(see you in a few days for some good ol’ fashioned conviction!)
(see you in a few days for some good ol’ fashioned conviction!)
The lovely, deep-thinking music guru who we shall call Melee, awarded me with the Stylish Blogger Award. Thank you, Melee! You are most gracious. :) Part of the award is also a tag, so I am going to share 7 random facts with YOU about my life. Here we go…
1. I cry a lot. I cry when I’m happy and when I’m sad, and between the two, that’s almost all of the time. I also cry when I’m angry or embarrassed. I could go for a cry right about now…
2. I’ve always wanted to be a ballerina, but that’s mostly because I want an ornate performance costume and like the idea that ballerinas don’t have to be curvy. Because, between you and I, I’m not the curviest of lady-friend-polecats. The part of ballet that includes stretching, practicing and working out doesn’t really appeal to me…
3. I’ve been scoping out a place for my farm ever since I was a little girl. There’s going to be a big house full of children and rose garden. You’ll know it when you see it.
4. I’ve prayed for patience more than anything else in my life, with my siblings adoptions as a possible exception. I prayed for patience several times today. During one of the prayers, it occurred to me that God is being an example of patience in our relationship every day.
5. I’ve been reading the Anne of Green Gables series for I-don’t-know-how-many-years. I love them so much that I’m spreading them out over my lifetime and trying not to let Anne get many years older than I am when I read each one. Last year, I read “Anne’s House of Dreams” and don’t plan on reading the next one for a while. Don’t tell me what happens.
6. In September, I am going to go crazy. By this, I mean that I’m going to let my best friend in the whole world move out and go marry some hooligan. And when this happens, I will (theoretically) have my own room and own bed for the first time in my life. Somehow I was not prepared for this ever happening. I am also going to completely redecorate that room in order to sugar-coat the fact that I miss Sabrina out-the-wazoo. See fact #1.
7. I don’t wear open toe shoes very often and never flipflops. Flipflops make me feel trashy, somehow. Even cute ones. But this year, I am on a quest for some cute sandals so that I can venture out (or at least my toes can.) I am also considering getting a pedicure, which I normally avoid due to the fact that I am probably the most ticklish blogger on the w.w.w. and person in the w.
Birdie just told me something interesting. I had learned this before, but re-learning is good too.
Apparently the cicadas (large, buzzing insects) that we have in North America, live to be seventeen. As in, a cicada that hatched on the day I did, probably died last year. Seriously.
Apparently, they hatch and burrow into the ground and don’t come out for seventeen years. Once they are out, they get married, have a few hundred kids and die.
If you take the marriage and large family out of the picture, I am a cicada.
For seventeen years, I was a homebody. I lived at home, I breathed at home, I drank chocolate milk at home. I went to church, to an occasional sleepover, but I really liked being at home. A lot.
To this today, I love to be home. I doubt that will ever change (except, of course, when we have maintenance men here…then I consider cheap flights to Timbuktu.) However, I have become a lot more social. And comfortable. And even friendly.
I don’t think I was usually rude in my nymph stage (a “nymph” is a cicada larva, just so you know,) but I was sometimes distant, defensive or out to lunch. Or more commonly, absent.
Now I am in small groups and take piano lessons and when I go to Sunday school, when I have something to say, I say it.
So yeah, I’m an introvert (100% introverted according to a test I took,) but I am not scared of you, you person!
However, you might recall the beginning of this story when I told you about the lifespan of a Cicada. Pretty impressive, huh? Well I think my time above ground is coming to an end. One more handshake and I might buzz off to Cicada heaven.
Or I might embrace all this and become a butterfly. Maybe.
p.s. apparently blogging about cicadas is a family thing. Love you Sabrina! :)
You voted, I listened.
This is America after all. And the results of the poll were as follows:
Votes for more posts about my life and family: 92% (13 votes)
Votes for posts about scripture: 21% (3 votes)
Votes for posts on thoughts and musings: 35% (5 votes)
Votes for “stories snippets and lines”: 35% (5 votes)
So, as promised, here is a post about “Everly’s life and family.” My life and family. Which I’m not sure will prove to be as interesting as 92% of y’all seem to think. But we’ll see…
What is there to say? An update on individuals? An analysis of my life? I know not. Until I make these sorts of posts more common and casual, I guess I will just tell you about my morning. Our morning. Here at Eyrie Park:
Well, I woke up at 7:25 or so, rather groggy. Sabrina (who is my lovely 20-year old sister/roommate) was up and getting ready for work. She works at our church nursery. There was already a lot of hustling and bustling going on in the hallway. Sabrina and I have an upstairs bedroom. There is a door in our bedroom which leads to what was once the attic and is now Birdie’s room. I could hear Birdie moving around in there, her puppy restlessly asking for breakfast. Then my mother came in and asked for a book. Does this ever happen to you?
My mother has always been a great (fast, prolific, tasteful) reader of non-fiction, but until recently, the only fiction she read was aloud to us. This has been a lot, and she still does this, but now she is adding some fiction into her own diet. She just finished Dracula, and was heading out the door to run errands empty-handed if I didn’t provide some sort of required reading for her. Half-awake, I sat up in bed and pointed to a small, purple book on Sabrina’s shelf (we have to have two in our room-it’s ridiculous.) She’d never read it, so she slipped it off the shelf, kissed me good-bye and took Peter Pan by J. M. Barrie to the car. I checked another sister-favorite off the list as lent to Mommy.
A couple of minutes later, after Jubilee came in and hugged my head (she apparently really likes to do that, before the rest of me is out of the covers,) I got up and got dressed. I apparently need to do some ironing (which is alright, as ironing can be really fun in my own nerdy way!) but I found my crinkly shirt and put that on. Everyone should have a shirt that is meant to be wrinkled. They’re wonderful.
Then, after dressing and brushing my hair etc. I got on Merryrose and checked my email. I can be obsessive about doing that.
Then I went downstairs and ate instant oatmeal. Don’t make fun. I am not arguing that it is as good as the real stuff, but it is pretty good. Especially for something that takes forty seconds to prepare.
I ate with Jubilee and Birdie. Sam was here in the den doing something on the computer (shopping for an ipod, I’d imagine. He’s been saving up for one and scrolling through Ebay like a junkyard dog for the past few days.) Joey was up in his room studying. Which he had been doing for a long time. Because he gets up at 3:00 in the morning. Don’t you have a nocturnal brother?
I guess not everyone does. Joey sometimes becomes nocturnal when finals are nearing. He is a philosophy major at The University of London via correspondence. He likes to study during hours when, well basically, we don’t tend to ask him to run to the grocery store, take someone to church or watch a movie with us. Sadly, we have lately sat down to dinner, only realize that Joey is already in bed.
Sabrina was already at work by this time. My parents had taken Bunny to school and were with Willin at the oral surgeon. Because he had to have five teeth pulled. But turns out, only four, because one was already loose and, call us penny-pinchers, but we just aren’t keen on paying a couple-hundred dollars for a doctor to pull a loose tooth. Anyway, they were all baby-teeth, but teeth are teeth and the poor little guy came in and fell onto the couch with a mouth full of gauze. My dad took Willin’s shoes off and we all gathered around and stared at him (ever so politely) and asked him brilliant questions like: “Did it hurt?” “Are you sleepy?” and “So I guess we won’t be doing lessons?” Of course, he couldn’t really talk. Because his mouth was full of cotton and probably blood. So we just stared.
Samuel went and got Willin a pillow and blanket and we were all amused to hear him snoring about four seconds later. Then I went into the den and picked The Prince and the Pauper by Mark Twain (adapted by Marriana Mayer) off the shelf. Since Sabrina was at work this morning and wouldn’t be able to help Samuel with lessons and since my student was recovering from surgery, I thought it was a good day for Sam to write a book report. Which he was super happy about, being the mathematician that he is. So he’s behind me now, at the library table, scribbling about princes and paupers and cabbages and kings. I hope.
Jubilee is at the other end of the table, talking to herself with a pencil. Her journal is the cutest thing in the world. Cuter than chocolates in a box. Cuter than pygmy owls. Cuter than Anthropologie dresses. Seriously. Read it someday when I publish it. I think she’s writing about “poor Willin’s i.v.”
My father is digging through filing cabinets in the hallway looking for a map to our septic system (for reasons I probably don’t want to know,) and my mother just washed a load of bluejeans. I know this because she asked me if I had any jeans to wash, to which I replied “Mmbmhm” (which means “yes ma’am” in tooth paste.) I brought them down and tossed them in the washer, and I know that they are done now because I just heard The Irish Jig. Doesn’t your washer sing?
Well ours does. And it’s song is affectionately called The Irish Jig. Because it sounds like something a leprechaun would jig to. And whenever The Irish Jig plays, you. must. dance. But not just any dance, The Irish Jig-jig. Which involves making fists and swinging your arms back and forth in a way that your elbows poke out, kind of like a chicken or a square-dancer or something. One or two arms optional. But whenever The Irish Jig plays, you must do the dance no matter what, or you will be deeply looked-down upon by your surrounding siblings/parents/friends. It is sort of like in Muslim countries when the bells ring and you must stop what you are doing and pray, only perhaps slightly more revered. Some examples of times when you think you might not have to do The Jig but you really do would be:
1. During a heated discussion
2. While listening to some bad news
3. While sitting in the college Bible study that meets at your house
4. While disciplining a child
Well, I think I’ll go check on Willin now, and then do the same to my garden. Because we planted last week and got rain yesterday, which is very exciting. Have a happy Tuesday, one and all.
(who took the picture above-please don’t steal it)
That’s all for now folks,
Have a blessed day!