On Our Way To Crazy

For two years, Aaron and I worked with the junior high kids at our old church. I had the same small group of girls both years, and our leaving the church coincided with their moving up to the high school youth group. We were new to the group at the same time, and we all found our places together. Mine turned out to be at a different church, but the struggle was the same. I watched them grow from nervous sixth-grade girls who were afraid of junior high school to confident almost-ninth graders ready to take on the world. Or, at least, high school.

Then we changed churches, and my regular contact with them was drastically cut. I’ve kept up with most of them through myspace and email, but I’m no longer a part of their daily lives. Nor should I be. But I still feel responsible for them, that it’s partly my job to look out for them and be accessible to them and make sure they’re doing okay. Maybe it still is. But when does ministry end? Does it end?

Last week our old church went to youth camp, and a friend of mine was the ninth-grade girls’ counselor. As she was telling me about the games they played and the drama that came out as it only can at camp, I started to get sad. Part of it was just because of the happy attachment I have to camp in general, and being at camp with those girls in particular. Part of it was my fear that they’re not being properly looked after. And part of it was that we haven’t quite found our place in our new youth group.

I don’t know where I’m going with this, really… I’m just working through the transition. Youth ministry is so personal, and you form deep attachments to kids really quickly. It’s hard to stop cold turkey, and I’m learning that it’s hard to just pick back up with a new group of kids. What if you don’t connect with them? What if they don’t like you? What if this isn’t as good as the last thing you had?

Our last situation was a great youth group in a church that was wrong for us in every way. Now we’re in a church we love with a fledgling youth group. Sometimes at our meetings, it’s a one-to-one youth-to-leader ratio. But they’re growing, and learning how to be a youth group, and I think Aaron and I can be a big help in that. I’m excited. It’s just that in starting this new chapter in our lives, we’re ending the last one. And that makes me sad.

My brain is fried today, but I was having this conversation with some coworkers, so I thought I’d pose the question: What are your guilty pleasures?

Mine, in no particular order:

• Having Dr. Pepper for breakfast (better if you add an oatmeal cream pie)
• Kathy Griffin (her Life On The D-List stuff is hilarious)
• Sports jerseys for dogs (Texas teams only, of course)
• Ritz crackers dipped in chocolate pudding (mmm… salty/sweet)
• Ritz crackers topped with dill pickles (mmm… salty/… briny)
• Fried pickles (with ranch!)
• Fried okra (with gravy!)
• Pickled okra (it comes full circle)
• Cheap wine made from grapes so generic it’s just called ‘white wine’ (better if it comes in jugs rather than bottles)
• Amy Grant’s “Behind The Eyes” album (definitely her best, and the only one I own. We are all the same, you see…)
• Researching what our neighbors paid for their houses (I should say it’s to keep up with property values, but it’s really because I’m nosy. I have the website bookmarked for easy snooping.)
• The Dixie Chicks (they blacklist you for that here in Nashville)
• Star magazine (that ’source’ has such juicy information!)
• So You Think You Can Dance (it inspired my next career… I’m going to be a crumper)

Something big is about to happen at our house. Something huge. Monumental, even.

We are getting cable. DirecTV, to be exact.

We have had rabbit ears for the entire duration of our marriage. Four years of squinting to watch Gilmore Girls, leaving the ears in the same position and only watching one channel for two weeks so we don’t lose reception for the Olympics, having to wait for the DVDs to know what all the fuss is about Curb Your Enthusiasm, or Six Feet Under, or Top Chef.

But this summer, all that changes. We’ll have 150 (!) channels, including the only three I’ll ever watch (TLC, Food Network and Bravo). Aaron will have access to ESPN. We’re even getting NFL Sunday Ticket so we can watch the Cowboys without having to go downtown and fight the Titans fans for the good TVs at Bailey’s. We can watch the Daily Show. And What Not To Wear. And Project Runway.

I. Am. Thrilled. So is my eyesight.

I’m sure the novelty will wear off eventually. But I think it might take a while for me. The only time I’ve ever had cable in my life was one semester in college. We were flipping channels one day, and they just kept going. And going. We had cable! I don’t know where it came from or how we got it, but there it was. We didn’t know what to do with ourselves. We left it on all the time, muting the TV when we went to bed, for fear it would go away. We didn’t want to be the guys who turned off free porn.

It’s a new day in The House Where Miles Lives. We have stepped into the 20th century.

Next up: internet!

I am just not meant to get a good night’s sleep this week. The last several nights have been full of things keeping me awake. My eyelids are drooping as I type this.

A couple of nights ago I woke up around 2am to the sound of Miles rummaging through my purse looking for food. He usually falls asleep at the end of the bed as soon as the sun goes down, so I’m not sure of the sequence of events. All I know is that he was sound asleep when I went to bed at midnight. He has been known to come upstairs with us when we go to bed, only to race back down when he thinks we’re not looking to look for snacks he thinks are down there – usually a glass with milk in the bottom left on the table or a pantry door that’s not closed all the way. Did he fake sleep with the intention of going after the purse when we were sleeping? Did he wake up, see the bag and get the munchies? I have no idea.

Earlier this week I woke up from a dream and couldn’t fall back asleep. In the dream, I’d been in a work meeting at a restaurant. During the meeting, someone stole my purse. When I realized it was gone I ran out into the parking lot to find my car gone. Somehow I knew the thieves had not only stolen my car but had gone to my house and taken my dog, my Kate Spade china and my white chocolate macadamia nut cookies I have to make special trip to Fresh Market to buy. Also known as my three most prized possessions. I didn’t have my phone to call Aaron, so I ran back into the restaurant to lodge a complaint with the manager. The guy at the hostess stand was really mean to me and said it was my own fault someone stole my bag. He was also Matt Dillon.

Tuesday night I couldn’t fall asleep because I was too worked up with grief and indignation over the Mavs. Tears may have been shed.

But I think the real contributor to my sleep issues is the sun. I think it is conspiring with my blinds and my alarm clock to drive me crazy every morning. Somehow the alignment of the sun and my blinds is such that, about 20 minutes before my alarm goes off, the sun peeks through the space between the blinds and the wall and blinds me. I’m awakened every morning by the BURNING OF MY CORNEAS.

If I could just get rid of the snack-happiness of my dog, and Matt Dillon, and the Heat, and the freaking sun, I’d be well-rested. And probably much more pleasant to be around.

(This blog title is just for you, mom.)

REASONS MY DAD IS COOL
(a belated birthday/father’s day tribute)

I just want to take a moment to apologize to Mavs fans, both in the wonderful city of Dallas and all over the world. I am truly, truly sorry. You see, last night’s loss to Miami was all my fault. Some may blame Dwayne Wade’s awesome performance, or turnovers, or the fact that Shaq actually made clutch-time free throws. But they are all wrong. I know what really happened.

I didn’t wear my lucky shirt.

The green short-sleeved henley that saw the Mavs through the last game of the Suns series and the first two wins over the Heat was absent last night, relegated to the dirty clothes bin. A bright red t-shirt had taken its place, and that is clearly where I went wrong. What was I thinking, wearing the color of the opponent? Why couldn’t I have pulled my (old-school) Mavs green shirt out of it’s hamper of a jail cell, shaken it out in the dryer, and given it life for a couple of hours?

I made a big mistake, Mavs fans. I am so very sorry. It will not happen again.

I think we have skinny mirrors in our house. Or maybe I’m just delusional. My skinny mirrors allow me to think I look fine. Not too big. Good, even. But inevitably, the digital camera comes along to show me the error of my ways. It never fails… anytime we go somewhere where our picture will be taken, I somehow gain 20 pounds on the way. At home in the mirror? I look great. In pictures? Not so much.

I know that I need to exercise more consistently. My whole brain knows that laziness is what is standing between what I think I look like and what I actually look like. Laziness and brownies.

Why, then, if the answer is so obvious, is getting motivated to work out so hard? I don’t mind it once I’m actually doing it. And after the fact, I always feel great. But those moments between thinking about getting dressed and going running and actually getting dressed and going running can kill you. Why? Why can’t we just accept that it’s what we need to do and it’s really not that unpleasant and we don’t really need to watch “How To Get The Guy” and we’ll be okay if we don’t find out if that weird meditation girl ever hooks up?

I know, or at least I’ve been told, that once you get in the habit, it’s easy. Or, rather, not excruciatingly difficult. Maybe that’s true. But the last time I was in the habit of regularly working out, Felicity still had long hair.

You would think it would help that Aaron has become a runner. Four times a week, he’s lacing up his shoes and circling the neighborhood. But I think it makes it worse. Last night, for example, when I was talking myself out of running (this time because I needed to finish a book that goes back to the library today, very important), he started telling me how when he finds himself trying to talk his way out of running, that’s when he knows he has to do it. This did not motivate me. It annoyed me. It made me want to sit and eat ice cream, JUST FOR SPITE.

But I didn’t. I went. Just like I did three times last week, and have every intention of doing at least three more this week. I’m doing my crunches and lifting my weights. And I do feel better. Let’s just hope it sticks. I have an instant gratification problem – if I can’t see benefits right away, I tend to get frustrated and quit. Hopefully my newfound motivation will stick around long enough for me to see a difference, which hopefully will inspire new motivation to keep going.

Because damn it, if Aaron can do it, I can do it.

Dear country music fans:

Once again, you have descended upon our fair city, in all your glory, for Fan Fair. We’re thrilled to have you. No, really. You bring your money and your… well, money, and we appreciate it. We really do.

I understand that Fan Fair is a big deal to the hardcore country fan. All your favorite stars in one place, concerts every night, getting to wander aimlessly into the buildings where the people who work in music are trying to do their jobs and don’t really have time to give you a tour of the building or tell you where the stars live… sounds like a rockin’ good time. We throw parades for you, close down streets for you, give you all the good parking spaces downtown, yield when you and your entire family decide to cross against the light. We do it all, and we do it for you.

I just have a couple of favors to ask in return. Nothing big, and certainly nothing you, as a fine upstanding fan of country music, wouldn’t be able to handle.

1. We would appreciate it if you would wear all the clothing that is appropriate for being out in public. Not much to it, really – just a shirt, something on the bottom, and shoes. That’s it. I’m looking at you, Mr. Too-low-denim-cutoffs-bare-chested-cowboy man with the blinding white socks and shoes. I’m sure the shirtlessness was so we could all see that the confederate flag tattoo on your arm wasn’t all you’ve got… The “DIXIE” across your flabby stomach was really impressive. All we ask is that you keep it covered out on the streets. That much awesome could cause a riot.

2. Now that you’re covered (literally), let’s talk about what you choose to cover yourself with. The fact that both your upper and lower body are clothed is a great start, truly. But could we possibly request that the items you wear be composed of an adequate amount of material? I’m not asking for turtlenecks and slacks, not at all. Just that you keep your butt cheeks and sideboobs where they belong – out of sight. We don’t want to scare the children.

3. I can understand the usefulness of shoe polish on a car window after, say, a high school graduation or a wedding. But on a minivan full of middle-aged women, the words “Nashville here we come!” and We –heart- Carrie Underwooooooooooooooood” scribbled on the windows seem wrong, somehow. (This isn’t a request so much as an observation. Some things I just don’t get.)

We appreciate you coming here, folks, we really do. We just ask that you show a little consideration for the locals. We like you, and we want you to be here. We just don’t want to see too much of your hairy back and your cellulite. We think that’s fair.

And no, I don’t know where Martina lives. Don’t ask me again.

Kisses,
Brandi

Because we want to leave straight from work to go to the Over the Rhine/Hem show tonight, I went home this afternoon to walk Miles. The whole drive home? Sunny. Putting on the leash? Sunny. Walking down to the little park in the neighborhood? Sunny.

Waiting for Miles to go to the bathroom? THE HEAVENS OPENED UP AND THE RAIN CAME DOWN.

I, of course, had no umbrella. Miles, of course, freaked out and booked it for home. We ran back to the house, both of us soaked to the bone.

So. Fun.

I hate it when people who are my age (and have my name) are exponentially cooler than I am.

At the end of her show last night at Exit/In, Brandi Carlile introduced their “fake last song.” She then gave a little speech about encores and how silly they are… how we all know they’re coming back out, and they know they’re playing the songs because they’re right there on the set list. She doesn’t really know why they have to do it, but it has to be done, and she just wanted to be sure we knew they didn’t take it seriously.

And that’s when I knew I loved her.

When they started playing “What Can I Say” on Lightning 100, it didn’t thrill me. I liked it, knew the words, but for whatever reason it didn’t stand out to me. Aaron, on the other hand, loved it. He bought the album and told me (repeatedly) how good it was. She became known as “girlfriend Brandi” around our house - I think for a while there, if he’d been told he could only have one Brandi, it would have been a tough choice. When he heard she was coming to town, he bought tickets right away. I was fine with going, but wasn’t expecting anything great.

People, she blew me away.

This girl is unbelievable. She has this great deep growly voice, but it’s also really strong when she sings the high notes. The music has kind of a Bonnie Raitt/Indigo Girls/Patty Griffin thing going on, and she will go from ballads to full out rock in the same song. She plays with a full band, including a cello, and the sound is really full. The ultimate music compliment from me is to say a song is pretty, and hers are. But they completely rock. It’s pretty rock. And it’s amazing.

She did a couple of obvious covers, “Times They Are A-Changin’” and “Hallelujah”. The Bob Dylan cover was funny… when she started singing, everyone was just watching like it was any other song. She’s a pretty new artist, so you’d have to be a real fan (like Aaron) to be familiar with all of her songs. But then she gets to the “times they are a-changin’” line, and everyone goes nuts. All of a sudden it’s their favorite song… that they don’t recognize until the chorus. It was cool, though - it was her opener, and she started it by herself on stage. Everytime a new verse started, another band member came out, and by the end of the song they were belting it out.

I like the songs on her album, particularly “Tragedy”, which is beautiful and sad. But my favorite songs of the night were the ones that aren’t on the album, which gets me really excited about the next one. She writes interesting songs, both lyrically and musically, and from the sound of it they are only getting better. If you guys haven’t heard of her, I highly recommend checking her out. The whole album is worth it, but if you just want to sample, I suggest “Tragedy” and “Throw It All Away”. You will not be disappointed.