Ummm, no.

Dear super-Guido who now works at the gym,

I hate to break it to you, but gelling your hair down on the sides and up in the middle, with your fringe plastered to your forehead really isn't an attractive look. Whoever told you it was secretly hates you and you should stop being their friend immediately. Just thought you should know.

'Kay, bye.

-Me

Sunshine and Sedatives, or Seeing My First Surgery

Yesterday was the perfect day for a road trip. A cool breeze (but not too cold), the sun shining (but not so it was blinding), and barely a cloud in the sky. Yes, this was still all happening in England...in February. Who'd have thunk it? Anyway, it's a good thing yesterday was ripe for a lovely car trip, because that was what took up the entirety of my agenda yesterday: a trip to Birmingham and back via Didcot.

As the only part-time working, non-studying adult who can drive in the family at the moment, I was tasked to take my mother-in-law up to Birmingham for some dental surgery at a place called the Tatum Clinic. Now Oscar Hilt Tatum, D.D.S., is a kindly old man from Alabama who takes his sweet time about things and sort of makes me want to call him "sir" at the end of every sentence. The man wore leather loafers whilst operating for heaven's sake, I don't think he could be more Wake if he tried. (Though he did go to Emory, not Wake.)

Alas, Dr. Tatum's laid back approach to surgery meant that after a 4pm arrival, my mother-in-law didn't get seen until 7, didn't get put under until 7:30, and didn't have the first incision made until 8pm. Fair enough: her dentist - a student of Dr. Tatum's - did warn us in advance that his teacher wasn't the sort to be a slave to a time table. In fact, one of the other dentists studying with the good Doctor - a prolific drummer who once toured the Czech Republic with a bunch of guys he met randomly in Prague - called this phenomenon the Tatum Time Tunnel: TTT. Needless to say, the TTT was in full force last night.

Around 9pm I got bored. The TV was boring, I'd read all the interesting magazines, I didn't dare go to sleep in case it made it harder to stay awake later, and when I tried to read my books - all with smaller print than the magazines - I realised I really needed to wait to get my new glasses so the headaches wouldn't kick up. So what was left to me? Most avenues of entertainment seemed closed. But upon going to snag a drink, I discovered that there was one tantalizing form of entertainment I hadn't tried yet: watching the live video feed of the surgery!

One dentist saw me lurking in the corner and ushered me in with the rest who were in the viewing room rather than the OR. But another, Ben, realised that I was the daughter-in-law of the patient. This, he decided, was most emphatically NOT GOOD. It was quite likely traumatising to see a surgery anyway when one isn't a surgeon and has never studied medicine. In Ben's mind - and perhaps rightly so - it was even worse when the person on the table was someone whom you knew well. He ushered me out of the room (not before I snagged some clandestine pictures!) and tried to bribe me with crisps and cookies to stay out of the viewing room.

Not a chance.

I was not to be deterred. I let Ben know that I wasn't at all convinced that I needed to watch to make sure that Dr. Tatum wasn't torturing my mother-in-law (or to make sure that he was!). To be frank, it was pretty freaking interesting, I was bored, and I was going to watch because it didn't upset me in the least. Like a very kindly and fatherly figure (though Ben was nowhere near old enough to be my father), he explained the different parts of the procedure Dr. Tatum was doing; showing me a mould of my mother-in-law's mouth, as well as PowerPoint slides from a presentation Tatum had done on a similar surgery. Finally! I had found something to keep me awake enough to brave the journey home...which didn't get started until a little while after midnight.

I chatted with Sarb, Ali, Maria, Ben, Solli and various other dentists who came in and out of the viewing room cracking jokes, explaining dental jargon, and looking up hilarious videos on YouTube. With a gaggle of amiable dentists, live surgery, and sugary snacks in their various forms, I was all set. Sarb and I talked music and cracked jokes about the fact that the sedative they'd given my mother-in-law was basically a roofie. Seriously: the stuff they use in sedation dentistry is the date rape drug. Not to mention Sarb has great taste in comedians: we cackled maniacally for several minutes about the finer points of Eddie Murphy's stand-up routines from Raw and Delirious.

At the end of the night, I gathered up my mother-in-law - who was essentially like a slightly drunk sorority sister, but with a stocking full of frozen peas strapped round her head...why didn't I take that picture!? We said our goodbyes to the dentists, who all seemed to find us both very nice and pretty cool to hang out with. I bundled her in the car and started back from Didcot. Alas, fuel economy was not high on the list of priorities at that point. My sugar high was slowly wearing off and the insistent pressure of my bladder decried that I get home sooner - much sooner - rather than later. So I gunned it the whole way back, flying past lorry drivers and bracing myself for each pothole and speed bump along the way. We made it in the end.

So, I give the excursion to Birmingham 4 out of 5 stars. The last star has been revoked because of Tatum's instructions not to stop on the way home in case someone tried to take advantage of the impaired lady with a stocking round her head. My bladder and I were not happy with this instruction after an hour of driving with 40 minutes to go. Not happy at all. But otherwise, quite the fun trip.

Book Review

I've lately made a jump start to my personal reading again. What have I started off with? Committed, by Elizabeth Gilbert.

By the time I was through the first chapter, I thought I would write something like: Excellently written and wonderfully pithy throughout. Perhaps it is her ability to “write like a man” that I find so attractive as prose styles go.

Of course, by chapter 3 and beyond, my response became more nuanced: Perhaps as the recently married child of divorced and re-married (to other people) parents, I have my own presumptions about why it takes Ms. Gilbert so long to figure out that marriage, not only doesn’t, but shouldn’t guarantee happiness without blemish.

If that seems like a radical statement, humour me for a moment. A marriage guarantees nothing: it’s the partner you chose, and the work both of you are willing to put into that relationship that determines conditions in which you can choose to be happy. I think because I think of happiness as a choice, I don’t have the dilemma that my husband’s sole job in life is to make me perfectly, blissfully, insanely happy...all the time. He can do the dishes without me asking, vacuum, put everything away after I've cooked dinner – even cook dinner after getting in from being our home’s sole provider – and give me whatever else I ask for, but I can still be unhappy. I don’t deny that other people’s actions have an effect upon our moods, and by extension our personalities, but I think of Edward Partridge who was tarred and feathered by and angry Missouri mob and yet felt no hatred toward a single man jack of them.

Now, I don’t really see any similarity between my husband and some angry frontiersmen aside from all being men, but I can still be happy if he is distant some nights, or forgets to wash the dishes, or doesn’t realise that he’s doing something particularly annoying. I can be happy because I chose to be. Because I know that he is not his mistakes and shortcomings; he’s not even his strengths and virtues...this is most definitely an instance where I side with the phrase from Gestalt theory which says that the whole is greater than the sum of its parts. I can be happy because he – and I with him – creates an environment where happiness is a choice that is easier for me to make.

Okay, so to my assertion that marriage shouldn't guarantee happiness: that's too easy. If you never have any challenges, how do you grow together? If you're always happy, you forget what unhappiness is...which makes you appreciate the good times much less. And it creates a false premise. If marriage, full stop, no qualifiers, guarantees happiness, then the claim can be made that whatever relationship problems I have with my significant other will magically disappear once we say "I do" and sign a register.

So to Ms. Gilbert's unrealistic expectations of marriage, I say: grow up. You'll be happier when you do. (To be fair, she very well might "grow up" by the end of the book...)

There are other issues I take with some of her perspectives throughout the book - and I'm still finishing it - but on the whole, I can appreciate her journey to search out the truth that might confirm or debunk her prejudices. It's an interesting and entertainingly written book, and not nearly as girly as I was imagining when I first picked it up (yay!).

So as I keep reading, I'll keep a look-out for other premises that Ms. Gilbert either debunks, proves, or runs amok with. Her views on feminism and marriage might be interesting to tackle.

For the Love of All That is Decent...

I can't, I seriously can't leave this alone. Okay, for the sake of the points I'm about to make: I could leave it alone if I wanted to, but I'm choosing to engage.

The easiest way to deal with this is in a list:

1. Are we supposed to be able to read those Bible verses in the beginning? Let's try learning to focus the camera before we shoot the bad music video.
2. So this relationship is a barter system? He gives her church attendance and she gets naked? Charming. Really, as Neanderthal as this is, it's pathetic at the same time.
3. Can we please pretty please, for the last time stop pretending that no man on earth can keep it in his pants!?!
4. Can we also stop pretending that women don't have sexual drives of their own? Dear Little Miss Purity Ring: it's not a temptation if you don't want it, too.
5. The singing is atrocious. That offends me almost as much as the blatant sexism.
6. Your virginity is not an object! The next person I hear talking about giving "it" away, is getting a smack. Being a virgin is either something you are or you aren't. And for the record, you can technically remain a virgin and still be unchaste. Likewise, if you aren't a virgin, it doesn't automatically make you slut-tastic. It's all about the attitude and perspective you bring to it.
7. You are not a piece of gum to remain pristine and untouched in the foil wrapper until marriage. If you have sex before marriage, you are not a chewed-up piece of gum that no one else will want.
8. The decision to practise abstinence until marriage and complete fidelity afterwards has to be a personal decision. Make it for the right reasons: because it's compatible with your moral code, because whatever you believe God says on the subject, it's something you want to do, or see the value in as it applies to your own life. Don't do it because people tell you to, and don't not do it because people tell you to. Hear both sides of the argument, ponder it, decide what you believe, and then live that way.
9. Stop demonizing sex. It's just stupid.

So as much as I personally agree with the decision not to have sex before marriage, this message was appalling. She's either doing what God says, because otherwise He'll be disappointed in her and start a guilt trip of Eternal proportions, or she's doing what her boyfriends says, because otherwise he'll throw a fit and break up with her. How about: God says you shouldn't. Boyfriend says you owe it to him. Slap boyfriend for suggesting you're a whore who trades sex for favours. Think about what God said. If He did say it, is He important enough to you to do what he says? If so, decide on your own that what He says is what you want for your life. He gave you a brain and the ability to make your own decisions for a reason.

In the end, I believe that God does say that sex is great and wonderful and amazing and can make cute babies. But I also believe that He says that you're only supposed to share it when you're married. As for which myriad reasons of His back up this statement, I don't claim to know them all, but I never suffered any detriment to my life by taking it on faith.

The Mornings

The mornings are not usually a fun time for me. The alarm going off raises feelings that are a mix of annoyance, despair, and apathy. How dare that pesky alarm do what I told it to and wake me up early in the morning!? Why do I have to get up anyway? I don't really want to...I was only joking, alarm clock. Can't I just curl up like a fetus and pretend that I don't hear it? Maybe I'll just ignore it for a while...it's all contingency time: I won't be late if I stay in bed a little bit longer. Right?

Of course, it's not just my alarm clock. Sebastian's phone has the most vicious of alarms to compel him to come out from the tangle of duvet and wife in the morning. I hate that thing. Invariably, long before my own alarm and I start our bargaining routine of "Just another five minutes?", "No. Right now.", Sebastian's alarm lights up pre-emptively. As if a second's warning is enough to compensate for the evil it is about to unleash.

It beeps and screams and buzzes like angry hornets when the vibrator goes off frantically enough that you'd like to think it was going to commit mobile phone suicide and jump off the dresser drawers.

"Just another two inches! I can't take it any more! I'm ending it all

right now! You can't change my mind!"

If only.

Of course, this necessitates that the next split-second sees Sebastian leap from the bed like it's an Olympic sport. A mad grab is made for the offending phone, the stylus unleashed in one fluid motion, and the phone's screen viciously jabbed in an effort to silence it. It's a bit like the scene from Collateral meets the scene from Psycho.

By this point I'm awake...but just awake enough to know that I'm not asleep. My eyes are still opening and closing independent of one another in a way that looks like I might be stoned or otherwise heavily medicated. As I squirm under the covers and bury my head under pillows, it must look like when the uruk-hai are hatched in Lord of the Rings...but less slimy. If I'm lucky, it's a morning where I can go back to sleep, and so the petulant scowl resides and I can have some quasi-semi-coherent conversation with Sebastian before he goes to work.

I used to get up every morning at 5 in high school! Oh, how the mighty have fallen. Mornings and I aren't friends any more.

Another shameless blog plug

The Skeptic's Guide to the Universe is a (usually) interesting podcast that Sebastian has got me listening to. I confess most of my listening comes when playing marathon sessions of Minecraft. (Is there any other way to play Minecraft?) I mostly recommend, though, the Skeptic's Guide 5x5 which is much easier to digest and doesn't - because of the restricted time - stray into subjects you may or may not have any familiarity with.

Interesting things I learned:

1. Who knew chiropractic was a pseudo-science? Not me.

2. Ad hoc ergo propter hoc is no longer just pretentious and indecipherable Latin.

3. The movie The Men Who Stare At Goats isn't quite as ridiculous as it first appears.

I think a later blog post might have to involve discussing skepticism and the Spirit if I can find some interesting opinions to cite first.

(Other shameless blog plug...Hyperbole and a Half...)

Why I Should Learn to Say No...

I've been asked to fill in as the ward seminary teacher for the next 4-8 weeks. Cue the slasher music from Psycho. To be fair, the previous 1.5 weeks have seen seminary held around our dining room table with no detrimental effects. That said, it's daunting to be teaching a room full of teeenagers. It actually wasn't that long ago that I was one! To be fair, I don't think I'm in any danger of becoming 30 and still maintaining that my teen days are only the recent past. I also freely admit that I was an emotional teenager much longer than I was an intellectual one.

I think my sudden bout of "Oh dear Lord, what have I gotten myself into!?" is brought on by a combination of three things:

1. A, perhaps unfounded, lack of confidence.

2. My natural tendency to overthink things and second-guess my own decisions.

3. A talent for hyperbole.

To expound on that a bit...every morning I taught last week I woke up dreading the start of class, despite my extensive preparations. Yet, from everything I've heard, the kids seemed to enjoy it. That information doesn't stop me from wondering what experience or talent other people seem to think I possess that makes me a better choice than other, older, more experienced teachers in the ward.

I'm also convinced that I'm not a natural teacher. As my sister will attest, I have a distinct lack of patience, particularly when it comes to teaching music. I also know I've had teachers over the years in school and in church and at camp whom I've loved: who have made their subjects interesting and kept me engaged. When I try to apply that to my own teaching, I can't think of a single example of specific tactics to be interesting and educational. This is where I become defeatist and throw my hands in the air. I don't know! Therefore, I give up, and like Eeyore, I'll gloomily go about continuing with my preparations in spite of myself because, what else can I do?

To be fair, it's not all bad. Sometimes the lesson material is incredibly engaging and I get on a roll coming up with interesting ways to make a point, or thought-provoking or laughter-provoking metaphors. Sometimes I even manage to crack a joke in the midst of a lesson, or make a coherent argument in front of 7 teenagers at 7 in the morning.

So what do I blame for my lack of confidence in the classroom? Me! I'm not *really* an extrovert. Or at least, if I was at one time, I'm not now. I enjoy doing quiet work on my own with occasional interaction with other people. Don't get me wrong, at home all day I can be bored to tears with no human interaction other than asking the lady at the gym for my change from the parking meter. Having *no* contact is depressing; I'm not a hermit. But a job that requires being the centre of attention, like teaching? No thanks. Or worse: when you're supposed to be the centre of attention, but you're so boring and un-engaging that no one pays attention. Ouch.

So why do I volunteer to teach when I seem to loathe it so? Well, I do harbour a not-so-secret dream that one day I'll have done it for so long that the Teaching Gods have waved their magic wands and turned me into a good (dare I dream, a GREAT?) teacher for all my efforts.

I also nay-say people's over-estimation of my abilities quite a bit, but I'm not sure I entirely disagree with them. I think I'm just cautious...and I don't want to sound like a pompous ass for saying, "Damn right I'm good at that, and don't you forget it!" So yeah, maybe I put a grain of truth into statements of my teaching prowess. If I really and truly felt I was awful, I'd have stopped volunteering for it a long time ago.

The other reason I don't follow Nancy Regan's advice and Just Say No? In an instance like this I think the Lord calls whom He qualifies. I still have to work at becoming a good teacher, but if it really is something He wants me to do, He'll do His best not to let me stand in my own way...if I let Him help.

On that note, I'm ending to go plan a lesson so I can beat my natural nervousness when Monday comes. I leave those misguided few who may still read this blog with an article I enjoyed from the blog By Common Consent. I tried teaching this to my seminary students the other week because I thought it was pretty profound in a way you don't have to have a PhD to appreciate.