Great Day Already

I woke up this morning to a nice quiet apartment, the promise of a whole day to myself, and a pleasant surprise -- an e-mail from my adopted soldier.

As you guys are praying for our country during this time of war -- *ahem*, you fellow Christians ARE doing that, right? -- please remember Benjamin, who is in Afghanistan.

For Everything Else, There's MonsterCard

Luke Skywalker's lightsaber: $60,000.00
Greedo's left hand: $1,500.00
Darth Vader's prosthetic scars: $3,000.00
The fact that I am not married to a man who would purchase these things and wear them in public: priceless

Okay, fine, I admit it. There were things I thought were nifty, too. Lots of iconic big-ticket items to be had, from Gone With the Wind to Marilyn Monroe to M*A*S*H. (And here's a little something for Timbo....)

If you've got some spare change, check out the whole memorabilia auction!

I Love My Job

Those of you who know me well might read the title of this post and expect sarcasm. And of course, you'd usually be right.

But seriously, I love my job.

What I do isn't glamorous, and it doesn't even make use of most of my gifts, talents and abilities. I do a lot of grunt work -- data entry, mailings, some very tedious projects. It's kind of my "tent-making" job, to be honest, just something that will pay my bills while I'm pursuing the other things I love to do. But sometimes, in the course of completing my daily tasks, I will have contact with a client or potential client, a mom or dad of a seriously ill child.

Today I talked to a woman -- a single woman! -- in Indiana who has fostered more than 230 of what we would call "special needs" children, most of whom were abused. Among the eleven kids (ages 8 to 21) who are currently living with her full-time, there are 53 disabilities, ranging from Autism to traumatic brain injury to mild mental retardation to anxiety disorders to seizure disorders to Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (as a result of sexual abuse).

She spent the first nine years of her life physically disabled, and has undergone seven surgeries (one of them recently) for life-threatening conditions. You'd think that being single would be enough. You'd think that having serious health problems herself would be enough. You'd think that fostering 230 children over her lifetime would be enough. Apparently not.

She has adopted these eleven children, and home schools all of them. Two of them just graduated from high school and are going to college in the fall.

She apologized for not having a pen handy when I called to give her the phone number for her local chapter of our organization...she's at a Salvation Army summer camp this week with all her kids (apparently being a mom to eleven kids at home isn't even enough!). She told me my phone call was timely, because she was just in the middle of telling people how good God is and how He always provides.

Her voice bled physical exhaustion but spiritual joy. I heard her smile. "I'm grateful to be alive and doing the work of the Lord," she said.

Houndsight

On my way out to the parking lot after lunch with some friends today, I noticed a man sitting at an outside table. There were two beautiful dogs tied to the wrought iron fence near him. Of course, being the dog lover I am, I wanted to give them a friendly scratch-behind-the-ears hello. And being the puppy raiser I am, I know it's only appropriate to do so after having asked permission. There were a few other people sitting outside, so I wanted to make sure I was asking the right person.

"Do they belong to you?" I inquired, smiling.

"They belong to themselves."

(Gosh! I wonder why this guy was sitting all alone?)

What I said, smiling politely and making a joke: "I meant, 'Are they here with you?'"

What I SHOULD HAVE said, smiling politely and absolutely serious: "Oh! Then you won't mind if I untie them, fling their collars and tags into the trash can, buy them a taco and invite them to live with me."

Something Old, Something New, Something Disney, Something Snoop

I love, love, LOVE living in Los Angeles. Because you just never know what you're going to see as you're driving home from...well, okay, this super-nifty Harry Potter store, which is entirely off-topic and should really be a whole 'nother blog post. But don't let my own brand of merry freakitude imply that I'm being hypocritical. What Amy and I saw on Saturday was so amazing, we circled the block three times in order to see it again and again.

It was a wedding, but not just a wedding. It could only be described as "Gangsterella."

Let me set the scene: Little church on a major street on the Westside. Hispanic wedding party, big extended family, young bride. It was the groomsmen's fedoras we spotted first -- white fedoras with baby-pink hatbands. White suits...zoot, I'm thinking? Bridesmaids: pink layers of satin-edged, zigzaggy dress skirts (think Tinkerbell costume, only pink).

Then, oh my. Here comes the bride.

I can hardly do it justice. You'll just have to imagine a dress sort of like this sketch, only in color. Eschewing the traditional white (or ivory, or antique white, or what-have-you) gown, our dear little bride proudly sported the fitted, laced bodice, puffy sleeves and...outer skirts? what are those things anyway?...of the aforementioned sketch in a daring PINK FLORAL PRINT.

As I said, we circled the block. It was just too good! Amy actually dropped me off the final trip around so I could walk past in order to have a better look. And I'm glad she did, because otherwise I would never have been able to hear the Eminem blasting from the speakers in their waiting stretch Hummer limousine.

Made of Green Cheese? You Decide.

In honor of the first manned moon landing, which took place on July 20, 1969, take a quick trip to Google Moon.

Library of Lost Thought

The Library of Lost Thought is floating somewhere out there in the universe. Contained therein are millions of mystical shelves of information-filled books -- one for each of us.

My book, entitled "Things That Have Broken Loose and Escaped From Jenny's Mind While She Was Driving or Showering and Thus Unable to Write Them Down" consists of the following chapters:

* Great ideas for stories (or blog posts?)
* Bits of inspired screenplay dialogue
* Names of bands/albums/songs I heard on the radio that I wanted to remember
* The grocery store item I forgot to put on the list but remembered as I was trying to find a parking space
* The perfect birthday gift for a friend
* Impressive quotes I could use as witty or thought-provoking e-mail signature lines
* Names of documentaries I wanted to see
* Phone numbers or Websites advertised on buses/billboards/For Rent signs
* Locations of tempting restaurants I always pass when I have either the time or the money (but not both)

I'm sure there's more, but I seem to have....

Love Your Life? Consider Adoption!

My dad served in the Army in Viet Nam, just a few years before I was born. Sure, it wasn't his idea...but regardless of how he may have felt about the war or the draft or the presidential administration or the choices being made by the rest of his generation, he served. I think it took great courage to do that, and I think it was the right thing to do. (And to be honest, if I had been in his position, I'm not certain I wouldn't have been on the first plane to Toronto.)

The Fourth of July just passed, and I've been thinking about what a free and convenient life I lead. Here I am in sunny Los Angeles, living in a nice apartment, working part-time in a job I love, spending my "non-work" days pursuing creative writing and recreational activity. I have everything I need and lack very few of the things for which I display a sometimes fickle desire. I eat three meals a day, whether I'm cooking something fresh from the store or buying something from one of the thousands of restaurants I have access to here in my city. I have my own transportation. I have pets, hobbies, entertainment. I have access to technology and information. I have a college education. I have a vote in federal, state and local elections. I am free to go to Wednesday night Bible study in the public park, where my fellow Christians can meet without fear of beatings, arrests, or worse. Within reason, I am unrestricted.

And I did not secure these things, these rights and freedoms and luxuries, for myself.

Yes, all true freedom comes from our Creator -- let me not mislead you. But it is in the image of that Creator that men and women were made, and men and women are never more reflective of the God who made them then when they are sacrificing themselves on behalf of others. This is what our soldiers (and sailors, and airmen, and marines) do.

There is no draft right now. The ones who are serving right now are serving by choice, some of them having re-enlisted for two and three consecutive tours of duty. Do you appreciate that? Do you appreciate it even if the sacrifices they make are for someone in another country, another culture?

There is a group called Soldiers' Angels, which started with a mother's love for servicemen who recieved no mail or support from home. This one mom's efforts have grown into a full-fledged nonprofit organization. New "angels" are signing up every day to participate in these and other programs:

* Adopt A Soldier: send letters and care packages to your one assigned soldier
* Letter Writing Team: send one letter to each name you're given
* Operation Top Knot: send baby blankets and other shower gifts to pregnant wives of men who are serving overseas (Storebought or handmade! Do you knit? Crochet?)
* Wounded Project: Donate "transitional backpacks" full of toiletries, phone cards and comfort items for soldiers in Combat Support and Military Hospitals worldwide

It seems to me that these programs would make great projects for elementary school classes, knitting clubs, youth groups and the like. But even the efforts of one person can make a huge difference in the life of a soldier who desperately needs encouragement and a feeling of being in touch with the country he calls home.

Thus, one Benjamin Gray will henceforth be the weekly recipient of long letters from me, containing endless detail about the seemingly mundane activities I am privileged to enjoy because of the sacrifices made by people like him.

Also, I will send him cookies.

A big fat Hat Tip goes to Doug TenNapel and his no-holds-barred blog for bringing Soldiers' Angels to my attention.

And another Hat Tip goes to my dad, who taught me to love and respect my country (imperfect though she is), and the scores of her selfless willing, who understand the price of freedom.

Stiff Upper Lip

London mayor Ken Livingstone's words to the terrorists:

"I know that you personally do not fear giving up your own life in order to take others -- that is why you are so dangerous. But I know you fear that you may fail in your long-term objective to destroy our free society...Whatever you do, however many you kill, you will fail."

Please Pray for London

Please say a prayer today for the safety and comfort of my friend Tim, who lives in London (I've just sent him an e-mail and am hoping to hear that he's okay). Please pray as well for God's protection over his family and the rest of England, and for wisdom on the part of her leadership as Tony Blair seeks to respond to today's terrorist bombings.

UPDATE: Tim and his loved ones are safe. He writes:

"Thanks be to God my family friends and colleagues are all
fine but everybody feels down here because of the terrible
tragedy it has been for some people. Such senseless, random
wickedness. I hope LA never has to experience this."

Me too, Tim. Keep praying, everybody.

Every Girl's Crazy 'Bout a Sharp Dressed Man

Disclaimer: I am no fashionista. Far from it; in fact, I do most of my shopping at Target. Take the following as you will, given that knowledge.

SUBJECT ONE: It looked to me -- as it always looks with these guys -- like a subtle pose for his hidden paparazzi. Dark, expensive sunglasses worn indoors, one hand in a pocket, the other at his side. Expressionless. A precise yet impractical head tilt.

His was the kind of spontaneous Westside look that takes an hour to achieve. The neatly tousled hair and brand-new faded jeans bespoke an air of purposeful casualness. Black shirt...passable for inexpensive, but only from a reasonable distance. I was momentarily surprised by the cowboy boots. Surely they were cowboy boots, they were so very pointed at the toe. It's possible, cowboy boots, even here. They have come in and out of fashion as of late. Cowboy boots? Yes. Very pointy cowboy boots, such that I would pity the horse, or the other man in the bar fight.

But then he shifted to a bent-leg pose, as if he knew I wondered, and the lifting of his pantleg revealed a sock-clad ankle. Not cowboy boots but pointy man-shoes. Pointy man-shoes.

SUBJECT TWO: He strode toward me mid-Thursday as I was walking past the noodle houses and anime shops on Sawtelle. Perhaps he was on his lunch break from an ad agency. A lanky six-footer or more, twenty-five years old or less. Short, spiky hair and the requisite black hornrims of the sensitive ar-teest. Black shoes; black pants; black, short sleeved, collared shirt. Taking himself very seriously.

Then, worn as if it were a sweater vest, this.

I didn't see anyone with him, or anyone close enough with a camera for this to be a dare.

SUBJECT THREE: He stood in his suburban front yard at 10:00 on a Sunday morning, inexplicably in the company of two neatly dressed women with whom he appeared to be engaged in conversation. In his mid-to-late forties, perhaps. Beer gut -- or maybe just an actual keg, with a flap of hairy skin stretched over it for good measure -- and the accompanying "manmaries" (thank you, I think I made that up just now).

Shirtless. With beer can.

Come to think of it, that would be a perfect title for a painting in his honor.

Chocolate Wisdom: True or False?

I had one of those little pieces of Dove dark chocolate today. You know, the ones with the little messages printed on the inside of the foil wrapper? And it read:

"The further out of reach, the stronger the temptation."

Do you find this to be true? And is there a difference in the veracity of that statement when:

1. applying it to a literal, physical object of temptation at a physical distance (such as a piece of chocolate sitting on your desk versus across the room where you can see it but not reach it)

versus:

2. applying it to a more subjectively measured object of temptation at a different kind of distance (such as the Israelites wishing to go back to the way things were in Egypt, perhaps more a measure of emotional than physical distance)?

Another Free Ice Cream Public Service Announcement

Because I care, I pass this along. Visit a Starbucks on June 29!

When No Means Yes (in Sri Lanka, Anyway)

Considering some international business travel? You'd better be sure you know what you're getting into:

Those Hissing Guatemalans
Raise an Eyebrow to Fiji
Did the Dutchman Say I'm Crazy, or Do I Have a Phonecall?
Poland: Where Vodka is Finger-Flickin' Good
How to Come Home with Free Slovakian Souvenirs
Never Hug a Scotsman
The Germans and French are Just What You'd Expect

Discover these and other handy cultural tips, courtesy of DHL. The things you learn while shipping a package....

Some Things Are Better Left Unsaid

SHOULD THE ELEVATOR DOORS FAIL TO OPEN
DO NOT BECOME ALARMED,
THERE IS LITTLE DANGER OF RUNNING OUT OF AIR
OR OF THIS ELEVATOR DROPPING UNCONTROLLABLY

-- The small black sign in the elevator at work

And the Dog Snoozed On

Anybody else feel that earthquake? I'm four floors up in a small office building in West L.A., and we had more than our fair share of rock & roll for a temblor that was centered in San Bernardino County.

So as I was sitting here at my sturdy wooden desk, wondering how long the shaking would continue and deciding whether or not to get underneath, I realized I had a dog with me -- Kandy, the 8-month-old Labrador I'm puppysitting this week. Would she whine? Bark? Chew through my leg to get out from under the desk and bolt down the hallway?

Then came the gentle snoring. I don't think she's concerned.

Late Barking News

After more than two years of prayer and perseverance, I have finally been given the thumbs-up to raise a guide dog puppy!

Thank you to those who have stood with me in praying for the fulfillment of this dream. God has been faithful to provide the perfect circumstances: I am in a terrific job at an organization where volunteerism is supported and encouraged, working with people who are excited about my participation in this project. I have my own office, with plenty of room and a door. It seems everything has fallen into place, and I know it's no accident.

Please join me now in praying that the dog I receive won't be a complete spaz.

I'll keep you posted.

Technology Foils Me Again

No matter what I do, I will never defeat the printer. Every time I use it, something goes wrong. Out of paper? Paper jam? Empty ink cartridge? Those are all fixable things, easy things. The most common obstacle to successful printing on the good ol' Epson 980N is simply...rebellion. It won't tell you what's wrong, it just won't work. Things may or may not show up in the print queue. Sometimes there's a flashing light on the back of the printer, sometimes not.

Today I spent the requisite twenty minutes, turning it off and unplugging it and waiting a minute and plugging it back in and turning it back on and clearing the print queue and quitting out of the document and restarting my computer and doing a Native American rain dance and offering the printer twenty dollar bills and a place of prominence near the window so it could enjoy the beautiful sunny Southern California afternoon.

Nothing.

So finally, I resorted to threats. In all seriousness, full voice in the office supply room, I said, "Okay. You're going to print for me now. Or there will be consequences."

I noticed David standing there as I turned around to walk out the door. He didn't seem phased.

So after a five-minute trip to the restroom and a quick check of my computer, which led me to believe my documents had been printed, I went to the printer.

On the tray was one piece of paper. In large, bold letters, it read:

"HA! HA! CONSEQUENCES, SHMONSEQUENCES! -- The Printer. "

Oh, sure, it was David's handwriting. But maybe it's mastered forgery too, just to spite me.

An Open Letter to Mispronouncers of Plain and Reasonably Phonetic English Words

Dear English Language Offenders:

It has recently come to my attention that there is a vast conspiracy. Of you. Against me.

Me: hapless word nerd, fighting the good but apparently fruitless fight for correct pronunciation. You (surprisingly): white, middle-to-upper-middle class, native English-speakers with at least a two-year college degree. Many of you, indeed, are of even higher socioeconomic status and hold even more advanced degrees, and should therefore know better. And yet, the offense continues.

Why do you torment me? Why do you insist upon drinking "melk" -- or "myilk," or, heaven forbid, "malk" -- in your "expresso" and setting off "nookyaler" bombs in countries "acrost" the world and sending your children off to "kinnygarden" and eating "donits" covered with "peanits" (and please do be careful with that one)? One might even say the list goes on, "excetra, excetra."

It is as though there is a toggle switch in my brain, the opposite ends labeled "mental homeostasis" and "murderous rage." And every time one of you says the word "samwich," I can feel a finger on that switch. Waiting. Waiting.

Ebonics and other American cultural linguistic phenomena aside, I remain baffled. I do not speak today of mistakes in grammar, punctuation or syntax. Nor do I speak of regional dialects (though they mystify me as well, what with some of you putting "earl" in the engine, using the "terlet" in the men's room and "pahking" the "cah"). These are not words of freshly foreign origin; they are not new to this part of the world. No one is asking you to stand up and represent in the face of such linguistic hurdles as "Quetzalcoatl" or "schadenfreude" or "trompe l'oeil." This is plain English, people.

And it's not even tricky plain English, like that I Love Lucy episode in which Ricky, in a comically stereotypical non-native-English-speaker way, stumbles over "rough," "through," and "bough" as he is reading a bedtime story to Little Ricky, his fiery Cuban hackles raised at the absurdity of three different pronunciations of the same letter grouping. You should all know better. You should.

What's more, I think you do know better, and I think you are just waiting to see how much more I can take before I snap.

So I have an idea. I will fight back. I will foil you by re-educating your offspring. My Center for the Proper Pronunciation of Childhood Dining Delicacies will eliminate this growing problem by rehabilitating our nation's youth who have been taught, whether by encouragement or by simple lack of correction, to describe a popular pasta dish as "puh-sketti." While the Center does not yet have funding, I am certain to receive adequate financial support from John Malkovich, who was tragically forced to abandon his birth name of Milkovich when, as a young actor, he bowed to the pressure of the mispronouncing masses. Oh, yes. Our dream lives on, and someday we will prevail.

And from that day forward, you will never again pierce my eardrums -- and my soul -- with your torturous word mangling.

Viva la Revolucion,

Jenny

Beyond Beautiful

Amazing. Apparently, the Arrowsmiths have what it takes to keep doing the same old song and dance for eighty years.