We had a shower to celebrate Bucky’s significant birthday. Rock Star and L. Tiny distracted her on the porch while we strung banners, blew up balloons, and piled presents high on the huge oak dining room table.
She wore her t-shirt that proclaimed, “It’s All About Me!” (props to Spike), and properly admired the beauteous wrapping before ripping through paper and ribbons to oooh and aaaah over a cupcake carrying gizmo (because she is the Queen of Giant Delicious Cupcakes), big fluffy bath towels, baking dishes and supplies, and more—but weirdly, no covered brown casserole dish!
Because I suck at delayed gratification, from the moment I arrived I was begging the other shower-planners to pleeeeeze let me give Bucky my gift right away—but of course, more sensible heads prevailed, and we waited. It was better that way, of course—but oh, so painful.
(I don’t want to wait to give presents—which is why I can’t do my Christmas shopping in September—and I don’t want to wait to get them. At 12:00:01 a.m. on the morning of my birthday I’m shaking Mr. Peevie and asking him can I please have my present, please?! It’s not an attractive character trait, but there you have it.)
I called J. Cool when I was standing next to the slinky lingerie in a Store That Shall Not Be Named (because I don’t want their ads showing up on my sidebar). I wanted to give Bucky some really pretty and comfortable P.J.s. I had no idea what size to get (everybody looks like a size six to me) or what color to pick (peach, I learned, is not a good choice for many skin tones).
I required additional consulting on style and fabric: Pretty much everything in the store is in this irritating babydoll style. Maybe it’s just me, but that sounds like an insult. Chemise? Might work, once I figured out how to pronounce it. Lace? Too scratchy. Flannel? Too L.L. Bean.
My contribution to the Festival of Gifts, of which I am inordinately and sinfully proud, was a set of butter-yellow, fabulously soft cotton shorty PJs and a slinky satin robe the color of sunshine. Bucky wore it to dinner that night and was a big hit.
Oh, she did not. But it would have been great if she had.
We had a blast showering Bucky with gifts and celebrating her life. A person should not have to get married or have babies to get a shower. I would be completely P.O.ed if I had reached a Significant Age (which for me would be like 25) and had not yet had a shower.
Instead of dumb shower games, we had cocktails and cheese. We toasted our girl Bucky, who has made a name for herself as a wacky but lovable, talented and kind-hearted friend who gives from her heart, writes thank-you notes that would make Shakespeare proud, and will always take a pair of old toilets off your hands.
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Sunday, August 26, 2007
The Remedy
Today my pastor, the Esteemed Reverend Moses Butcher, spoke to my sad and stressed-out heart from Psalm 77.
"I cried out to God for help; I cried out to God to hear me. When I was in distress, I sought the Lord; at night I stretched out untiring hands and my soul refused to be comforted."
I'm overwhelmed, sad, distressed, and anxious. I'm experiencing the kind of emotional and spiritual fatigue that makes me want to browse the chip aisle, watch Monk marathons, and consume mind-altering substances. This, apparently, was the emotional state of Asaph when he wrote this psalm.
Pastor Moses pointed out that we don't know the source of Asaph's distress. It could have been something awful from his past that still haunted him; a terrible choice he made that hurt someone; a besetting sin he could not let go; or possibly the illness or death of someone he loved. It might have been the universal feeling of emptiness that every honest human being admits to feeling at times in his life, that everyone recognizes but can't name.
We don't know why Asaph was feeling distress, only that he felt it. The source doesn't matter, because the remedy is the same.
"I remembered you, O God, and I groaned; I mused, and my spirit grew faint. You kept my eyes from closing; I was too troubled to speak."
Poor, pitiful Asaph. He seems to be doing the right thing--remembering God; but it only brings him more sorrow. He remembers God, and then he groans. He's thinking and pondering, but he only grows weaker and sadder. God is even "putting toothpicks on his eyelids", as Rev. Moses described it, not letting Asaph find brief respite in sleep. He can't even put words to his distress.
"Has God forgotten to be merciful? Has he in anger withheld his compassion?"
It reaches that point, sometimes, doesn't it? You begin to wonder if what you believe about God is true. You may not say it out loud, but when you're alone, when you pray, you wonder, like Virginia, "Are you there, God? It's me, E. Peevie."
So what's the remedy? What's the tonic, what's the spiritual penicillin that cures the desperate heart?
"Then I thought, 'To this I will appeal: the years of the right hand of the Most High.' I will remember the deeds of the Lord; yes, I will remember your miracles of long ago. I will meditate on all your works, and consider all your mighty deeds."
The remedy is remembering. Asaph remembers God's deeds, miracles, holiness. He ponders the greatness of the God who rescued the people of Israel from centuries of slavery. He reminds us to remember God's greatest Rescue, to contemplate the cross, to soak ourselves, as my pastor expressed it, in the gospel.
What is the gospel? It's the good news that I can be right with God because of what Jesus did on the cross. It's the good news that this empty feeling, this guilt, this distress or sorrow or fear or whatever weighs down your heart like a bag of sand can be lifted because Jesus fought the battle for my soul and your soul, and He won.
Remembering, observed Esteemed Reverend Moses Butcher, is not a fast-acting cortisone shot. Remembering is a spiritual discipline. It's like physical therapy that restores gradually, healing years of dysfunction through re-alignment, restoring strength and mobility after months of atrophy. Remembering is the remedy for a sorrowful, weary, oppressed heart.
"I cried out to God for help; I cried out to God to hear me. When I was in distress, I sought the Lord; at night I stretched out untiring hands and my soul refused to be comforted."
I'm overwhelmed, sad, distressed, and anxious. I'm experiencing the kind of emotional and spiritual fatigue that makes me want to browse the chip aisle, watch Monk marathons, and consume mind-altering substances. This, apparently, was the emotional state of Asaph when he wrote this psalm.
Pastor Moses pointed out that we don't know the source of Asaph's distress. It could have been something awful from his past that still haunted him; a terrible choice he made that hurt someone; a besetting sin he could not let go; or possibly the illness or death of someone he loved. It might have been the universal feeling of emptiness that every honest human being admits to feeling at times in his life, that everyone recognizes but can't name.
We don't know why Asaph was feeling distress, only that he felt it. The source doesn't matter, because the remedy is the same.
"I remembered you, O God, and I groaned; I mused, and my spirit grew faint. You kept my eyes from closing; I was too troubled to speak."
Poor, pitiful Asaph. He seems to be doing the right thing--remembering God; but it only brings him more sorrow. He remembers God, and then he groans. He's thinking and pondering, but he only grows weaker and sadder. God is even "putting toothpicks on his eyelids", as Rev. Moses described it, not letting Asaph find brief respite in sleep. He can't even put words to his distress.
"Has God forgotten to be merciful? Has he in anger withheld his compassion?"
It reaches that point, sometimes, doesn't it? You begin to wonder if what you believe about God is true. You may not say it out loud, but when you're alone, when you pray, you wonder, like Virginia, "Are you there, God? It's me, E. Peevie."
So what's the remedy? What's the tonic, what's the spiritual penicillin that cures the desperate heart?
"Then I thought, 'To this I will appeal: the years of the right hand of the Most High.' I will remember the deeds of the Lord; yes, I will remember your miracles of long ago. I will meditate on all your works, and consider all your mighty deeds."
The remedy is remembering. Asaph remembers God's deeds, miracles, holiness. He ponders the greatness of the God who rescued the people of Israel from centuries of slavery. He reminds us to remember God's greatest Rescue, to contemplate the cross, to soak ourselves, as my pastor expressed it, in the gospel.
What is the gospel? It's the good news that I can be right with God because of what Jesus did on the cross. It's the good news that this empty feeling, this guilt, this distress or sorrow or fear or whatever weighs down your heart like a bag of sand can be lifted because Jesus fought the battle for my soul and your soul, and He won.
Remembering, observed Esteemed Reverend Moses Butcher, is not a fast-acting cortisone shot. Remembering is a spiritual discipline. It's like physical therapy that restores gradually, healing years of dysfunction through re-alignment, restoring strength and mobility after months of atrophy. Remembering is the remedy for a sorrowful, weary, oppressed heart.
Saturday, August 25, 2007
Dream Life
I was feeling like an under-achiever because I was slipping into the odious trap of comparisons. One sibling is fast-tracking his way to CFO-dom in a billion dollar hospital group; and another sibling is hobnobbing with generals and presidents while organizing mult-national conferences.
When I mentioned this to Mr. Peevie, he gently reminded me, "Honey, you're living your dream life!"
I love that man.
When I mentioned this to Mr. Peevie, he gently reminded me, "Honey, you're living your dream life!"
I love that man.
Thursday, August 23, 2007
What To Do With All Those Tomatoes
With our tomatoes ripening faster than we can give them away, we are discovering new ways to enjoy them at every meal, and re-discovering old favorites. Last week we had turkey club sandwiches, with three layers of wheat toast piled high with lettuce, tomato, sliced turkey breast, bacon, and a paper-thin slice of cheese.
To make it even more garden-friendly, I Martha Stewarted a batch of homemade basil mayonnaise (recipe courtesy of J. Noelle at 24 Boxes). Mr. Peevie and I tried making our own mayonnaise one other time in the past 23 years, and it was an interesting experiment in non-emulsification. The end result looked kind of like something you'd clean up off the floor after a frat party.
But J. Noelle's recipe turned out fresh and creamy and delicious. What's next in the Peevie Kitchens, homemade ketchup?
Another garden treat we've been enjoying: fresh tomato and corn salsa. Here's the recipe from the Cuisinart cookbook, but I don't like cilantro, so I make it with fresh basil and parsley instead. If you use a whole fresh ear of corn, like I do, you might want to include some of the jalapeno seeds to counter some of the delicious corny sweetness and add a little kick. 'Sup to you. I love this salsa scooped up with plain old corn chips, or piled on top of grilled fish.
To make it even more garden-friendly, I Martha Stewarted a batch of homemade basil mayonnaise (recipe courtesy of J. Noelle at 24 Boxes). Mr. Peevie and I tried making our own mayonnaise one other time in the past 23 years, and it was an interesting experiment in non-emulsification. The end result looked kind of like something you'd clean up off the floor after a frat party.
But J. Noelle's recipe turned out fresh and creamy and delicious. What's next in the Peevie Kitchens, homemade ketchup?
Another garden treat we've been enjoying: fresh tomato and corn salsa. Here's the recipe from the Cuisinart cookbook, but I don't like cilantro, so I make it with fresh basil and parsley instead. If you use a whole fresh ear of corn, like I do, you might want to include some of the jalapeno seeds to counter some of the delicious corny sweetness and add a little kick. 'Sup to you. I love this salsa scooped up with plain old corn chips, or piled on top of grilled fish.
Monday, August 20, 2007
Veggie Tales
This, my friends, is the bounty of my garden.
I'm just like a proud grandmom, dragging out my Brag Book to show off my little sweeties.
I'm just like a proud grandmom, dragging out my Brag Book to show off my little sweeties.Those tomatoes in the front that look like Roma plum tomatoes are actually grape tomatoes. I think they were sneaking off at night to huff steroids.
The big honking dudes in the back are just now approaching ripe-itude. They include Early Girl, Health Kick, and Tomato Celebrity.
Notice the herbs? Clockwise, starting at bottom left, we've got thyme, curly parsley, and basil, and hiding shy-like in the back, some nice fresh Italian oregano. They've been seasoning corn and tomato salsa, pesto, and spaghetti sauce for a few weeks now.
And how about that shiny sweet red pepper lying like a cheerleader across the front row? M. Peevie ate two of them today, chomping down on them like apples.
Remember back in May when I posted about planting perennials in my front garden spot? Well, the jury is still out on that experiment.
Unfortunately, the brightest spot in the garden is that big weed right at six o'clock. Nothing is really flowering except the echinacea; and the euphorbia (is that what it's called?) looks kind of scary, like it might have slithered over and winked at Eve in the First Garden.
My flower pots on the deck, however, are another story altogether. My friends and neighbors have been "ooohh-ing" and "aaaahhhing" over them. "OMG, where did you get them?" and "Did you
make them yourself?"
make them yourself?"I did, I swear. Apparently, this is my hidden talent: creating beauteous flower pots to adorn my deck, right next to the soggy beach towels and broken sand buckets.
Just don't ask me about perennials, because apparently, that's NOT my hidden talent.
[Update: I have tried and tried to get the spacing right on this post, but now I completely give up.]
Sunday, August 19, 2007
Vagina Dialogues, Part II
What do nine women of varying ages and backgrounds do for a whole weekend in the country, away from family, jobs, responsibilities?
They talk, of course. They tell stories, they emote, they give gifts, they encourage, they cry. They share little personal pieces of themselves that are too scary to reveal in the Halogen brightness of regular life. They laugh, sometimes a little too loudly. They drink, sometimes a tiny bit too much. They walk and shop and eat and take turns holding L. Tiny, who makes them yearn, or mourn, or remember, or sometimes, just smile at her baby-soft beauty and contentment at being held up by a net of loving arms.
Except when we dropped her. At one point, Bucky was holding L. Tiny and sitting on the arm of an over-stuffed chair. The chair tipped and crashed, L. Tiny sailed up in the air while Bucky hit the floor. When the dust settled, Bucky was holding LT over her shoulder, murmuring comforting words to her, while some of us were suggesting that perhaps she should turn the scared, crying infant over to her mama. It was kind of hilarious how long she resisted the obvious.
These women are some of the most amazing, beautiful, accomplished, brilliant, and tender-hearted women in the whole entire world. Even our normally reviled bodily functions became a source of venerated wisdom and hilarity. Some of us delivered farts with such skill that they engendered our first candidate for catch-phrase of the weekend, submitted by our own Arid Queen. A moth flitted in through the open screen door, and she said,
"That moth is a metaphor for your farts. Get it OUT of here!"
I know, right? Catchy.
Before we turned into Nighty-Nighters, we sat up late, talking and laughing and cocktailing our way into the wee hours. As we talked and laughed, our on-site mixologist (Bob the Builder) mixed and poured. One by one, the morning glories faded away, and we learned who really had the late-night cajones: E. Peevie and Arid Queen.
The rest of you light-weights can sleep your whole lives away, but we've got stories to tell and laughs to laugh! Bwah-ha-ha-ha-ha! Zonk.
Stay tuned for Vagina Dialogues, Part III.
They talk, of course. They tell stories, they emote, they give gifts, they encourage, they cry. They share little personal pieces of themselves that are too scary to reveal in the Halogen brightness of regular life. They laugh, sometimes a little too loudly. They drink, sometimes a tiny bit too much. They walk and shop and eat and take turns holding L. Tiny, who makes them yearn, or mourn, or remember, or sometimes, just smile at her baby-soft beauty and contentment at being held up by a net of loving arms.
Except when we dropped her. At one point, Bucky was holding L. Tiny and sitting on the arm of an over-stuffed chair. The chair tipped and crashed, L. Tiny sailed up in the air while Bucky hit the floor. When the dust settled, Bucky was holding LT over her shoulder, murmuring comforting words to her, while some of us were suggesting that perhaps she should turn the scared, crying infant over to her mama. It was kind of hilarious how long she resisted the obvious.
These women are some of the most amazing, beautiful, accomplished, brilliant, and tender-hearted women in the whole entire world. Even our normally reviled bodily functions became a source of venerated wisdom and hilarity. Some of us delivered farts with such skill that they engendered our first candidate for catch-phrase of the weekend, submitted by our own Arid Queen. A moth flitted in through the open screen door, and she said,
"That moth is a metaphor for your farts. Get it OUT of here!"
I know, right? Catchy.
Before we turned into Nighty-Nighters, we sat up late, talking and laughing and cocktailing our way into the wee hours. As we talked and laughed, our on-site mixologist (Bob the Builder) mixed and poured. One by one, the morning glories faded away, and we learned who really had the late-night cajones: E. Peevie and Arid Queen.
The rest of you light-weights can sleep your whole lives away, but we've got stories to tell and laughs to laugh! Bwah-ha-ha-ha-ha! Zonk.
Stay tuned for Vagina Dialogues, Part III.
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
Stardust Twinkles
Stardust is a fun, beguiling, and often unpredictable fairy-tale.
Reviewers are comparing Stardust to Princess Bride (but without the quotable one-liners like "As you wish" and "I am Inigo Montoya. You keeled my father. Prepare to die!"), so I'll be different. I'd say it's one part Willow, with the innocent that needs protecting; one part Harry Potter, with a not-quite-seamless blending of magical and mundane worlds; and a tiny bit of Pirates of the Caribbean, complete with a flamboyant, girly-man pirate and a Greek chorus of ghostly princes.
The story concerns young Tristan, who sets out to win the love of a beautiful but shallow girl by bringing her a star that has fallen into a dangerous and magical land. Tristan becomes the protector of the star--which has taken the form of an irascible beauty--who is pursued by the fraternity of ambitious, fratricidal princes and a sorority of badly aging, cackling witches.
Along the way Tristan and the star, Yvaine, meet up with an extraneous pirate ship with a don't-ask-don't-tell culture. Robert De Niro is Captain Shakespeare, the tough-talking pirate chief whose loyal crew "aargh"s on cue and keeps his cross-dressing penchant under wraps (pun intended). They sail the skies, buoyed by a dirigible; they don't really advance the plot, but they add goofy fun and a connection between earth and sky, magical and muggle.
The witches hunt Yvaine in order to cut out and eat her still beating heart -- it's their black magic Oil of Olay. Michelle Pfeiffer leads the sisters in their witchy quest for the star, using the dregs of the last eviscerated star to restore her villainous beauty.
Stardust is too long and too convoluted to be a true classic, but it has plenty of charm and whimsy to keep you caring about Tristan and Yvaine to the fairy-tale ending.
Reviewers are comparing Stardust to Princess Bride (but without the quotable one-liners like "As you wish" and "I am Inigo Montoya. You keeled my father. Prepare to die!"), so I'll be different. I'd say it's one part Willow, with the innocent that needs protecting; one part Harry Potter, with a not-quite-seamless blending of magical and mundane worlds; and a tiny bit of Pirates of the Caribbean, complete with a flamboyant, girly-man pirate and a Greek chorus of ghostly princes.
The story concerns young Tristan, who sets out to win the love of a beautiful but shallow girl by bringing her a star that has fallen into a dangerous and magical land. Tristan becomes the protector of the star--which has taken the form of an irascible beauty--who is pursued by the fraternity of ambitious, fratricidal princes and a sorority of badly aging, cackling witches.
Along the way Tristan and the star, Yvaine, meet up with an extraneous pirate ship with a don't-ask-don't-tell culture. Robert De Niro is Captain Shakespeare, the tough-talking pirate chief whose loyal crew "aargh"s on cue and keeps his cross-dressing penchant under wraps (pun intended). They sail the skies, buoyed by a dirigible; they don't really advance the plot, but they add goofy fun and a connection between earth and sky, magical and muggle.
The witches hunt Yvaine in order to cut out and eat her still beating heart -- it's their black magic Oil of Olay. Michelle Pfeiffer leads the sisters in their witchy quest for the star, using the dregs of the last eviscerated star to restore her villainous beauty.
Stardust is too long and too convoluted to be a true classic, but it has plenty of charm and whimsy to keep you caring about Tristan and Yvaine to the fairy-tale ending.
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