Effortless Effervescence

(Photo credit.)

In Part I of this special edition of Seven Quick Takes, I talked about seven lessons I learned in 2009. Today I’m going public with my seven resolutions for 2010. If you’re hankering for more quick takes, head over to Conversion Diary.

My Big and Small Plans for 2010

I have learned that New Year’s Resolutions such as “live a more healthy lifestyle” or “be more responsible with money” or “improve my marriage,” though well-intentioned, are too vague. Their scope is so large that it becomes overwhelming and discouraging - for instance, you may be living a more healthy lifestyle by quitting smoking, but you haven’t got your exercise routine down yet and you’re still eating a lot of junk food. Have you failed? No! But you may feel like you have because only one part of your lifestyle is more healthy. I think that’s what leads to a lot of folks giving up around February 1.

So although I have some Big Hopes and Dreams for the year ahead (get organized, get my spending under control, get healthy) I wanted my resolutions to be small, specific, and measurable. They may not look like a lot to you, but I think if I can get myself into the habit of doing these seven things over the next twelve months, I’ll notice a marked difference in my quality of life.

1: I resolve to use cash for all purchases (unless I’m buying something online). By “cash” I mean literal paper money. When I use my debit card, I have a tendency to let myself go over budget due to impulse buys and bad math, and that leads to problems like hefty overdraft fees or running out of toilet paper three days before payday and not having any money to get more. Not only are these problems embarrassing and inconvenient, they’re unnecessary! When I use cash, I physically see my financial stores dwindling away, and I’m a lot more stingy.

2: I resolve to make a weekly menu each payday and go grocery shopping just once a week. During my shopping trip, I MUST pick up some fresh fruits and veggies, whole grains and low-fat dairy. This resolution kills a whole buncha birds with one stone: planning ahead helps me save money and keeps me from wasting time by going to the store three or four times a week. Plus, if I force myself to buy a handful of healthy items each week, I’ll be less likely to resort to crappy packaged foods when I’m hungry and in a hurry.
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3: Speaking of groceries - I resolve to make a price book. There are certain items I buy so often that I have a pretty good idea what they normally run at all my local supermarkets, and I know a good price as soon as I see it. For instance, my husband only drinks Coca-Cola, so I’m really good at spotting a deal on flavored sugar water. Other things I don’t buy as often, and between all the different sizes and varieties out there (which is cheaper per ounce - the small carton of orange juice or the huge jug?) and sneaky marketing plans (why $3.97? why not just $4?) I sometimes wonder if I’m getting tricked into thinking I’m being thrifty when I’m not. Which is why I’m going to start writing down the different prices I see, so when I’m flipping through weekly store flyers, I know whether something’s REALLY on sale.

4: I resolve to floss every evening (Monday through Friday) before I go to bed. My teeth are in pretty good shape even though I’ve had more than my share of cavities, but I would really like to avoid getting up-close-and-personal with the dentist’s drill EVER. AGAIN. I know that flossing regularly will really help me with that, but I always have an excuse to slack off. No more! I am a new woman, and my good intentions will be clearly observable by the state of my gums!
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5: I resolve to crate-train the dogs and get them on a feeding schedule. Ever since we got Ana, we’ve been leaving kibble out all day, and Milo’s gained a few pounds - something that’s just not good for such a little guy. Ana’s puppy ways have also been a bad influence on Milo, who we used to crate during the workday but who outgrew his separation anxiety right after we moved into our new home. They’re both brutal on the furniture, and I think we lock ‘em up during the day, at least until Ana is older and has more self-control.

6: I resolve to do one load of laundry (wash, dry, fold, put away) every morning. I’m tired of trying to play catch-up on my chores every weekend, and I’m tired of having piles of dirty, clean, and I’m-not-sure-let’s-just-wash-it-again clothes all over my bedroom. Also, I’m thinking of the future: I’m planning to cloth diaper our little person, and I figure if I’m already in an established routine when he/she arrives, I may not feel quite so overwhelmed by the piles of poopy diapers.
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7: I resolve to get to bed by 10:30 p.m. Monday through Friday. I’m usually good about getting to bed at a reasonable hour (and the pregnancy fatigue has certainly helped!) but there are still too many times that I let myself stay up til midnight or later and really suffer for it the next day. Although a newborn will likely upset my schedule, I think that making a conscious effort to get myself to sleep at the same time every night will be good practice for trying to get the sprog in a routine. See? Thinking ahead.

Now tell me: What are your resolutions for the coming year?

Read Part I here.

I love watching TV on DVD – I don’t have to wait until next week to see what happens in my favorite characters’ lives, and I don’t have to deal with annoying commercials. (Pet peeve: how the volume goes WAY UP as soon as the station cuts from TV show to commercial.) My latest obsession is Grey’s Anatomy, which is addictively awesome in all the ways I like a TV show to be awesome: very realistic characters, bruised and raw and sometimes unkind; epic storylines with plots of epic OMG!ness, and lots of very attractive, very talented actors who manage to make an environment I will NEVER work in seem incredibly familiar to me. In other words, Grey’s Anatomy has managed to nail the human condition right on the head.*

While working my way through season three a couple of weeks ago, I found myself moved to tears during nearly every single episode. This may have had something to do with the pregnancy hormones, but I’m not so sure. It really was an emotionally wrenching season for the show’s main character, Meredith Grey, and I found myself “feeling her pain” even more than I usually do. One episode in particular touched me deeply – in a good/bad way.

In case you’re not a fan of the show, let me give you some background. Meredith is an intern at Seattle Grace Hospital; the show follows her professional and personal life, as well as that of her coworkers and friends. Meredith is a real mess (one of the reasons that I can relate so well to her) but by season three, she’s finally found some peace and happiness. Meredith’s mother, Ellis, is also a doctor, and was a brilliant surgeon, revered in the medical community, until she had to retire due to early-onset Alzheimer’s. Meredith clearly had a difficult relationship with her mother, but we don’t realize how difficult until one day Ellis wakes up, completely lucid, and she and Meredith pick up where they’d left off five years before – spitting the worst insults they can think of at each other.

Ellis is horrified to find out that Meredith has been “distracted” by a love affair and isn’t working harder to make a name for herself in the medical field. At one point she growls, “I raised you to be an extraordinary person. So imagine my disappointment when I wake up five years later and find that you are no more than ordinary!”

Wait, wait, wait. I can’t do this scene justice. You just need to watch it for yourself:

One would think that having a child become a doctor would be enough to make most parents proud – but Ellis Grey isn’t most parents. To her, good enough isn’t good enough. Professional greatness – at the expense of goodness in every other area of life – is the only thing that will satisfy her. Her own romantic relationships died painful, strangling deaths and her relationship with her only child is suspiciously civil at best and downright antagonistic at worst, but she doesn’t seem to regret the fact that she is slowly dying alone and unloved, because she was an “extraordinary” surgeon. Meredith knows instinctively that her mother’s worship of professional greatness is nothing short of pathological, but she cannot help but feel that maybe she has failed at life, by failing to give up love and friendship for the sake of making a name for herself.

Ellis’s abusive rage reminded me all too well of the times my former pastor would scream at us for imagined slights and innocent mistakes. For five years, I lived for his approval, hoping to figure out what God wanted from me by decoding my mentor’s emotionally manipulative behavior. I can’t imagine being raised by a parent like that; I’m surprised poor Meredith is even capable of interacting with other human beings without dissolving into a puddle of anxious terror.

There was a time when I believed that everything must be sacrificed on the altar of “greatness,” but that time is long passed - something that was quite clear to me as I watched Ellis unleash her hateful insecurities on her daughter. “Boy, did she get it all wrong!” I thought. “What a sad, pathetic person.” Perhaps I’ve healed, learned and grown more than I realized. Perhaps I’ve been transformed by this brand new person whose physical, psychological and spiritual health depends largely on me getting the hell over myself. No matter the reason, I was horrified at the thought of letting my career or my “mission from God” get in the way of my relationship with my family and friends. I made that mistake before. I’m not doing it again, dammit.

So what if my life is ordinary? So what if I succeed in being a good and loving person, but no one outside of my small circle friends knows my name – is that so bad? I used to think so, but I can’t hold onto that foolishness any more. Where I used to recoil from the idea of living an unexceptional life, I now recoil from the idea of living an unloving life. I don’t want to reach the end of my days I regret how I treated my child, or my husband, or my friends, because love is what makes a difference, a real and lasting difference, in this life and the next.

It’s quite clear to me now what the difference is between good and great.









* Another favorite show is Buffy the Vampire Slayer, which goes even further by taking a fantastic, unrealistic premise (fighting vampires and demons in SoCal) and making observations about friendship, identity, self-worth, interdependence and morality that are completely relevant to the real world. Joss Whedon, I HEART YOU.

I used to think – or, at least, hope – that I was destined for greatness.

I had fantasies as an adolescent of being a famous actress (not much of a stretch, had I actually worked hard to hone my dramatic talents and went through the painful and ego-crushing experience of attempting to make a career in film or on stage) or rock star (ironic and impossible because I’m not musically gifted AT ALL) or writer (I began writing imitative stories when I was in just fourth grade; at the age of eleven I read Gone with the Wind and was convinced I’d produce an equally paradigm-shaking work of art by the end of middle school) or famous-by-association because I dated someone very talented/rich/intelligent/respected/yougettheidea. I believed that someday, someone would notice me, notice how special I am (cue The Pretenders), and call for the attention of the whole world: “Check out this Emily gal! She is something else.”

Some would call me a raging narcissist. I prefer to think of myself as a very sensitive soul who dealt with standard childhood rejection by escaping into a world where everyone worshipped me. And I don’t feel all that bad about it, especially since I know that world doesn’t exist and I’m (usually) content to live in the real world, where more than enough people love and appreciate me.

Speaking of raging narcissists, my Evil Ex-Pastor used to tell his minions that we were destined to do “something great for God.” The person who should have taught me the value of humility and selfless giving instead preached and modeled an intense self-focus that did very little to cure me of my need to be “special.” The environment that should have fostered gratitude for God’s grace freely given – no matter how much or how little we have to offer Him – became an environment that made me think I had to measure up to some cosmic yardstick. “To whom much is given, much is required,” was a verse oft-quoted in our little cult – and never once did it occur to me that maybe Jesus wasn’t talking about working ourselves to exhaustion trying to earn something that cannot be bought or sold. Never once did it occur to me, when my pastor would go into one of his red-faced screaming rages about how we were pissing our life away and how God had created us to be spiritual giants and we were making choices that would lead us into sin and obscurity, that maybe my pastor – and I – had it all wrong. Maybe God hadn’t handed us a heavenly to-do list when we were born and shook his head with disappointment when we didn’t check off our daily allotment of assignments.

It never occurred to me that God’s idea of greatness might be different from ours.

After I was liberated from the cult, some of the things I was taught were easy to throw off – I rebelled against them openly, almost offensively. Other things I understood academically but struggled to feel their truth. Still others I didn’t realize were lies until years later – and I’m sure there are still some deeply embedded grains of deception that I’ll be discovering for years to come. That’s all right, because life is long and recovery is a process and I don’t think God ever meant for us to heal in an instant.

I had an inkling of what living a great life might really mean when my ex-husband’s father passed away in early 2004. He was a poor man, unlucky in love, unemployed and without any assets to speak of. He lived with my ex and I, and sometimes made remarks that indicated he considered himself a burden – the very last word either of us would have used to describe him. I’m sure he felt, at the end of his 54 years, disappointed with the way life had turned out, regret over the choices he’d made, and bitter toward those who’d abused him. I’m not sure he understood, though, what a wealth of love he had given to his son and me, and many of our friends. I only wish he’d known how much he meant to so many people, how fondly we remembered him and celebrated his life. Even today, as I write this, I find it difficult to keep my composure as I think of such a valuable person gone too soon from this world.

It was as I prepared to speak at his memorial service that I began to understand the truth of 1 Corinthians 13:13, “These three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.” All we take with us into the next life are those intangible things we hide in our heart, not the material things we acquire or the accolades we collect. So what ought to be our focus in life?

As I said, I was just beginning to understand this. Post-cult life was difficult; I had to forge a new identity. Actually, it’d be more accurate to say that I needed to discover my true identity, but that’s not what I tried to do at first. I tried to make myself into the person I thought I wanted to be – someone special, extraordinary. I began to daydream again of making a name for myself as a writer or artist. I had fantasies of being a guest on the Oprah show and having her just gush over how wise beyond my years and fabulously gorgeous I am. I dated a lot – or rather, threw myself into the arms of a variety of totally inappropriate pseudo-boyfriends, trying to get them to recognize what a unique and special snowflake I am, dammit. (They did not cooperate, which now makes me breathe a sigh of relief.) As the years went by and I never finished my Great American Novel, as I plugged away in my safe and steady and not-at-all flashy job, as I entered and exited ill-advised “relationships,” I would sometimes, late at night, be consumed with the fear that maybe I was truly gifted, and meant for greatness – but I would never achieve it because I was too afraid, too lazy, too timid, too broken.

I was living a secular life, but I still felt bound by the fear I felt while eating, sleeping, breathing church – that I wouldn’t measure up. Good enough wasn’t good enough (that’s actually a line my pastor used!) – I had to be GREAT. And what if I wasn’t? Then perhaps my life had been wasted. How would I bear the regret of reaching the end of my days without accomplishing something of real value? Considering that my definition of “something of real value” was “something that made me rich and famous,” the chance that I would have to bear that regret was very high. This terrified me.

To Be Continued…

Photo credit.

I want to revisit the lessons learned in this post, mainly because I haven’t adequately learned them yet. I promised you guys I wasn’t going to go Thoreau on you, but now I’m starting to see the wisdom in dear old Henry David’s words. More than 150 years after its initial publication, Thoreau’s unassuming little memoir Walden, or Life in the Woods is considered a classic of American literature, but his call to “simplify, simplify, simplify” is largely unheeded by American citizens. Maybe we ignore Thoreau’s call because he was a really weird guy (according to Wikipedia, he encountered zombies while living at Walden pond, which proves something I’ve long believed: going without the company of other human beings for an extended period of time will make a fellow bloomin’ crazy). Maybe we think that Thoreau’s ideas were great for the mid-nineteenth century, but we believe that in today’s world we need all the conveniences of modern life. Or maybe we’re quite honest with ourselves and say, “I don’t need ‘em, but I sure do like ‘em, so you are NOT taking away my 42-inch plasma screen television, nyeh!”

I’ve often wondered why the idea of living without television or indoor plumbing sounds like absolute torture to me, but the people around the world who were born in such circumstances and die in the same don’t seem to mind. Certainly there are necessities that many of our planet’s citizens suffer without: clean water, nutritious and plentiful food, basic medical care. But beyond those things which keep us healthy and whole, what else do we really NEED? I referred to Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs in my earlier post, and I have to say that I really think Maslow hit the nail on the head when he identified our basic human needs - not just the biological ones, but the more “touchy-feely” ones, such as creativity and self-esteem.

The key to understanding ourselves and truly enjoying life (or so I believe - you’re welcome to disagree with me) is to figure out what we really need and recognize that the rest of it is all gravy. Countless articles have been written on the subject of whether or not money can buy happiness (my favorite is the one about how rich people have better sex), and so-called experts seem to be just as confused as most of us laypeople. Some say that because wealth offers us a multitude of choices, it ups our happiness quotient. We’re not “stuck” in a small house, or with a rusted, beat-up old car. We can choose to have modest posessions if we like, or we can choose to show of our good fortune. The delight is in the choosing.

Others say that once a family rises above the poverty line, they’re as happy as they’re gonna get - whether their income to expenses ratio continues to increase or not. The stress of being unable to pay bills for basic human needs - food, clothing, shelter - and being unable to occasionally indulge our higher, more cerebral needs - such as spontaneity - is what makes poor people unhappy. But once a person has a secure home, is adequately clothed and fed, has regular stimulation for the mind, he or she is just as happy as someone who has ten times as much material assets.

The problem here, folks - and this is a problem I know well, since I managed to sink myself into a deep hole of consumer debt after my first marriage ended - oh, and I should mention that I can’t blame my ex-husband or the divorce for that financial fluff-up; it was all my own doing - is that we make more financial stress for ourselves by living above our means and lusting for things out of our reach. It occurred to me this morning that I think God is trying extra-special-hard to teach me that I do NOT need all the things I have, and that if I would allow myself to think outside the proverbial box (in this case, it’s a digital cable box or a bag of brand-new clothes bought at ridiculously high retail prices), I would find a life that is infinitely more peaceful. The issue isn’t that I don’t have enough resources to meet my needs; it’s that I need to adjust my “needs” to meet my resources.

This is a drum I’ve beat for a long time - occasionally. I mean, every few months I’d become frustrated with my credit card statement and I’d pick up the drumsticks and started pounding out, “I - DON’T - NEED - STUFF - TO - MAKE - ME - HAPPY!” And then a day or so later I’d become quite put out when all my friends went out to dinner without me, or I realized that I was going into the summer with “only” two pairs of shorts, or I decided I was bored with the dozens (okay, hundreds) of books on my bookshelf, half (okay, three-quarters) of which I’ve never read. Being sorely afflicted by my terrible fate in life, I’d dust off the credit card and “treat myself” to an expensive dinner (that’s only slightly better, if at all, than anything I can make at home) or a whole new summer wardrobe (purchased at a department store, because combing through racks of pre-worn clothing at a thrift store for something that fits and flatters is just “too much work”) or an armful of brand-new books (bought full-price at the mall bookstore without bothering to check whether they’re available at my local library for FREE or online at a significant discount).

In other words - I think I figured this all out a long time ago, but as of yet I haven’t put my money where my mouth is. Or stopped putting my money where - er, no… Well, you get it.

At this point I realize that making a positive change in one’s life is a whole lot more than just a cerebral understanding of what’s wrong. Especially since the issue of money and possessions is quite an emotional one for most of us. I think that’s why, so far, God hasn’t opened up the sky to drop a garbage bag full of $100 bills on my head. Although it would be great to hit the reset button on my debt, and to start over with a clean slate - and though I say over and over, “I promise, God, if you fix this for me, I’ll NEVER get into this predicament again!” - I think God and I both know that I need to learn this lesson the hard way. I need to be willing to “suffer” a little bit, or at least put some effort into getting where I want to be.

Photo credit.

Also of interest: Without their money by Toban Black and Schedules and Hard Stops by Jennifer @ Conversion Diary.

photo credit

Jen’s not hosting Seven Quick Takes this week because she’s offline, presumably reconnecting with the real world. We’ll see when she reports back next week if her net-fast achieved the anticipated result. I really enjoy the Seven Quick Takes tradition, so I’m gonna do it anyway. And since several of my seven takes deal with an alcohol of some sort, I thought I’d throw together a different banner for today’s post.

Take 1: Yesterday was my father-in-law’s birthday, so we joined him and my mother-in-law at The Lucky Star, located in Virginia Beach’s Town Center Westin, for dinner. The Lucky Star is one of those upscale restaurants that has only six entrees on its menu, not one of which costs less than $20. It’s also one of those restaurants where each glass of wine costs what one bottle would “on the outside;” in fact, one of the selections on their reserve list was an $800 bottle of Australian shiraz, vintage 2004. (One of the lovely ladies at The Lucky Star informed me that it’s quite a famous wine - I’ve never heard of it, but that’s probably because I usually drink $8 bottles of Australian shiraz, vintage 2007. Yummeh.

Anyway, I had two classes of bargain cab with the blackened scallops and goat cheese ravioli, which was beautifully presented, spicy and filling. My mother-in-law had the Caesar salad, which was probably the most beautiful salad I’ve ever seen in my life: a head of romaine sliced in half and presented on a long rectangular plate, sprinkled with croutons and cheese and drizzled with a creamy dressing. I should have taken a picture of it. I should have had my picture taken WITH it. My husband had the 12 ounce sirloin and the same wine I did; his father paired his sirloin with three martinis, Churchill-style.

After dinner, our lovely waitress (who had been constantly confused and harrassed by the guest of honor, who loves to “educate” the server when we’re out to dinner) brought a complimentary “Chocolate Foreplay” dessert with a single candle in it. My father-in-law blew out the candle and took one bit of the dessert, then passed it over to his wife. She was kind enough to share it with me, and I regret that I can describe it only as heaven wrapped in ganache. Both of the menfolk had port wine for their after-dinner treat.

In all, it was an enjoyable dinner, and though I’m certain the chef’s expertise was worth every penny, I’m certain I could have found something just as delicious in my one kitchen for a fraction of the price. I am also certain that I’ll enjoy the wine I pour for myself this evening more delicious than that I was served last night at a 300% markup.

Take 2: As you can probably tell, I and my family enjoy our spirits. That’s why I bought a bottle of the 7 Deadly Zins and 7 Heavenly Chards for his birthday gift. I will be completely honest with you: when buying wine, I am seduced by pretty labels and clever names. That’s why one of my favorite wines happens to be Pinot Evil. I mean, yeah, it tastes great, but that’s only part of its charm.

Take 3: Now, let’s have a serious moment. I started exercising again about a week ago. I’d hardly call it a habit yet; I haven’t lost any weight and there’s no noticeable difference in my muscle tone. However, I already feel better physically and I feel better about my body. I don’t think that’s a coincidence - when we care for ourselves, we care more about ourselves. Ya know?

Take 4: More seriousness, sorry.

Oh, Victoria’s Secret. Bad form.

Casey is 19. Casey is battling a form of bone cancer called osteosarcoma, which metastasized into her lungs and right shoulder. She was scheduled to have her right leg and part of her pelvis amputated in mid-September because the chemotherapy made her leg so brittle it fractured just from walking on it.

In August, Casey entered the Victoria’s Secret Love Your Body contest. The prize was airfare and a trip to New York, spending money, a spa visit and a shopping spree at the Victoria’s Secret flagship store in New York. It was a whim on her part, a dream.

Family, friends and random strangers–like me–who heard Casey’s story rallied round and voted for her. People, including me, wanted her to have this trip. Over 26,000 votes later and this courageous young woman had won the contest. She was thrilled. All her supporters were thrilled. Casey was going to get her trip.

Except Victoria’s Secret, who acknowledged that all 26K of Casey’s votes were real and genuine took the win away from her. They gave her a $500 gift card as a consolation prize. This is where it gets tricky and interesting.

Please read the whole story. I’m not going to tell you what to do - like boycott Victoria’s Secret or their affiliates - because it’s none of my business where you buy your brassieres. But I do want to give Casey’s story value and power, which is why I’m passing it on to you.

Take 5: Okay, back to the fun and frivolity and drinking. Please take a moment to visit my friend Professor Woodchuck’s blog, appropriately entitled Walking Brews, where yesterday she recalled her visit to the Raffles Hotel in Singapore and all the interesting people she and her father “met” there. Professor Woodchuck and I have known each other since we were in second grade and bonded over an entirely different addictive substance and as we have matured grown up gotten older, we’ve bonded once again over our love for America’s Oldest Brewery.

Good times.

Take 6: I just found out that one of my friends has MRSA. This is the same friend who has endometriosis, interstitial cystitis, and PCOS. I swear, some folks can’t catch a break. I found out she had MRSA when I called her husband and invited them over for a night of drinking and debauchery (see how I can right back around to the alcohol? I’m a brilliant little monster) and he said they couldn’t cuz she’s sick, but maybe tomorrow when she’s feeling better. To which I say: y’all better take a bath in a different kind of alcohol before you come into our house! (My husband’s had MRSA before, and has a rather large scar to prove it, so he’s slightly gerb-a-phobic. Rightly so, I suppose.)

Take 7: Now, lest you think I’m just a wino with no depth or soul, let me talk to you about my volunteering discernment dilemma. Last week I filled out an application for a local hospice care program, but I decided not to sign and submit it yet. I wanted to sit on it for a little while and ask God to make it clear to me whether or not this was something I should do. (Because I am so impulsive by nature, I am trying lately to take my time and think before I act or speak.)

Well, I think God’s given me a pretty clear indication that working in hospice might be the thing for me. Why? Because I keep getting “pings” in my heart. That might not make any sense to you - in fact, it might sound downright fruity - but let me try to explain before you write me off as completely cuckoo!

Here’s an example: the entrance to my neighborhood is right next to a funeral home, and sometimes as I’m coming home from work or a friend’s house, I notice that the parking lot is packed for a viewing or service, and I feel this tug on my heart, like, “Gosh, I wish I could be there and be of some help.” At first I thought I was just being morbid and busybodyish, but then I thought, no, that could be a “God thing.” Then yesterday, when I heard that an acquaintance’s husband is dying of cancer, I again felt that tug, that desire to help. Keep in mind that I’ve never even met this man, but I wanted to reach out to him and his family.

I believe that God impresses on our hearts the needs he wants us to meet. This is why some people are moved to tears by orphans in Somalia and others are kept awake at night thinking about the homeless in their own town. The fact that I am feeling drawn to minister to people who are in the last stages of terminal illness - as well as their family and friends - says to me that it’s a God thing.

So here’s where we get into the audience participation part of today’s seven quick takes: How do you go about making a Big Important Decision^TM? I know that those of you who are spiritual likely pray and seek the counsel of other spiritual types. And those of you who aren’t all touchy-feely-spooky-Jesusy might make a list of pros & cons and weigh each one. But what happens when your friends and family are pretty divided on their opinions of the situation, or when the benefits and drawbacks of your available choices are pretty evenly stacked? How do you get from the painfully tentative “what should I do?” to stepping out confidently?

What do you suppose this

has in common with this

and this?

(For the visually challenged among us, let me describe the three images above. One is a central air conditioning unit, much like one you’d see in any backyard in American suburbia. The second is a 17-inch Mac Book, which is the laptop model my parents bought for me when I graduated from college in May 2003. The last photo is an 8-cup coffeemaker with a thermal carafe, similar to the coffeemaker that has served me faithfully for seven years.)

I ask again, what do you think these three possessions have in common? The answer, dear friends, is that all three of them quit on me in one 72-hour period just a few weeks ago. Saturday, our air conditioning died. (May I remind you that I live in the MOST HUMID PLACE IN AMERICA? Okay, that’s not true. The most humid places in America are in Alaska and the Pacific Northwest (who knew?), but Virginia Beach gets damn hot and muggy during the summer.) Okay, fine, we made do, and had a great time with some friends who came over for a cookout that night. So we were hot and sticky! Oh well! We just drank more beer to help us cool off.

Well, Sunday, I awoke to find that one of those friends had spilled a cocktail on my laptop. Not only was it wet and sticky (something you NEVER want your electronics to be!) it was unresponsive. I managed to get it to work for about five minutes, long enough to copy some important files (that I SHOULD have backed up two months ago) onto a CD before it pooped out altogether, yet I was filled with woe.

On Monday, when I stumbled into the kitchen to pour myself a cup of caffeinated delight from the pot my husband had made that morning, I found that the carafe had leaked ALL. OVER. THE COUNTER. Repeat: the thermal carafe that’s supposedly to stay tightly sealed until I come along to partake of the javaliciousness had somehow sprung and leak and there was lukewarm coffee ALL. OVER. THE COUNTER.

The disappointment of the defective coffeemaker was the proverbial icing on the cake, the last straw, if you will. We could also say that it pushed me over the edge, that I came undone, unglued, lost it. Whatever trite cliche you wish to use will likely get the point across: I was Not Happy. I was, in fact, Really Mad and Sad and Feeling Bad. Who was I mad at – the inanimate objects that had disappointed me? No, even more ludicrous: I was mad at God.

If you want to tell me how dumb it is to be mad at God over a broken coffeemaker, which can easily be replaced by walking into my local Wal-Mart with $30 in hand and participating in a five-minute sales transaction, go right ahead, because I agree with you wholeheartedly. It’s actually rather embarrassing that I got so upset over those three tiny spots of bad luck, that I took each one soooooo personally. Sure, I still had a roof over my head and food on my table, friends and family that love me and the cutest furbabies in the universe - but dammit, I was uncomfortable and irritated! My life was SO HARD! This must be how Job felt – cursed, afflicted, unloved, grieving. Speaking of Job, I told God, you’d better be setting me up for a HUUUUUGE blessing to pay me back for all the hardship I’d endured, being hot and sweaty and unable to check my email. I mean, come on. You can’t really expect a person to live like this, can you?

*ahem* See? Embarrassing.

It didn’t occur to me til about halfway through Tuesday that maybe I was missing the point here. Maybe the point wasn’t how bad I’ve got it, but how GOOD I’ve got it, and how often I forget that, and most of all that I don’t NEED a lot of these things I call necessities. I’ve never seen high-speed internet or Arabica beans on Mazlow’s Hierarchy of Needs, have you? Of course not. What we need to survive – and even thrive – is a lot less that what we think we do.

When all that finally DID occur to me, I wanted to shout, “How cute, an object lesson! Thanks for letting me know, God, I got it now! Thanks for all my cool stuff. I love it. I’d love it even more if you’d fix our air conditioning!”

And he did, with the assistance of a friend-of-a-friend who came out after hours and fixed the problem for free. (Want to know what the problem was? A clogged air filter. Dumbest thing ever, right? Should have been obvious, right? Well, apparently lots of people forget to change their filters, and it can cause some permanent damage to your air handling unit. So let my stupidity be a lesson for you!) My computer has sputtered into consciousness more than once in the past two weeks, but a few days ago it proudly announced that it wasn’t having any more of this computing nonsense. And the coffeemaker? Is in the trash, after an unsuccessful repair attempt, and we’re using our “back up coffeemaker.” (Read: old, ugly, and with zero bells-and-whistles.)

The “hardship” I’ve endured really got me thinking about NEEDS vs. WANTS. Interestingly, MSN featured an article about a poll that asked over 1,000 Americans whether they considered items such as dishwashers and televisions to be luxuries or necessities. Some of the items named I’d be hard-pressed to give up; for instance, if I didn’t have a car, I’d either have to bike 7.65 miles to work and back or spend 2 to 3 hours a day on a city bus. Other “luxury” items, such as the microwave, I could live without easily. I didn’t have a microwave for more than a year after I moved into my first apartment and never missed it.

Now, I’m not about to get all Thoreau on you guys. (Simplify! Simplify!) I promise I’m not moving into a mudhut by the Elizabeth River. I do, however, think it’s good for me to examine the choices I make about how to spend my time and money. Actually, I think it’s good for all of us to do this.

So tell me: What modern conveniences do you consider a necessity? What do you consider a luxury? What’s one thing you can’t fathom spending your money on?

I’m ashamed to say that I’ve never read anything by Virginia Woolf. I have read the biography her nephew Quentin Bell wrote (and I have to applaud him for being so brutally honest about his parents’ eccentricities). I’ve seen The Hours more times than I can count, and read the book once. I’ve even read Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf and seen the movie. (Dear Elizabeth Taylor: I LOVE YOU.) So I suppose you could say I’m a Virginia Woolf fangirl - I mean, she fascinates me - except I haven’t read anything she’s written. This is wrong.

Still, there is one truth that Virginia wrote about that I believe wholeheartedly: every woman needs a room of her own. When I was a child, my mother would sit at the dining room table to write letters and pay bills with the living room television blaring in the background. My brother and I would cluster around her, crowd her, whining for something to eat, one of us complaining that the other had done something unjust, rifling through her papers, upsetting her balance. Sometimes she would just scold us for disturbing her, other times she would be undone by her frustration. And who could blame her? She wanted just a small space to conduct her affairs, and we (as children do) assumed our affairs were more important.

My mother often said that she felt she had nothing that belonged to her and her alone. She guarded her and my father’s bedroom jealously, and would not let any of us kids enter without permission. Now that I am an adult, I can think of many reasons why she may have done so, and all of them make me shudder - but I don’t think her protectiveness of her sleeping quarters had anything to do with naughty things hiding in the dresser drawers. I think it had everything to do with the fact that she’d surrendered her entire life and domicile to these creatures called children, whose sticky hands touched every surface and whose demands filled her every waking (and sleeping!) hour. She wanted one place to be sacred, but even her bedroom was not hers alone. She shared it with my father, and when us kids where lonely and scared and upset, she shared it with us, too.

My husband and I have bought a house with three bedrooms and a den. One of the bedrooms is where we sleep, one is for guests. The den is “man land” where my husband’s computer and stereo live. And one room is MINE. I love my room. I love that it is full of things that are important to me - my journals, my artwork, family photographs and letters from friends, watermarked and crinkled with age. I love that this room is filled with light, and most of all, I love that when my husband comes to speak to me while I’m in my room, he stops at the door and waits until I invite him in. He respects that this is my space, and that it is sacred.

A woman who is (like myself) very traditional in her gender roles spends dozens of hours every week in every room in the house. My hands are at work in the kitchen and the laundry room and the bedrooms and the bathroom. And although I work in those spaces, although I chose the paint color and pictures on the walls, they are not my spaces. Only in MY room did I not think for a moment what my husband or any visitors might think of the contents. Only in MY room did I ask myself, “What do you want, Emily?” Many women spend every waking (and sleeping!) moment thinking about what their partner/children/boss/mother/siblings/community/country needs. Only in MY room do I feel completely empowered to think about MY needs.

As a child, I did not understand it when my mother said, “I feel like I have nothing that’s mine.” I thought that she meant she regretted having children, that we stood in the way of her happiness and freedom. I know now that she meant she only longed for something that was hers alone, because in ownership we know ourselves. Often, women relinquish everything that is theirs - even their bodies, their names - or it is taken from them. Their responsibilities overflow every boundary and threaten even their sense of self: If I am not a wife, who am I? If I am not a mother, who am I? If I do not care for my children, or my siblings, or my elderly parents, or my narcissistic boss, am I still a person? Do I still have worth? I know I was someone once, but who?

In that moment of knowing, yet wondering, we feel a need. I must have something that’s mine. Mine alone, and no one else’s. Not because we are selfish. We would shed our own skin to clothe our loved ones! Rather, because we need to know that we are more than generosity, more than beauty, more than function. We need to know that we exist as a person.

When we say “mine,” we are saying, “I.”