So, my last post was superfluously emo in the extreme.  I promised myself that I’d write something today that’s less—er—lachrymal.   Not sure if that’s a stand-alone adjective. It is now. 

So here’s the current story:  I spent a good part of my weekend helping a friend whose beautiful, young, recently-immigrated foreign wife had a freak out over the cultural, communicative, financial, and previous-marriage baggage attendant on such a complicated match.  (Once again, I’m glad I took that Chinese class.  At least the girl feels comfortable talking to me).  Life felt strange for a bit. 

I felt in over my head when I called the girl’s husband, who felt in over his head and completely overwhelmed and aggrieved, to see how he was feeling.  I wound up trying to give emotional support to a man twice my age.  Strange.  Today, stranger; I set off to visit his desperate wife in her new living situation. To be of any help to her, I knew I’d have to use the fullest force of my imagination to try to figure out what I’d be feeling and needing if I were in her tiny shoes. 

The trouble is, I’ve got no real footing here.  I’ve never been married.  I’ve never been in a foreign country for longer than three weeks where no one spoke my language. I’ve never had to abide by the rules of immigration. I’m young and only understand the experience of loss.  But I figure, in this situation—where both husband and wife have lost something dear (country, companionship, culture, hopes)—it’s a good place to start.  Yes, life is strange, but I’m sick of letting it throw me. So I’m just going  to my best and let God salvage the rest.  I just hope I don’t completely screw up.  And to be honest, I screw up often. Often, epically.

But wonder of wonders, I’ve somehow managed to find a pack of people who prefer to focus on how hard I try versus how badly I fail.  I just got a slew of encouraging, touching emails and Facebook messages from people I barely know, as well as first-hand pledges of support from friends I know too well.  I wanted to spread the love, and to tell you supportive folks out there that I feel brave enough to tackle the strange things in life because of your cheerleading, for lack of a better word (and I looked in a thesaurus.  “Support” sounded too architectural. I’d prefer to picture the lot of you with pom-poms; don’t be offended.). 

So here’s my huge thank you, and my love.  I thought I’d share a few excerpts from these little love notes notes, simply because I thought there was a lot of wisdom and kindness in them.  If you don’t see your words here, don’t be offended; your words are simply hanging out in my subconscious, which is a more powerful place, anyway (Freud and Jung’s little iceberg metaphor says so).

Here’s a blurb about my grief post—and it provides a very logical view on why grieving takes time, and why we (or I) shouldn’t get frustrated with ourselves when it seems to go on and on:

“. . . look at it from a mathematical angle.  He [meaning, Ruth’s father] was there for over 95% of your life and has only been gone 5% or less.  Give yourself time, hon.  You are trying to move forward with your life that is the important part.  You could just as easily have thrown your hands up and quit, but you didn’t, so if you feel frustrated with the pain and just wishing it would pass, I’m with you on that part.  However, if your frustration is with [Ruth], giv’er her a break. She’s been through a lot . . .”

And this bit of encouragement came soon after I posted my rant about job searching (“Fiction for…”):

“It took me 11 months to find my first ‘real’ job, but I really think that everything in my professional life has happened at the right time. Both times I’ve started new jobs, things looked more and more unbearable, and then positions fell into my lap. . . . I think a lot of it is about attitude. You’re intelligent, skilled, and charming, and just because people are freaking out about the economy doesn’t mean that you can’t get a job.  [Ruth] is pretty awesome, and God is pretty big.”

For my many “intelligent, skilled, and charming” friends and readers,  this bit of encouragement certainly applies.  Take heart  and confidence.  I know I did.

God is big, and you folks are simply wonderful. Thank you.


 That would have been the end of this post, except for the fact that in my random, munchy mood, I entitled this entry with one more topic. I guess that means I have to include it.  So here it is.





I am completely obsessed with hummus.  I’ll eat it anytime, anywhere. On pita bread.  On celery. On carrots. On Triscuits. On a salad. On couscous.  On tomato slices. On a turkey sandwich. On Ben Barnes or Robert Pattinson.  (Umm. Forget those last two.)   You get the idea. I can’t survive a snack attack without the stuff.  Yummers.

I don’t know if it’s some weird hormonal thing that drives me to pay $3.99 for eight ounces of my fifty-calorie-per-serving fix.  Maybe I’m pregnant (Is God still in the immaculate conception business?).  Maybe I need to get pregnant, like my ticking time bomb of an internal clock has been telling me every day since I turned sixteen. I. don’t. know.  I hope you all think this is funny because, frankly, I think it’s just weird.

 See what I mean about my life, my blog, and hence, myself, getting stranger?