Yesterday in our Sunday school class we were discussing money and margin. Spending less than you make, to put it simply. And, as it was church, it came to having more to give. There was a fascinating conversation happening for the people bothering to listen. What Giving is. Where Giving should go. Where the church fits into Giving. And I have to give props to my teacher who is also my pastor who welcomed legitimate opinions regarding this, and quite a weighty conversation it was.
At this point in the conversation, one of our classmates gestured at Brent and me and said something like, "I mean, look at them. They are contributing what I assume is a great deal of money to take a child into their home. I would consider that giving."
Wherein my pastor started in on his take of our current situation, which boiled down to us living within margin well enough that we could swing this adoption financially...and was cut off by a guy who asked, "Where's there room for faith in that?!"
Where's the room for faith in that?
Let me point out the fact that none of the people as yet talking about us actually know our financial situation. I suspect YOU don't know our financial situation. Even at the end of this post, none of you will know our financial situation. As far as I know, I have told exactly zero people how we are paying for this adoption. But my point here is that Lance didn't know HOW we were paying for the adoption when he indicated it as giving. Brian didn't know how we were paying for the adoption before he indicated that we were probably reaping the benefits of living within margin. And for goodness sake, Shall-Remain-Nameless doesn't know if we are taking a leap of financial faith or not. Just because he doesn't read about us in the paper, does that mean we aren't walking in faith?
And since I was never again given the chance to speak and tell him, you will get my response:
Now faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see. (Hebrews 11:1)
You wanna know where my faith is in this? Let me tell you. Faith is knowing for the last five years that my little girl was out there. Faith is watching for her on photolistings even when we had no money. Faith is believing in your broke months that you will one day have money in the bank to adopt again. Faith is believing that you will find the daughter you have been longing for (that also fits into very specific criteria, in our case "brown, age 6"). And faith is knowing her when you see her. Faith recognizes that it is no coincidence that you "just happen" to have some money in the bank on the same day you commit to adopting her (when you commit to a waiting child, you are expected to immediately pay approximately half the money up front). Faith is recognizing the provision when the house on which you have a contracted, agreed upon price, "just happens" to drop by approximately the cost of your adoption (yes, it is spread out over 30 years, but still) less than 24 hours after you drop the check in the mail.
*and this is where my computer sharing with my daughter wreaked havoc with my blog post which was eloquent and poetic and very meaningful, but alas, did not save and has been lost in the abyss*
Some people are called to adopt when they have absolutely NO IDEA how they are going to pay for it. Kudos to them. If you are one of those people, good for you. Take the leap of faith. I applaud you. I hope people give you lots of money.
But I don't believe that one should downgrade faith that follows a different process. Faith can also be saving for the child you don't yet know of. Shoot, faith can be adopting WITHOUT giving up on the idea of ever being pregnant. *ahem* (Why yes, I do know a little something about that.) Faith is continuing on your adoption journey when every-stinking-thing breaks and outstanding invoices go unpaid. Faith can see past and over the hurdles to the final destination. Faith is figuring it out....anyway.
Thank you, Jehova Jirah, my provider.
Where is there room for faith in that?
You must be kidding.
Monday, September 19, 2011
Saturday, September 17, 2011
My Birthday Wish List
When I was a kid and my mom would have a birthday, I'd ask her what she wanted and she always answered, "Nothing." I didn't get that. Of COURSE she wanted something, didn't she?
Now I get it.
Yesterday I was thinking about my birthday wish list. Topping it off was the thought, "I would just love for everyone to leave me alone for a couple hours so I could read my book."
(Please don't tell me how awful that is. I am well aware.)
I'll have you know that I put my kids to bed last night and sequestered myself in my room and read my book...for a while. I fell asleep loooooong before the two hour mark, but it must count for something.
As I was putting the kids to bed, I told them, "You know what I want more than anything else?"
Eldest says, "For us to not say, 'Aaaawwwww?'"
"OK, yeah, that tops the list. But second? Don't wake me up until....8:30. Can you do that? And by not waking me up until 8:30 I don't mean get up at the crack of dawn and think you are being sneaky to make me breakfast in bed. I really mean I don't want to hear a sound until 8:30. I don't want to have to come down and show you how to make my coffee. I'll do it. At 8:30. Not a second earlier. Please? Can we do that?"
I was wide, stinking, awake at 6 AM, I'll have you know. My children did admirably. I didn't hear rumblings until after 8.
It was beautiful.
And to mooch off Amy Grant? The rest of my list goes a little something like this:
No more lives torn apart
wars would never start
time would heal our hearts
Everyone would have a friend
Right would always win
love would never end
I am currently reading Scott C Todd's Fast Living, which I would link to, (edited: did link to. Brent fixed my Firefox. Turns out my Amazon linkilator is on the fritz. So you get a direct link, because I have chosen to not be lazy. I like the book that much) but Firefox isn't working for me and Explorer sucks, so you'll have to search for it yourself. However, it makes me extend my list to include:
God's people would allow themselves to believe that we can eradicate poverty.
But, since it's my birthday and I can, let me also ask that you go to Anna's blog where you can donate the cost of a birthday card towards her adoption of this little guy.
Really, every dollar helps at this point. So if you are a dollar general birthday card buyer or a hallmark die hard, one dollar or seven, it all helps. If you do, leave me a comment either here or on my Facebook page letting me know you did. I'm going to have a super-fantastic drawing for a super fantastic product from a super fantastic group for one person who will help me celebrate my birthday this way. It will likely be something from Bead for Life or Ergon. Or maybe both. Because I have a thing for vocational training for women trying to feed their families.
And if you really, really want to buy me something, I'd love one of these.
And, oh, an undisturbed bubble bath long enough for the water to grow cold. Ah, now that's where it's at.
Now I get it.
Yesterday I was thinking about my birthday wish list. Topping it off was the thought, "I would just love for everyone to leave me alone for a couple hours so I could read my book."
(Please don't tell me how awful that is. I am well aware.)
I'll have you know that I put my kids to bed last night and sequestered myself in my room and read my book...for a while. I fell asleep loooooong before the two hour mark, but it must count for something.
As I was putting the kids to bed, I told them, "You know what I want more than anything else?"
Eldest says, "For us to not say, 'Aaaawwwww?'"
"OK, yeah, that tops the list. But second? Don't wake me up until....8:30. Can you do that? And by not waking me up until 8:30 I don't mean get up at the crack of dawn and think you are being sneaky to make me breakfast in bed. I really mean I don't want to hear a sound until 8:30. I don't want to have to come down and show you how to make my coffee. I'll do it. At 8:30. Not a second earlier. Please? Can we do that?"
I was wide, stinking, awake at 6 AM, I'll have you know. My children did admirably. I didn't hear rumblings until after 8.
It was beautiful.
And to mooch off Amy Grant? The rest of my list goes a little something like this:
No more lives torn apart
wars would never start
time would heal our hearts
Everyone would have a friend
Right would always win
love would never end
I am currently reading Scott C Todd's Fast Living, which I would link to, (edited: did link to. Brent fixed my Firefox. Turns out my Amazon linkilator is on the fritz. So you get a direct link, because I have chosen to not be lazy. I like the book that much) but Firefox isn't working for me and Explorer sucks, so you'll have to search for it yourself. However, it makes me extend my list to include:
God's people would allow themselves to believe that we can eradicate poverty.
But, since it's my birthday and I can, let me also ask that you go to Anna's blog where you can donate the cost of a birthday card towards her adoption of this little guy.
And if you really, really want to buy me something, I'd love one of these.
And, oh, an undisturbed bubble bath long enough for the water to grow cold. Ah, now that's where it's at.
Thursday, September 15, 2011
What I Want My Daughter To Know
Sweetheart, as much as I want to deny it, you are rapidly approaching a time that will be especially difficult for all of us, a time when what your peers think will be far more important that what your parents think. I hope I'm not too late already.
If you hear nothing else in this letter, hear this: Guard your heart. Let no man but Jesus rule your life.
I have a feeling you already think I'm horribly out-of-touch with reality. That I have No Clue how life is for you, and you're right. Only you know what goes on in your every moment and what comes to mind in the lonely times. But I do know this much; I know that for me, the fifth grade was the beginning of the loss of my childhood.
Sweetie, hold on to your childhood with all that is within you. Play babies. Play house. Play pretend. Be young. Don't, don't, don't play at being a grown-up. You have your whole life to be big. Be little while you still can.
In fifth grade I began to give away little pieces of my heart. I remember fighting with my sister about love. She insisted I didn't know what love is, and I insisted I did. As it turns out, I didn't, but that didn't stop me from trying to figure it out. I allowed thoughts of boyfriends to control nearly every aspect of my day. Does he like me? Do I like him? Will he like my clothes? My hair? My makeup? Will he kiss me? Does he like her more than he likes me? What about her is better? How can I be more like her?
Which leads down a rabbit hole of comparison and pain. YOU are amazing and beautiful. More and more, everyday. Don't let the affections of some boy determine your worth.
Don't carelessly give away kisses. And by careless, I don't mean frivolous. I once kissed a boy just to escape the porch. I never saw him again. And that kiss pains me far less than the ones I gave to boys that I thought I loved. Those kisses haunt me. Sometimes, even after I've been married to your daddy for fifteen years, those kisses show up in my dreams and this makes me so sad. I don't want to dream about anyone but Daddy. I want to save you from this. And I know that most people's reality will include kisses with someone they aren't married to, but if you can just hold on for a little longer, much longer if I have my way about it, you can save yourself a lot of regrets. You want to believe it's just a kiss, but that moment will imprint on your mind and it will pop up at the most inconvenient times. And whether you remember those kisses fondly or with regret, you'll wish you didn't have to remember them at all.
Really, sweet, I thank God for those missed opportunities I was kicking myself about years ago. For the boyfriends I didn't have and the kisses I didn't give, for the times I was dumped because someone else was prettier or wittier than I was. For the cowardice my friends teased me mercifully about.
Interesting thing about friends. I don't know where most of them are now. I cared so much about what they thought, who they thought should be my boyfriend, whether or not they thought I should drink alcohol or smoke cigarettes, if they thought it strange that I couldn't have sleepovers on Saturday because I would miss church, if they came to my (heavily chaperoned) birthday party and ditched to go someplace more fun, what they thought I should wear or what words they thought I should use. If I had it to do over again, would I? NO WAY. For I fear I would make the same dumb, bad choices.
Fifth grade is where it all began, that trip towards adulthood, and man, I wish I'd put it off a bit longer. Now is the time for you to develop the strength of character that I didn't have. Make wise choices. In friends. In behavior. In life. It starts now, Princess. These choices will be with you forever and I pray, every day, that they are good ones.
Follow Jesus in all that you say and do, Princess, and you won't go wrong. It might feel wrong, I won't lie. When your friends tease. When you are left out. When you are rejected and hurt and angry. But Jesus loves you with an everlasting love and he won't steer you on the path to destruction. I can't say as much for your friends. I can't even say as much for your mother. But you are his child and he loves you even more than I do, as hard as it is to believe. Besides, he doesn't snarl at you when you get sassy. Use that sass and confidence to make yourself into a strong, godly woman.
You won't regret it.
I love you,
Mom
If you hear nothing else in this letter, hear this: Guard your heart. Let no man but Jesus rule your life.
I have a feeling you already think I'm horribly out-of-touch with reality. That I have No Clue how life is for you, and you're right. Only you know what goes on in your every moment and what comes to mind in the lonely times. But I do know this much; I know that for me, the fifth grade was the beginning of the loss of my childhood.
Sweetie, hold on to your childhood with all that is within you. Play babies. Play house. Play pretend. Be young. Don't, don't, don't play at being a grown-up. You have your whole life to be big. Be little while you still can.
In fifth grade I began to give away little pieces of my heart. I remember fighting with my sister about love. She insisted I didn't know what love is, and I insisted I did. As it turns out, I didn't, but that didn't stop me from trying to figure it out. I allowed thoughts of boyfriends to control nearly every aspect of my day. Does he like me? Do I like him? Will he like my clothes? My hair? My makeup? Will he kiss me? Does he like her more than he likes me? What about her is better? How can I be more like her?
Which leads down a rabbit hole of comparison and pain. YOU are amazing and beautiful. More and more, everyday. Don't let the affections of some boy determine your worth.
Don't carelessly give away kisses. And by careless, I don't mean frivolous. I once kissed a boy just to escape the porch. I never saw him again. And that kiss pains me far less than the ones I gave to boys that I thought I loved. Those kisses haunt me. Sometimes, even after I've been married to your daddy for fifteen years, those kisses show up in my dreams and this makes me so sad. I don't want to dream about anyone but Daddy. I want to save you from this. And I know that most people's reality will include kisses with someone they aren't married to, but if you can just hold on for a little longer, much longer if I have my way about it, you can save yourself a lot of regrets. You want to believe it's just a kiss, but that moment will imprint on your mind and it will pop up at the most inconvenient times. And whether you remember those kisses fondly or with regret, you'll wish you didn't have to remember them at all.
Really, sweet, I thank God for those missed opportunities I was kicking myself about years ago. For the boyfriends I didn't have and the kisses I didn't give, for the times I was dumped because someone else was prettier or wittier than I was. For the cowardice my friends teased me mercifully about.
Interesting thing about friends. I don't know where most of them are now. I cared so much about what they thought, who they thought should be my boyfriend, whether or not they thought I should drink alcohol or smoke cigarettes, if they thought it strange that I couldn't have sleepovers on Saturday because I would miss church, if they came to my (heavily chaperoned) birthday party and ditched to go someplace more fun, what they thought I should wear or what words they thought I should use. If I had it to do over again, would I? NO WAY. For I fear I would make the same dumb, bad choices.
Fifth grade is where it all began, that trip towards adulthood, and man, I wish I'd put it off a bit longer. Now is the time for you to develop the strength of character that I didn't have. Make wise choices. In friends. In behavior. In life. It starts now, Princess. These choices will be with you forever and I pray, every day, that they are good ones.
Follow Jesus in all that you say and do, Princess, and you won't go wrong. It might feel wrong, I won't lie. When your friends tease. When you are left out. When you are rejected and hurt and angry. But Jesus loves you with an everlasting love and he won't steer you on the path to destruction. I can't say as much for your friends. I can't even say as much for your mother. But you are his child and he loves you even more than I do, as hard as it is to believe. Besides, he doesn't snarl at you when you get sassy. Use that sass and confidence to make yourself into a strong, godly woman.
You won't regret it.
I love you,
Mom
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
Eleven
I have a most amazing, spectacular son who is kind and compassionate and about ready to outgrow me.
I was looking through pictures last night and I can't help but think about how far we've come. And how fast it's gone. And it's completely insane.
But today, I am thankful for this:
And that she didn't change her mind. His mother gave me the best birthday gift I have ever received.
I was looking through pictures last night and I can't help but think about how far we've come. And how fast it's gone. And it's completely insane.
But today, I am thankful for this:
Eatin' My Words (and they don't taste sweet)
I stand corrected.
My Immigration officer is neither illiterate, nor an idiot, contrary to my prior beliefs.
You know caller ID? Yeah, sometimes it filters calls one should take.
Why that person doesn't leave a message I don't know.
Sadly, I actually do. It's due in no small part to the fact that my answering machine is a robotic man and the fact that you don't get to know you are calling me unless you know that my answering machine is a robotic man.
Because we live in smallville where voicemail isn't easy to come by. And possibly because I simply didn't care if people left a message or not.And, because my house is never quiet enough to leave a professional message.
However if people don't leave a message, I assume they are trying to sell me timeshares in Branson.
Almost the only people who do leave a message are collectors for the prior owner of our phone number. Don't judge me.
So, surprisingly, it turns out "he" is a she, who is articulate, recognized my name and knew my circumstances and could explain in plain English WHY my homestudy didn't meet the standards. All this after explaining why our biometrics couldn't be used. A) our homestudy was insufficient and B) our form printed out wrong. Then took away the threat of "significant delay" by further encouraging me to not only try to walk in before our next biometrics appointment, but call her as soon as it is in so that she can rubber stamp me.
Thankyouverymuch.
And for those of you not following this saga on facebook, I got another letter yesterday, dated the day AFTER my last biometrics appointment that said showing up for our previously scheduled biometrics appointment would "significantly delay" our process. Day late, dollar short. I'm surprised the top of my head does not reside on the moon.
So, yes, I must drive an hour away to be fingerprinted with the immigrants again, and Brent must take another day off work, but.....all things being equal, this is much better than standing in Ethiopia with a child that neither Ethiopia nor the US recognizes as a citizen.
My Immigration officer is neither illiterate, nor an idiot, contrary to my prior beliefs.
You know caller ID? Yeah, sometimes it filters calls one should take.
Why that person doesn't leave a message I don't know.
Sadly, I actually do. It's due in no small part to the fact that my answering machine is a robotic man and the fact that you don't get to know you are calling me unless you know that my answering machine is a robotic man.
Because we live in smallville where voicemail isn't easy to come by. And possibly because I simply didn't care if people left a message or not.And, because my house is never quiet enough to leave a professional message.
However if people don't leave a message, I assume they are trying to sell me timeshares in Branson.
Almost the only people who do leave a message are collectors for the prior owner of our phone number. Don't judge me.
So, surprisingly, it turns out "he" is a she, who is articulate, recognized my name and knew my circumstances and could explain in plain English WHY my homestudy didn't meet the standards. All this after explaining why our biometrics couldn't be used. A) our homestudy was insufficient and B) our form printed out wrong. Then took away the threat of "significant delay" by further encouraging me to not only try to walk in before our next biometrics appointment, but call her as soon as it is in so that she can rubber stamp me.
Thankyouverymuch.
And for those of you not following this saga on facebook, I got another letter yesterday, dated the day AFTER my last biometrics appointment that said showing up for our previously scheduled biometrics appointment would "significantly delay" our process. Day late, dollar short. I'm surprised the top of my head does not reside on the moon.
So, yes, I must drive an hour away to be fingerprinted with the immigrants again, and Brent must take another day off work, but.....all things being equal, this is much better than standing in Ethiopia with a child that neither Ethiopia nor the US recognizes as a citizen.
Monday, September 12, 2011
Sunday, September 11, 2011
A Tale of Two Adoptions
After Brent and I wrapped up our first adoption nearly eleven years ago, I assured myself and those around me that Next Time would be different. I wouldn't stress about being Chosen. I wouldn't stress about how Slow The Process Is. I wouldn't stress about Birthmother Anxiety. I wouldn't stress about Wait Time. I'd have a child and therefore it wouldn't be so Confounded Urgent.
Let me go on the record saying, I Was Wrong.
Eleven years ago, I didn't know that I would soon find out I was pregnant. Eleven years ago, I didn't know that God would reach out and touch me and heal my womb so that miscarriage wasn't a foregone conclusion. Eleven years ago I didn't know that I would be either pregnant or nursing for the next eight years. Eleven years ago I didn't know that every time I even considered adopting again I would find myself pregnant. (Not complaining, mind you!) ((And NO, that is NOT an announcement. This time seems to, so far, be the exception.)) And eleven years ago I had NO IDEA I would find myself head over heels in love with a little girl who lived across the ocean.
This has been one of those rollercoaster weeks I promised myself I was done with. Adoption is a process. Hoop jumping is involved. If you continue to hoop jump, you generally wind up winning. There is no sense getting all wrapped up in bad news. God has it in control. God is in the timing. You will get your child when you are supposed to get your child.
Have I spewed enough platitudes yet?
Bugger the platitudes.
You know what platitudes do? NOTHING. They are completely worthless to calm your anxieties in the middle of the night when you've woken from a dream where you were fixing your little girl's hair and you realize that No, she isn't there and No there isn't a thing in the world that you can do about it. Platitudes are completely worthless when you are asking your Sunday School class to pray for the Buerocratic nonsense to pass and you have a sobbing fit right there in the middle of a room full of people. Platitudes mean nothing when emotions are involved. Even when they are right and true.
I was completely unprepared for how much it would bother me to wait for my daughter to be home. Because though, yes, I have a house full of children that I adore, I am missing one. Why I thought that waiting would be easier after I had a child, I will never know. Inexperience, probably. Because having children only emphasizes how important it is to have them with you.
So, while I'm waiting for my dossier to be translated, and waiting for a court date, which means, I think, waiting for the rainy season to end (in the middle of this drought), and waiting for my homestudy re-write to be Fed-Exed all over for signatures, and will eventually be waiting for my travel date and then waiting for the MOWA letter, and then waiting to be submitted to embassy and then waiting to be accepted by embassy, and then waiting for an embassy date and then waiting to travel to embassy and them waiting and hoping against hope that everything clears, Please Jesus, my little girl is growing up without me.
So, if you see me in front of the green beans at the grocery store, don't ask me how and I am, and for the love of all things holy don't give me a hug, or I will break out the ugly cry.
You have been warned.
Let me go on the record saying, I Was Wrong.
Eleven years ago, I didn't know that I would soon find out I was pregnant. Eleven years ago, I didn't know that God would reach out and touch me and heal my womb so that miscarriage wasn't a foregone conclusion. Eleven years ago I didn't know that I would be either pregnant or nursing for the next eight years. Eleven years ago I didn't know that every time I even considered adopting again I would find myself pregnant. (Not complaining, mind you!) ((And NO, that is NOT an announcement. This time seems to, so far, be the exception.)) And eleven years ago I had NO IDEA I would find myself head over heels in love with a little girl who lived across the ocean.
This has been one of those rollercoaster weeks I promised myself I was done with. Adoption is a process. Hoop jumping is involved. If you continue to hoop jump, you generally wind up winning. There is no sense getting all wrapped up in bad news. God has it in control. God is in the timing. You will get your child when you are supposed to get your child.
Have I spewed enough platitudes yet?
Bugger the platitudes.
You know what platitudes do? NOTHING. They are completely worthless to calm your anxieties in the middle of the night when you've woken from a dream where you were fixing your little girl's hair and you realize that No, she isn't there and No there isn't a thing in the world that you can do about it. Platitudes are completely worthless when you are asking your Sunday School class to pray for the Buerocratic nonsense to pass and you have a sobbing fit right there in the middle of a room full of people. Platitudes mean nothing when emotions are involved. Even when they are right and true.
I was completely unprepared for how much it would bother me to wait for my daughter to be home. Because though, yes, I have a house full of children that I adore, I am missing one. Why I thought that waiting would be easier after I had a child, I will never know. Inexperience, probably. Because having children only emphasizes how important it is to have them with you.
So, while I'm waiting for my dossier to be translated, and waiting for a court date, which means, I think, waiting for the rainy season to end (in the middle of this drought), and waiting for my homestudy re-write to be Fed-Exed all over for signatures, and will eventually be waiting for my travel date and then waiting for the MOWA letter, and then waiting to be submitted to embassy and then waiting to be accepted by embassy, and then waiting for an embassy date and then waiting to travel to embassy and them waiting and hoping against hope that everything clears, Please Jesus, my little girl is growing up without me.
So, if you see me in front of the green beans at the grocery store, don't ask me how and I am, and for the love of all things holy don't give me a hug, or I will break out the ugly cry.
You have been warned.
Friday, September 09, 2011
Do I Dare?
Do I dare complain about a government institution on a public forum while the cards are still being dealt?
I don't know.
I seriously doubt they are stalking random blogs to see if people are complaining about them so that they have an excuse to deny our appeals, but sometimes I wonder. I want to say, "Does it make you feel like a big man to deny a petition?"
Maybe it is better to simply post the conversation I had with an innocent bystander by the name of Social Worker regarding an illiterate person named Bureaucracy. You see, though SW wrote a 15 page document regaling B with the outstanding merits of House-Chaos and whom they would like to adopt, Bureaucracy couldn't tell if House-Chaos was approved to adopt a child. And if they were approved to adopt a child, what gender? And age? And race? And how old? And from where? Could the child have special needs? And assuming that House-Chaos could indeed adopt some child of unknown origin, gender, age, or need, on what merit?
Because Bureaucracy can't read. On this it is clear. Due to the fact that fourteen pages told Bureaucracy just those particular matters. Though, I do confess, page fifteen is negligent on fulfilling those specific details. It contains a happy little line approving House Chaos to adopt one or two children and approximately four signatures. (From people residing in approximately four different cities.)
So....Mrs. Chaos emailed Coordinator, who emailed the Big Boss who finally decided that this must be because the final statement of the fifteen page document just approved House-Chaos to adopt without specifying who, what, why, when, and where.
So...Mrs. Chaos emailed Social Worker (with her tail between her legs since social worker has already rushed aforementioned fifteen page document AND had it approved by no fewer than four people) to request, politely, that she RE-DO her work. Which will also require numerous trips to a courier office to get all the necessary signatures and notarizations before it can be resubmitted to Bureaucracy.
The conversation went a little something like this (I may or may not be exaggerating):
and then again:
will do (because she also had to email Supervisor who had to re-read the document to see what the heck we all missed, because though they write these 15 page documents EVERY STINKING DAY and have been rubber stamped for years, TODAY we are all ignoramuses. Ignoramusi?)
to which I had to reply:
do you realize it is a signature page? (which means that no only does she have to rewrite it, we have to courier it around the country to get it redone)
to which she replied:
*politely*
but then asked the question, whole doc or last line (in regard to one of my earlier post scripts)
at which time I brought out the snark:
I think only the final statement. Because anyone with eyes and a fifth grade education could read the rest of the document if they so desired. (thus eliminating the need for this conversation in the first place)
To which she replied:
tell me what you really think.
And you would think I would have shut up at this point, seeing as this woman holds our future in her figurative hands, or brain as the case may be, but no:
I don't know.
I seriously doubt they are stalking random blogs to see if people are complaining about them so that they have an excuse to deny our appeals, but sometimes I wonder. I want to say, "Does it make you feel like a big man to deny a petition?"
Maybe it is better to simply post the conversation I had with an innocent bystander by the name of Social Worker regarding an illiterate person named Bureaucracy. You see, though SW wrote a 15 page document regaling B with the outstanding merits of House-Chaos and whom they would like to adopt, Bureaucracy couldn't tell if House-Chaos was approved to adopt a child. And if they were approved to adopt a child, what gender? And age? And race? And how old? And from where? Could the child have special needs? And assuming that House-Chaos could indeed adopt some child of unknown origin, gender, age, or need, on what merit?
Because Bureaucracy can't read. On this it is clear. Due to the fact that fourteen pages told Bureaucracy just those particular matters. Though, I do confess, page fifteen is negligent on fulfilling those specific details. It contains a happy little line approving House Chaos to adopt one or two children and approximately four signatures. (From people residing in approximately four different cities.)
So....Mrs. Chaos emailed Coordinator, who emailed the Big Boss who finally decided that this must be because the final statement of the fifteen page document just approved House-Chaos to adopt without specifying who, what, why, when, and where.
So...Mrs. Chaos emailed Social Worker (with her tail between her legs since social worker has already rushed aforementioned fifteen page document AND had it approved by no fewer than four people) to request, politely, that she RE-DO her work. Which will also require numerous trips to a courier office to get all the necessary signatures and notarizations before it can be resubmitted to Bureaucracy.
The conversation went a little something like this (I may or may not be exaggerating):
Social Worker,
Bureaucracy apparently can’t read and therefore didn’t think you specified WHO we could adopt. Is it possible for you to change the last line of our 15 page document to say, in addition to “one or two children,” either gender, from birth to ten years of age with mild or correctable special needs from Ethiopia. Or whatever version of that sounds good to you.
I’m sorry. If they had eyes and bothered to read the rest of the document, they would know such, but apparently the last line is all that matters.
Thanks,
Chaos
to which she replied:
*politely and professionally*
and then again:
will do (because she also had to email Supervisor who had to re-read the document to see what the heck we all missed, because though they write these 15 page documents EVERY STINKING DAY and have been rubber stamped for years, TODAY we are all ignoramuses. Ignoramusi?)
to which I had to reply:
do you realize it is a signature page? (which means that no only does she have to rewrite it, we have to courier it around the country to get it redone)
to which she replied:
*politely*
but then asked the question, whole doc or last line (in regard to one of my earlier post scripts)
at which time I brought out the snark:
I think only the final statement. Because anyone with eyes and a fifth grade education could read the rest of the document if they so desired. (thus eliminating the need for this conversation in the first place)
To which she replied:
tell me what you really think.
And you would think I would have shut up at this point, seeing as this woman holds our future in her figurative hands, or brain as the case may be, but no:
You don’t want to know.
And do you disagree? I mean, clearly, I was hoping to adopt seven 14 year old handicapped boys from Venezuela. Your document said as much.
(and just in case she wasn't fluent in sarcasm)
Ah well, if this is the worst that happens to us in this adoption, we will be very fortunate.
(which is true, but makes this day no less annoying)
At which point Social Worker responded very politely and professionally and did exactly as I asked on a Friday afternoon.
Her re-write is currently being emailed all over tarnation in hopes that THIS TIME it will meet the approval of The Man. And will be couriered all over Heck and Gone beginning tomorrow.
OK, yes, it could be a whole lot worse. They did not rubber stamp a rejection. They gave me 45 days to fix the problem. They already have my fingerprints. We are waiting on nothing except The Document which I should have in my paws by Thursday and should have in Bureaucracy's paws by Monday the 19th at the latest. This is not the end of the world. It is not even the end of the adoption. It may be the end of my sanity, but that was holding on by a thin shred anyway.
Due in no small part to the fact that we are trying to, at this very moment, have an eleven-year-old birthday party/sleepover.
I am a little perturbed by a government institution that is being so picky on this detail when two weeks ago another governmental institution wouldn't take in four children under the age of four who were being left alone in a motel room at night. I understand caution, but really? Is it the same institution? No. It is this dude's fault? No. But do they really think we would have bothered to submit the 15 page document should it NOT have approved us for the child we were asking? Do people really try to pull that crap?
Rejoice.
Anyway.
Some days it is harder than others.
Thursday, September 08, 2011
On Bathrooms
Today, as I was cleaning my bathrooms, I was also analyzing why I hate the job so very much. I paid my way though college first by working at a nursing home and later by cleaning houses (with a lot of odd jobs thrown in to boot). Neither job particularly bothered me. However, this morning, I came to the very self-serving conclusion that I met my Dealing With Crap quota at a very young age and therefore should no longer have to deal with it. (Why, yes, I am speaking literally rather than figuratively.)
So, since I remember not being bothered by dealing with other people's dirty bathrooms, I had to analyze why I can't stand to clean our own filth. And then I remembered....
Ahhhhhhh....I entered a clutter free house and just CLEANED it.
See, in order for me to clean a bathroom, I first have to dispose of all the clutter. The dirty clothes that have been strewn about (even piled nicely in the place where mom has gestured while delivering soliloquies about), the toothbrushes must be pried out of the glopy toothpaste on the side of the sink, the washclothes need to be wrung out and deposited in the laundry room...
...where I throw in a load while I'm there...
...which requires folding a load while I'm there....
...with a pass though the kitchen for iced tea...
...and while it's brewing, just a quick glance at Facebook to see if anyone is preggers...
have I mentioned how frequently Facebook posts about nothing are interesting when bathrooms need to be cleaned?
...at which point I head back up the stairs to really dig in to the bathroom. I spray down the shower and leave it to soak, while I spray down the toilet to let it soak, while I clear the deodorant and tweezers from the cabinet tops and that gel I let Frodo use last week and the vitamins that I keep forgetting to take and the makeup I wore last week to church and the two canisters of shaving cream (one ran out, but the trash can IS clear across the bathroom) and I analyze yet again why it is that I keep so many things that I know I'll never use, just because someone gave me that vanilla scented bath set and I should take the time to use it, sadly...
Counter finally clear I head back to the shower to wipe off the first layer of soap scum and hard water residue and respray it. Move on to the toilet. Move on to the sink. Back to the shower where I wind up wet and naked and decide that the grout has always been that color and the hard water stains will never come off the shower doors.
And then the floors about which I could wax poetic about the dried on pee puddles, but we're beyond that, aren't we?
I've tried, the Lord as my witness, I have tried to remember in the midst of this to be thankful for the fact that I have not one, but four working toilets with running water. That is no small thing, to be sure.
Though one might wonder why we need toilets if we are going to pee on the floor, but maybe that's just me.
As a good friend recently pointed out, we flush our toilets with drinking water, for crying out loud! (Speaking of, have you joined my Mocha Club yet?)
I have tried to be thankful that I no longer have to clean the bathrooms of virtual strangers. I have.
I am trying to be thankful that virtual strangers aren't cleaning MY toilets and talking smack about what kind of filth we live in.
I tried not to cry when Brent showed up in the newly cleaned bathroom and declared that it is the cleanest it has been since we moved in. (We had to have a discussion about the fact that his sentence sounded an awful lot like, "gee, you haven't cleaned since we moved in, 'bout time." When I distinctly remember him telling me the same thing in the same bathroom SINCE we moved in. (This seems like a good time to remind my readers that all summer, cleaning bathrooms was the punishment for fighting with a sibling and dragging mom into it. They HAVE been cleaned, just not by ME recently.))
I am not a pretentious person. I don't try to pretend we live in a model home. I clean my house because it bothers my spouse when people show up and it doesn't look like we ever clean it even if that is how it looks if even one of our four offspring is awake. But by clean, I mean keep the clutter knocked down to a minimum in the rooms people are likely to frequent. I almost never get to the actual "cleaning" portion of cleaning house. I'm too busy cooking and keeping the laundry pile small enough that it wouldn't suffocate Charming, should he inadvertently fall into it.
*now is not the time to remind me that my kids should help around the house. Very well aware of that fact. But part of the reason the bathrooms were as gross as they were was because I abdicated that responsibility for three months. SOMETIMES the mom just has to do it to get it done right.*
AND, and here is the biggie: I HATE to park my preschooler in front of the TV so I can clean. I HATE to tell him, "No, mommy can't play right now because I have to scrub dried on pee puddles off the floor." I would rather hang out at the park.
Which is why my bathrooms are in the state they are in in the first place.
So, since I remember not being bothered by dealing with other people's dirty bathrooms, I had to analyze why I can't stand to clean our own filth. And then I remembered....
Ahhhhhhh....I entered a clutter free house and just CLEANED it.
See, in order for me to clean a bathroom, I first have to dispose of all the clutter. The dirty clothes that have been strewn about (even piled nicely in the place where mom has gestured while delivering soliloquies about), the toothbrushes must be pried out of the glopy toothpaste on the side of the sink, the washclothes need to be wrung out and deposited in the laundry room...
...where I throw in a load while I'm there...
...which requires folding a load while I'm there....
...with a pass though the kitchen for iced tea...
...and while it's brewing, just a quick glance at Facebook to see if anyone is preggers...
have I mentioned how frequently Facebook posts about nothing are interesting when bathrooms need to be cleaned?
...at which point I head back up the stairs to really dig in to the bathroom. I spray down the shower and leave it to soak, while I spray down the toilet to let it soak, while I clear the deodorant and tweezers from the cabinet tops and that gel I let Frodo use last week and the vitamins that I keep forgetting to take and the makeup I wore last week to church and the two canisters of shaving cream (one ran out, but the trash can IS clear across the bathroom) and I analyze yet again why it is that I keep so many things that I know I'll never use, just because someone gave me that vanilla scented bath set and I should take the time to use it, sadly...
Counter finally clear I head back to the shower to wipe off the first layer of soap scum and hard water residue and respray it. Move on to the toilet. Move on to the sink. Back to the shower where I wind up wet and naked and decide that the grout has always been that color and the hard water stains will never come off the shower doors.
And then the floors about which I could wax poetic about the dried on pee puddles, but we're beyond that, aren't we?
I've tried, the Lord as my witness, I have tried to remember in the midst of this to be thankful for the fact that I have not one, but four working toilets with running water. That is no small thing, to be sure.
As a good friend recently pointed out, we flush our toilets with drinking water, for crying out loud! (Speaking of, have you joined my Mocha Club yet?)
I have tried to be thankful that I no longer have to clean the bathrooms of virtual strangers. I have.
I am trying to be thankful that virtual strangers aren't cleaning MY toilets and talking smack about what kind of filth we live in.
I tried not to cry when Brent showed up in the newly cleaned bathroom and declared that it is the cleanest it has been since we moved in. (We had to have a discussion about the fact that his sentence sounded an awful lot like, "gee, you haven't cleaned since we moved in, 'bout time." When I distinctly remember him telling me the same thing in the same bathroom SINCE we moved in. (This seems like a good time to remind my readers that all summer, cleaning bathrooms was the punishment for fighting with a sibling and dragging mom into it. They HAVE been cleaned, just not by ME recently.))
I am not a pretentious person. I don't try to pretend we live in a model home. I clean my house because it bothers my spouse when people show up and it doesn't look like we ever clean it even if that is how it looks if even one of our four offspring is awake. But by clean, I mean keep the clutter knocked down to a minimum in the rooms people are likely to frequent. I almost never get to the actual "cleaning" portion of cleaning house. I'm too busy cooking and keeping the laundry pile small enough that it wouldn't suffocate Charming, should he inadvertently fall into it.
*now is not the time to remind me that my kids should help around the house. Very well aware of that fact. But part of the reason the bathrooms were as gross as they were was because I abdicated that responsibility for three months. SOMETIMES the mom just has to do it to get it done right.*
AND, and here is the biggie: I HATE to park my preschooler in front of the TV so I can clean. I HATE to tell him, "No, mommy can't play right now because I have to scrub dried on pee puddles off the floor." I would rather hang out at the park.
Which is why my bathrooms are in the state they are in in the first place.
Monday, September 05, 2011
Why Not Ethiopia?
I don't know why stinking youtube videos don't play full screen on my blog, but this one is worth going here to watch.
Photos
I decided that with a five year old blog, I should have a new profile photo. Turns out that blogger has changed so much in five years that that photo you see in the "about me" section can't be changed or removed. It is a permanent fixture.
(Unless you or your husband are a master programmer.....wait.....well, you know what they say about plumbers wives)
Working with this bit of information, I, not a master programmer, decided to add a photo just above the about me section. Turns out, I'm usually holding the camera. Not a lot of favorable photos of me in my computer.
Beside the point.
So I added this one. But Brent is more of a global photographer. He gets the big picture. So, though you can see the entire situation, only about six people on the planet will "get it." And only about six people on the planet will also recognize the fact that I am laughing so hard I am about to pee my pants. Or would be about to if I'd had any water in the last 48 hours. Considering the fact that I am in Jordan where you can't drink the water, can't afford the water, and don't want to use the bathrooms anyway, I suppose I should say that I'm laughing so hard, I'm about to fall over.
So.
That is not really my normal smile. If you could see the photo big I am obviously laughing in a chaotic situation.
I'll probably change it later.
"Don't touch the cats! You'll get the rah-bies!"
Actually, what I'm laughing about is the guy next to me, just out of the photo frame who leaned over to his buddy and said, "Duuuuuude, WHAT is with the people and taking pictures of cats around here" It's a CAT."
Man if you only knew the history we have with this cat...
Peace.
(Unless you or your husband are a master programmer.....wait.....well, you know what they say about plumbers wives)
Working with this bit of information, I, not a master programmer, decided to add a photo just above the about me section. Turns out, I'm usually holding the camera. Not a lot of favorable photos of me in my computer.
Beside the point.
So I added this one. But Brent is more of a global photographer. He gets the big picture. So, though you can see the entire situation, only about six people on the planet will "get it." And only about six people on the planet will also recognize the fact that I am laughing so hard I am about to pee my pants. Or would be about to if I'd had any water in the last 48 hours. Considering the fact that I am in Jordan where you can't drink the water, can't afford the water, and don't want to use the bathrooms anyway, I suppose I should say that I'm laughing so hard, I'm about to fall over.
So.
That is not really my normal smile. If you could see the photo big I am obviously laughing in a chaotic situation.
I'll probably change it later.
"Don't touch the cats! You'll get the rah-bies!"
Actually, what I'm laughing about is the guy next to me, just out of the photo frame who leaned over to his buddy and said, "Duuuuuude, WHAT is with the people and taking pictures of cats around here" It's a CAT."
Man if you only knew the history we have with this cat...
Peace.
Friday, September 02, 2011
I'm Totally Geeking Out Here!
One of my favorite movie quotes from one of my favorite movies.
Here's another: "Greater Good?! I'm the greatest good you ever gonna get!"
That second one was free it has nothing to do with this post.
I just realized it is September. Twice today I noticed that someone's blog was dated September 2nd. Twice today I thought, "How strange that they've dated a month ahead." Regardless of the fact that I turned the calendar. Regardless of the fact that I've written checks appropriately dated. Regardless of the fact that it is Labor Day weekend (Regardless of the fact that my husband will spend the entirely of the weekend laboring because his client forgot to mention that their web site MUST be launched on Monday and Brent NEVER let's his clients down. Even when they are jerks about holiday weekends. Humph.) Regardless of the fact that it is birthday month around here. And I thought, I'm totally geeking out here! So I titled this post that.
But what I really intended to post was another movie quote:
All that says is, "Hello, we're selfish bastards."
I think that may be one of the many things holding me back from fundraising. Everyone's doing it. It is a perfectly legit thing to do. I can rattle off multiple venues that will let me sell something and skim off the top. I could apply for grants. It isn't that hard. (Actually, it is. My computer has frozen up enough times when I hit the submit button, I can only believe that God is still telling me to wait. It isn't like my computer freezes up all the time or anything.) But it shouldn't be that hard. For normal, green lighted people.
I'm also not completely discounting pride. I don't think it's pride, but I'm not above believing that I could have a pride issue. Seeing as how I don't really enjoy bruises on my pride. I attempt to keep myself humble by parading all sorts of people into my home whether it be picked up or not, because I refuse to leave them on the porch when it is this hot.
Oh, while I'm talking about the weather: It's so hot here that my gardening gloves MELTED onto my deck. I kid you not. I didn't know rubber melted at 112. Maybe the direct sunlight? I don't know. Now was that an interesting enough story to merit the weather conversation? I thought it was.
And while I'm discussing things I claim to not discuss, let me clarify: I do like a good dialogue about political ideals, I just see no point in sitting around bashing whoever is in office, be that Obama or W. I do not think either Republicans nor Democrats are inherently evil. I do think a few of both probably are, but that's for another day. My politics these days tend to fall along the lines of "Get off your butt and start doing something to make the world a better place and quit waiting for someone in the stinking government to fix the world's problems." But that's just me
And while I'm throwing out controversial subjects: I do not believe SUVs are inherently evil. I don't drive one, but that does not mean I never will. I'm SALIVATING over a Suburban. I'm envisioning my five little bodies growing up and riding to ballgames all shoved into a minivan and I shudder. Especially now that, though the need it, my children forget deodorant. *cough, cough, choke*
But back to the movie quote. It's from Juno, a movie about a pregnant teen who can't bring herself to abort (yay for a pro-life message!). She's reading through the classifieds, looking for an adoptive family and runs across one that is already a family of five. (Her commentary on all the classifieds is pretty funny if you have an evening to burn. I can't throw myself behind all the content, but it is quite humorous and also quite touching. I laughed. I cried. It moved me, Bob. ) She doesn't want her baby to be one of the pack, so she makes the comment, "All that says is Hello! We're Selfish Bastards!" Actually, I don't remember the quote exactly, but that's the message. And sometimes I find that running through my mind. Is that what people think? Sheesh, she's already got four! Share a little with the rest of us! Desperately seeking spawn...
I can't stop. I'm helpless against the fire that burns within. I ached for this little girl. I tried to talk myself out of it. Lord knows Brent tried to talk some reason into me. (He's fully on board now. Don't go thinking this is a one sided deal.) I have handed the pregnant moms and their precious newborns into the loving care of others, but I just can't help myself with this little girl..
Anyway, those are my completely random Friday musings with a stinking lot of movie quotes thrown in. How's this for a fund raiser? If you can name all the movies I quoted and the quotes I took from the movies, you can donate the cost of a movie ticket to one of my many friends who are in the midst of adoption fundraising. I have several. They are all quite worthy of your $8. At least their soon-to-be children are. :)
This is not my promised post on perceptions, by the way. Still formulating that one.
Here's another: "Greater Good?! I'm the greatest good you ever gonna get!"
That second one was free it has nothing to do with this post.
I just realized it is September. Twice today I noticed that someone's blog was dated September 2nd. Twice today I thought, "How strange that they've dated a month ahead." Regardless of the fact that I turned the calendar. Regardless of the fact that I've written checks appropriately dated. Regardless of the fact that it is Labor Day weekend (Regardless of the fact that my husband will spend the entirely of the weekend laboring because his client forgot to mention that their web site MUST be launched on Monday and Brent NEVER let's his clients down. Even when they are jerks about holiday weekends. Humph.) Regardless of the fact that it is birthday month around here. And I thought, I'm totally geeking out here! So I titled this post that.
But what I really intended to post was another movie quote:
All that says is, "Hello, we're selfish bastards."
I think that may be one of the many things holding me back from fundraising. Everyone's doing it. It is a perfectly legit thing to do. I can rattle off multiple venues that will let me sell something and skim off the top. I could apply for grants. It isn't that hard. (Actually, it is. My computer has frozen up enough times when I hit the submit button, I can only believe that God is still telling me to wait. It isn't like my computer freezes up all the time or anything.) But it shouldn't be that hard. For normal, green lighted people.
I'm also not completely discounting pride. I don't think it's pride, but I'm not above believing that I could have a pride issue. Seeing as how I don't really enjoy bruises on my pride. I attempt to keep myself humble by parading all sorts of people into my home whether it be picked up or not, because I refuse to leave them on the porch when it is this hot.
Oh, while I'm talking about the weather: It's so hot here that my gardening gloves MELTED onto my deck. I kid you not. I didn't know rubber melted at 112. Maybe the direct sunlight? I don't know. Now was that an interesting enough story to merit the weather conversation? I thought it was.
And while I'm discussing things I claim to not discuss, let me clarify: I do like a good dialogue about political ideals, I just see no point in sitting around bashing whoever is in office, be that Obama or W. I do not think either Republicans nor Democrats are inherently evil. I do think a few of both probably are, but that's for another day. My politics these days tend to fall along the lines of "Get off your butt and start doing something to make the world a better place and quit waiting for someone in the stinking government to fix the world's problems." But that's just me
And while I'm throwing out controversial subjects: I do not believe SUVs are inherently evil. I don't drive one, but that does not mean I never will. I'm SALIVATING over a Suburban. I'm envisioning my five little bodies growing up and riding to ballgames all shoved into a minivan and I shudder. Especially now that, though the need it, my children forget deodorant. *cough, cough, choke*
But back to the movie quote. It's from Juno, a movie about a pregnant teen who can't bring herself to abort (yay for a pro-life message!). She's reading through the classifieds, looking for an adoptive family and runs across one that is already a family of five. (Her commentary on all the classifieds is pretty funny if you have an evening to burn. I can't throw myself behind all the content, but it is quite humorous and also quite touching. I laughed. I cried. It moved me, Bob. ) She doesn't want her baby to be one of the pack, so she makes the comment, "All that says is Hello! We're Selfish Bastards!" Actually, I don't remember the quote exactly, but that's the message. And sometimes I find that running through my mind. Is that what people think? Sheesh, she's already got four! Share a little with the rest of us! Desperately seeking spawn...
I can't stop. I'm helpless against the fire that burns within. I ached for this little girl. I tried to talk myself out of it. Lord knows Brent tried to talk some reason into me. (He's fully on board now. Don't go thinking this is a one sided deal.) I have handed the pregnant moms and their precious newborns into the loving care of others, but I just can't help myself with this little girl..
Anyway, those are my completely random Friday musings with a stinking lot of movie quotes thrown in. How's this for a fund raiser? If you can name all the movies I quoted and the quotes I took from the movies, you can donate the cost of a movie ticket to one of my many friends who are in the midst of adoption fundraising. I have several. They are all quite worthy of your $8. At least their soon-to-be children are. :)
This is not my promised post on perceptions, by the way. Still formulating that one.
Thursday, September 01, 2011
Dear Extroverted World and Small Community
My name is Jamie, and I'm an introvert.
That may come across as standoffish. Let me assure you, I am not. I can get so friendly you'll wish you hadn't ever met me. I'm kinda in your face. All the time. I even might knock on your car window or pat your shoulder as I walk by if, by chance, we ever have a substantial conversation and I perceive that you might, potentially, like me back. I do not think I am superior. I am not judging you. I just don't do small talk. Once I've said, "Hi." And "Wow, I like your haircut/shirt/shoes/igloo choice" I am fresh out of small talk.
I find weather incredibly boring as a topic.
I find politics incredibly pointless as a topic.
I don't want to talk about how sick I or my children are (unless they barfed in an incredibly poetic way and it makes a good story at which point it is an interesting topic and I might not shut up for an ENTIRE paragraph).
I've been known to use all aforementioned topics when desperate.
I immediately inwardly kick myself.
But in general, these topics can go nowhere. For example, "Boy, it's hot." "Yup." "When do you think the heat will break?" "Weatherman said next week we'll be back in the upper 90s." *chirping crickets*
I like to talk. People who know me well can attest for that. I recently had a very long, very detailed conversation about infertility, miscarriage, loss, adoption, fertility treatments and cloning. I don't believe the conversation was strained at any point. This was with someone I hardly know. But I feel like I know her now.
I find words to be very powerful. I try to choose them wisely (I often fail). I do not talk to fill dead space (Unless I say something like, "Well, this is uncomfortable" or "Tell me about your day/dog/dress/doughnut machine.")
I like being with people who are comfortable in silence.
I also hope those people care deeply about something that matters. I really enjoy discussing said something with them. Even if we disagree.
I abhor having words put into my mouth. I hate feeling, after I've been with someone, that I've said something I shouldn't have said. Sometimes I can't even put my finger on what it is I said. Often because it wasn't something I really said, but simply because I was not talking fast or clearly enough it was received as something I said. Or the conversation changed direction so fast that I couldn't clarify. I hate that. Therefore I continue to practice speaking less and less. Which, apparently, makes me more standoffish.
Some have referred to it as "hoity-toity."
I really, truly, am not putting on airs. Or I'm certainly not trying to. Mercy.
I married an extrovert. I highly recommend it. I never have to make conversation and yet he forces me out. A Lot. Sometimes I would like to get a word in edgewise, but after 15 years I've gotten adept at interrupting him. Probably to my detriment. He is much funnier and I do, probably, come across as more humorous when I stay quiet. He can find a point of interest to discuss with every person he meets. He has a gift. He IS a gift. He has much to teach me and I'm trying to learn.
Nonetheless.
So, as I've mentioned, I speak better through my fingers. I have, for as long as I can remember, never been good with my voice. Unless I'm throwing out a hurtful zinger which I will probably stay up all night lamenting. So, if you would, give me some grace. I'm a work in progress.
Don't assume I'm snotty or don't want to visit with you. I just don't know what you want to talk about. Yet. I am a willing ear.
Unless you want to talk about the weather. Because after I reference Weather.com, I'm fresh out.
All this is a long prologue to another post that will hopefully soon follow on perceptions and how sometimes we are WAY off in our understanding of a person.
That may come across as standoffish. Let me assure you, I am not. I can get so friendly you'll wish you hadn't ever met me. I'm kinda in your face. All the time. I even might knock on your car window or pat your shoulder as I walk by if, by chance, we ever have a substantial conversation and I perceive that you might, potentially, like me back. I do not think I am superior. I am not judging you. I just don't do small talk. Once I've said, "Hi." And "Wow, I like your haircut/shirt/shoes/igloo choice" I am fresh out of small talk.
I find weather incredibly boring as a topic.
I find politics incredibly pointless as a topic.
I don't want to talk about how sick I or my children are (unless they barfed in an incredibly poetic way and it makes a good story at which point it is an interesting topic and I might not shut up for an ENTIRE paragraph).
I've been known to use all aforementioned topics when desperate.
I immediately inwardly kick myself.
But in general, these topics can go nowhere. For example, "Boy, it's hot." "Yup." "When do you think the heat will break?" "Weatherman said next week we'll be back in the upper 90s." *chirping crickets*
I like to talk. People who know me well can attest for that. I recently had a very long, very detailed conversation about infertility, miscarriage, loss, adoption, fertility treatments and cloning. I don't believe the conversation was strained at any point. This was with someone I hardly know. But I feel like I know her now.
I find words to be very powerful. I try to choose them wisely (I often fail). I do not talk to fill dead space (Unless I say something like, "Well, this is uncomfortable" or "Tell me about your day/dog/dress/doughnut machine.")
I like being with people who are comfortable in silence.
I also hope those people care deeply about something that matters. I really enjoy discussing said something with them. Even if we disagree.
I abhor having words put into my mouth. I hate feeling, after I've been with someone, that I've said something I shouldn't have said. Sometimes I can't even put my finger on what it is I said. Often because it wasn't something I really said, but simply because I was not talking fast or clearly enough it was received as something I said. Or the conversation changed direction so fast that I couldn't clarify. I hate that. Therefore I continue to practice speaking less and less. Which, apparently, makes me more standoffish.
Some have referred to it as "hoity-toity."
I really, truly, am not putting on airs. Or I'm certainly not trying to. Mercy.
I married an extrovert. I highly recommend it. I never have to make conversation and yet he forces me out. A Lot. Sometimes I would like to get a word in edgewise, but after 15 years I've gotten adept at interrupting him. Probably to my detriment. He is much funnier and I do, probably, come across as more humorous when I stay quiet. He can find a point of interest to discuss with every person he meets. He has a gift. He IS a gift. He has much to teach me and I'm trying to learn.
Nonetheless.
So, as I've mentioned, I speak better through my fingers. I have, for as long as I can remember, never been good with my voice. Unless I'm throwing out a hurtful zinger which I will probably stay up all night lamenting. So, if you would, give me some grace. I'm a work in progress.
Don't assume I'm snotty or don't want to visit with you. I just don't know what you want to talk about. Yet. I am a willing ear.
Unless you want to talk about the weather. Because after I reference Weather.com, I'm fresh out.
All this is a long prologue to another post that will hopefully soon follow on perceptions and how sometimes we are WAY off in our understanding of a person.
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