(Little known fact.. BOOKKEEPING has the most double letters in a row of any word in the English language...except for BOOKKEEPER and BOOKKEEP-ERSON.)
Thursday, December 24, 2009
(Little known fact.. BOOKKEEPING has the most double letters in a row of any word in the English language...except for BOOKKEEPER and BOOKKEEP-ERSON.)
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Snowmobile Drifts... waist deep at least.
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Off to the QT I go. Maybe they have shorts in addition to random trucker T-shirts. To my chagrin, the QT on Lackland does NOT have trucker T-shirts, or shorts. They DO, however, have sock caps and gloves if you ever need to know that information. Say you need to rob the place and you didn't plan well. Also, they DO look at you funny if you walk into a QT and buy nothing.
Wednesday, November 04, 2009
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Maybe that dry place stayed with me well after my phone was off, when my hands were firmly at 10 and 2 on the steering wheel, and my eyes were fixed directly on the road in front of me as I rounded the bend from Page onto 270S. I must have been going too fast, but it was in super slow-mo, I began to realize that I was out of control. I instinctively knew that when you are out of control in a car you are not supposed to touch the steering wheel definitively and you are supposed to slam on the gas.
So naturally I jerked the wheel to the right and slammed on the brake.
As my life slid before my eyes I realized that I had a good life and I wondered also if I was going to do a 360, then when I realized I wasn’t going to do a 360, I took a few additional neuron fires to decide what level of spin in terms of degrees was worth re-telling if I got out of this alive. I think I did a decisive 90, twice, back AND forth.. so does that count as terrible and grand 180? No. I think perhaps not. I was still thinking of the things people would say about me at my funeral when my car came to a muddy anti-climactic rocking on the edge of the ramp. My rear-wheel drive Lincoln was a see-saw on a fulcrum of asphalt. I was fine.
Or was I? I was quite shaken. I then realized I didn’t have my seat belt on AND that I so forgot to sing the Carrie Underwood song. God was waking me up or something. I dunno. Anyway, I sat there glad to be still thinking thoughts and no cars came after me and I wasn’t in the way. I sat for many moments doing that thing I do in Target sometimes … “spinning”. Ohh lets uhm.. call this person.. or these people or no.. that’s dumb… uh ooh should I move? Wha…. Er… Uh? Ooh…Sparkly…and on SALE”
I realized then that death may not have come yet but still very much could if that faint smell I smelled was gas, and if it was indeed pouring out in a puddle beneath me, maybe I would soon be barbecued. Er. Uhm. No. That’s not gas, silly, and it’s wet outside anyway, just try to drive out, the car is fine. So I tried, but no wheels were touching anything else, problematic. I also then realized that if an 18 wheeler decided to do the same thing and go around that curve, it could jackknife into me. I deeply disappointed myself at my lack of snappy ideas. For a brief moment I thought that this was my wilderness test. That I could probably survive the wilderness on my resourcefulness, but at the on ramp to 270 in the middle of civilization, with my cell phone and the world-wide web at my fingertips, I was utterly useless.
Except I tucked my work pants into my boots so they wouldn’t get muddy. Good work, Linz.
I thought to stand way behind my car in case something big pushed it toward me. Wondering how I get a tow truck.. did I NEED a tow truck? Was my car beyond repair? Was it even broken? Who makes these assessments anyway? Good thing I’m not a Triage Nurse. (“Ooo.. Sparkly”) I thought to call my parents who I’d JUST been on the phone with… but no answer. Golf is happening. Why don’t I have triple A? Well my dad had the reason why once, maybe I call him again... he’s not answering. Er.. can’t I just drive the car away?? How hard can it be? Get back in the car, it’s raining. My undercarriage is sitting on asphalt, can’t be good. I get back out of the car. A guy drives by and asks me if I’m ok and I shrug over-dramatically. He pulls over and was trying to be helpful, but told me I was hung up. Thanks. He asked if I was going to be ok and I said yeah I have a phone. I eventually called someone near a computer who could flag me a tow truck. This isn’t hard.
Why do I explain this is such great detail? Because it could be on You Tube and I wanted to give you the mental script.
Because I finally got out when the Maryland Heights Police Car and the MoDot truck showed up almost simultaneously, and informed me that they “saw me on the video cameras”. The what?
They have cameras set up to look at dumb people I guess.
They were kind and not condescending. They stopped traffic so MoDot could pull me out backwards. I didn’t need a tow after all. Just stand around with your pants tucked into your boots and wander like an escaped mental patient and the authorities WILL show up.
And that’s how Lindsey does it on a Monday.
Saturday, October 24, 2009
I am not sure if I ever chose this venue to vehemently deny the usefulness of the Snuggie, versus the far superior Slanket. I will do this now.
Some points for your consideration:
1. The Slanket was the first. The snuggie is like generic product.
2. The Slanket is luxurious and thick like your favorite velour blanket. The snuggie is reminiscent of those airplane fuzzy things that almost look like a piece of felt.
3. The Slanket comes in colors with names like "Royale with Sleeves"
4. The Slanket would never have a TV commercial. Let alone a TV commercial that shows models wearing them in public.
5. The Slanket now comes in a "Siamese" version. Four joyous arm-holes for two people to enjoy. WHOA. Take that snuggie! Slanket-ness times TWO.
6. The original Slanket does cost more than the snuggie, but filet mignon costs more than a cheeseburger.
7. The Slanket recognized the need for a smaller version and came out with the Travel Slanket, which is the only time they would suggest wearing one outside the comfort of your own home, and I think on an airplane is indeed the only acceptable time to use a Slanket. Kudos, Slanket, Kudos.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Monday, October 19, 2009
I had the blessed opportunity to speak last night at a class my dear friend Debbie is teaching about the pieces of our minds. I decided to post my talk here. I think I referred to this in more vague terms before on this venue, so some of this is repeat...but i thought it was worth saying again. (Especially since some of you asked to see my blog and I couldn't have the first post about bees be the first thing you saw).
The background is that this class is about the things and voices that rattle around in our minds that ursurp our freedom in Christ. My week (and my struggle) was on the "I am" statements. The women were asked to write out the things they hear in their minds to dicern and divide them and throw some of the stuff away:
"I am overjoyed to be speaking with you today about the journey I went on to get free from myself. In fact, I am even more thrilled that as I tried to recall the awful things I used to think and say about myself I couldn't remember them. I wrote them all out once in an exercise much like you have done, except mine was on a giant neon yellow poster in Debbies kitchen and Tom must have seen it behind the frige and thought "whoa, Lindsey has issues" I had two solid pages of "junk in my drawer" and I couldn't recall any of it. I mean it was a LOOOONG list. So in fear of pulling the garbage back in off the curb and going thru it again and being tempted to take some of it back...(ooh i like that one... i don't want to throw IT out...) I didn't try to hard to recall them, but I did eventually remember the gist of my trauma. And it centered around these themes:
1. Perfectionism. "If I'm not perfect, 'just me' isn't enough."
2. Body Image. "Enough said."
3. Self-Depreciating humor. "If I'm my own worst enemy AND it's funny, no one can hurt me, or have reason not to love me."
Certainly these things sometimes worked for me. Number three probably got me through junior high. Certaintly there are strands of truth woven into our lies. Certainly after I laid these things down... I began to notice these patterns in other people and I could finally see how ugly they really were. I started to think "I wonder if THEY know they don't have to put themselves down, and I wonder if they know how deeply insecure it makes them sound?"
Why did I keep saying this stuff? And it's not even stuff that came out of my mouth very often, but it was the foundation of the things I really believed to be true about myself and the reasons that I wasn't happy. The reasons God wasn't blessing me. The reasons I was single. It soon became clear to me that this was an addiction. I had a conversation once (it was actually Debbie) and she asked me what would happen if I just didn't degrade myself anymore even with humor? What if I just didn't do it anymore? I blurted out quickly (which was such an indicator of my heart...) "If I let this go, I'll be lonlier than I already am" My over-extreme humility (which is actually a twisted form of pride) was my drink and I didnt even know it.
Luckily, even though I had a hard time recalling this old junk, I have this blog. I went back to some of my writings and found a little bit of a reminder about what life was like back then. This was ONLY a year ago for me. Which I hope is an encouragement of how far away this stuff can get rather quickly. This strong hold in my life made up of the mean and destructive things that I used to think about myself and the mis-truths about the world became burdensome to me after I had them identified. I had collectively named this burden and still refer to it as "the sock monkey". This security thing that I needed to survive. I wrote about the war in my mind:
What if I just let it go? This thing that I am carrying. It's no work to carry it really, I mean I can barely exist without it. The crusty old thing I drag around, this little sock monkey with it's mouth all made of zig-zaggy threads and covered in germs that my body has grown immune
to. I have eaten with it, slept with it, showered with it lived with it, vomited on it, cried when people have tried to take it. I have refused to hand it to God when he has asked me to lay it down. It's who I am, it's what makes me "me" and "interesting", right? It's that part of "crazy" that makes good art. It's the extreme humility that forces people to adore you. If you take my monkey, you are asking me to redefine my very "me" that some people happen to like just fine. Self degradation, CAN be funny. I mean c'mon really funny. I am a hilarious specimen of person. I have stories to last a lifetime about what a freak I am. Why ask me to give that up?? If I get screwed over with this spacious cathedral of a body, with the ridiculously solid size 13 feet, at LEAST let me have fun with it the only way I know how?
If I let this go. What can I trust to fill it's place? What if it's not filled right away, how do I deal with that perhaps boring hole? I am not brave enough to deal with that gaping hole. Who wants to trade this in for a "cross" to bear anyway...I'll keep my musty monkey.
This seems somehow like the fight of my life.
I am starting to not want to drag the monkey around. I think, much like my hair styles, that it's
time for me to change. Just see what it would be like, to finally not have it. I imagine it might feel like a person who has been wearing a fanny pack for 29 years and then once it's removed keeps
trying to stick gum wrappers and chap stick in it. It might be time. At twenty-nine, this is the first birthday that I have physically felt, like a clock struck midnight and then it struck me in the face. Struck me physically. I have a shoulder falling out of socket and a two knees that crunch like breakfast cereal when I walk, and maybe it's time not to depend on my athletic ability, my outward appearance, or my debilitating matted sock monkey, to be attractive and worthwhile.
Maybe it wasn't working anyway.
Maybe it's time to trust, REALLY TRUST that my identity in Jesus is REALLY enough.
So...for all the people who love me and desire me to finally see things as they really are. I am attempting to lay my cold weapons down. The ones I have taken up long ago against me. The weapons that I would never wield against anyone else.
So be praying. I don't know how this works. It's been with me longer than
So....I wrote it out. I was honest. It was ugly. Really ugly. Once on paper the sock monkey stared back up at me, caught in the act of trying to own me and I got angry at it. I prayed through it, I gave it to God and I decided that my sock monkey was not fun to be with anymore and infested with lies and harmful satan bacteria and I gave it up.
I'm not trying to sell you a product here, an infomercial where I am giving you the magical before and after shots, it was a process, there were many other failed attempts at leaving these chains behind.
Once I recognized it as the right thing to do, I wasn't even convinced that it was necessary to leave it. It required some trust in God. I wrote about what it was like after the fact:
"Thus, when my heart opened up so very big, and gulped some fresh air.. some emptiness followed... as it often does when you stop running from yourself so hard. So I'm sitting here now, in a little bit of expectancy, hope, and oddly enough some peace.
It's quiet, it's purposeful, and pregnant with possibility, it's as if I've made room for something in my soul by taking out some garbage. The crap out on the curb is rather rotten and... as I see now, not inconsequential.
It's now like I am a beautiful empty apartment waiting to be furnished... or like a canvas that has a beautiful fresh base-coat just waiting for color.
I am reminded that God only wiped the slate clean once with the flood. After that, he said no matter how grave it gets, I will chase you. I will woo you back to me. No matter where you go, what you do, if you are mine and intended for me, I will find you and keep you and redeem you. No matter how broken your bones are, my breath is sufficient to make them dance again."
I am happy to tell you that I am a completely different person. I still have things that struggle with now and again and I was very recently made aware of one of the next big ones and I'm intending to tackle that next. I have the success from this "Phase 1" of Lindsey's Redemption to look back on and know that God is to be trusted with my junk.
It's so much better without that sock monkey. People didn't shy away, they came closer.
I no longer required that they fix me, or appease me or tell me my "I" statements weren't true. They recognize me as calmer and more peaceful, less needy to be the center of attention. Way more content with who i am. (At least I think so). They don't even have to laugh anymore.
And. That. Is. Freeing.
God truly, through the power of prayer, redeemed me and let me get my head above water long enough to let life happen to "just me".
Thanks for listening, and PS don't go image searching for sock monkey pictures on the internet. There are life sized anatomically correct ones. Ew. Is there nothing pure left in the world??
Tuesday, October 06, 2009
Thursday, September 24, 2009
1 = Number of dead bats created in front yard.
1 = Number of destroyed cookie sheets as a result of previous line item
30 = Number of years I have been on the earth
1 = Number of birthday paper shredders now in my possession.
Endless = hours spent enjoying said paper shredder, and quantities of junk mail chomped by its hungry teeth.
1= Times that I almost cried at work because my boss referred to me as a “Cougar” since I am now 30. (I am not a Cougar, for the record).
9= Number of books I am currently reading.
0= Number of books I effectively took with me on my most recent plane flight to Denver.
1/5 = Level in the cereal box that my brother consumes down to before buying a new box. Seriously... to the grain.
3 = Number of times that he has done this to rice krispies alone since my last pantry clean out.
8 = Number of other non discriminate cereals he has also deemed "finished"
0 = Number of boxes he thought to throw away after they were "finished"
225 = Number of pounds, in kettlebell weights, that I cannot move that sits in my living room year round.
Endlessly = How much I love my idiot bro.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Sunday, August 23, 2009
I took this day trip to Galway, Ireland because Heidi suggested I go there. So I went. I have to kinda force myself to travel alone because it's a little bit weird, but i always seem to like it once I do it. I'm not the best planner beacause I don't take the time to research. I figure if you plan too much and it doesn't work out, you can get dissapointed. So I often prefer to let the wind take me where it will go on days like this. I just like wandering and shopping and looking at beautiful stuff absorbing in culture and being surprised instead of scheduled.
She is a small animal vet who grew up playing hockey with the boys (we clicked immediately) and she told me all about dog breeds to not get as a pet (Terriers on the top of the list of NO's). I told her all about threaputic protein drug manufacturing. She was actually interested because she was an end user of injectible drugs we help produce. It was a really nice walk with a new Canadian awesome nerd pal. Here last name is Matenchuk!! Is that not a great hockey last name?
What is "streaky bacon" anyway? Anne, Jesse? My resident bacon connesieurs? Anyone? After i posted this menu, I noticed the "Get Stuffed" sandwich. That is funny too. You can't make this stuff up.
I leave you free-radicals like me with the charge to GO! See pretty things and pretty people. See different things. Get off the couch! GO. (Or get out of the hotel bed! Whatever the case may be!).
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Sunday, August 09, 2009
Tuesday, August 04, 2009
Sunday, August 02, 2009
I had a pilgrimage-y sort of day. It all seemed holy, from the too loud clicking of my boots through the quiet wooden halls as I drank in the books produced by a monastic lifestyle to the stuffy and grand Trinity Library upstairs to the schmaltzy gift shop below which was more hustly and bustly and alive than either of the the solemn halls.
And then I bought stuff.
I sat on the edge of a restricted lush green fairway-like lawn on the campus and wondered why they planted this beautiful perfect grass if we cannot walk on it? It turned my brain back to the monks. Were they doing what they were made for, really? Was a quiet and solemn life what God intended for these bodies? Did they feel cheated? Would I? Is what they gave the world...this book...these writings, was it the plan all along? I can look at this beautiful book all day, through an inch of glass, but i cannot flip through the pages, I cannot read Latin, and I do not think I know Jesus any more or less. Perhaps the knowledge that these people believed as strongly as they did to direct their whole lives and beings and purpose to Jesus is a great historical comfort to me.
I concluded that the monastic grass was rather appropriate here in this place, but I think I'd rather be playing golf on it. Leaving chunky wet divot-scars all over the ground while playing. Living life loudly.
And then I went all Brian Fellows on that bird. "Who does dat bird think he is? Why is he mocking me? White bird, can't you read? Brian Fellows will NOT be mocked, Bird! I'm Brian Fellows!" That bright green tree struck me. Because the rest of campus looks like Gotham City. Like this:
I got up and wandered around the city, afraid that if I got hit by a cab like that Just Jack song, that no one would know that today was a good day. Walking by myself in a large European city always makes me wary of my own funeral and of pick pockets. I eye every person with deep distrust and I try not to present my backpack zippers to anyone. It's a little different when you are not by yourself, I think. You do not seem such an easy target. Regardless no one did pick my pocket. I stuffed my money in my jeans where I can barely get my hand in there myself to fish out money. Other than that, Ireland is kinda like being at your cousin's house. A little different but still feels connected and homey.
Dinner for one. Dessert for me. Book suggested by Wayne. (THANK YOU, WAYNE!)
More on Golf to come. Yarp.
Saturday, August 01, 2009
So amazing was this thing, that I have fears that the high point of my life has now passed me. I always like to think that the best in life is ahead, but I do not know if I will be able to replicate the awesomeness that happened to me just two weeks ago.
I had just come down with a nasty sinus head cold, the very day I was to leave Ireland and come home. I was not looking forward to this voyage. Altitude plus stopped up brain sometimes equals holes in eardrums. (Right Deb?)
So sadly, I head to the airport praying fervently that this journey would be as painless and fast as possible.
I have platinum status on American Airlines, thanks to the good people at Novartis. This means that I SHOULD have gotten in the short line when checking in on my long flight, but I was steered to the wrong line of cattle and had to wait for ages, and ages and ages. Finally, my underweight bags were checked and I was on my way. A blessedly short security line later, I was meandering around the duty free shops and the little trinket stores waiting for my flight to board. My aforementioned Platinum status has been so boss, I get on the plane earlier, and I now have my pick of the exit rows on the long flights. Oh it's nice. But I had no clue what happiness was in store for me when I wandered up to the line to board.
I walking into the line and the nice lady at the boarding podium (which happened to be the same woman who informed me that I stood in the wrong line earlier) stopped me. Said "OH come with me" I didn't have a clue what was up. She hadn't scanned my ticket either, so how did she know something was up? Was she waiting for my name? Did they find something contraband in my luggage?
Then she wrote a new number on my boarding pass in beautiful blue ink. "You are now 4G. You have been upgraded."
Wha--? Double Take.
What does that mean? I wonder as I skip down the jet way to my Trans-Atlantic First Class seat...head still full of fluids.
It means the best flying experience I have ever had. It means orange juice and champange before takeoff. It means crossing my legs freely. (WHAT?) It means noise-cancelling headphones, it means flight attendants who are so nice to you, you want to get up and let THEM sit down in your seat. It meant a little shoe-holder bag...with extra socks in it. A bag of toiletries including fresh-tingly hand lotion, and a moist towelette, toothpaste and toothbrush, a comb and an EYEMASK. It meant parmesean-encrusted salmon with wild rice and freshly baked chocolate chip cookies served on a TABLE CLOTH? It meant my own personal entertainment center. It meant a seat that nearly reclinded to horizontal with zero impact on passengers around you. It means an automated extentable foot rest. It meant big fluffy pillow and a giant gray comforter! Those tiny blankets that make you choose which part of your body is to freeze were a thing of the past. None of these napkin-sized red felt fuzz-generator snuggies. NO SIR.
I nearly cried when I saw the leg room. Almost bawled. My poor, giant, unflexible, poorly-circulated restless legs and my tired swollen aching monster feet have been crushed, crammed, reclined into, rolled over, and inadvertantly mistaken for under the seat luggage.
Tears of joy would have come streaming down my cheeks except my head cold was having none of that. I just kept thanking whoever would hear me. As each wonderment was revealed I kept thinking...I am not worthy. And there SO is a GOD. A God who spoke my love language so ravenously. What more could I want? I am certain I am a much larger percentage less likey to get blood clots from poor circulation. So much more rested with the white noise of the engines cancelled out. And there are SO many buttons on the seat controller! And a vast array of boozes for the chooses. (I declined, since i'm all about hydration when travelling.)
This. Is. The. Way. To. Fly.
Just ask Garth Brook's Manager. I sat by him on the flight, he helped me with the buttons. Yeah.. .he was born in St. Louis. He's kind of a big deal.
"I'm in the music/entertainment business... I'm well.. maybe you've heard... I'm Garth Brooks Manager"
[Gaping Mouth] "Yeah, I've heard of him." I was cool for about twenty minutes before I finally blurted this out:
"You tell Garth I won a walkman karaoke contest singin' 'Friends in Low Places'. You tell him Lindsey in St. Louis says 'Thankyou very much'."
Wasn't I JUST SAYING that Garth Brooks is the greatest American Songwriter of ALL TIME?
I was. Look it up. Two or three posts ago.
It's all downhill from here, folks.
I'm pretty sure.