Through a Glass, Darkly

Spoilers for the Gilmore Girls episode “Super Cool Party People.”

Yesterday Emily reminded me that I am overdue for my Gilmore Girls entry for this week. “Yes,” I told her, “but thus far I have been unable to write about this week’s episode without resorting to all caps.” She agreed that the internet doesn’t really want to hear me yelling.

So, deep breath, here I go.

This week’s episode was good - I don’t have to point out the actual talking, do I? About April? Meeting April? The banter, the cuteness at the party? And yet, I have to admit that I was really angry at the end. Angry at Anna. You see, she’s not the only parent. Luke is also April’s parent, and the reason he hasn’t been around for 12 years is because Anna didn’t tell him, because she didn’t think he’d be responsible (never mind that she never gave him a chance to be responsible, never mind that the most important thing to Luke Danes has always been family). It’s not because he chose not to be around. She isn’t the superior parent because she chose to be the only parent.

As I have said several times this week, back when Luke was still reacting to the news, Anna said, “Look, Luke, you’re in or you’re out.” A lot of people applauded that, but I thought, “No, that’s not fair at all. He has no idea what it means to suddenly have a kid, and you’re expecting him to know what he wants to do?” If Anna had approached things differently on Tuesday, I wouldn’t have been so upset with her - I think the complaint of not knowing Luke’s girlfriend is somewhat legit, but sitting down and talking about it would make a lot more sense than just laying down the law (which, I contend, she has no right to do to Luke).

And, you know, I get that they’re drawing parallels between Anna’s relationship with Lorelai and Lorelai’s relationship with Sherri (Christopher’s other babymama), but Lorelai, though she was jealous, was generous and kindhearted. If Anna had acted that way, I would have understood her jealousy and admired her kindness. But she didn’t.

In other news, Rory’s smackdown was awesome, I want Paris to make all my difficult phone calls for me, and I want to see Michel’s website.

Overall, other than my dislike of Anna, I thought that our favorite couple made some good steps in the right direction. Here’s hoping.

After my accident on Saturday (what, you didn’t hear about that? Here’s the quick version: I borrowed Brian’s truck to move a picnic table, the truck hydroplaned, and I spun around before ending up in the embankment on 220. I’m fine, and the truck is mostly okay, at least as far as I know), I got out of the truck into the pouring rain and slid in the mud. Because I was completely unable to process what had just happened, I channeled all of my upset feelings into my shoes. “My yellow shoes!” I thought (I was wearing them because I like to wear bright colors on rainy days). “They will never be the same!” (Street cred is one thing. You don’t want your Chucks to look too new. But caked in mud, that’s completely different.) And when I say they were bad, I mean they were so bad that the state trooper said, “Could you please wipe off your shoes before getting in my vehicle?”

I spent most of Saturday resting and watching Gilmore Girls and reading, and Sunday I decided to get up and do some of those things I’d meant to do on Saturday: laundry, sweeping the kitchen floor. When I put something in the pantry, I noticed my yellow shoes sitting by the front door where I had left them the day before. I took them upstairs, got out the soap and OxyClean, and did my best, channeling all my “not processing” into scrubbing the mud off. I put the shoelaces in the laundry (tied in a sock), and left the shoes to dry in the sink. They seem to be dry now, but we’ve had a lot of rain and I’m not planning to wear them again until I’m sure I’m not slipping in any more mud. They aren’t perfect (I guess we’re back to the street cred level), but they are just shoes after all. They don’t have to be completely clean.

In other news, I finished Blue Shoes and Happiness over the weekend, and I enjoyed it just as I have enjoyed Alexander McCall Smith’s many other fine books. A coworker and I decided that his writing in The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency series is deceptively simple. The rhythm of the language makes it sound a bit like the books have been translated from Setswana, which is a difficult thing to achieve. The humor and tone, as well as the strong characters, make me think that a lot of care was put into the books to make them sound just right.

Now I’m reading Gail Godwin’s Queen of the Underworld, and as I told Carla, it makes me think of her: a reporter just out of journalism school working at a paper in Miami . . . I’m enjoying it more than I thought I would, to be honest. There was a lot of talk about Cuba on the inside flap, which I thought would lose me. Cuba is figured prominently in the story, but it’s not in an off-putting way at all. After I finish this one, I’ve got two more Gail Godwins on my bedstand that should take me a while.

I don’t really have a way to close this entry - there are a lot of things on my mind, and some of them will probably come out in the next few weeks, but for now, I’m still in not-processing mode.

I hardly ever flat-out recommend books. There are many reasons for this. One is that I don’t like to share things that are close to my heart, because if you don’t like them, it’s like you don’t like me. Another is that I’m more than a little afraid of being Book Ass-Person (please see Adam’s post on Bible Ass-Man if that makes no sense to you). Book Ass-Person does not care whether her book relates to your overall topic, she just has to make sure that she mentions a book, even if it really has nothing to do with what you’ve just said. Book Ass-Person is annoying, especially if you’re not a big reader. You might be better served by a conversation, a song, a listening ear. Book Ass-Person does not listen. Book Ass-Person has the answer to all your problems, right there in paperback.

I’m going to make an exception, though, just this once, to recommend a novel I recently reread and enjoyed very much. If you enjoy the same books that I do, if you like interesting characters and a thoughtful story, then I would like to suggest Evensong by Gail Godwin. (It’s on my top ten list, but only because I forgot Gaudy Night. I’d make Evensong #11.)

When Mike was still working at his old store, one day he went by the library and picked up a book for me. “Philip Yancey recommended this author,” he told me, “and I know you like Philip Yancey. This is her latest book, Evensong.” I was impressed with his thoughtfulness, and dug in as soon as I could.

Evensong is from the perspective of a female Episcopalian minister, Margaret, and is set in the mountains of North Carolina. This, however, is no Mitford clone - I like the Mitford books, but their charm is in their simplicity and optimism. I don’t think it’s a stretch to call Evensong optimistic, because Margaret’s faith does buoy her along. However, it’s also true that the main character is wrestling with whether she can stay in her marriage to Adrian. More correctly, she wants to stay in her marriage, she’s resisted a few opportunities to leave, but she doesn’t know how to stay if things aren’t going to get any better. In Mitford, things are a little easier, and I read those books to meet a specific need. Evensong wasn’t a quick read for me, and it has characters and stories that you have to dig into a little more. I think my favorite thing about reading the book this time was seeing how determined she was to make it work. One of the themes of their marriage is that they both have complicated stories or, in visual terms, murals, and yet, there they are, together in the midst of them. I felt that way just last weekend, when Mike and I were cleaning out some old papers and boxes, and there were all kinds of things I’d forgotten, all sorts of new stories to tell. We aren’t people without any history, and we bring that history, good and bad, to our relationship, hoping to make new stories together. A lot of this book is Margaret and Adrian still learning, even after several years of marriage, how to be together in spite of their respective pasts.

The other big marriage-related theme in this book comes from Margaret and Adrian’s engagement, when he, as a much older man, claims that he doesn’t want to limit her future, and she says, “Why shouldn’t our having each other make more of us both?” Margaret uses that phrase in a wedding that she performs during the book, and she stays with Adrian because she believes that, yes, their work can make more of them, but that they can’t give up on their marriage because they aren’t yet done making more of each other. I loved that phrase, because I love the idea of marriage making more of me instead of holding me back. I think that women, especially, can start to believe that they could do or be more if they didn’t have a family and a husband to take care of, when caring for people (both inside and outside of marriage) is actually how you learn to be a more complete person, to sacrifice, to put others first, to be sensitive, to be compassionate, to speak the truth in love.

One of the small things I noticed this time was how much Margaret and Adrian work as a team, even when they’re not getting along like they would hope. Something would happen, and Margaret would think, “I need to remember to tell Adrian.” Or she’d read something and want to share it with him. As I was reading Evensong, I was reminded of how much I do that same thing, and I thought, “Marriage is like a constant conversation.”

It sounds like the book is woefully depressing, but it’s really not. Many of the parishoners add humor, Margaret and Adrian do enjoy being together even though it’s a difficult time for them, and a mysterious monk and an outcast teenage boy who end up staying at the rectory also make things interesting.

I don’t know why, exactly, this book resonates with me so deeply, but I enjoyed the character of Margaret so much that I read the first book about her: Father Melancholy’s Daughter. I enjoyed it quite a lot, too. On the front of my paperback copy of Evensong, it says, “The New York Times Bestseller,” but I haven’t heard people talk much about Gail Godwin. I have only read those two of her books, but I’m going to make my way through several of her others in the next few months. And I would like to give Evensong my wholehearted recommendation.

In books, it’s funny how dreams always mean something. If I thought my dreams actually meant something, I would have dumped Mike for Napoleon Dynamite. Yes, it’s true, I did have a dream in which Napoleon was my boyfriend. He was a good boyfriend, very sweet. Also, in that same dream, I was an astronaut. Again, not so much with the meaning. I’ve dreamed I was pregnant (according to the dream dictionary, that means I have a lot of changes coming), I dreamed I was dating Ryan Seacrest and we were on Survivor together (that dream may actually mean something: that I watch too much TV) (and can I just say that Ryan got REALLY SKINNY on Survivor), that Adriene wouldn’t tell me one of her secret ingredients for her sweet potato recipe (I woke up mad after that one until Mike reminded me that . . . it was just a dream), that I was on Gilmore Girls (again, too much TV). Sometimes I can tell from my dreams that I’m really stressed out, but that’s usually it. They’re usually too crazy to mean anything.

Last night, I dreamed that I was on an Amazing Race-type show, where we had to do all these tasks in a certain order so we could advance to the next round. One of the tasks had something to do with baking, one had something to do with doing certain moves on a swingset (I have no idea), and one had to do with getting a bunch of items from Sears. Again, no idea. Somehow, I got the host (who was some weird combination of Phil and Ryan Seacrest) to allow me to do fewer tasks than everyone else, but then it seemed like that changed and I still had to do everything. So I was working hard on my swingset moves, and getting all the ingredients for baking, and then I was at Sears. There was another girl there, who reminded me of someone I went to high school with, and we were both at the back of the pack, but we were working hard. And then. Who else is in this competition but Taylor Hicks? (Full disclosure: I am not so much a fan of Taylor Hicks. In fact, if he’s in the final two, I plan on voting. For whoever he’s up against. I have never voted before. Look what Taylor has made me do!) And what was Taylor doing? He was CHEATING. He was cutting in line and parking where he wasn’t supposed to. He was breaking a lot of rules. Taylor is a CHEATER.

I woke up and laughed and laughed. Now, I think that this dream could mean that I am frustrated with some things in my life, where I try to do everything right and play by the rules, but it’s still not working out like I think it should. But I also think that it means that I have a serious problem. This is the second dream in which Ryan Seacrest has appeared. And Taylor Hicks? I haven’t even watched American Idol in a few weeks. Ryan Seacrest is now a recurring theme in my dreams. What does Ryan symbolize?!

If this was a book, well, I’d probably end up with Ryan Seacrest. Or I would finally realize my attraction to Taylor Hicks. But . . . neither of them are really my type. So I really hope that’s not the case.

Sometime back in the fall, I started keeping track of how stressful a day was by how many mini-candybars I ate. I didn’t count them as I was eating, but I’d count the wrappers afterward. When Alisa and Dawn came to visit me at work, they brought candy, so I added it to my stash and kept up the habit. When I ran out (except for Almond Joy - there’s still some Almond Joy left), I went without candy until Katie sent me four bags of mini-candybars. I dug in.

Sure, I was a little worried about the amount of emotional eating I was doing. But I’d justify it in all kinds of ways. It got so that drawer was a crutch, and as soon as anything wasn’t going exactly how I hoped, I’d roll my chair back and pull out a few pieces of candy. When I was trying to think of something to give up for Lent, sweets were the only thing that came to mind, so, on Mardi Gras, I bid farwell to them for the duration. I have resisted doing that before, because that’s the traditional thing to give up for Lent, and I wanted to be more original in what I gave up. I also think it’s better to give up something and have something to replace it with, like the year I gave up listening to music in my car. I had more time for prayer and reflection because of that. Giving up food isn’t something that’s so easy to replace (or it’s way too easy to replace with other food), although my hope was that instead of turning to candy, I’d turn to Jesus.

If you’re not careful, giving something up for Lent can cause you to go through the same stages that I mentioned when I talked about not spending. In this case that meant: seeing chocolate everywhere, realizing my dependence on chocolate and coming to the point that I don’t need it any more, smugness about how holy I was, and now, finally, post-Lent, appreciating it in more moderation. I think that being smug is the biggest danger in celebrating Lent, which is why I usually try not to tell people unless it’s completely necessary, so as not to feed those self-satisfying feelings (of course, practicing Lent every year makes me feel a little less sure of my own self-importance and extra holiness, because I can see how I’ve had to depend on God to help me get through this period of fasting in the past). This “no telling” policy meant that I spent an afternoon with Melissa, Emily, and Alisa drinking water while they drank milkshakes. Made with fancy ice cream. And cookies. It actually wasn’t so bad. I watched them drink the delicious icecreamy goodness, and I thought a little bit about Jesus, and I thanked him for humbling himself by coming to earth and dying for our sins. That, though, isn’t a situation in which sweets are necessarily so tempting to me. On a normal day, I can easily say no to a milkshake or a plate of brownies or strawberry shortcake. On a normal day, I can think about whether I really want it. The real test is when I have a bad day. Those are the times that I tend to eat without being hungry, to eat just to fill some “need” inside myself. Sometimes I managed to pray and just drink water. Sometimes I ate fruit or other non-sweet foods and managed a smaller amount of prayer. And sometimes I just thought about sweets and felt sorry for myself. The last week of Lent was not a good one for me emotionally, and after a bad day at work, I had the following conversation with Mike:

KARI: I want a milkshake.

MIKE: This is why you gave up milkshakes, so that you could take this to Jesus.

KARI: Jesus does not make me feel better. Milkshakes make me feel better.

MIKE: Oooooookay. Well, that’s something you might want to think about.

Also eye-opening was the number of times my friends mentioned me in the same sentence as mini-candybars. I was known for being an emotional eater. It was expected of me. On one hand, that’s kind of humorous: “Let’s see how much chocolate Kari’s had today!” On the other, I’m not really doing anything about this dependence.

If I learned anything during this year’s Lent, it’s the extent to which I self-medicate with food (which I believe has gotten worse in recent years). There’s enjoying food (which I do), and there’s abusing it (which I am often very close to doing). I also learned a bit about how much I like being understood, because there were times that it was very difficult not to tell people about my “sacrifice.” As usual, I learned both more and different things than I expected about myself and my defenses. I’m actually glad I gave up sweets, because, you know, I had thought that it was the “traditional” thing to give up, so I hadn’t wanted to do it, but there are sweets all around us, all the time. It did give me ample opportunity to be more thoughtful and prayerful during Lent, which was the goal after all.

On Sunday, I came home, made shortcakes, cut up strawberries, got out the Cool Whip, and, yes, I did have strawberry shortcake for lunch. “It’s okay,” I told Mike, “Strawberries are a symbol of the resurrection.” “Really?” he said. “No. But they sure feel like it today.” And I’m not exaggerating when I say . . . I think it was the best strawberry shortcake I’ve ever had.

Spoilers for the Gilmore Girls episode “I Get a Sidekick Out of You.”

Theresa, I’m not so sure what I can say that’s positive. At least Christopher slept in the chair? Has it really come to this, that I just have to be happy that Christopher and Lorelai didn’t sleep together?

So . . . I will attempt to distract you by passing on this fabulous information that the incomparable Al Lowe presented in her fabulous recap: The song that the kids were singing last week? The one with all the elements on the periodic table? Is a real song. You can listen to it here.

If that attempt to distract you didn’t really work, can I point out how funny it is that Mrs. Kim has a scary mom? And that she had to pretend to be a Buddhist for her own scary mom? How about Zach in that robe? Christopher . . . and that . . . sidekick thing . . . that was . . . funny. (I’m trying here!) Actually, I thought it was a good episode, just not in the feel good way. And as good as an episode can be without any Luke at all. Hopefully from here we’ll get to what we have been waiting half the season for: Lorelai and Luke finally having it out about April, the wedding, and all that has transpired since Thanksgiving. Keep on believing.

(I might need a hug.)

Let me set this first one up: Last week, Kelly and I had a freak-out conversation about how we are going to be 27 this summer. Actually, I am the one who was freaking out. She was relatively calm. In fact, she was the one who kept saying, “27,” while I kept screeching, “Stop saying that! Stop saying that!”

Of course I know that 27 is not old, but it does sound really grownup. I do not feel grownup. Also, back in the day, I had kind of thought we’d start having kids when I was 27, but that looks very unlikely at this point. So, 27 has a lot of baggage. I am not yet ready to be 27. In preparation, though, I’ve started declaring my age to be “almost 27.” Surely I can get used to 27 before my birthday if I keep saying that. I hope.

On Saturday, I went to Wal-Mart to do our grocery shopping. I decided I would like to have some Mike’s Hard Lemonade. I was wearing jeans, a t-shirt, Mike’s Diet Coke hat, and I had my hair in two braids. It was not my most mature looking outfit. Here is the conversation I had with the (very very young) cashier:

GIRL: I’ll need to see your ID.

KARI: *gets out ID*

GIRL: *tries to read age, has difficulty because of the little plastic thing it’s in* How about you just tell me your birthday?

KARI: 7/5/79

GIRL: *types that in, looks confused*

KARI: I’m almost 27.

GIRL: *in a voice of disbelief, indicating that I am lucky to be alive at such an advanced age* Gaaaaaaaaaaaaaw. You don’t look it.

KARI: *smiles*

As soon as I left the store, I called Kelly and left her a ranting message about how even my Wal-Mart cashier thinks that 27 is old, and I tried to accept the 27 but I just don’t think I can. I don’t want to be 27 yet! Someone make it stop!

At least I can take solace in the fact that Mike is almost 31. mwuhahahahahaha!

——–

On Sunday at church, I was passing an older member in the hall after the service, and she stopped me and said, “What do you do?” However, that is not what I heard. Let me back up for a second. On Sunday I wore a shirt I don’t often wear, because I just can’t decide if the bottom hem makes it unflattering. I had ironed it in a different way, though, and i was pleased with it. I felt cute and springy. But when the lady asked me, “What do you do?” what I actually heard was, “WHEN are you DUE?”

Two things went through my head at that point:

1. How embarassing is it going to be for me to have to say, “Oh, I’m not pregnant?”

2. I’m never wearing this shirt ever ever again.

Luckily, I said neither of those things, and I just said, “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you.” And when she repeated the question, it turned out to be much less offensive than what I had originally heard. But for about two seconds, I thought I was having one of the most awkward conversations of all time: the one where you think a woman is pregnant . . . and she’s not.

For as long as I can remember, Grandma has hidden a particular brand of candy eggs at her house on Easter for the grandkids to find. The consensus among all the grandchildren is that those eggs are disgusting. Finding them wasn’t about the candy. It was all about the glory. So much glory that I can’t remember who won on any particular year (partly because we’d get an adult to rehide the eggs after we found them all).

Yesterday there was a debate about when, exactly, it was that Joseph and I (and our older cousin) stopped egg hunting. Mike claimed that he was still participating in Easter Egg hunts when he was 15, and Joseph and I think we were both also teenagers before we were banished from the backyard. Grandma wasn’t so sure, and didn’t hide any eggs yesterday, thinking that the two youngest grandchildren (who are, I believe, 8 and 10) wouldn’t want to find eggs anymore. When they showed up with their Easter baskets, she realized that she was a little bit mistaken, so she sent me and Mike out to hide them. This marks the first year that I can remember Grandma not hiding them herself. I took the responsibility very seriously, hiding them in all the traditional places: on a particular grate on the back of the house, on windowsills, throwing some out into the grass. Joseph came out and hid a few in more diabolical places, but I was going pretty easy on them. (Oddly enough, the ones I thought were easiest were some of the last ones to be found. I think that there’s a bit of a generation gap, because those were the places I would have looked first.) We were soon joined by some of the other cousins in attendance who were considered too old to participate, and after the two youngest found all the eggs, the two of them insisted upon hiding them for the seven of us. We went back and forth a few times with the hiding and the hunting before Mike and Joseph and I needed to leave so Mike could work on a couple of papers.

When I was younger, Joseph, my older cousin, and I were an inseparable triad (that is, after we let Joseph hang out with us). Because of that, I didn’t spend a lot of time with my younger cousins at holidays. Now, though, that my older cousin lives in Brooklyn, I tend to spend holiday meals with the ones who are left. In recent years, I have learned how much we hurt their feelings by excluding them, and they have cautiously let me into their lives. I guess you could say that I’m the outsider now. Part of it is the age gap - when the very youngest was born, I was already in college. Part of it is the spacing that naturally put us in groups of different ages. Other than the very youngest, the ones who live around here are all in college or high school, so there’s definitely space between us. I’ve been working on it, though, trying to ask good questions and to let them know that I’m not just spending time with them by default. One of the constant themes of my childhood was wanting to be included. I look back and see how desperately I was afraid of exclusion, to the point that I would exclude others if I thought it would help my position. I think that my relationships with my younger cousins suffered a bit because of that. It’s nice to think that some really disgusting Easter Eggs, four Easter baskets, and a warm Sunday afternoon could help that situation heal just a little bit.

I don’t think we live the most simple life possible. With Mike in school, though, we have cut back quite a lot. Not much eating out, no Netflix (thank you, public library and UNCG, for stocking new movies that we can check out for free), fewer movies in the theater, no new clothes, so on and so forth. It gets a litle awkward when our friends are sitting around talking about restaurants we can’t afford to visit and trips we can’t afford to take, but overall it’s been manageable, especially after we got past the first few months. So when I saw Not Buying It : My Year Without Shopping by Judith Levine, I decided to check it out (it doesn’t seem like a book you should purchase, hehe). (Saying things like that probably makes the author cry.)

What I found so interesting about the book was the way the author and I moved through the same stages, though her situation was voluntary and mine was out of necessity. At first, all you do is see things that you wish you could buy. After a while, you realize you don’t want them. Then you start feeling smug about all the money you’re not spending. Then you break down and buy something and feel guilty about it. Sometimes you feel hostile towards other consumers. Then, finally, you start to realize how full your life is without those things. You appreciate free concerts and the public library and your generous friends and family who provide you with the things you can’t provide for yourself. I don’t miss going through a drive-through. I like planning meals and taking my lunch. I don’t miss Starbucks. I wish sometimes that I had nicer, newer clothes, but I make do with giftcards and hand-me-downs and Christmas and birthdays supplemented with the occasional sale item. The hardest thing, and she touched on this a bit, is the social aspect, the inability to have a cup of coffee with friends, the ways you try to work around going out to lunch. Sometimes it’s awkward when our friends are all talking about great restaurants, and Mike and I have nothing to contribute to the conversation. We’re much more at home talking about recipes these days, and we don’t often try new restaurants because we don’t really want to risk it when we do go out.

One of the parts that resonated with me was when her partner, Paul, asked her why she gave in and made a purchase while they were on vacation. She claimed that it was an impulse, even though deep inside she knew it wasn’t. He said that he never makes impulse purchases, and she suggested that instead of Not Buying It, he should go into a store and see what he could buy in five minutes. Not being an impulse shopper myself, the idea of going into a store and having to spend money in five minutes made it a little bit hard to breathe. Mike, on the other hand, claimed that he could do some serious damage in five minutes. I can relate to buying something, though, out of anger or to make yourself feel better or because you think you “deserve” it, so it was a debate I could really see both sides of.

Reading something like this always makes me want to simplify even more. In the book, the man who seemed to have the most simple life was a man who didn’t have indoor plumbing. I’d like to go ahead and say that I don’t want my life to be quite that simple. It does feel good to let go of things, though. Today Mike and I went through the house and threw out a ton of stuff, and we’re donating some other things to the church yardsale. We planted our garden yesterday, and spent time reading on the front porch. Sure, right now, Mike’s playing X-Box and I’m on the computer, but I think we are better about finding the balance.

I enjoyed the book overall, although I thought that it kind of lost its way in the last quarter. The year in which she was Not Buying It was 2004, and around October the book turned to a more political focus. I understand having problems with Bush and his policies, and I see the connections between politics, the economy, and spending, but that wasn’t why I personally picked up the book. I think the book would have been stronger without the huge shift in the last few chapters. Either it should have been more political throughout, or the political demonstrations and constant checking of MoveOn.org should have been toned down a bit. I would recommend it with reservation - it was a good read, but it was a little self-indulgent at the end.

My Life With the Saints got such good reviews that I decided I’d check it out myself. To be honest, I think I probably had some kind of idea that maybe it would make me think about Damian. I should know better than to bring too many expectations into a book.

At first I wasn’t sure how I felt about it. It was engaging, but maybe not quite what I had imagined. I thought it would be more about his life, but instead there were mini-biographies on each of the saints he talks about interspersed with personal reflections and experiences. I patiently read through the chapters on Ignatius of Loyola and Pedro Arrupe, wondering why Robert Ellsberg (according to the cover blurb) called this, “One of the best spiritual memoirs in years.”

And then. The chapter on St. Bernadette. I didn’t know anything about St. Bernadette, but I realized, in reading it, that I’d heard her story before. And somewhere in the middle of that chapter, it all clicked for me, what he was doing. He’s introducing us to each saint in the order that he was introduced to them, explaining their story, and giving us a bit about his connection to them. He even said that’s what he was going to do in the introduction, but I hadn’t quite understood until that chapter exactly how his own story was also unfolding in the pages.

Maybe part of the reason I was kind of detached from the book is that I don’t get into praying to the saints. I think, though, that Protestants can be so afraid of the saints that we don’t bother to learn anything about the people who have gone before us. In reading this (and other books on saints this year), what I am starting to realize is that, even if I don’t get into the mystical aspect, whether Bernadette and Joan of Arc really saw visions and heard voices, there are things I can learn from them about trusting God in the face of opposition. James Martin says, “Bernadette has become for me a symbol of the need to stay true to your own personal vision.” Now, Bernadette saw visions of Mary, which I am not really in the habit of doing, but I do let people’s opinions matter too much. I let negative feedback destroy the way I see myself. Instead of worrying about what others think, I should be focused on God.

After that, it was much easier to enjoy learning more about Mother Teresa (who served even while struggling in her spiritual life), Pope John XXIII (whose good humor and ability to love are an excellent example to us all), Joseph (whose life we know so little about, despite the fact that some call him “the noblest of men,” making him an example of serving others without much glory from the world). All these people had very real ups and downs, and yet managed by the grace of God to be faithful and to serve in the ways that they were gifted. There’s no one way to be a saint. The key is trusting in God.

By the time I got to the Ugandan Martyrs (which Martin said are not well known in this part of the world, although they are featured in Millions), I felt like a whole world had opened up to me. I am still not a fan of praying to the saints, but thinking about the lives of the saints doesn’t have to be about praying to them. It can just be about gaining inspiration from regular people who do extraordinary things. So as I finished the book, when Martin mentioned praying to the saints, I could imagine him as a sort of grown-up Damian, asking for advice and help from Peter and Thomas Merton and Mary as he goes about his day. In the end, I found that paying attention to that great cloud of witnesses was less about slightly strange things like visions and stigmata and more about being faithful in the small things of life, honoring God with the gifts you’ve been given. And that’s something I know Damian would approve of.

Spoilers for “The Real Paul Anka.”

I woke up this morning to an erroneous announcement on TVGuide.com (you bet your sweet bippy that I checked it first thing this morning) saying that Team Palladino had left the building. And boy was I glad. Imagine my disappointment when I heard that it had been taken down (much like the EW article that said the same thing yesterday). For a long time, the mantra among fans has been, “Amy’s got a plan!” And I used to believe that. But the mess this season has been and the rumblings I’ve heard about what’s coming up (I am still not watching promos. But . . . I’m one of those people who reads the last few pages because I like to know where the story’s headed. So I know some - not all - of the general things, but I don’t know details of how they’re going to play out) make me think that, this year, Team Palladino was more focused on their new show (that got canned) than on my Girls, and I think it’s even possible that, after their new show got the axe (because of the WB/UPN merge), they sort of . . . made a mess on purpose. Knowing that they’d leave and someone else would have to deal with the Pod-like characters we’ve been dealing with this season. Because, I have to admit, while I do enjoy many of the Amy-penned episodes (and even some of the Daniel ones), I think that Amy has gotten more and more self-indulgent, and some of the remarks I’ve read make me think that she could be that vindictive.

So, there’s my rant. There’s no news yet, but I’m still hoping we get some new blood in next year.

As far as last night’s episode, from, “The real Paul Anka,” to, “Your pancakes are better,” from, “You let women ride horses?” to “The dress has pants!” from, “My dad can be kind of overprotective,” to, “Thanks, Jess,” was . . . good. I enjoyed it. It made me laugh and was sweet. The only scene I didn’t like was when Kirk was going on and on about bats and rats and mold . . . I turned to Mike and said, “All I can hear is, ‘Daniel wrote this episode, Daniel wrote this episode, Daniel wrote this episode.’” And the most important scene (besides Lorelai throwing coffee on that hideous dress that I can definitely see Mrs. Kim wearing) was when Emily was found playing cards in the diner with the girl she presumed was Luke’s daughter. Many many points to Emily for making an effort. I have mixed feelings about how she laid into Lorelai - on one hand, it was her usual pattern of blaming Lorelai for everything, and in this case, I do think Lorelai is trying to do the right thing. On the other hand, she is being way too passive. I’m afraid, though, that when Emily was talking, all Lorelai could hear was, “You’re a failure at relationships, you’re a failure at relationships.”

Anyway. On to our reasons why Luke and Lorelai are going to be okay.

-They only got one scene together, and it was very sweet (although marred a little bit by Lorelai’s passive-agressiveness about the bag). But the, “Can you step back so I can say goodbye to my girl?” and the, “I’m gonna call you a lot,” that they exchanged was more sweetness than we’d gotten from them in a while. [Palladino-inspired rant] I just wish the Palladinos weren’t so afraid of the show turning into, “You’re pretty, no you’re pretty,” that they backed off all genuine displays of affection. Yet another reason I’m hoping they’re gone.[/PIR] Anyway, it was good to see that they still like each other, hehe.

-April knows (or at least she does now) about Luke being engaged. I was honestly not sure if she did. And I still can’t tell whether she knew before, or whether her response to, “It’s complicated,” was just her way of saying, “Well, you certainly seem uncomfortable for whatever reason.” While I would certainly have liked Luke to introduce Rory and April as future stepsisters, I’ll take the nice (albeit uncomfortable) moment we got. Which brings me to my most recent theory. But first, let me set it up: April didn’t seem fazed at all about Luke having a fiancee. There had been some speculation that perhaps, for whatever reason, Luke was afraid that April had some kind of hangup about wanting her parents back together, so he hadn’t been talking to her about Lorelai. While it’s clear that she doesn’t know much about Lorelai, I can’t really imagine her wanting her parents back together. What I wonder is whether Anna has been putting some kind of pressure on Luke - not to get back together, but about April and time with April and making this easy for her. Which Luke has interpreted as, “I’d better not introduce her to my fiancee, because that might make things more complicated for her.” Maybe we will find out whether that’s true. It would go a long way in explaining Pod!Luke.

-And, let us not forget! The most important scene! Emily! Is! Accepting! This! Relationship! She was even trying to be nice to Luke’s daughter. This! Is! A! Good! Sign!

I have pretty much given up hope on a wedding this season (although I still think we’ll have one eventually). Do you think Lorelai is going to give Lane her dress?

Even without the wedding, this week and last week seem like an upswing, at least a little bit. Now if we could only get Rory to stop being so passive.

Why is it that every time I pass the Lifetime or Women’s Entertainment channels and Dirty Dancing is on, I have to stop and watch? There are plenty of movies that are shown all the time - I rememer The Princess Bride being on TBS a lot. That’s a respectable movie. But, no, I have to watch Dirty Dancing. (And I realize this is not exactly new material here, because I talked about watching it back in October, too. I have watched it several more times since then.) I have to watch Baby come out of her shell and learn how to dance, and I have to watch Baby’s father learn to accept Johnny, and I have to watch them do their dance at the end to “I’ve Had the Time of My Life.” And I have to sing along with all the songs. Including the “How do you call your loverboy?” song. Stop looking at me like that. The soundtrack is good. Except for that song that Patrick Swayze sings. And it’s good in an “I can’t believe anyone actually let him record this” kind of way.

Mike and I had an argument on Saturday night about Dirty Dancing, which I will recreate for you here.

MIKE: This is not a good movie! Stop watching it!

KARI: Take that back! It deals with important themes like . . . class dynamics and . . . abortion! And putting people in corners!

MIKE: Seriously? That’s the best you can do? What if you were sitting by a window and I walked up to you and said, ‘Nobody puts Kari by a window!’ Is that impressive at all?

KARI: Can you dance like Patrick Swayze?

MIKE: No.

KARI: Then it’s not impressive.

The first time I saw Dirty Dancing was at my friend Leslie’s house. She had seen it about 100 times, but I had never seen it (it is rated PG-13, and I was just 10), so we checked it out of the video store and she was so excited for me to see it. At the end of it, I remember feeling like I had maybe missed something. Now I know that “something” was “the entire abortion subplot.” I had no idea what was going on. I just liked the dancing. And yay for true love! I was ten, okay? I had similar feelings when I saw Grease as a college student - they rereleased it in theaters, and a bunch of girls from my hall decided to go. The remarkable thing about seeing the rerelease of Grease in the theater was that the girls I was with were not the only ones doing the handmotions during Greased Lightning. No, no, we were not. There were other groups of girls doing them as well. We all kind of waved at each other. This, I believe, is what college is really about - making a fool of yourself in public places. I learned that on 90210, when Donna and Kelly were pledging a sorority and had to walk around in their pajamas and cold cream and of course Kelly saw Dylan . . . or maybe it was John by then, but of course it didn’t matter, because, who are we kidding, she looked cute despite her pajamas. And whoever the guy was, he agreed. Anyway, the first time I saw Grease was in a basement, hanging out with my parents’ friends’ kids while my parents were hanging out with their friends. What I remember about Grease the first time is this: “Yay, singing! I love movies with singing!” What I remember from seeing it in college was: “How come I didn’t remember the pregnancy scare? And, wow, there’s a lot of talking about sex.”

There are just some movies that, no matter how bad they are, the memories associated with them are so good that you have to love them anyway. I haven’t seen Leslie since I graduated high school, but I always think of her when I see Baby and Johnny dancing. I don’t know exactly what all those kids from the basement are up to, but I always remember how the older ones had a little bit better idea of what was going on, because they kept trying to convince their parents that Grease was perfectly clean. Plus, I think there has to be some kind of clause or loophole regarding movies that you watched before a certain age. Let’s say 15. If you watched the movie (or *cough*90210*cough* television show) before that age, there’s no shame in admitting that, when you see it on TV, you just want to sit and watch for a little while.

Besides, where else would I have learned such gems as, “She leads me through moonlight, only to burn me with the sun . . . She’s taken my heart, she doesn’t know what she’s dooooooooooone?” (I remember, in high school, that our lunch table would spontaneously burst into that song from time to time. Leslie was, in fact, part of that lunch table.)

Now that Melissa has outed herself on the internet (and is at 11 weeks), I think it’s okay to talk about the fact that she’s pregnant again. When she called me and told me, I didn’t really do the woe-is-me-I-am-so-far-behind-everyone-as-far-as-having-children-goes thing that I used to do. I am behind most of my friends on the baby-having thing. I am so far behind that the only possible thing I can do is just accept it. And eat chocolate.

When she told me, I wanted to do the girly thing and jump up and down and squeal, but I was in the car with some coworkers. And I don’t really squeal. So I said something like, “YAY!” And then, later that day, I went to see her, and I told her I was jumping up and down and squealing on the inside. Even if it didn’t really look like it. (I think I might have had on heels that day, because normally I don’t mind jumping for excitement.) What I’d like to know, though, is whether squealing is something you’re born knowing how to do, or whether you have to practice it. It seems like practicing it wouldn’t work. Squealing has to be spontaneous, right? I’m not a very loud girl. It’s often hard to hear me in a crowd. Does loudness have anything to do with squealing? And what, exactly, is squealing supposed to sound like? When I try to squeal, it always comes out as, “Eeeeeeee.” Imagine that a little louder at first, tapering off near the end because I realize how pathetic it sounds. I just tried it. It was horrible. I’m sitting at my computer trying to squeal so that, when I hear really exciting news, I’ll be able to respond. Should I just get a sign to carry around for that kind of thing? It could say *SQUEAL* and I could jump up and down and hold it. I’d be willing to do this if my friends deem it necessary, because I don’t want them to think I’m not excited about their news. I’m excited! I just don’t know how to show it in a girly way.

Squealing is just one of those things where I wonder if I missed the gene. So if you give me exciting news and all I do is clap and say, “YAY!” please know that I’m squealing on the inside. The squeals are trapped inside me. If we could only find a way to get them out.

You know, I wrote this whole thing, and it’s humorous, me trying to squeal to be a better girl, but it really does speak to some big insecurities of mine, which is whether I’m girly enough about things. I worry because I like spicy food and sports and I don’t know how to squeal. I worry even though I like Gilmore Girls and scrapbooking and I wear pink. I worry that my friends don’t know that I care about them, because sometimes it’s inside me but I don’t know how to say it. I worry that being so closed off will push them away. I’m way better than I used to be, but I’m still learning how to be demonstrative and affectionate with my friends (although I do let them sit close to me now without being all, “I need some personal space”), and how to be comfortable with who I really am, girly or not.

(Spoilers for Gilmore Girls episode “I’m OK, You’re OK.”)

Dear Theresa,

I have to admit that, over the hiatus, I lost heart. I thought, “What will I say to Theresa? The past few episodes have been very depressing.” I thought I was going to have to convince you to encourage me. (Would you have been able to?)

I have heard some serious complaining about this week, but I am not complaining. We finally saw movement. It wasn’t so painful. It was better than most of the last few, actually. We saw the return of bantering Luke and Lorelai, Rory and Lorelai got to spend time together, and except for getting back with Logan, Rory was very likeable this week. I liked that she could see the problems Luke and Lorelai were having, just as Lorelai could tell something was wrong with her and Logan, but they’re so bad at relationships that none of them were fixing anything. As Mike said, “Those Gilmores are terrible at relationships.”

Anyway, the good signs this week as I saw them:

-Talking about April is a good sign. The more they talk about April, the closer we get to Lorelai meeting April.

-We actually got to see why Lorelai is being so passive (”Luke said he’d handle it”), and we got to see her ask (in a passive way) about the bag. And we got to see Luke say, “I’ll send it back if you want me to,” and you could tell he meant it. It seemed like a step in the right direction, at the very least. I know, I know, we all wanted Lorelai to lay the smackdown, but it was still a step in the right direction.

-The banter. It was seriously a big deal to me that we saw them spending time together and having fun.

-Luke took care of the spiders for her. That’s true love right there.

All right, so it’s not a great list, but I felt that it was a mostly positive episode overall. And I liked Mrs. Kim’s scenes with Zach. It was cute. I love that Mrs. Kim knows so much about music, and that she’s gotten more flexible in some small ways over the years, but that she is still incredibly scary. And Rory’s scene with Paris was great. I also enjoyed the, “My parents are here,” 180 that Luke did, as well as Sookie’s scene in the kitchen. And I kind of wanted Rory and Lorelai to go spy on Anna. Does that make me a terrible person?

Overall, though, the banter really redeemed this episode for me. It was the first one in a while that I wasn’t sad when I finished watching it. What did you think?

I miss you and I know I owe you an email,
Kari

MIKE: What are the Grasshoppers‘ colors?

KARI: Green and *mumble*

MIKE: What?

KARI: *sigh* Green and orange.

MIKE: Oh, so I can wear this shirt!

KARI: NO! I’m wearing orange! You can’t wear orange!

MIKE: No one will notice.

KARI: I hate matching! We cannot match! If we match we can’t sit together!

MIKE: I’ll have to wear my UNCG hoodie, too. For when it gets cool.

KARI: NO! I’m wearing MY UNCG hoodie!

MIKE: I’ve worn my hoodie every day this week! I’m wearing it to the game!

KARI: I don’t want to go to the game anymore.

Despite my misgivings regarding our apparel, I was really excited about going to the Grasshoppers’ Opening Day. I had a lot of fun last year at the games we went to, and I was excited about the season starting. I love being outside at this time of year. After the long cold days of winter, something inside of me just needs to be outside. Preferably in the sun. In a pinch, a lighted baseball field will do.

The whole week, I waxed melodic about baseball - the crack of the bats, the hotdogs, the WAFFLES. In reality, it was a lot more chaotic than that, since we went with a large group of people, including kids. When I think of baseball, I think of long relaxing afternoon games and long relaxing games under the lights. And maybe that would be true if Mike and I went alone, or if we went with another couple. But, instead, living in community meant that I got to spend less time watching the game and more time chatting. I’d like to say that I helped with the kids, but it’s just not true - the moms had it all under control. So I chatted. And that was good, too, because this semester has been so busy that we’ve been almost unsociable. We haven’t had people over to the house since Christmas (Christmas!), and we’ve spent time with people, but a lot of it has been in groups, so I haven’t gotten to talk to my friends as much. Baseball, though, with Spaz (the guy who runs around between innings and directs the games) yelling and music playing, means less large group conversation and more one-on-one or small group conversation. We talked about all kinds of things: The Amazing Race, work, school, Christian college groups, breeding cats, dogs, basketball . . . all of it good for the soul.

We didn’t stay for the end, which is a shame, because the Grasshoppers pulled it out after all. This morning I’ve been thinking about how I was looking forward to a long relaxing night of watching baseball at the ballpark, and what I got instead was a long relaxing night at the ballpark with my friends. I think that was what I needed after all.

(Other pictures from the game can be found here.)

The other night, Mike and I slept with the window open, to keep things cool upstairs. In theory, I like sleeping with the window open. I like nature and fresh air. I like crickets. I like the smell of fresh-cut grass (not ours). In practice, though, it’s not exactly like that. For one thing, our neighbor’s yippy dogs created a chorus of dogs howling from every corner of our neighborhood. Which Mike, of course, was able to sleep through. (The theme of the last few days: Mike can sleep through anything.) And there was howling from the woods, too, which I, the next morning, claimed was from “wild dogs.” “Wild dogs?” Mike said. “Did YOU hear it? Then I get to decide what it was.”

I’ve been walking/running in our neighborhood a lot lately, and it’s caused me to realize something. I don’t like dogs. I should preface this by saying that I’m allergic to dogs (ask Biscoe), that big dogs scare me, and that I am a cat person. But I have moved from indifference to dogs to a dislike of them. They bark at me all the time. I am just walking/jogging on the street, minding my own business, and they bark at me. I’m not on their property. They need to step off.

I can trace this intense dislike of dogs to the dogs that live next door. Whenever I am out in my yard - MY YARD - they bark at me. They are indoor dogs, so they bark at me through every available window. It’s my yard. I should be able to walk from my car to my front door without being barked at.

Anyway, back to the sleeping with the window open. In the morning, when the yippy dogs were let out for their morning bathroom break, we got lots of yippiness. Only to be expected. What was not expected was the woodpecker that was apparently making its new home in the trees behind our house. Hello, Mr. Woodpecker. We don’t think it’s time to get up yet. Please go back to sleep before we hunt you down with rubberbands (we don’t have any guns. But we do have a deep fryer).

As we were lying there listening to the woodpecker (Mike actually woke up for that one), I noted that even though our house gets quieter at night, it seems that the world outside gets louder. The dogs, the crickets, the birds . . . all enjoying the early spring evening. Unfortunately, my favorite way to enjoy an early spring evening is by . . . being asleep.

When I throw up in the middle of the night, I always go to the hall bathroom and close the door so that Mike won’t be able to hear me. If, somehow, he did (this has never happened), I would shoo him away. It’s really embarassing for someone to see you barfing. It’s pretty much the most disgusting thing ever.

Paradoxically, though I’m sneaking down the stairs to get a ginger ale and quietly getting back into bed so I don’t wake him up (I never do), I really really want Mike to wake up and take care of me. I think that’s allowed when vomit is involved. Basically, I just don’t want him holding my hair while I’m puking. To be honest, though, that’s because I really hope I am not expected to hold his hair while he’s puking. I have never been tested on this matter, though, because the one time he’s gotten sick since we got together was when he was in Arizona, and all I had to offer him were words over the phone. I might respond differently if he was actually here, with more compassion than concern for my own stomach, but I just don’t know. I don’t mind that I didn’t wake him up, but I really do wish somehow I could get him to be the one who gets the ginger ale and crackers so that my pitiful self can crawl back into bed instead of creeping down the stairs. I could probably have asked him, but that’s a little too selfish even for me.

When I was a kid, every time I got a stomach virus, my dad would appear in the bathroom soon after the puking with a glass of water for me to rinse out my mouth. I have a feeling he’s not so good with the actual puking part, either (I come by that pretty honestly), but he was really good at the stuff that came after. And when he’s awake, Mike is really good at that stuff, too. He’s also good at the puking part, even though I try to shoo him away. I guess the puking part is an important part of marriage, too - it’s that vulnerability that I’m sometimes not so good at. It’s embarassing for someone to see you kneeling by the toilet. But when you’ve found someone who will love you in spite of that level of disgustingness, I’d advise keeping them around.

All this to say: I’m at home today. It was not a good night. But this morning Mike took great care of me, and hopefully it will all be over soon.