The Transcendent Quality...

From my seat at the table nearest the bumped out window, I could just see him. About 6 feet tall, dressed in a denim shirt and khakis, with a medium-sized afro and short beard. His mouth moved in unison with mine, inside the pizza shop on the other side of the glass.

That was when it hit me: the transcendent quality of ABBA.

Here was this huge, homeless black man with a reusable Wal-mart shopping bag, singing "Dancing Queen" along with the radio that was audible even outside the restaurant as I, a little white girl with a warm bed to sleep in and a stomach full of pizza bianca, sang right along with them. It's actually a little awe-inspiring that two people from two different socio-economc strata and backgrounds both knew all the words and couldn't help but shamelessly belt them out. Well, I was kind of singing under my breath, as I was with other people; he was belting and he knew all the moves (it was too good to not be choreographed). 

An almost involuntary smile tugged at the corners of my mouth as I watched him.

As silly as it seems, that was a sort of cosmic moment for me. For that two minutes of '70's pop song, I was able to look past the superficial contrasting elements of two lives and be reminded that we are all human beings. We are all eternal being, spirit children of a loving Heavenly Father. 

It's really humbling when He parts the curtain just a little bit and allows us to see one another the way He sees us. With all the war, riots, genocide, and vitriol-spewing pundits out there in the world, it's becoming more and more important to know that there is at least one person who doesn't see us based on our race, or our employment status, or our political views or our religious affiliation. He sees us as His*; infinite beings with infinite divine potential.

*Does that mean that he's pleased with everything we do or say? Absolutely not. He wants us to be happy-- truly happy-- and to meet our full potential, which is why He gives us commandments; guidelines to help us reach that happiness and potential. People who throw around "Jesus loves me" as an excuse to do whatever they want miss the point. This life isn't about whether or not Heavenly Father or Jesus love us (that's been proven and re-proven a million times over); it's about whether or not we love them. Hopefully, at some point in our progression, we will be able to keep the commandments simply because we love them, regardless of the promised blessings.

"If ye love me, keep my commandments." John 14:15

I've Seen Things

I've seen things.

Then again, I live a short commute away from a Wal-mart.

This Saturday, after I got off work, I went there to pick up a few things. I was only there for about fifteen minutes (Wal-mart is one of those stores where it's better to strike quickly and with purpose so as to avoid being maimed, either physically or psychologically).

I had already collected an assortment of snack foods, a bag of flour, and a bottle of baby oil and was on my way to the Health and Beauty section to grab some conditioner. That's when I saw her.

She was about 5'3", 40-45 years old, Hispanic, and pushing a grocery cart. She was dressed in nondescript, neutral clothing and on her left shoulder was a medium-sized bright green bird of tropical origin. A LIVE bird. I instinctively did a double take and had to struggle for a few seconds against my reflexive desire to pull out my phone to take a picture.

But the moment passed and I found myself still conditioner-less, so I powered on.

Then came the self-checkout. Here, I feel obliged to go over some basic Wal-mart etiquette, if such a thing exists. The self-checkout is NOT for you if you:

(A) Have one or more completely full grocery carts.

(B) Are technologically or otherwise illiterate.

(C) Don't speak English.

(D) Just don't want to participate in the human interface inextricably connected to a check-out experience with a regular cashier.

I have seen every single one of these every single time I have gone to the self-checkout. Self-checkout is for those of us with Cheetos and Oreos who just want to make it back to our loved ones before the end of our natural lives.

But I suppose Wal-mart wouldn't be Wal-mart without Latina pirates and reasonable check-outs.

Last Night

I had a hard time falling asleep last night. First of all, I got the '90's revival of my favorite vampire soap opera from the '60's in the mail yesterday (I just don't think we're on the level in our relationship where I can tell you what it is; it's kind of a guilty pleasure that I'm currently still ashamed of); so of course I had to watch it. I'm a compulsive online shopper, you see. Just one episode, I told myself as I climbed the stairs to the loft at 10:00 last night. 

Bad idea. 

I thought each episode was only 25 minutes or so, like the original show. Or at least that there would be an obvious break and theme song between each one. Oh no-- eventually I heard the eleven o'clock news going strong downstairs and I still hadn't seen a clear ending/beginning sequence. I finally just forced myself to pause it and headed downstairs to sleep, for I had to come into work this morning. According to the collectable cover, there is 660 hours of footage in the collection, and 12 episodes. A little simple math reveals that that means each episode is 55 minutes. I still don't know where the first episode ended and, apparently, I went about halfway into the next one. 

I regret nothing.

Then I just couldn't fall asleep. It was like when you're really excited about something that's happening the next day and you want it to hurry up and be tomorrow already. Except nothing fantastic is happening today (aside from me watching more supernatural drama tonight when I get home). I was just really, really happy--inexplicably-- and my mind kept racing at approximately 200 mph from subject to subject to subject. This happens sometimes, though I've also had it the other way-- where I am in a panic and dreading tomorrow; so you can just slow down now, Time.

I thought of some really great new aspects of the book I've been working on since I was a junior in high school. 

Of course, I thought, as soon as I wake up I won't remember any of this brilliance. Remember the last time you had a particularly clever book idea and you couldn't think of what it was the next morning? I do! I still can't remember what it was. So I must write it all down. Rats, I have nothing to write on. I could use my phone to write myself a note. But then I would be blinded by its radiant glow, which in the blackness of the night rivals the intensity of a thousand white hot suns. My retinas will be burned and then I'll have to wait for the skin to grow back on my eyeballs.Then I for sure won't be able to fall asleep, which is really what needs to happen. What to do...

At length I decided to go for it. I turned down the brightness of my phone (which was still almost too much to handle) and typed away until I was satisfied I had captured all my thoughts on the subject. It was about 1:30 when I finished and there's a time stamp on that note on my phone to prove it. 

So, that's what it's like to have a chemical imbalance.

New Year's Eve Past

This past New Year's Eve found our family on the couch in front of our t.v., watching a Canadian house hunting/remodeling show on Netflix-- right up until about ten minutes before the ball was slated to drop. With Dick Clark gone there's not much reason to tune in before that, or at all really. I'm sure there are those of the rising generation who, because of the wickedness of the traditions of their fathers, will think the same thing about Ryan Seacrest when his time finally comes. But no matter.

If New Year's Rockin' Eve isn't even worth watching from the comfort of my living room anymore for lack of Clark, I can't think of a reason for so many people to actually attend the thing in person. What kind of person would willingly be sardined into Time Square like that? And it's not just a few people; no sir. People come in from all over the country to stand, fifty people deep, along both sides of the street, for twelve hours or more in the frigid conditions, holding their bodily fluids and hoping not to get trampled to death by the other lunatics with neon 2015 glasses balanced on the ends of their noses, so they can watch the second that the ball drops LIVE and in person-- all while fending off complete strangers who want a New Year's kiss.

It just seems like a lot to me, with nothing more to show for it than a new profile picture and the very distinct risk of contracting meningococcal meningitis.

Anyone who watched a little after the ball dropped also saw a man in uniform propose to his girlfriend in front of Jenny McCarthy, God, and everyone with access to basic television programming. Which was sweet, I guess. The girl didn't seem to mind, anyways.

But such proposals have always seemed so disingenuous to me. I suppose I have always felt that any proposal that needed dressing up wasn't much of a proposal at all. Any man who would propose to me in such a public setting would get an unhesitating "No" for his trouble.

Time Square on New Year's Eve: "No."

Jumbo-tron at any sporting event: "No."

In the middle of a restaurant: "No."

In any public place, at any given time, by any man: "No."

I feel like proposals are very personal business and should be done in private. Let me be clear: This is just my personal take on the matter. I know tons of people who have started their marriages off that way and their marriages don't seem to suffer by it. That sort of thing is fine if you're okay with it. But I'm not.

My last few posts have seemed particularly judgmental, I think. It's probably just because I'm a really judgmental person. I'm sort of glad you're finding this out about me now, though, before we get serious.

On a side-note, I want Elton John's blazer.