for Grace, who’s been asking me for months to get the beacons lit…
January 23, 2008
One of my dearest friends, Grace, and I were FA-NAT-ICS about the LOTR movies. Still are, actually.
My old work digs, Masterworks (where Grace still works) boasts a LOVELY view of the Olympics, especially on clear days. A year or two ago, Grace, upon seeing this loveliness, said something to the effect of “It looks like the beacons are lit,” thus confusing her co-workers and forever proving her nerd-dom.
It’s the kind of nerd-dom I can appreciate, though, and so I decided finally fulfill her request of me: that I finally light the beacons.
bad things happen when I get bored…
December 16, 2007
So… I decided to organize our books by color this past weekend.
Seeing as how my book collection nearly doubled about a year ago, this was a lot harder than the last time I tried it.
Yes, I’ve done this more than once.
Yes, I’m a nerd.
You should have seen Justin’s face, watching me organize like some mad thing.
But I think it looks cool and think it will be funny the next time Justin’s looking for a book. “What color is that binding again?”
An Open Letter to the Stinky Young Dude Perusing Anime Right Next to the Wii Games We Wanted to Look At
November 28, 2007
Dear Stinky Young Dude Perusing Anime Right Next to the Wii Games We Wanted to Look At,
Please take a shower.
Maybe this will be a scary new first for you, but I would deeply appreciate it. I know this is Bellingham and everything, and that in some corners of our fair city this kind of behavior may be tolerated, even encouraged, but if this is a “finding yourself” phase in your life which requires you to embrace non-hygiene, please remain in those corners and far away from public areas. My husband and I were so excited to go spend some gift cards he’d received as a reward from his otherwise thankless job, but our experience at Best Buy was severely handicapped by the fact that, whenever we were within ten feet of you, we had to breathe through our mouths, and even that didn’t really help much.
You didn’t even have the courtesy to wander aimlessly through the store. No, you stood your ground. Right in front of the very games which had brought us here on our quest. For over fifteen minutes. Was it a display of dominance, I wonder?
You have very long hair. It seems that this feat of growth and patience could be much more appreciated were it not tangled in a mound of what can only be called scalp-grease.
At my job, I am trapped in small rooms with stinky people for several moments at a time, often for large portions of the day. Please don’t make me have to endure it during my time off.
Sincerely,
S.L.
garage-saling with the professionals
July 25, 2007
Team Lawlis drove home a few weekends ago, stayed with my folks, and caught up with friends for a few days. Part of this revelry involved garage-saling with Chris.
This is Chris. Note the classy use of my garter at our wedding.
Chris is forsaking us; is moving to glamorous California. Apparently, we’re not good enough in comparison to palm trees and sandy beaches and eating disorders. So, to celebrate his impending demise departure, we decided to accompany him on his garage sale quest.
First thing you need to know: to Chris, if anything is worth doing, it had better be done in a suit. Whether searching for reduced-price crap on someone’s lawn, or a wife and career out on the side of the road, you need to look the part.
Justin and I were slummin’ it — we showed up in our usual civilian garb — but Chris was not one to disappoint. Suit and tie, kids. Suit and tie.
A few snippets from our little adventure:
Chris, at our first stop: “How much for the lot?”
Man running garage sale: “What?”
Chris: “How much, for everything here?”
Man: “One thousand, nine hundred and ninety five dollars.”
Chris: “I’ll give you fifty cents.”
At our next garage sale, my fine husband found a vampire cape which he purchased for $1US. He proceeded to wear it to each garage sale that followed, which elicited strange looks at some sales, and open staring at others.
Justin and Chris were discussing a potential purchase at one house and the lady walked up to them, in vampire cape and three-piece suit, respectively, and said, “Hi there. What’s the occasion?”
They looked at her as if that were the strangest question in the world. “What occasion?” they asked. “We’re garage saling.”
She then felt awkward to have asked, mumbled a “Sorry,” and returned to her lawn chair in the garage. It was one of the more tangible awkward moments I’ve been able to enjoy in a while. That, and when Chris asked at one house if they were selling pot.
Chris purchased a fan from the Philipines for fifty cents, not to keep, but to barter with at the next garage sale. He pointed to an item, requested its price from its owner, and then had Justin ever-so-suavely pull the fan from the inner pocket of his suit and display it ever-so-tantalizingly.
(Justin has come in handy before. Once he carried around a clipboard, jotting down notes for Chris as they were perusing. Chris would point; Justin would say to the seller: “The gentleman would like to make you a very generous offer,” write down fifty cents on a sheet of paper, fold it up, and hand it to the person.)
While we were saling, Chris also tried to garner a book of Shakespeare plays by delighting a garage-saling crowd with a dramatic reading: “Act One…” I thought he did the Bard justice, but they insisted on him paying 38 cents for the book.
By the way, random thought, I think this T-shirt is brilliant. With that, I leave you. (There was pretty much no way to wrap up this random post, and I really do like the T-shirt.)
this is pretty much the grossest thing I’ve ever seen.
January 17, 2007
Shortly after our move to Bellingham, Justin and I promptly signed up for Blockbuster Online. It’s amazing. They send you movies in the mail, and when you’re done enjoying them, you run them back to the store, and the mailing envelope is a coupon good for a movie right then and there. The movies you returned are checked back in as if they’d already arrived back at the warehouse, and you get three more movies in the mail the next day.
Pretty sweet. Remember, kids. You heard it here first.
Anyway, J and I were returning said movies to Blockbuster, and as I was getting out of my car, I saw the following “situation” in the car next to us. You’re looking through the windshield at the interior of this guy’s car. I say “guy’s” car because no woman on earth would do this.
Hope the air freshener helps…
overheard in new york
February 19, 2006
Thanks to Chelsie, I have found a new site that makes me laugh:
This one made me gut laugh, sitting here all by my lonesome in the Little Blue House:
Girl #1: I just don’t think I’m his type. He’s very intellectual.
Girl #2: What do you mean?
Girl #1: He’s all “yada yada yada” and I’m very “What’s your favorite Starburst?”
–31st & Park
–overheard by Clara
Nog Bong 2006
January 17, 2006
There are moments in life when you look at someone you dearly love, and suddenly realize, “Damn, you’re cool.”
Ladies and Gents, my brother won the Better than Second (AKA First Place) Trophy in the Webb’s second annual Nog Bong Event. That’s him, in the middle. What a guy.
This year’s fierce competition:
The scorecard:
And Kevin, our proud winner. It turns out that, among other super-hero powers, my brother can stomach more egg nog at a time than anyone else on the planet. Or at least in the immediate vicinity.
You can see the video here (quite funny actually, sync’d perfectly in time with music).
Way to uphold that little value I like to call Rich Family Pride, Kevo. You are a source of inspiration to us all. I thought that Pizza Hut Binge 1999 was impressive, but I stand corrected.
(Sorry you puked first, Chelsie. At least you got First Puker Trophy).
purple heart
July 10, 2005
OK. I am finally ready to tell my tale. This is, for the record, my BEST STORY EVER. I’ve been telling it to everyone, and they agree. (I am the hit of every party. Every social gathering needs a story like this one… it’s a service I’m now happy to be able to provide). Given the circumstances, I think I earned this puppy.
This past Sunday, July 3rd, 2005, shall forever be known as The Day I Got Attacked By A Paranoid Schizophrenic (At Church). Take, that, JLP!
No, I am not kidding. Torch can vouch for me – he witnessed the events unfold in all their glory.
Our scene: the worship band at good ol’ First Pres is running through its song list — I’m singing and playing keys. (If I remember correctly, we were in the middle of Wonderful Maker).
Out of the corner of my eye, I notice mini candy bars whizzing by and landing on stage. I look up, and a fifty-something woman is throwing them at us. I chuckle to myself, thinking, slightly odd way to joke around with us, but no matter. However, after a few chocolates hit me, I realized that she was not throwing Mr. Goodbar and Krackel and Hershey’s Special Dark at US, but at ME.
(By way of explanation, no, she did not bring her own mini-candy-bar arsenal. The first few rows of seats in the community center have candy placed on them, to entice reluctant-front-row-sitters to sit close. We are currently re-thinking the wisdom of leaving projectile weapons just lying there).
I didn’t have much time to reflect on this, however, because the lady, in a complete state of agitation, ran up to my keyboard, and began yelling the following (and pointing, just in case it wasn’t completely clear who she was referring to): “Adulteress! Fornicator! Don’t you laugh at me! He’s MY husband! You don’t deserve to be on this stage, you dirty whore!” at which point she begins trying to pull me off the platform.
(“MY husband” was an old dude playing percussion behind me on the platform. He has long white hair and a long white beard — a true vintage hippie. No offense to him, but he was completely safe from my tendencies toward foul temptressing).
She accused me of locking her out of the community center so I could bend over in front of her husband, show him my breasts, etc. etc. etc. (One of the doors sticks. Out of the corner of my eye, while we were playing, I had noticed her trying to get in, and having to come through the other set of double doors right next to the one she had tried).
Adulteress and Fornicator were pretty much the terms of choice, however. There were twenty or thirty people around, hearing this. It was nice.
I would like to tell you that I was really tough about the whole thing, but as I was sitting there at my keyboard (I had to sit because of the bum knee) my eyes filled up with alligator tears and I just shook my head, saying “No… no…”
I am so not tough. I am disappointed.
Like I said, she was grabbing me, trying to pull me down off the platform, which scared me a lot given that if my knee bends the wrong way it sort of feels like someone is snapping my leg in two. I pulled my arm away, and got up, walking away from her to the other side of the stage. I sat down for a second and the other girl singing with me came up and put her arms around me, but when the tirade continued, I got up and tried to leave. At this point, Crazy ran up behind me and hit me as hard as she could in the back. I had been surprised before, but now… this? “OW!! God!”
Everyone was sort of deer-caught-in-headlights… the whole thing happened pretty quickly… but they finally restrained her right after she hit me. I didn’t stick around to see more… I headed out, crying and shaking, and hid in a corner as they physically removed her from the building. (Matt later told me that at this point, he and everyone else in the place were all adulterers).
This, fifteen minutes before church begins. In a service where I’m supposed to be singing a very challenging song the speaking pastor had requested (I’d been working on it for two or three weeks) and sharing a testimony right beforehand to introduce it.
Someone had called the police, so I had to give a statement about five minutes before the service began. They had caught up with her about three blocks down the road, and had her in custody, so at least I didn’t have to really worry that she’d be back in to rid the church of the Adulteress or anything. I didn’t press charges, I didn’t feel like making things worse (plus, I just didn’t feel like taking the time to deal with it. I just wanted a few minutes to calm down so I could actually do what I’d traveled an hour and a half to do).
This might sound dumb — she was just a fifty-ish lady, and were it not for my leg and complete lack of ninja skills, I could have taken her — but I’ve never been so scared by a person in my life.
Again, no. Not kidding.
Um, I felt a little conspicuous at this point. (You tend to feel this way when you’ve been publicly called out as a whore). But people were really kind. Lots of people who had seen it came up to give me a hug… they all felt so badly about what had happened. And, when it came time to sing, I’m happy to say that I think I pulled it together pretty well. I don’t think anyone who didn’t already know what had happened would have been able to guess.
In a way, what happened was almost a good thing, because it put me COMPLETELY in a place where I was vulnerable, and I knew it, and I really needed God’s grace to help me through that moment, and He knew it. Ministry is its sweetest when we know we don’t have it in us, and God says, “Yeah, I know, let Me.” The whole day was a sweet moment.
When I returned for the night service (watching my back like crazy), Matt informed me that he had just been told that she is a diagnosed paranoid schizophrenic who refuses her medication, and who has a tendency to fixate on one younger woman she’s sure is after her husband.
My response was thus: “Matt…? DUH.” He laughed.
So, I’ve been unofficially awarded the Purple Heart from the worship team at FP. We’re considering options such as putting the drum shield in front of my keyboard… me wearing a kevlar vest, etc. (On a serious note, that couple will not be back, so although I’ll have to be cautious, I think I’m ok). And, other than people (my 80-year-old Grandma, my parents, various pastors) calling me an adulterous hussy every now and then, all has returned pretty much to normal.
I wish I had a moral for this story, but the only one that’s coming to mind is “So make sure you bring your pepper spray to church, because you just never know…”
[Bible Jim and me]
January 27, 2005
Luke 5:31,32 Jesus answered them, “It is not the healthy who need a doctor, but the sick. I have not come to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance.”
***
I still remember the first time I saw the man campus veterans referred to as Bible Jim. (2001 found me no longer at Bible college, but at Western Washington University in Bellingham WA, just to clarify…)
He was a little hard to miss as he hopped out of his panel van, wearing a bright blue sweatshirt emblazoned in huge white letters with the following subtle message: REPENT HOMO!
A little band of fellow crusaders braved the darkness of our campus alongside him: a woman I assumed to be his wife, with long scraggly, graying hair and a flowing skirt to her ankles; a boy and a girl (his kids?), probably around 10 and 13; and a man in his thirties with an equally subtle message on his own sweatshirt.
Running late to class as usual, I wasn’t able to catch their full intentions in visiting our campus, but as I walked through Red Square an hour later, it was impossible to miss. Red Square is normally a great place to be, a center of campus life: other punctuality-challenged students such as myself trying to hustle to class without being horribly conspicuous, caught in a very awkward sort of half-run; friends catching up on the latest, laughing and joking; people on break enjoying a quick bite to eat, sitting on the ledge around the fountain; the occasional goofballs taking a run through the fountain.
On this day, I’m not sure what hit me first – the twenty-feet-tall signs held by the little group as they stood firmly and resolutely in the center of the Square, or the very tangible, seething rage that threatened to boil over at any moment. It seemed less like a crowd and more a hornets’ nest.
The signs: one of them had to do with Hell, and how most of us were destined for it, I remember that much; and another, a huge monstrosity (probably hand-made by Mrs. Bible Jim), said this:
YOU MAKE JESUS SICK:
dykes on bikes
fags
lying penteco$tals
people who love their pets more than God
computer freaks
sluts
liberal liars
money-mongers
winos
perverts
etc.
etc.
etc.
(I can’t remember the entire list because it consisted of about thirty types of nausea-inducing people). But you get the general idea.
The rage: I’m not sure who was more angry – the majority of Western’s very liberal campus, or the Christians, who felt that they were being set back about a century in their efforts to show grace and love to those they lived and studied with. Some entered the fray, debating with Bible Jim, yelling verses back and forth. I found myself among others who sat down a little behind the huge crowd, mourning what was happening and silently praying that it wouldn’t get violent. (Although I was so angry inside that I honestly wouldn’t have minded if someone had given Bible Jim a fist or two).
If being a Christian meant that I was identified with these folks, then I was ashamed to be one in that moment. My heart ached to realize that these people would drive off in their van, feeling they had done an awesome work for the Kingdom; that they had stood up for Jesus and for what was right. They would never realize what a mess they’d left the rest of us with – what damage had been done; what hatred we’d have to attempt to undo. I remembered standing in Red Square a month prior with my friend Dustin, handing out free coffee in CTK cups to people cold and on their way to finals. We’d felt good about giving “a cup of cold water” without needing to convert anyone, without needing to talk about anything other than finals with people. People were like, “Really? Just coffee? That’s all?” Now, I felt more than a little defeated. What was free coffee going to do against rabid hate? What would people remember more?
And then I thought of Allie.
Tomorrow: part 2.
Operation PGB, day three
August 11, 2004
So I did all my cardio, (I love those ellyptical runners – awesome), worked my legs, and then went over to the ab weight machines. There, I met Muscle Man Number One. I’m not trying to be mean, but what a freak show! (Muscle Man Number One probably goes to your gym too). He struts about like a peacock and his spandex workout shorts and gym tank top (complete with large hole in front, just to show you how long he’s been dedicated to lifting). The strutting, I didn’t really notice at first. (at the gym, it’s not like strutting is rare).
It was more the ungodly noises he was making over on the glute machine that got my attention. Muscle Man sounded like he was giving birth. Natural childbirth, with no painkillers. He could teach cavemen how to communicate, his grunting was that good.
I’m thinking to myself, “Now how am I supposed to do crunches on this machine with that sort of thing going on?” The only muscles I was really working were my facial muscles… trying not to burst out in laughter. (I didn’t dare laugh. He could, literally, break me in half. I would like to stay on good terms with MM)
He left the machine, and I resumed my crunches, happy that I could once again suffer in silence. However, as he strutted past, he continued to moan, groan, and grunt! As if walking, too, were hard work for such a muscle man as he. Back and forth he went, back and forth. Even his breathing was obnoxiously loud.
At this point I sort of gave up any hope of a decent workout. Luckily, however, he soon moved on to his natural habitat (translation: the bench press bar) where others of his kind could grunt in unison.
Which brings me to my first question of this morning’s post, especially for you men out there: Does all that moaning and groaning actually help your workout? Because I’m strongly considering trying it. Anything for my health. Anything.
Second lovely part of my gym visit: Enter Muscle Man Number Two. (I just had an unfortunate Austin Powers reference bolt through my mind… moving on). I’ll just give you the conversation. Keep in mind that I don’t get pretty for the gym. I roll out of bed, wash my face, brush my teeth, and attempt to tame my unruly curls (translation: I wad my hair up in ridiculous pigtailish things). Keep in mind also that I’m not trying to sound like a vain jerkface, like I get hit on often. Trust me. It’s rare. When I do get hit on, it normally takes a slightly embarrassing route, a-like so:
MM2: (mid-strut) Tuesday, is it?
Me: What? (thinking, it’s Wednesday… what on earth?)
MM2: Your name’s not Tuesday?
Me: Nope. (grateful my name’s not Tuesday)
MM2: Well your Tshirt says…
Me: (having totally forgotten I was wearing my Late Tuesday Tshirt) OH… no, it’s the name of a band from up in Bellingham. (Why the heck would I wear a Tshirt that had my name and the word “late” above it. LATE STACEY… “Stacey, is it?”)
MM2: Oh, cause, you know, sometimes people have their names… on their shirts…(trailing off)…
Me, inwardly: What on earth?
MM2: So you do you live up there?
Me: (dismayed that this is now a conversation) No, I lived up there for a while when I went to school.
MM2: Oh. Right on. So you live here now.
Me: Yup. (don’t ask me for my real name… don’t ask me for my real name…)
MM2: So if your name’s not Tuesday, what is it?
Me: DANG IT! I’m Stacey, nice to meet you.
MM2: Nice to meet you. (strut continues).
Me: (trying not to turn red and just get back to my stinkin’ workout…)
ENTER MUSCLE MAN NUMBER THREE (in way too short, tight, bright electric blue cutoff sweatpants)!!! Muscle Man Three actually didn’t freak me out so much, except for the shorts, I think he was just trying to be nice, because I was sort of embarrassed.
MM3: You gotta watch out for that guy… he’s so smooth… really smooth, that guy is.
Me: awkward laugh…
MM3: OH, I’m John, by the way…
Me: I’m Stacey, nice to meet you.
MM3: Nice to meet you.
Making my escape to my car:
MM3: (as he’s jogging by) Have a great day!
MM3: You too, John. You too.
So apparently my appeal has expanded from 18 year olds, to include Muscle Men! SCORE!
Which leads me to my second question: What are the WORST pickup lines you’ve ever heard? Or used? Ever called a girl by a word on her Tshirt? Curiosity is killing me.
Have a great day – may yours be filled with laughter, as mine already has been.
