Parenthetically Yours

Favorite Things Friday

So, let's see. It's been a month. I honestly never meant to go this long without writing. But, alas, no one is paying me to do this so you can all get over it. All ten of you out there. See? You're already over it.

There has to be a great spiritual metaphor in here somewhere about best intentions vs. quantifiable actions...but today isn't the day for that.  It's Friday (again) and it's time to kick the weekend off right. Or left.

AMOS LEE

I realize that Mr. Lee is not new news, but here in the Williams house, Katie has inexplicably become obsessed with his song, "Arms of a Woman." I've always been impressed with his voice, but I always filed him away as the male Norah Jones. Plus, who knows how someone actually sings anymore with all the computer-aided correction that happens on 99% of records made these days. I hate to burst your bubble, but Taylor Swift can't sing very well. She can write a good song and wear a dress well...but sing? Not on your life. So, when Katie and I discovered these homemade videos on YouTube, we were transfixed. The guy has deep soul. 

The first video is laid back, like the recording, but delicate. The second video is the same song, but greasy and with attitude--a totally different vibe, but similarly mesmerizing. Notice how his notes are effortless, coming from somewhere other than simply breath and vocal chords, beyond thought. His talent is a genuine, real gift that only comes along every so often and, unfortunately, rarely shows up on pop charts. Think Stevie Wonder, Alecia Keys, Al Green, Jeff Buckley, and Merle Haggard. Old soul, brewing up from hidden places. They all have (had) it. So does Amos Lee.

SURPRISE WEDDING ENTRANCES 

I love this kind of stuff. Try not to enjoy it. Try not to actually feel like those in attendence. Go on. Try. 

MOVING

Ok. That one is sort of a joke. I don't like moving. We're moving this week from our cute downtown cottage to a nicer, newer condo a mile away. Yes, we're leaving the creaky old house (and requisite spiders and poor insulation) for new digs. I love the process of going through our stuff and throwing and giving away things that take up space. It's incredibly therapeutic to simplify and streamline your possessions. Anybody want 10 years of old SPIN magazines?

PUNS

If you know me, you know I love puns. This morning I asked Katie what would happen if such-and-such happened. She said, "I'd have a cow." I said, "Don't do that because then our first child would be a cow." With zero delay she said, "But we could name her Moo-lissa." AHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. 

Yessssss! 

(rw)

Rare Gifts from Across the Pond

Yeah, I know. Long time, no write. I’ve been away. I’ve been busy. I’ve had writer’s block. Let’s see…what else? I’ve been protesting Iranian elections. I’ve been seeing a million faces and rocking them all.

I just returned from an 11 day trip to the UK and Europe and any real blogger worth their salt would’ve have been posting daily updates and photos. I, however, am not worth my salt. I’m even on a low sodium diet too.

But it was a fun and exhausting trip, nevertheless. Getting in touch with Katie proved to be more difficult than I’d imagined, though, for a few reasons. One, Sprint doesn’t exist in Europe (nor does CMDA cell phone technology. Nerd alert.), so it was pointless to turn on my phone. Two, using calling cards was only possible at hotels and after the fourth day, we were on a tour bus and didn’t go to hotels. Skype worked when we had a good (as in, really fast and constant) wireless connection—which was surprisingly difficult to find. I guess that’s one benefit of Al Gore inventing the internet. It’s better in America.

Here's a few pics of Edinburgh and Ireland.

1) Old buildings and a park in Edinburgh.

2) A view looking up to Edinburgh Castle.

3) More old buildings and an old cathedral in Edinburgh (on our way up to the castle).

4) The oldest building in Scotland. A chapel inside the Edinburgh Castle grounds.

5) The Union Jack flying above the castle. William Wallace is still turning in his grave.

6) Galgorm Resort and Spa, where we stayed for three nights in Ireland. Sounds like something out of Lord of the Rings. We looked for wizards, found none. 

7) The Underground at Heathrow. 

Whenever I’ve been to Europe in the past, I’ve always come back with a few funky candy bars, breads, or other sundries. They make incredible gifts—way better than some touristy t-shirt or mug. Plus, it turns any grocery store into a gift shop. While in Scotland, one of the first places I went was a grocery store and headed straight to the jellies aisle. The UK always has oddball jams (maybe because they have tea and bread so often) so I thought it would be cool to get Katie a funky jar of strawberry goodness. I searched up and down the aisle, found a really great-looking jar of Wild Strawberry Conserve (preserves) from France that I thought looked cool but would also taste great on toast. You know, a way to remember the trip whenever I bit down into my crunchy morning treat.

I carried that jar with me for 12 days, always making sure it was safely packed in my suitcase as we traveled from Scotland to Ireland to Germany to Holland to Tennessee. I was thrilled when I opened my suitcase to find it still intact (although the honey I picked up in Holland was all over everything) and with excitement and pride I presented it to Katie.

“Hey love, check out this awesome French jelly I got in Scotland,” I beamed.

She took note of it, went back to unloading the dishwasher and said, “I have some of that in the fridge.”

Haha. Silly girl. She was probably mistaking it for Smuckers. “You’re probably thinking of Smuckers. They have a similar lid.”

Katie, choosing not to argue, opened the fridge, took out a jar of jam, and set it on the counter. Here it is next to the unopened jar of jam I brought home from Europe, being oh-so-careful not to harm it because it was such a rare treat. The differences are obvious. I really hate proving Katie wrong, but when she's wrong, she needs to be aware of it. I don't want her living life oblivious to...the fact that...uhm...she doesn't know...uh...where'd you get that jelly?

Hmmm. She must have bought it at some gourmet shop that specializes in imported foods, right? Nope. Kroger. In fact, I was in there yesterday and their selection of this French jelly was more varied than the store in Scotland. In essence, I went to a whole lotta trouble to bring back something that was available 1.1 miles from my front door.

BUT…I have another little treat for her up my sleeve. I discovered an incredible new band in Ireland. They’re called U2 and I think they’re gonna be big. 

(rw)

Private Joys

I could start a new blog called “funny things Katie does” and it would have 10x the popularity of this one. The only problem is that if I posted every funny or outrageous thing she did or said, the internet might run out of hard drive storage.

Here are some recent examples:

We were having a morning conversation about our day’s schedule and she inexplicably starting talking in a deaf/mute voice, using sign language.

She’s been randomly attacking me around the house (I think she’s happy I’m home).

Retelling a story, she said, “I wanted to tell her ‘shut up you Nazi cow! I’m about to punch you in the face!’ ”

Now, some of these things might come across to the uninitiated as cruel or unusual. Unusual? Yes. Cruel? Yes. Especially when she digs her fingers into that space between my collarbone and my shoulder. Wow. That’s a sensitive spot.

Of course, I’m kidding about the cruel part, although she LOVES seeing me rattled or frightened. Some nights I’m as jittery as a newborn calf wandering around our expansive cottage waiting for her to jump out from under our kitchen table. I jerk and spin and giggle like a 4 year-old. Of course, since she lives life at 150 mph, she doesn’t always stop to consider the ramifications or possible consequences (and since I live life at school-zone speed, I stop to consider every possible ramification. I'm a real treat to live with). This means she regularly hits her head under the table, bangs an elbow into the wall, or dives into my knees. I can’t count how many times I’ve held my belly in a fit of unbridled laughter as she stumbles around the house holding her head mumbling, “O wow ow OHH…I think I really hurt myself.” Hahahaha. That shouldn't be that funny. But it is.

She also has the ability to have ridiculous things happen to her, like the time she heard a mother and daughter arguing one aisle over at Kroger. The next thing she knew is that someone walked up behind her, turned her around and slapped her in the face. The startled mother gasped and Katie screamed (with her voice rising two full octaves), “WHO ARE YOU?” The lady (with her hands over her mouth) nervously answered, “I thought you were my daughter.” Twenty feet away, dressed in nearly identical outfits, with nearly identical hair pulled up in the same messy ponytail, was the daughter looking on in horror. The two walked away from their full grocery basket and exited Kroger immediately while Katie was left standing in the baking aisle, face reddening with the slight impression of a hand on her cheek.

That actually happened.

The difficulty with this sort of revealing blog-storytelling, though, is that probably 90% of the time I find myself saying, "I wish I could write a blog about that." Usually I don't because doing so would just be inappropriate. Sometimes it's because it's, well, inappropriate. Other times it's because--well, private, funny moments are one of the eternal joys of marriage that no one ever told me about. I was always led to believe that the best things about marriage were things like sex, kids, building a home together, etc. But for me, it's the things I can never tell you. Plus, they would be silly and nonsensical out of context. They only make sense in the context of the growing landscape of us living out our vows. There are things she says and does, the records of which will never be stored outside my memory. They're for me. Only. I think that's called intimacy. 

It is a whirlwind of joy to be married to this girl.

Of my dreams.

(rw)

Big Picture from the window seat

It’s easy to get caught up in my own superficial issues and personal drama. I mean, it’s happening to me, right? So how am I not supposed to get caught up in it? I can be like a fish in a net, fighting a losing battle. But the drama isn’t the net. The net is me. I get caught up in me. All it is is self-centeredness. If you put you at the center of everything, then everything becomes about you. Even other’s issues or struggles become about how they’re affecting you. It’s a common problem that we have because we’re human beings.

I’ve always heard that the best way to get over yourself is to serve someone else. Whether it’s a spouse, a friend, a relative, a homeless guy…whatever. Just go do something for someone other than yourself. It really does work, at least for a little while. Definitely worth the time.

Me? I take a flight.

My dad worked for Texas International Airlines (which became Continental Airlines) when I was growing up so I was flying at an early age. I loved the window seat then, and I love the window seat now. Sure, it makes it difficult getting up if I need a restroom break, but the pros outweigh the cons. See, I’m kind of a Big Picture person. Ask Katie about this, who is a details person. I may not remember word for word the conversation, but I have a general idea about what we were talking about. It can be annoying, to say the least. Again, ask Katie about this.  Here’s an example:

Did you hear so-and-so is having a baby?

No way! When did they find out?

Uhm…

Well, do they know what they’re having?

I, uh…

When are they due?

I think they, uh…(I’m still thinking about the first question)

Randy! Did you ask them anything?

They, uh…she’s, um, having a baby…? I think?

So, being a Big Picture person, it always serves me well to take a flight. I remember taking a flight at some point in high school (who knows when or why I was flying? Remember, Big Picture.) and having an epiphany-type moment. As the cars and houses became smaller and smaller immediately after takeoff, I remember having a sudden realization that inside every single car, and inside every single house were actual people dealing with life that day. There was hurt, joy, apathy, success, distress, boredom, genius, secrets, and on and on. This overwhelmed me and it’s all I could think about for hours.

Since then, I can’t get in a plane without thinking about it and it spills over into everyday life when I’m in traffic or standing on a stage looking at hundreds of faces staring back at me. I’m constantly reminded of that Big Picture epiphany I had in that window seat all those years ago. We’re ALL going through it. Fill in the blank. Everybody hurts. Or laughs. It’s overwhelming, but hopefully it makes me a little more understanding. A pinch more compassionate.

Now, don’t get me wrong. More than I’d like to admit, I’m a thoughtless, self-consumed cliché of a jerk. But every so often, the revelation will unfold and remind me that I’m not actually the center of the universe.

(rw)

Night of Joy

One of life’s great joys happened to me last night. Not just once, but twice.

Last night, Katie and I filled our respective bellies with chips, salsa, and enchiladas from our favorite local Mexican spot. Then we moved on to Curious Gourmet (only because Ivey Cake was closed) for a Lemon Basil cupcake (with the frosting piled so high we threw half of it away…heresy!) and then home for some French press coffee. Well, to say the least, all was right in the world. Katie settled in the back room for an overdue phone call with a friend, and I settled on the couch for an overdue date with a Wal-Mart documentary I’ve been wanting to watch (nerd alert!).

About 45 minutes in, I start nodding off. Bad. Like someone had roofied my coffee. You know, the whole head-violently-falling-into-your-chest thing. After a couple of those moments when I thought I was falling off the couch (or out of an airplane), my heartrate had skyrocketed and I was alert for another hour or so, just enough time for us to fast-forward through the American Idol results show we’d recorded. 

At this point, it’s only 10:30 but I’m barely keeping my eyes open. We’d gone to bed around 1 a.m. the night before, so this was a bit on the early side. Teeth brushed, lights out, kiss goodnight…ZZZZzzzz.

I casually woke up (as I often do around 4 or 5 a.m.) feeling hungover and/or dead. With a heavy sense of impending doom, I slowly turned my head toward the alarm clock glowing in the darkened room to my right. I feared the worse: that it was only 30 minutes or so before the alarm, which means my mind wouldn’t allow me to get back to sleep. If I know I have to get up soon, I can’t for the life of me go back to sleep. In fact, I never actually need an alarm because my body automatically wakes up beforehand. This is only one of the joys of being me. Welcome to my world.

Knowing this, I was certain that my day was beginning. I didn’t want to look at the clock at all because it was going to be bad news. But the only thing worse than knowing something is NOT knowing something, so I made myself look.

But something didn’t look right. Now, if you know me, you know that without glasses or contacts, I have the vision of an 85 year-old bat. As you can imagine, at night it’s worse. So here I am, pressing my face closer and closer to the green glowing numerals until they come in clear. 11:58. 11:58?? Really? It’s not even midnight yet? Oh Hallelujah! I’m not even usually in bed at this point! I have an ENTIRE NIGHT of sleep remaining. Oh Heavenly Day! 

With a cozy sense of relief and joy, I snuggled back under the covers and pulled the comforter up close.

Then it happened again! I woke up, this time in a heated fear that the house might be on fire because I’M BURNING ALIVE! I violently throw the comforter off and begin wiping the sweat from my face, neck, and torso. Katie’s awake too doing the same thing. I jumped up to turn the heat down (when I say “jumped up,” think “stumbled like a wino across the bedroom”) and came back to bed. Another glance at the clock: 12:48. What? We went to bed later than this the night before! AHHH…Glory to the Lord of Hosts on high.

Twice in one night, I thought my sleep was over. Twice I was given the gift of many more hours of sweet slumber.

Needless to say, I woke up refreshed and ready to take on the day. Lots of writing to do today, quite a few items on my to do list…but I’m prepared.

Maybe after just the tiniest of naps.

(rw)

Allergic Reaction

Allergies suck. They also wheeze, and cough, and sneeze. And I got ‘em.

I’ve had allergies as long as I can remember. When I was in elementary school I remember a doctor telling my mom that I was allergic to wool, down, dust, and pollen. I wasn’t a boy-in-the-bubble type case, but it was significant enough that the doc recommended my mother vacuuming the house every day. Tell that to any stay-at-home mom with two kids and note their reaction. Yeah, right. Like that’s going to happen.

So I learned to cope. It was never that big of a deal. Sure—come springtime I’d have to stock up on Sudafed and wear a mask to cut grass (which I refused to do). But for the most part, I’ve just lived with stopped up sinuses and the semi-regular sneezing fit when the ragweed gets just right.

Soon after college, I found myself in Chicago visiting a friend. Another mutual friend of ours was having a birthday party and we decided to drop by for a bit. I had always looked up to this particular upperclassman and was looking forward to the visit. Kendall was one of those really smart and wickedly funny guys I always aspired to be, yet never quite achieved. The kind of guy who in the late 80s was still listening to Springsteen and Neil Young on vinyl while I was buying Whitesnake and Queensryche cassettes.

The party at Kendall’s uber-cool downtown Chicago loft was well underway when we arrived. The place was crawling with self-important, highly educated urbanites. These were all of Kendall’s University of Chicago grad-school buddies who talked about Film (not movies) as an institution and Kirkegaard like they hung out with him. Pretention doesn’t come close to describing the scene…and I wanted to be JUST LIKE THEM! One problem: I played Christian music. For a living. In this crowd, I could never be cool, would never have an insightful story to tell. No, I was the guy that makes everyone ask “Who invited him?”  My palms could’ve lubricated a Hummer every time I was asked, “So, what do you do?” Not from embarrassment, but rather I knew what the reaction would be. Stunned silence every time I answered, as if I had said I was from Mars. Actually, I probably would have been given more respect and attention had I actually been a little green Martian.

I just wanted to skulk in a corner in anonymity until we left. Just stand still, Randy, and don't draw any attention to yourself. Then it started. The sneezing. And OH HOW I SNEEZED! And sneezed. Over and over and over. What in the world could I be so allergic to? There’s no down or wool or dust to speak of…what could it…wait. Is that a cat? Do you think I might be allergic to cats? I’ve never noticed that before. Wh-wh-whAAH-CHOO!!

I must have sneezed (no exaggeration) thirty times in 20 minutes. There was snot all over me, my eyes were running like faucets, and I looked like I was either dying or had been smoking meth (which hadn’t been invented yet). Utter humiliation. Needless to say, I left the party 30 minutes after arriving. Good to see you Kendall.

That was the day I learned that I was allergic to cats. Since then I've learned that I’m not allergic to ALL cats, though. I’ve even found one or two whose company I've actually enjoyed (Nadia, you know who you are). However, there is one furry critter named Henry that makes up for all those that don’t affect me.  And I spent three hours with him on Saturday.

My buddy Greg (who was my best man) married my cousin Amy. Great people. Love them. Their daughter Kate makes me want to have kids. Their cat Henry, however, makes me question God’s judgment when he created the feline species. Because of Henry, it’s impossible for me to see them without sneezing…and I don’t mean polite little micro-sneezes. I’m talking about violent, multiple neck-snapping nasal eruptions. It’s as if he has some sort of allergen magnification force field around him against which I’m completely powerless. I took a Claritin and three Sudafed. Nothing. No difference whatsoever. Oh…it was awful. Every time I’d have a sneezing fit, I’d do it six to ten times. Multiply that times the eight or ten fits and I figure I sneezed at least 75 times on Saturday. The first 40 or so were pretty funny and it gave Katie the giggles whenever I’d start up. Somewhere around sneeze number 43 or 44, though, her laughter turned to sympathetic coddling. It was appreciated because the muscles in my neck and shoulders were in absolute shambles by the end of the day.

Yesterday morning, my neck was so wrecked I literally couldn’t turn my head to the left. I nearly ran into a little red BMW getting on the interstate because I couldn’t turn my head to look beside me and I spent last night ignoring practically everyone to my left at a Super Bowl party. If I did turn toward them I resembled Frankenstein, turning my whole body to face them. This morning I feel much better, but my sinuses have yet to drain and my entire upper body reeks of Bengay, Icy Hot, and oatmeal. I smell like a convalescent home. 

This is what kitty cats do to me.

(rw)

Either/Or

Last night we were sitting on the couch watching the season premier of American Idol (our favorite winter/spring time sink) and it was highlights from the Phoenix auditions. A young man with a penchant for making tasteless, gory horror movies (but also seemed to have the combined estrogen of the Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders coursing through his veins) took his place in front of the judges. He was surprisingly good.

Katie says, "He looks like one of those goth kids...what are they called? An emu?"

Yes. An emu.

Just for reference, here's an emu:

...and here's an emo kid:

As you can see, they're practically interchangeable. 

(rw)

Wii Will Rock You!

Uh oh.

We got a Wii.  It was a kind (and generous) anniversary gift but may end up being the root of much future domestic stress because we’ve invited this mysterious box into our home.

You know how Dracula won’t come into your house uninvited? Same thing. The Wii didn’t open the door, walk inside and set itself up (although I do believe it possesses such power). No, we (I) carried the unit in, spent a little time getting acquainted with it, then carefully plugged it all in—essentially partaking of its devil-fruit. You can call me Adam.

Those little non-descript, horribly animated people seem harmless don’t they—with their lack of arms or expression, as if they’re some thrown-away character from a Homestar Runner cartoon. Yeah, they seem harmless, but they’re not simply badly drawn humanoids. They’re Satan’s little imps and are the source of much evil. I mean, really--HOW DOES IT WORK? I like to think of myself as being slightly Kip Dynamite-esque when it comes to computer workings, but there's nothing in my previous knowledge of technology that can begin to explain how the Wii works. That's because it's not technology, it's magic. I feel like one of those lost tribes in Papua New Guinea seeing an airplane for the first time. But instead of it just flying over, it landed in my living room and has parked itself on the floor just to the right of my TV. Wii-cked, indeed.

Who else but Lucifer could entice us to sit for an hour in front of the television flailing our arms to and fro? It certainly wasn’t Joseph, Mary, or Jesus…unless Joseph really enjoyed showing Mary a thing or two about cartoon tennis.

It all was revealed to me as I was reveling in my awesome Wii prowess, as if I’d actually done something. Well, I did do one thing: I taught Katie a thing or two about cartoon bowling.

Ok…so I only beat her by 3 points. But a win is a win, and a loss is a loss. Just ask the Tennessee Titans.

(rw)

Favorite Things Friday!

Well...one of my favorite things is college football...and sadly, it's over. I'm so torn because on one hand, I CAN"T STAND the Florida Gators. Yet, I love Tim Tebow and the SEC...so, I'm caught in this tension of elation and frustration. I was rooting for OU and Tim Tebow. And, if OU had been playing Texas for the National Championship (which should've happened), I would've painted myself burnt orange and donned a longhorn helmet.  It was all very confusing and left me apathetic to the entire BCS process. 

This week, Katie and I attended an amazing marriage seminar by Dan Allender. It was sponsored by Al Andrews and Porter's Call, a ministry for artists and musicians here in Franklin. It was disturbing, frustrating, revelatory, beautiful, and mind-splittingly amazing. Thank you Al and Dan for messing up things! It's already had an effect in our marriage (in a great way!). 

Finally, for all you techy-geeky folks out there, this isn't so much a favorite thing, but a favorite possible thing. There are many rumors out there that Apple is going to introduce a large version of the iPod Touch (maybe Macbook Touch?) later this year. Basically, it will be a fully-functioning tablet (meaning, no keyboard) computer. For those of us who travel so much, we can leave our clunky laptop computers at home. Oh...the joy!

Until next week...here's a favorite quote:

An immature man will die nobly for a cause while a mature man will live humbly for one. - JD Salinger

(rw)

Things that go BUMP in the night

CRASH. SCRAPE. CLONK.

Last week, we awoke startled in the middle of the night, hearts racing. 

“I told you it sounded crazy” was the first thing out of Katie’s mouth. She was referring to a story she’d told me the day before about hearing some kind of animal in our walls. She was right. It did sound crazy. But I wasn’t so sure it was an animal.

“I think someone’s on the front porch taking our Christmas tree,” I responded, proud of my logical assessment. That evening, we’d re-boxed our holiday décor and put the tree (still in its stand) outside on the front porch. Now, it seemed that some transient or other ne’er-do-well was helping themselves to our Aspen fir. Now, during the bright light of day, I realize what a ridiculous thought that is. I mean, who in their right (or wrong) mind thinks, “Would you look at that dried up tree? I could sell that on Ebay…or trade it for crack!” No. That’s just not going to happen. Bored suburban kids still on their Christmas break, however, are a different story, and that’s what I suspected. Me and my buddies did all kinds of mindless, slightly idiotic things to pass the time back in the day—we stacked trashcans to knock them down with cars, stole road signs, snuck around abandoned buildings at night, listened to Whitesnake, ate tacos after midnight—all kinds of semi-retarded behavior. So I assumed that’s what was happening on our porch.

I jumped from my bed to see what was the matter. I thought I was moving pretty quickly yet Katie was already peering through the blinds in the living room when I got there. I swear this woman can teleport herself through time and space, she moves so quickly. She says it’s because I move so slowly, but I don’t. Compared to her, though, I move like molasses in February. At the North Pole. In a freezer. It’s like watching Jack Black race Reggie Bush and Jack Black is wearing 50 lb ankle weights and Reggie Bush is in a Ferrari. Are you getting the picture? I can’t keep up.

So we look outside, and there stands our majestic, barren tree, glistening in the mid-night frost. Then it happens again, above our heads. SCRREECH. Clonkity-Bonk. RUSTLE-SCURRY. Squirrels. I know that sound. Anytime it gets a little cold here in the south, you can count on those rodents finding their way into attics all over the neighborhood. But it sounded like they were doing more than simply hiding nuts in our insulation. I thought they were playing dodgeball with a family of hawks, but my imagination can get away from me in the middle of the night. After we quickly determined that we were in no grave harm, we returned to bed but it was difficult to fall back asleep because every 5-10 minutes there was another critter racing around above our heads.

The next day, I found the hole they were using as a doorway and my landlord stuffed it with a tightly balled-up and heavily taped wad of plastic grocery bags. I mean, this thing was impenetrable. We shoved that taped-up, plastic wad so tightly into that hole, it was impossible to move. We foolishly assumed this would keep the little guys out. The next morning: gone. In fact, I can’t even find evidence that the bags ever existed. Nowhere. It’s a mystery that will not leave me alone.

All I can assume is that they drug the wad into the attic. Either that, or squirrels have superior industrial technology than humans have ever imagined.

(rw)