…and I know He watches me.

This morning I sit cleaning out my blog.  You ever find a diary you had as a kid and think, “Omigosh!  How naive I was!”  Yeah, those were a lot of my blog posts.  I plan to do the same for the ones you can still view when I  mature some more.  Could be tomorrow.

Looking at old posts, I see how much I have learned in just three years, but realize I have a long way to go.  I am already only 26.  What does that mean?  It means a lot of my friends are nested, some are not, and I’m floating on the wind.  Have a long way to go but should have been there by now.  It’s ridiculous.  I’m getting mixed messages from everyone, so I must remember to go to Him.

I think that if I were an animal (indulge me here), that I would be a bird.  Before you start with the “bird brain” jokes, hear me out.  Just like me, birds go where the wind takes them, where there is sustenance.  They are restless.

They also love bread.  It’s haunting, right?

I have known Boyfriend for over five years.  He saw me graduate college, he saw me struggle for work and in work, he has been my champion when I faced scary health situations, we have made vacations together, we have shared holidays, pets and a home.  We have been in a relationship and out of one.   He has faults, and I have mine.  He wants to nest, I can’t get flight out of my head.  I can’t get my bird brain out of the clouds!  I have a list of all the things I want to see and do in the next four years and then a starter list for after that.  These lists change, as days, months and years go by.  But Boyfriend has only one thing on his list.

So, like a lot of twenty-somethings, Boyfriend and I have a forked road ahead us.  I actually want to construct a new road, that runs a course in the middle, but “Build New Road” is not on Boyfriend’s list.   So, like a lot of women, I have pulled in outside counsel.  Mom, obviously.  Dad.  Grandma.  Friends. Even a couple of acquaintances that run the line of almost being a friend, but aren’t there yet.  I know everyone must face decisions like this.  I just have the unique talent of drawing it out this long, and Boyfriend has the admirable talent of holding on.

So, as I do every night, I take it to God.  I understand that I must first know myself.  Knowing myself means walking with Christ.  There, in this walk, I will find answers, and even if I make a mistake (because I will make them), I have faith that I will learn from the missteps and discover the reason behind them.  No more waiting for tomorrow with my head in the clouds.  Each day has its purpose.

“My soul yearns, even faints, for the courts of the LORD; my heart and my flesh cry out for the living God.  Even the sparrow has found a home, and the swallow a nest for herself, where she may have her young— a place near your altar, Lord Almighty, my King and my God.  Blessed are those who dwell in your house; they are ever praising you.” –Psalm 84:2-4

“Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink; or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothes?  Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they? Can any one of you by worrying add a single hour to your life?” — Matthew 6:25-27

A lot of people say, “You are what you eat.”  I say, “You feel like what you drive.”

Last week was pretty bad.  In comparison to really bad things that can happen in a blink of an eye, not bad at all.  In comparison to a normal week, oh it was bad.

Monday started out with a car accident.  I was pulling out of our parking area, needing to turn left to head west.  It seemed like I would never find a clearing.  Then, all three lanes of traffic stopped for me, to usher me through as they waited at a red light.  We all take advantage of scenarios like this.  DON’T.  I made my way to the center lane and started to turn left into my westbound lane and BOOM.  A small SUV decided he didn’t want to wait for the ushering vehicles, so he pulled away and started driving fast in the center lane when he hit me.  He hit the driver’s side, denting the fender under my headlight and scratching and denting my door.  I can barely open my door now.  We pulled over and he stayed in his car.  Didn’t bother to see if I was okay, so I went over and asked him if he was.  He was fine, so I called the police for a report.  Policewoman I’m Bored to Death With  You filed the report, but could not write a citation or take enforcement action because there was no evidence of where he was coming from.  What she does know is I was coming out of a parking area.  I was at fault.

Tuesday I took my wrecked car to get it re-registered.  I was directed to take my car for an emissions test, which I failed.  I was given a list of codes that needed correcting.

Friday came, and as I was leaving a meeting, I  felt an all too  familiar feeling pulling out.  My front passenger tire was completely flat.  I called a tire guy, who in just 35 minutes time sent my rescuer who came in the form of a man who looked like a biker and smelled like sweet tobacco.  He patched my tire.   I thanked him for his rescue.  That afternoon I became a AAA member.

Next morning, I went to the nearest AAA in Peoria.  I needed three repairs for emissions, my front blinker bulb replaced and a possible replacement of my serpentine belt, as my car sounded like it was being run by a band of crickets.  I was charged over $100 for the diagnostic, $39 so they could listen to my belt (meaning they charged me for driving in a circle around the parking lot), and $35 for the bulb.  Futher tests were needed, but all said and done, I was presented with an estimate that could be anywhere from $1000 to $1700.  So, after 3 1/2 hours of waiting, I took their estimate to a local car guy.

Local car guy was astonished at how much they were charging me and even questioned their validity.  He did his diagnostic and found that I was initially misdiagnosed.  All correct repairs done at his shop were still expensive and came in at $712, but better pay less for the right job then more for parts and labor not needed.  In total, I was in car repair lobbies for nine hours.  My car, outside of body work and re-registration, is in fine order.

It’s funny, the way we view our vehicles.  A lot of men and all “car guys” feel their vehicle is a reflection of themselves.  If it runs smoothly, looks good, performs better than other makes and models, then a man has his life in order.  He is smart – can decipher mechanics and machinery and the engineering behind them.  He is able – can diagnose problems, find solutions and execute their solution.  If his car is well, he is well.  He successfully steps up to the stereotypically male role of provider and protector.

For most women, cars don’t hold that symbolism.  They hold another kind.  I can speak for myself, myself only.  Knowing that automobiles and their maintenance are largely a male domain, maintaining my car is a reflection of how I can support myself, in short, If I can take care of my car, I can take care of myself.  It is a sign of independence, to take care of your car without Dad or Boyfriend.   Granted, I do the bare minimum for my car.  I do not take particular pride in it.  In fact, at this point, I truly hate my car.  I appreciate that it gets me from place to place,  but I often fantasize of throwing it into the Grand Canyon and watching it fall.    Even if my car was different – newer or environmentally friendly, or more of a classic, I would take some pride in my vehicle, but not when it’s in the shop.  A sick car shows that I wasn’t taking care.  I needed Dad or Boyfriend.  I didn’t do it myself.  The maintanence of a car is not a reflection of how well I fit into a role, but how well I can break out of it.  My car reflects my independence.

I admire women who know their way around a car and know what to do when the car shows symptoms.  I hope to one day be one of them.  Or at least established enough financially and smart enough from experience that I can take my car into a mechanic who will give me the best deal and make the repairs.   Right now, I feel bloody and beaten.  You can tell.  Just look at my car.

Sometimes I wonder if I’m cut out to have kids of my own. 

Sydney is just over 3 months old now.  That’s heading into the terrible two stages in dog years.  She is driving me insane. 

Sydney is starting to look less like a guinea pig and more like a dog, so I started taking her out for long jog/walks early in the morning.  One thing you must know about Sydney is that she experiences the world through her nose and mouth.  That involves sniffing, licking and gobbling everything in sight.  I at first worried that she might be relying on her other senses because she is partly blind, but no, she knows our route by heart now.  She can see every bend in the road.  She’s just a kid.

A typical morning with Sydney.  Yesterday I woke up, put her on the leash and we headed out of the townhome complex we call home and out into the further reaches of the neigborhood.  Along the way Sydney must dart out after every leaf that is caught by wind and *boing* she reaches the end of the leash pulling it taut and whipping her back.  This happens 15 times before we leave the complex.  Windy days leave my arm sore.  So, when we hit the sidewalk of a somewhat busy residential street, I hold her close to me, so that a wandering leaf won’t end up with Sydney under a tire.   Sydney understands that cars mean danger but all that goes out the window when there are things in the road to sniff.

Broken cereal bowl *boing.*  Banana peel *boing.*  Sydney loves to run, so when we hit the pavement running she is front of me, like some sort of miniature Alaskan sled dog, her ears pinned back galloping at full speed.  Dog smell – I run forward, she heads back makes a circle, I turn around and *thowp* she has hogtied herself. 

Finally making it to the park we walk around a bit.  I see in the distance an older man and his Dalmation.  The Dalmation is running and sniffing always watchful of his master.  The Dalmation has no leash and comes when called, no matter what there is to sniff or lick.  I look down at my kid, and turn red with embarassment.  Sydney  is like me, never pooping away from home, but this time she poops.  I have no bag.  She poops more than I think that Dalmation can then runs her leash through her deposit.  I hope the other dog owner did not witness Sydney’s defecation of city property.  Or the Dalmation for that matter, because he could probably relay the message to his master.  I take Sydney back to the sidewalk that will lead us home. 

On our last leg of the journey, Sydney spots a used tissue and immediately grabs it and starts to gobble it down.  I yell, trying to bring her close to me using the leash, but she is running in circles.  I finally grab her, pry open her jaw and get it out.  She gives me not the look of “I’m sorry that was bad” but “Not fair!  You are soooooo not fair!!”  I can’t imagine what the neigbors think of me.  Some kind of abusive pet owner or parent I imagine.  “Sydney, stop it!  Give it to me!!  Stop!!  Eeeewwww!  No!!!  Sydney!  Get over here!”

When we get home, it’s time to clean the house.  Can’t leave Sydney roaming about when I’m cleaning the floor, because she won’t let me.  Into the crate.  She watches as I grab the handheld vacuum, and sure enough as soon as I turn it on she howls.  Loud howls as if someone is murdering her.  I can’t stand the noise anymore, so I let her out and vacuum her, which is what she wanted.   She starts to play with Dublin, the cat, then I hear *bleck.*  She vomits all over the previously clean floor.  I grab a paper towel before she eats two-thirds of it and see that it is mostly hair and fuzz.  Obviously disgusted by the incident, Dublin heads to the corner and coughs up a nice gushy hairball.  I was able to grab another paper towel before Sydney ate most of that, too.

Thus ends my typical morning.  It was about 10am.

I adopted a new puppy.  Eight weeks old.  Possible Australian Shepherd/Blue Healer mix.  She came from a friend and colleague of my mother’s.  We both hail from the same small farming community.  She is named Sydney because of her prominent breed, Rosita as a triubute to our late Blue/Red Healer mix, and Callie as a tribute to Boyfriend’s late dog of the same mix.  She bears my surname.

She is a baby that acts like one.  She chews and makes grunting noises even in her sleep.  Dublin was not happy.  After two full days of the pup, he is starting to make progress, even approaching her for a sniff once in a while.  I look forward to the time when her legs are a bit longer and we can go on walks together.  A time when she no longer needs puppy pads or our constant attention during her waking hours.  Right now her personality has yet to be formed.

I thought bringing her home was one of the most stupid things I had ever done.  Right now, I’m on the fence, but she stays with me to prove me wrong.