My friend Debbie sent me an article via email (it's all the same info as what's in the link above, which is the blog post title) and I now want to shrivel up and never eat again. (Unless it's ice cream, of course. Do they make organic ice cream, and is it worth it?)
Anyway, so if you want to get depressed about your fridge's contents or become more supermarket-savvy, by all means visit the link. If you want to remain in ignorance of the crushed beetles you are ingesting, then don't read!
Anyone up for a yogurt?
Thursday, August 17, 2006
Monday, August 14, 2006
Terrorist Plot Uncovered! News at 11!
With all due respect to the recent furor over the (forunately) discovered conspiracy of blowing up British-American flights last week, I offer this little piece of intended humor to lighten the mood.
I am sitting at home indulging an Amelia Peabody mystery after a long day of serving (or attempting to serve) at church. I'm tired, sweaty, but relatively free of any particular want or care. (There is a need, however, of doing the rest of the dishes, but that is easily ignored.) The Boo is asleep, and I'm enjoying the peace and quiet. Er, I mean, reading allows me to be quiet. (My aunt works 3rd shift and has to grab sleep whene'er she can.)
For those that don't know me, I carry a goodly amount of extra poundage. At least 1/3 of that extra weight could be attributed to ice cream. Not chocolate. Not cookies or cake. Definitely not brownies. Ice cream. Smooth, sweet, refreshingly cool ice cream. *sssssiiiiigghhhhhhhh*
And there is nothing more disturbing to an individual intent on relaxing for the night with a good book than the sound of that demon of summer eves, that evil enchanter of the season... The Ice Cream Truck.
I can hear it at least a street over, because our a/c is dead, gone, passed away to wherever the working souls of air conditioners go when they decide they can't handle the friction any more, and our windows are open begging for a breeze. Its merry melody reaches my ears much the same way you see dogs tempted with smells in cartoons... the smoke-like whiff is the strain of the endlessly-repeating song, teasing and tickling my ears. It grows louder, stronger, and the child not very well submerged in me (I want the Spongebob popsicle, please!) pleads within to run out to the curb, waving my money. But I resist.
Especially since I don't have any cash. And - thank God - I sincerely doubt we've advanced so far into "The Mark of the Beast" technology as to have ice cream trucks fitted out to accept debit cards. (If I'm wrong, please do not tell me. They say ignorance is bliss and, in this case, it's probably about 10 pounds lighter, too.)
Still, that Presence that haunts the streets of suburbia in summertime is undeniably indelibly imprinted on the American psyche, calling to children of all ages and playing on the memories of the older ones of those long-ago, happy days... Calling, with its music; weaving its spell... But I say unto you: Beware the wolf in sheep's clothing! Beware the colorful dairy-product dispenser! Ignore the lure of the Pied Piper of Cellulite!
For I, aye, humble I, have uncovered the dastardly plot behind these traveling machines of early-onset obesity! Disassociate yourself from the sweet memory of turning your sunburned face up to the Ice Cream Man and asking for a Drumstick or a Strawberry Shortcake or a Rocket Popsicle. For he is not the friendly treat-bringer we've all been led to believe. He's a terrorist!
I know, I know, I found it hard to believe myself when I discovered the truth. It hurts, does it not? But, I beg of you, consider the facts:
For those that don't know me, I carry a goodly amount of extra poundage. At least 1/3 of that extra weight could be attributed to ice cream. Not chocolate. Not cookies or cake. Definitely not brownies. Ice cream. Smooth, sweet, refreshingly cool ice cream. *sssssiiiiigghhhhhhhh*
And there is nothing more disturbing to an individual intent on relaxing for the night with a good book than the sound of that demon of summer eves, that evil enchanter of the season... The Ice Cream Truck.
I can hear it at least a street over, because our a/c is dead, gone, passed away to wherever the working souls of air conditioners go when they decide they can't handle the friction any more, and our windows are open begging for a breeze. Its merry melody reaches my ears much the same way you see dogs tempted with smells in cartoons... the smoke-like whiff is the strain of the endlessly-repeating song, teasing and tickling my ears. It grows louder, stronger, and the child not very well submerged in me (I want the Spongebob popsicle, please!) pleads within to run out to the curb, waving my money. But I resist.
Especially since I don't have any cash. And - thank God - I sincerely doubt we've advanced so far into "The Mark of the Beast" technology as to have ice cream trucks fitted out to accept debit cards. (If I'm wrong, please do not tell me. They say ignorance is bliss and, in this case, it's probably about 10 pounds lighter, too.)
Still, that Presence that haunts the streets of suburbia in summertime is undeniably indelibly imprinted on the American psyche, calling to children of all ages and playing on the memories of the older ones of those long-ago, happy days... Calling, with its music; weaving its spell... But I say unto you: Beware the wolf in sheep's clothing! Beware the colorful dairy-product dispenser! Ignore the lure of the Pied Piper of Cellulite!
For I, aye, humble I, have uncovered the dastardly plot behind these traveling machines of early-onset obesity! Disassociate yourself from the sweet memory of turning your sunburned face up to the Ice Cream Man and asking for a Drumstick or a Strawberry Shortcake or a Rocket Popsicle. For he is not the friendly treat-bringer we've all been led to believe. He's a terrorist!
I know, I know, I found it hard to believe myself when I discovered the truth. It hurts, does it not? But, I beg of you, consider the facts:
- Ice cream tastes good. Really good. Like, I'll-be-single-for-the-rest-of-my-life-because-I-can't-lose-weight-because-I-love-ice-cream-too-much-to-never-over-indulge-in-it-again good.
- Anything that tastes good is bad for you. (I bet that fateful "apple" in Eden was delicious.)
- Anything that's bad for you is easy to sell.
- Anything that's easy to sell makes money.
- Anything that makes money AND is bad for the general American public has got to be something terrorists really dig.
- I'm generally two steps behind any money-making, health-threatening scheme, so somebody has to be already employing it.
- Terrorists are a nice, ambiguous group of people to use as scapegoats.
Now, I ask you, how can you argue with my logic? It's as plain as day. You must buy your ice cream at Cold Stone Creamery.
My next in-depth report will cover my investigation of whether Ben & Jerry are really old hippies from Vermont or if they're really "Bin & Jihad." Stay tuned!
Wednesday, August 9, 2006
Heavy Heart
There's No Place Like Home
"Now I know I have a heart... because it's breaking."
- The Tinman, Wizard of Oz
I've spent most of my life thinking God took FOREVER to do stuff. It's His timing, right? But sometimes things happen so quickly (usually to other people) that you're left breathless and befuddled. This is where I am now, a little dazed at the rapidity of how God has knocked down each barrier to the moving on of two of the most amazing people I know: Pastor Steve and Tricia. They are finally going "home" to the Pacific NW, where at least Tricia's heart has been for quite a while (indeed, did it ever leave?).
Of course, their hearts have been here too, as their dedication and integrity in ministry after ministry has shown. But while I am happy for them that this is finally happening for them, it's really hard to see them go. For as little as I've had the chance to see them in the last couple of years, knowing that my IHOP "conferences" with Tricia and the occasional dinner at their place (and soon at mine!) is coming to an end, it's heart-breaking. I hate how relationships have to change - because I know this one will. I'm sure we'll keep tabs on each other, but it's never the same. *deep sigh*
But... it's not about me. It's about God's glory, and the plans He has for each of us. We were in each other's lives for a reason (mostly, they were in my life as incredible mentors and friends), and now God expects us to move on, move forward, taking those experiences into the next ways He has for us to serve. And that is truly exciting.
So, Tricia and Pastor Steve, blessings to you as you continue your journey westward, homeward (aren't we all journeying homeward?), and your next big adventure. You have my love, prayers, a place to visit if you ever want to return to Ohio (no comments, please, Tricia! ha, ha), and a promise from me that somehow, someway, I will get out to see you eventually. (You can't get rid of me so easily!)
I love you both! (Oh, and Ian, too!) ;-)
"Now I know I have a heart... because it's breaking."- The Tinman, Wizard of Oz
I've spent most of my life thinking God took FOREVER to do stuff. It's His timing, right? But sometimes things happen so quickly (usually to other people) that you're left breathless and befuddled. This is where I am now, a little dazed at the rapidity of how God has knocked down each barrier to the moving on of two of the most amazing people I know: Pastor Steve and Tricia. They are finally going "home" to the Pacific NW, where at least Tricia's heart has been for quite a while (indeed, did it ever leave?).
Of course, their hearts have been here too, as their dedication and integrity in ministry after ministry has shown. But while I am happy for them that this is finally happening for them, it's really hard to see them go. For as little as I've had the chance to see them in the last couple of years, knowing that my IHOP "conferences" with Tricia and the occasional dinner at their place (and soon at mine!) is coming to an end, it's heart-breaking. I hate how relationships have to change - because I know this one will. I'm sure we'll keep tabs on each other, but it's never the same. *deep sigh*
But... it's not about me. It's about God's glory, and the plans He has for each of us. We were in each other's lives for a reason (mostly, they were in my life as incredible mentors and friends), and now God expects us to move on, move forward, taking those experiences into the next ways He has for us to serve. And that is truly exciting.
So, Tricia and Pastor Steve, blessings to you as you continue your journey westward, homeward (aren't we all journeying homeward?), and your next big adventure. You have my love, prayers, a place to visit if you ever want to return to Ohio (no comments, please, Tricia! ha, ha), and a promise from me that somehow, someway, I will get out to see you eventually. (You can't get rid of me so easily!)
I love you both! (Oh, and Ian, too!) ;-)
Tuesday, August 1, 2006
Dreaming of The END
Lame title, I know, but I couldn't think of anything else. I had a dream yesterday morning that really disoriented me for a good part of the morning.
I had hit the snooze button several times, and dozed off again right before that last-chance-to-get-up alarm went off. And the BFG must've been strolling by at that time and blew in a dream for what he must've considered a bad grown-up. Because I dreamed about gas.
Not the funny kind, with its myriad of goofy noises, noxious smells, and source of endless juvenile jokes... No, I mean gas. Fuel for your car.
This is not a typical dream subject for me. While I do often have vivid dreams about mundane things in bizaare situations, this seemed a little more than just a weird dream. So much so I had to blog it.
In my dream, I'm hanging out with three of my girlfriends from bible study, and at some point we end up at a gas station that is packed with cars. This is a station with several pumps and a large canopy over them all. As in a bar, there are large flat-screen TV's mounted to the tops of the pillars where they meet the canopy. The station is packed because gas prices are over $5.00 a gallon, and rapidly rising. There is a sense of panic and frustration in the air.
What is most disturbing about this dream is that on every TV is the same broadcast: a heavy-joweled middle-eastern man is announcing his intentions to raise barrel prices so high he "breaks America." He is basically declaring war on America by putting so much pressure on our economy through astronomical fuel prices.
The second-most disturbing part of this dream is the attitude at the pumps. I am trying to tell my friends and anyone else around me that now is the time we start changing our lifestyles - carpooling, etc. - but no one is listening. Instead, they are complaining and wondering what the government is going to do to fix this for them. They are frustrated and angry, but I feel alone, suddenly cold and surrounded by dark. By the time we leave the station, gas prices are over $7.00 a gallon.
Now, I know this is probably not feasible. I'm sure there are checks and balances to ensure that one or two individuals cannot effect such drastic changes so immediately. However, though I don't know how the oil industry works, the dream was still very real and very horrifying in its way. I'd rather not repeat it again.
I had hit the snooze button several times, and dozed off again right before that last-chance-to-get-up alarm went off. And the BFG must've been strolling by at that time and blew in a dream for what he must've considered a bad grown-up. Because I dreamed about gas.
Not the funny kind, with its myriad of goofy noises, noxious smells, and source of endless juvenile jokes... No, I mean gas. Fuel for your car.
This is not a typical dream subject for me. While I do often have vivid dreams about mundane things in bizaare situations, this seemed a little more than just a weird dream. So much so I had to blog it.
In my dream, I'm hanging out with three of my girlfriends from bible study, and at some point we end up at a gas station that is packed with cars. This is a station with several pumps and a large canopy over them all. As in a bar, there are large flat-screen TV's mounted to the tops of the pillars where they meet the canopy. The station is packed because gas prices are over $5.00 a gallon, and rapidly rising. There is a sense of panic and frustration in the air.
What is most disturbing about this dream is that on every TV is the same broadcast: a heavy-joweled middle-eastern man is announcing his intentions to raise barrel prices so high he "breaks America." He is basically declaring war on America by putting so much pressure on our economy through astronomical fuel prices.
The second-most disturbing part of this dream is the attitude at the pumps. I am trying to tell my friends and anyone else around me that now is the time we start changing our lifestyles - carpooling, etc. - but no one is listening. Instead, they are complaining and wondering what the government is going to do to fix this for them. They are frustrated and angry, but I feel alone, suddenly cold and surrounded by dark. By the time we leave the station, gas prices are over $7.00 a gallon.
Now, I know this is probably not feasible. I'm sure there are checks and balances to ensure that one or two individuals cannot effect such drastic changes so immediately. However, though I don't know how the oil industry works, the dream was still very real and very horrifying in its way. I'd rather not repeat it again.
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