I just made reservations for our Christmas trip. We're flying to Nashville on December 26th and back to Burbank on January 3rd. We've officially purchased the tickets. We're going to do it. I'm not totally sure if doing it five months in advance was particularly necessary...but I'd rather have them now and not have to worry about it later.

John criss-crossed all over "the Southland," as the newspeople call it, today, stock-piling work for his two jobs. Both of which require, essentially, that he handcuff himself to our kitchen table and draw and shade until his calloused hands wear away to nothingness.

On the plus side, the lady he's worked for the longest lent him an electric pencil sharpener! Jackpot! All our sharpening needs have fallen by the wayside!

Anyway, I was home all day. And I cleaned. I've cooked lately. And now I've cleaned. I'm either becoming domesticated (sounds like a pet, doesn't it?) or my willpower is improving.

When I'm alone, especially for hours at a time, my mind sort of flows as a narrative. I think things in full sentences, which I don't usually do. I mean, usually I don't have to. But sometimes my mind spits things out in paragraphs, like I'm writing the story of my day. Or my whole life. For some reason, I find it to be somewhat disconcerting.

Technically, it's already tomorrow. That is, it's still Monday night for me, even though it's Tuesday. But, tomorrow, Tuesday, I'll be thinking about my sister a lot. Her oldest son's sixth birthday would have been tomorrow (today), Aug 2. Her youngest just turned two on Saturday and Colton starts Kindergarten this month. Colton will turn five in September. He can already read. I have no idea what Charlie can do... I'm missing all of that.

I like to think about Calvin, the nephew I never really had, sometimes. For years, I would think his name and just start crying. And sometimes, even now, when I think about having my own kids, I think of him and how scared I am of the same thing happening to my someday baby and to John and I. But mostly I just think of his sweet face and how I think he probably knows everyone in the family better than anyone else. He can curl up in his Grandma Penny's lap whenever she's upset about all the weird and uncomfortable things that are going on in her life...and just be with her. And maybe she won't know it, but I think that helps her. He can help Charlie keep his balance and help Colton know what to say. He can go to my mom's Sunday school class or sit with her on the nights she's home alone, wishing that silly daughter of hers would come home from California. He can ride along with my dad all over the country and in my brother-in-law's cop car, late at night on lonely country roads. He can watch my sister laugh with his brothers and take her beautiful smile with him always.

I don't necessarily believe in angels. And I don't have any clear or strong convictions about heaven. I know, to an extent, any discussion or speculation about what our loved ones are doing now that they're no longer living is going to be contrived and cliched.

Lately I've been thinking a lot about how going to church is such an important thing for me. I've always gone. It's one of the only ways now where I can see a piece of home. And I see more and more that not many people I meet in LA go to church or are even spiritual at all, whatever the persuasion. It just seems like all the people I was close to back home, if they doubted organized religion or just didn't believe in God, they were still spiritual people aligned with the idea of Something Bigger (many times criticizing Christianity for trying to explain or limit that force). That doesn't strike me as being the case here. And maybe it's just that I grew up in the Bible Belt. Or maybe it's just the particular selection of people I know in LA. At any rate, I feel the need to cling to my faith. I'm not an evangelical. I don't go around preaching the gospel or even really mentioning it. I despise the viewpoints of the fundamentalist religious right in this country. And yet, I'm growing increasingly aware of being almost embarrased to say that, yes, I do believe in God and, yes, I do believe the part about Jesus and heaven and living forever. It never occured to me not to believe. I've only ever questioned myself and the church and my country and society. I'm still full of questions. But I don't want to be embarrassed. Especially on a day like today. Without spirituality in some form, I honestly don't think I'd be able to cope.

I don't have to understand it. I just know there are times when Calvin comes to see me, too. When I miss the rain or the humidity or the trees of home and want to cry and don't...someone is always holding my hand.

Labels: church., family., John.

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So, yesterday Neil Patrick Harris was at the store where I work. That's right, Doogie Howser, M.D.

I'm watching Sister Act. Just watched the first scene with the choir, before Whoopi works her magic, and they still sound horrible.

Which reminds me... This morning John and I tried out another church. And this one had nine, yes, nine, hymns during the service today. During the part of the service where everyone is supposed to go around and talk to each other, this old guy wearing jeans pulled up to his armpits by navy blue suspenders and a raggedy t-shirt that said "Thank God I'm a Methodist" came up to John (who was wearing an orange polo shirt with a single, thick, blue stripe across the chest) and said, "I hope you didn't wear that shirt on Saint Patrick's Day. The Irish Republican Army would've shot you."

After the service, this friendly guy who'd talked to us before everything started, told us the minister was leaving in July and the organist was a backup. Was he trying to convince us to come back? Not that the organist did a bad job, really, but she's one of those people that lets her mouth hang open when she's confused. She looked like she might start drooling, so long was her mouth open.

Trying new churches is a really strange experience. It's both comforting and terrifying. It's like seeing a family member you haven't seen since you were a child, only now they're taller and have their own opinions--opinions that aren't quite the same as yours. We're talking about differences like:
"Oh, you like Jewel?"
"Yeah, didn't you just love 'Spirit'?"
"Umm, yeah, kinda. But I thought 'Pieces of You' was better."
"Oh."
"Yeah."

Labels: church., movies.

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John and I gave up Mexican food for Lent. I was shocked by the number of people who immediately asked, "What? Are you Catholic now?" We're Methodists. And we love Mexican food.

At any rate, Lent is over now. And we've been eating Mexican food like crazy. For our Easter lunch, we went to this place called La Rumba that we've been watching for a couple months. They have these two guys that stand on the street in brightly colored ponchos with signs that say things like, "$3.99 Lunch" and "Patio Open." They're out there every day. I used to feel sorry for the Quizno's guy, who stands on the street corner of Roswell and Abernathy in a huge inflated Quizno's cup, complete with straw. He would just stand there, shifting his weight from one foot to another, waving one hand, then the other, unable to lift his arm all the way--because he was in a huge Quizno's cup. He'd be out there, dressed in plastic, in Hotlanta. It was inhumane, I tell you. But now there are these two guys, in they're floppy sombreros, and I'm not sure who I pity more. Because I haven't seen the Quizno's guy in months. I hope something bad didn't happen to him in that awful suit.

For Easter dinner we went to El Azteca. Nachos. With. Beans. And. Chicken. John had fried ice cream for the first time.

Last night: Taco Bell.

Labels: atlanta., church.

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