and you probably just ran 8 miles in an insanely fast time and now you're drinking wine and painting. And Christy, OMFW. Right? And Alison, *insert the girl doing the karate move that we use as a hug*. Jason, just look at the schedule app. Jake, if you're texting me then you're in huge trouble because you're not supposed to have your phone. Tracey, I'm really glad my kids didn't pick up my phone and see that picture. Lori, you're my hero as always. Jane, I love that song too! And Andrew... well, I still love you more.
:)
Thursday, July 24, 2014
Saturday, July 19, 2014
Restraining Order
I'm sitting here watching an episode of Jail and there was this scene where the guy gets out of control and starts banging his head against the glass. So the officers had to go into his cell and pretty much seatbelt him into this restraining chair where he can't move. They did this to protect the man from himself.
The officer explained how in most cases the individual, once restrained in the chair, becomes more calm, less of a threat to himself because he (or she, of course) is forced to think about why they got to that point. If they're left to wander around their cell then they'll do whatever they can do to distract themselves from reality. Their emotions run wild and reality disappears. In the chair, however, their emotions are held down, and reality starts to pop through the clouds.
I get it. I have my own kind of jail cell--we all do. Sometimes we need to force ourselves to be still so that we can face reality, no matter how painful it may be, and then deal with it.
The officers unbuckled the man from his restraining chair because they could see his physical demeanor settle. His eyes went soft, his shoulders dropped. He faced reality, and he was sober from it. Once he was free, he stretched out on the bench, his arms behind his head, and he stared at the ceiling imagining the freedom beyond the florescent lights.
That's the only way we will find freedom, if we can only be still enough to catch a glimpse of it first.
The officer explained how in most cases the individual, once restrained in the chair, becomes more calm, less of a threat to himself because he (or she, of course) is forced to think about why they got to that point. If they're left to wander around their cell then they'll do whatever they can do to distract themselves from reality. Their emotions run wild and reality disappears. In the chair, however, their emotions are held down, and reality starts to pop through the clouds.
I get it. I have my own kind of jail cell--we all do. Sometimes we need to force ourselves to be still so that we can face reality, no matter how painful it may be, and then deal with it.
The officers unbuckled the man from his restraining chair because they could see his physical demeanor settle. His eyes went soft, his shoulders dropped. He faced reality, and he was sober from it. Once he was free, he stretched out on the bench, his arms behind his head, and he stared at the ceiling imagining the freedom beyond the florescent lights.
That's the only way we will find freedom, if we can only be still enough to catch a glimpse of it first.
Wednesday, July 16, 2014
Fack Fear
When my almost 14 year-old son Jake was a chubby-cheeked first grader, he came home from (Christian private) school one day with watery eyes and a trembling lower lip. Apparently, Jake told me, his friend Ryan introduced him to the "F" word.
Hoping that my sweet little innocent boy might be spared a few more years from the vulgar language that I save for after bedtime and speeding tickets, I crossed my fingers and prayed a silent prayer that the "F" stood for "Fart." I asked Jake what exactly the "F" word was and he whispered shamefully, "It stands for 'fack'."
"Oh!" I exhaled with relief. "And what does 'fack' mean?"
Jake was terrified, but managed to squeak out, "It means when the man puts his penis in the lady's bum."
Growing up in the church, my days baptized with skin-coloured pantyhose and potluck dinners, I remember going to youth group functions where the speaker would preach about our sexuality. Our cheeks would burn with guilt as we'd hope against hope that he'd pull a "Jesus and the fishes"* and miraculously spare us from the hellfire that will most certainly consume us if we ever lost our virginity.
The most popular question at these things was always, "where is the line?" as in, "what can we get away with without technically sinning?" The guys would wonder what they could do with their penis without losing their virginity. Was masturbating okay? Maybe put it in a pie? And the girls with acceptance issues would hope that they could, I don't know, do super slutty things without letting the vajayjay out.
It's a brutal way to live, really, because it's fear-based living. We were all focused on what not to do, not because we were mature and cared about our bodies, mind and spirits but because we were scared of sinning. I've always said that the opposite of love isn't hate--it's fear. And since God is (supposed to be) Love, why is fear so prevalent in the church?
I wish the preachers had sent the whole lot of us to the water slides for the day and instead collected our parents into a room and preached at them. God knows they could have used a break from us and a free casserole dinner. Love starts at home. At the dinner table. While we fight, while we play catch, while we pick lice out of our kids' heads. It's in the mind-bending exhaustion of staying up all night with a puker, or taking our teen to the doctor for anti-bacterial cream for a zit that got out of control.
If love drives out fear in our homes, then our kids won't need to find love somewhere else. They won't need to fack.
*Jesus and the fishes refers to the Bible story where Jesus had to feed a gazillion starving people with like, hardly any fish, but somehow, everyone had something to eat.
Hoping that my sweet little innocent boy might be spared a few more years from the vulgar language that I save for after bedtime and speeding tickets, I crossed my fingers and prayed a silent prayer that the "F" stood for "Fart." I asked Jake what exactly the "F" word was and he whispered shamefully, "It stands for 'fack'."
"Oh!" I exhaled with relief. "And what does 'fack' mean?"
Jake was terrified, but managed to squeak out, "It means when the man puts his penis in the lady's bum."
Growing up in the church, my days baptized with skin-coloured pantyhose and potluck dinners, I remember going to youth group functions where the speaker would preach about our sexuality. Our cheeks would burn with guilt as we'd hope against hope that he'd pull a "Jesus and the fishes"* and miraculously spare us from the hellfire that will most certainly consume us if we ever lost our virginity.
The most popular question at these things was always, "where is the line?" as in, "what can we get away with without technically sinning?" The guys would wonder what they could do with their penis without losing their virginity. Was masturbating okay? Maybe put it in a pie? And the girls with acceptance issues would hope that they could, I don't know, do super slutty things without letting the vajayjay out.
It's a brutal way to live, really, because it's fear-based living. We were all focused on what not to do, not because we were mature and cared about our bodies, mind and spirits but because we were scared of sinning. I've always said that the opposite of love isn't hate--it's fear. And since God is (supposed to be) Love, why is fear so prevalent in the church?
I wish the preachers had sent the whole lot of us to the water slides for the day and instead collected our parents into a room and preached at them. God knows they could have used a break from us and a free casserole dinner. Love starts at home. At the dinner table. While we fight, while we play catch, while we pick lice out of our kids' heads. It's in the mind-bending exhaustion of staying up all night with a puker, or taking our teen to the doctor for anti-bacterial cream for a zit that got out of control.
If love drives out fear in our homes, then our kids won't need to find love somewhere else. They won't need to fack.
*Jesus and the fishes refers to the Bible story where Jesus had to feed a gazillion starving people with like, hardly any fish, but somehow, everyone had something to eat.
Monday, July 14, 2014
Magic Trick
On Victoria Day in May, our family of eight, along with Andrew's parents and friends went to the May Day parade in Fort Langley, an annual tradition for the Slane family. As usual, nothing went smoothly for us. Jeebuz turned up the rain dial to a '10' so that we all had to stand out in the torrential downpour for a solid two hours, with a baby. Soaked with cold rain and bad attitudes, we hung around and counted down the seconds until we could jump back into the heated van and fuck off out of there.
Although, Andrew said something that really resonated with me. He reminded me that I wouldn't feel this frustration a couple of days from then. Sticking it out in the chaos and rain and frustratingly bad attitudes would be difficult, yes, but it's short-lived and totally worth it in the big picture.
I know this phenomenon to be true in the running world. Running can sometimes hurt, a lot. But there's a mental muscle that builds endurance and it grows stronger because of the pain of it all. And proving this "big picture" mentality true time and time again helps me to translate it over into my other categories of life as well: family, teenagers, money issues, etc. That some days just absolutely suck. We get served legal papers, or someone gets lice. And in that moment it takes everything in us not to fake an injury and take a cab ride home but we learn that sticking it out, riding the wave, makes us stronger people, better parents, closer friends.
The only time that this phenomenon doesn't work is in Walmart lineups with no Coronas at home. Otherwise, it's golden.
Although, Andrew said something that really resonated with me. He reminded me that I wouldn't feel this frustration a couple of days from then. Sticking it out in the chaos and rain and frustratingly bad attitudes would be difficult, yes, but it's short-lived and totally worth it in the big picture.
I know this phenomenon to be true in the running world. Running can sometimes hurt, a lot. But there's a mental muscle that builds endurance and it grows stronger because of the pain of it all. And proving this "big picture" mentality true time and time again helps me to translate it over into my other categories of life as well: family, teenagers, money issues, etc. That some days just absolutely suck. We get served legal papers, or someone gets lice. And in that moment it takes everything in us not to fake an injury and take a cab ride home but we learn that sticking it out, riding the wave, makes us stronger people, better parents, closer friends.
The only time that this phenomenon doesn't work is in Walmart lineups with no Coronas at home. Otherwise, it's golden.
Wednesday, July 2, 2014
Penises Are Like People
Okay, just a sec. I need to take a swig of wine before I start writing this one. Nnggkaahh. There. So a few years ago during my self work phase (letting go of control, insecurities, showing myself grace, gaining confidence in who I am, blah blah blah) I gave myself the assignment of walking around a nude beach. But actually naked, with no bathing suit on. I had assumed that I was going to be the only one there with National Geographicesque boobies but upon arrival I quickly realized that I was not the only one. Indeed, there were a whole tribe of us.
My friends and I fluffed out our blankets, and right after I whipped my bathing suit off, I laid down, buried my face in my towel and squeezed my bum cheeks together. It took some time and a couple of Coronas but I was finally ready to self-regulate and saunter down to the water. The walk to the edge felt like a trip to the electric chair but sinking into the ocean with the velvety water against my skin made it all worth it. I was free.
Shoot, okay, I got side-tracked. This post wasn't supposed to be about that, it was supposed to be about this. So my friends and I opened up a discussion about bodies and how different we all are, thank goodness. Because wouldn't it just be so boring if we all looked like supermodels? Mmmhmm. Right. But anyway, we got to talking about penises.
Nnggkaahh. More wine.
And they informed me that there are typically two kinds of penises: The Growers, and The Show-ers.
Apparently Growers are the ones that start out regular-sized when they're all flaccid but then when erect, they show up to the game in full gear, ready to go. The Show-ers are the ones that when flaccid are already swinging the bat and when erect, the bat just gets hard. Same size, just hard.
Makes sense.
Some people are all show. There's a local guy here that drives a big ol' jacked up truck with giant tires with a custom license plate that says "HUGE." Penis size? I'm sure it's not huge. There are churchy people that puff their chests out and judge The Sinners and tell them (us? Nnggkaahh...) to go to church, to read the Bible, to fast and pray. Meanwhile they're, what, who knows? Probably stealing lipstick from Safeway and taking the first licks off their kids' ice cream cones. The Show-ers look all righteous and shiny and fantastical. But when the pressure builds, well, they just get harder to deal with.
Some people actually grow. They start out humble and unassuming, living their lives in the dark messy corners where life matters most. Jesus was like that. He was born in a barn, grew up to be a carpenter by trade, wore sandals and walked giant distances to reach the town rejects so he could love them quietly, without pretense. There are all sorts of growers around us. They're often tattooed, their eyes shadowed with a mark of some sort. But when they laugh, it's from their guts. When they love, it's from their hearts. When the pressure builds, they show up to play ball. And when they're up to bat, they always hit a home run.
Nnggkaahh...
And there of course are some penises that are huge and just get huger. And some that are shrinky-dink and don't grow much at all, either. Home runs are hit all over the world with all different sizes of penises and the size, ability, etc etc DOES NOT MATTER. Which is what this post is about, that love is what matters. That's my point. Did I blow it?
My friends and I fluffed out our blankets, and right after I whipped my bathing suit off, I laid down, buried my face in my towel and squeezed my bum cheeks together. It took some time and a couple of Coronas but I was finally ready to self-regulate and saunter down to the water. The walk to the edge felt like a trip to the electric chair but sinking into the ocean with the velvety water against my skin made it all worth it. I was free.
Shoot, okay, I got side-tracked. This post wasn't supposed to be about that, it was supposed to be about this. So my friends and I opened up a discussion about bodies and how different we all are, thank goodness. Because wouldn't it just be so boring if we all looked like supermodels? Mmmhmm. Right. But anyway, we got to talking about penises.
Nnggkaahh. More wine.
And they informed me that there are typically two kinds of penises: The Growers, and The Show-ers.
Apparently Growers are the ones that start out regular-sized when they're all flaccid but then when erect, they show up to the game in full gear, ready to go. The Show-ers are the ones that when flaccid are already swinging the bat and when erect, the bat just gets hard. Same size, just hard.
Makes sense.
Some people are all show. There's a local guy here that drives a big ol' jacked up truck with giant tires with a custom license plate that says "HUGE." Penis size? I'm sure it's not huge. There are churchy people that puff their chests out and judge The Sinners and tell them (us? Nnggkaahh...) to go to church, to read the Bible, to fast and pray. Meanwhile they're, what, who knows? Probably stealing lipstick from Safeway and taking the first licks off their kids' ice cream cones. The Show-ers look all righteous and shiny and fantastical. But when the pressure builds, well, they just get harder to deal with.
Some people actually grow. They start out humble and unassuming, living their lives in the dark messy corners where life matters most. Jesus was like that. He was born in a barn, grew up to be a carpenter by trade, wore sandals and walked giant distances to reach the town rejects so he could love them quietly, without pretense. There are all sorts of growers around us. They're often tattooed, their eyes shadowed with a mark of some sort. But when they laugh, it's from their guts. When they love, it's from their hearts. When the pressure builds, they show up to play ball. And when they're up to bat, they always hit a home run.
Nnggkaahh...
And there of course are some penises that are huge and just get huger. And some that are shrinky-dink and don't grow much at all, either. Home runs are hit all over the world with all different sizes of penises and the size, ability, etc etc DOES NOT MATTER. Which is what this post is about, that love is what matters. That's my point. Did I blow it?
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