Uber Marianne

Not to be a “woman” here, but after a lot of spastic emotional trouble yesterday, I’ve decided to re-persue my Comparative Governments class. Which is actually really great because I can’t get my money back now if I drop it. I am so thankful for the goodness and comfort of good counsel and encouragement. Way to be, y’all. Way to be.

And I’m really grateful that this morning when I called One Stop at UC (the registrar’s office or something-what a hip cool name!) and found out there’s a procedure for un-dropping a class! Huzzah! Even my professor seemed pretty cool about trying to get it all sorted back to the way it was before. And, wonder of all wonders (or should I say, Grace of all graces?), the class lobbied for a push back of the midterm until Monday instead of tomorrow, so I can actually study and get some sleep tonight.

God. Is. Good.

Not that He wouldn’t have been just as good if I had had to keep my class dropped, or if my exam really had been tomorrow, or even if I hadn’t gotten counsel and encouragement. And I would like to think that I would be grateful to Him regardless of circumstances. He seemed to impress on me last night in prayer that no matter what happened today, He would be sovriegn over it and I should be grateful. And I should. Because there’s always something to be grateful for. I don’t even just mean the important and oft forgot things like the fact that I live in a safe place, that I have my needs provided for, that I’m blessed with compatriots and freedoms inherent to my country, that Natalie is, that my mother was part of the body of Christ and is therefore enjoying the joys of being reunited with her creator as are others I’ve known who are no more in physical form. All these are wonderful things to be thankful for, and more besides. But there is something to be thankful for even when things go so terribly wrong in my estimation. If those things are because of my actions, I can be grateful for the lesson. If those things are things I have no part in, there is an opportunity to be grateful for learning about the sovriegnty and sustainence of God.

Continue reading I Don’t Deserve You

As a disclaimer, I would like to say this, vicariously, through a little Voki lady.

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Moving along, here’s the scoop. So I’ve dropped my Comparative Government class, and before you say anything, check yo’self ‘cuz I went over it with Arend and he already said it was okay. So THERE. :::sticks tongue out like a three year old::::

It isn’t as if I don’t want to learn this stuff. I do! That’s why I dropped it. I got my book late, I have a three week class term, and I am nowhere near prepared to take my midterm on Thursday. The real trouble is that I found out that taking the same class in the autumn quarter, which I was so totally prepared to do, is impossible. Apparently it’s “full” or some such nonsense. I suppose I’ll just have to cross my fingers that it’s offered in winter quarter and pounce on it as soon as it perks its unsuspecting little head up over the long grasses on the Savanna.

Sigh. I wanna go to Africa.

And that’s where all this is going. I thought I was doing all this schooling because 1) I think my mother would have liked it and I’m able to afford it because of her, and 2) because afterwards I wanted to go to Bible school and then whisk myself off on an African evangelism adventure! But now I can’t afford to go to Bible school afterwards, and I wonder suddenly, What am I aiming for?

This is the constant confusion of People My Age. I’m not too worried about it. Not too worried about the wondering, that is. It’s typical, it’s appropriate. But getting to the answer, ahhh, yes, that is something.

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(actual question posed in class)

What I hate about midterms! They really know how to da-a-a-a-ance!

Wait, I think I got distracted by an eighties tune there. It happens from time to time, or, really, more like constantly. Blame the Sound Disease I have. Anyway, as I was going to begin, and should probably be getting on to by now, is, What I hate about midterms is this One Eternal Question: Do we have to know . . . ?

I think probably that all my students would hate my guts if I were a professor. I mean, of course I would win their hearts with my loveable charm and personable layman’s explanations of deeply complex concepts. But when it came test time, their burgeoning devotion would boil within them, forming a thin but crisp layer of hatred. Sort of like an emotional creme brulee. And the reason for this culinary delight of abhorrance is simply this: If asked the One Eternal Question? I would always say, Yes.

Continue reading What I Hate About Midterms

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Happy Birthday, Pookie!

Love,

Marianne

People say that Spring is the season of Love. Well, some people do, probably. But, does June count as Spring? Because if not, then Summer is the name of the game.

Recently two of my dearest friends have become acquainted in that jonesing kind of way. Which is lovely because I love them both very much, and they have flirted with the idea for a long, long, LONG time. It’s reassuring to hear that the pains of both of them are coming to fruition. It’s delightful that they may have found in one another what they, for all I can tell, would never have found in anyone else.

And it has been a season of love for me as well. As the thoughts of a Certain Someone have faded, sometimes violently, I’ve come to discover a new found peace and joy in God. Being who I am and what I am right now is valuable. And the gifts He gives are wonderful and I mean that literally: full of wonder. I don’t know how all this works out. I don’t know what this is preparing me for. But as I’ve said before and probably will again, God is at work. And it may not be for years and years that I know the answer to why and how and what, if ever. But I know enough to know that He is definitely filing everything into His plan. I know enough, I’ve been granted enough wisdom, to want to be whatever He asks of me, and that is the dearest, most vulnerable, and truest kind of love. Because I know I can trust Him, and that He will continue to take care of me as He has always done, whether I knew it or not.

He seeks. He gives. He chastises. He edifies. He redeems. He covers. He forgives. He comforts. He provides. He sustains. He grants wisdom. He is jealous. He is not fooled. He is not satisfied with idle recitations, but with real devotion. He romances. He doesn’t have to. But He romances . . .

Love is in the air, friends. And more importantly, in the life.

That might seem like gibberish to you, but if you were to say something to that effect on TV in, say, the early 2000’s, it would probably severely bruise the ego of someone like, say, Liz Phair.

You know what’s creepy? That people born in 1991 can buy cigarettes. That your ex-boyfriend is dating someone who’s face you vaguely recall from high school. That the lady that you always thought you might be somehow (accidentally?) became who you are. That that crazy lady that you used to be has passed away without a procession to mourn her. And if, in fact, there had been a funeral for her, you wouldn’t even have shown up, would have said you had a big project on at work or some other lame excuse, because you wouldn’t want people to think you were mixed up with her.

But, ah, well.  In much the way that an old man falls asleep in the afternoon watching the stock report and wakes up just as Jeopardy is coming on, time passes. And those things you wrote in your early twenties when you thought you were so freaking cool and subterrainiously deep turn out to be pretty trite. Or perhaps, if you’re me, are so incredibly vague and befuddling that YOU yourself don’t know what the devil it was you were talking about. You realize you don’t know what ever happened to the Strawberry Shortcake t-shirt you used to love but you recall with remorse that moment when the one with Mighty Mouse emblazened across it’s front blew off the railing of the houseboat you were vacationing on years ago and sank, languidly, into Cave Run Lake.You remember the things that you did while wearing those shirts, or not wearing them as the case may be, and cringe for a moment, then recover and realize that if you had them to wear again, you would make both Strawberry Shortcake and Mighty Mouse proud.

Even Strawberry Shortcake grows up.

Obligations rise up. You realize that your mom’s friends are now your friends and you owe it to them to retain that friendship because of the allegiance they showed to her. You remember Father’s Day all on your own and make the necessary preparatory arrangements. You take out your trash, you do your laundry, you pay your bills. You complain about gas prices. You buy groceries. You cook.

And then you put in an album like Whitechocolatespaceegg and suddenly all these things come into your mind.

The atrium of my apartment building smells like bologna. Don’t ask me why. It’s one of those unanswerable questions, like why would a junior high school boy put deodorant on his face? Unfathomable. Nevertheless, smell of bologna it does, and that isn’t the worst problem.

The worst problem is something that I think I’ve mentioned before. Now, I’m no crazed hermit without furniture except for sixteen computers, wearing an aluminum foil hat so that aliens can’t read my mind or anything. I’m no enfeebled old woman with thirty seven cats to her name mewing around her efficiency apartment. I’m not even a begrudging middle aged redneck who won’t shut up about the Good Old Days, nevermind that he never saw them in the first place and that they weren’t really all that great besides. I mention this disclaimer because what I’m about to say next may make it seem that I am one of these types of people. So here’s the truth: I hate people hanging out outside my apartment.

Continue reading Weirdos At The Window

And so, it ends.

There’s a lightness that accompanies the end of something, and I can’t stand it. This purpose that has wrapped itself around the whole of you, that has caused you late nights and moments of worry, that you’ve worked for, that you’ve accomplished, has suddenly evaporated. It’s the same feeling I used to have after closing night of high school plays, when I walked up to the theatre from the dressing rooms, trudging up the stairs, running my hand along the back of the rows of chairs. It was quiet. Completely still. There was this overwhelming sense of . . . nothing.

And I knew then that whatever had happened would be all that had ever happened. It would never be better or worse or other than what it was. It would stand. The forgotten lines, the missed marks, the wardrobe malfunctions.  No do-overs. It was.

Of course, if all this is coming from feeling like I have nothing to do now, I’m kidding myself. My summer classes start on Monday morning bright and early and let me tell you, they’re going to hurt. Suddenly it occurs to me that I should have bought my books by now. Also, probably should have figured out how and where and if I’m going to be able to park anywhere down on campus. Those would have been good things to investigate. I suppose there’s always the beloved standby of Making It Up As I Go Along. I’m an old pro at that.

Anyway, here’s hoping I didn’t bomb my final.

Simon,

I hate your guts. Except that I don’t. And I want to.

The truth is that I don’t hate you. I don’t even know you. And I don’t foresee that changing anytime soon. It’s cool. I’ve made my peace with it. But you have yet to hear it.

Continue reading Le Fin

Somehow I went to bed last night and actually fell asleep before the sun came up. That was Super Duper Hooray Item #1. Then I woke up early this morning and went to church with my dad, which was S.D. H.I. #2. While I was at church, I ran into my old boss from Sacramento that I nannied for, S.D. H. I. #3, and got to see my former charges, Bran and the Bug. S.D.H.I. #s 4 and 5. And after that, my dad and I went to breakfast: no crowds, a delicious omelet, and my dad was pleased to note that there was no banana cream pie in stock, S.D.H.I. #6. Then I came back to my place and hung out with my sister and brother and dad and then I went to go study French, but instead I took a nap, the eighth S.D.H.I.  Also, I finished a good book. All in all, it’s been a good day.

And I have to say I feel fresher. No, no, this isn’t turning into a Calgon commercial. And yet . . . No! This will not turn into a Calgon commercial.

Continue reading Little Red Wagon, OR, How I Made It To Sunday School In One Easy Step