Ryan Hates Cats Too.

Sigh. 

For those of you that work in publishing and have had a crush on Ryan Gosling since the day he grew and beard, lost his mind, and built a house....

http://ryangoslingpublishing.tumblr.com/

Some of it is semi-inappropriate. But I can see past that if you can.

You're welcome. 

A Story of Hope

Tonight I walked back up to my apartment after having coffee with my sweet friend Emily, stuck my key in the lock, flipped my wrist to the left, and pushed on my door.

 Unfortunately, nothing happened. 

I tried again.

And again.

And again and again and again.

On the fifth round  I discovered I could actually swivel my key in a complete 360 circle, the lock spinning as I turned the key. I pushed on the door, I manipulated the key, I maneuvered, prayed, I waited fifteen seconds, and then I tried again.

And again I was met with nothing but failure. 

Sheer and utter failure.  

The End 

Goodnight.

Anxious Wreck--My Story

This week, I had the privilege of writing for Kyria.com, a branch of Christianity Today, where I work.

Check it out. You'll get to read all about how I became an anxious disaster, and how God is changing that part of me in big ways.

http://blog.kyria.com/2012/01/giving_up_worry.html

Also, how amazing is this?

Compliments of iwastesomuchtime.com

It's Sunday and I Have So Many Words.

Well, I'm at Starbucks. Surprise, surprise. I could probably retire off of the money that I spend here instead.

Anyway...

This week began with a resounding Bachelor-watching fest with the sisters and friends.

Poor Ben F, or Benff, as I like to call him. He should really run away from all of these women screaming as loudly as he can. Look at him in his vest. He's so innocent. So, so innocent. And bad things keep happening to him.

For example: 

Run Ben. Run away. COURTNEY WILL EAT YOUR SOUL and then spit it back up because she doesn't want your mangled-up soul calories. 

Also: 

Shawntel, I give you props for trying. Good luck next time you try to confess your love to someone who doesn't know you. 

And...

Ben, if you don't choose Nicki at the end of all of this, mark my words, she will set fire to your  vineyards and murder your dog.

So many happy, smiling faces. I can't wait to see what kind of insanity it will hold this Monday evening.

Tuesday night I had small group. We're reading this book:

I've read the introduction and the first chapter. So far, it has been...how do I say...a challenge for me. And for my temper. It's written by many different women, so I'm hoping that the next chapter is better, but the first chapter made my feel physically enraged. I understand the whole, women need act feminine, bla bla bla, mentality, but this book actually encouraged the women who were reading it to learn to love cleaning, cooking, and homemaking before you get married, so that you will be ready to fulfill your marital honors once you do find yourself a man. It also said that as women, we should basically always and only look to the men in our lives for advice.

*shudders*


I'm giving it one more week, and if the second chapters sucks as much as the first one does, I am going to run it over with my Civic or, more possibly, force-feed it to the nearest innocent male bystander.


I'm so kind. 

I feel zero guilt about this book hate. Jesus didn't write the dang thing, Nancy Leigh DeMoss did.

So there you have it. 

Wednesday night I went to a young adults group (Read: Adult Youth Group) at a church I do not attend.

 As far as churches go, this one is the MOST RELEVANT CHURCH EVER. Hipsters frolicking freely. A pastor who says "dude" and "bro" while explaining Old Testament kings. Wristbands. Ambient music. Floppy hats. Worship music you could barely sing to because it was so very experimental. BEARDS GALORE. And the prettiest art of all the arts.

Relevant. 

So relevant.

I left that place feeling incredibly grateful for my own church, and for the fact that we actually open our Bibles at our 20somethings ministry. I also felt insanely grateful for the incredible people I have met there over the last year, and for worship leaders and pastors who care more about bringing people to the throne of God than they do about making Jesus look sexy.

Loobadeeboolabeedoo.

Thursday night I went to my aforementioned winning 20somethings church. It was a lovely evening with lovely people who I don't see nearly enough. It was especially lovely when my friend Jennie and I decided to wear our ridiculously wonderful matching furry scarfy things as hats. 

We're breathtaking. Now ship us off to Moscow.

Friday I was supposed to lead worship with my friend Peter, but we ended up getting a blizzaster that closed us down for the evening, so instead, I spent the evening watching Gilmore Girls with Lana, Peter's wife (who happens to be one of my absolute bestiest besties). 

Look at us. Watching TV together.

It was a happy evening until Peter and Lana's walls started spitting out water because of a burst pipe, and Peter, Peter's dad, and Peter's uncle ended up doing this to their kitchen (while speaking a LOT of Russian at each other) while Lana and I hid in the living room: 

So at the end of the evening, my friends were less happy. They looked like this:

In other news, I hate my bank. I ordered checks from them two weeks ago and SOMEHOW they haven't been mailed to me yet. The're going to call me back "tomorrow" to determine whether or not they were ever actually properly ordered. Thanks guys. I'll just pay my bills with monopoly money until you straighten things out. I will say that the teller who helped me out was extremely nice, and he did indeed stutter the whole time, so he's okay in my book. But his manager...yeach. What a douchy hat. 

Saturday was a festival of fun that began with me, Jennie, and her daughter, who is literally the coolest four-year-old ever, trying to make a snowman. Unfortunately the snow was not pack-able, so we ended up making a snow "volcano." A snowcano, if you will.

Snowcano

Eva jumping and then falling off the snowcano.

Snowcanos are great. We are so freaking cold.

We hate snow. 

We eventually gave up at on any kind of snow buildery and went inside for: 

1. Eye Spy Memory Games with Lana

2. Harry Potter with Anna

Wine and babies. So classy.

I just want a hippogriff. 

Good Lord my head hurts.  I blame Jillian Michaels. I did her "Yoga Meltdown" DVD yesterday and today everything hurts. She is a demon.

Happy Sunday, everyone.

Updates on Beth soon to come.

Also, have ya'll seen this? Seriously how did this happen? 

I Am Completely Stupid in This Area of Life

So today I'm kicking my own rear end on the Stairmaster, when what to my wondering eyes do appear through the doors of the gym, but a 40-year-old man and his 5-year-old son, both carrying fake swords. They quickly look around and then book it into the empty yoga studio, where they proceed to fence for at least a half hour. 

During this time I feel disturbed by the following visuals:  

1. a grown man in elastic-band sweatpants, wielding a fake sword

2. the fact that he is owning it like a samurai

3. the intensity with which the small child boy and his dad are fighting. At several points they battle each other until one is laying on the ground with a sword pointed at his neck. I feel like I'm watching Lord of the Rings.

As I continue to master the art of stair-climbing, my eyes go back and forth between the ecstatic look on the boy's face, and the intense, there-will-be-blood look on his father's face. I can't decide if he is the coolest dad ever, or a potential sword-flailing child abuser.

When I finished my workout, all sweaty and disgusting, I head back to my own apartment building, where I see Tony Soprano's twin, and his son, silently stalking back to their apartment door. After twenty seconds of silence, Tony mutters, "C'mon," and thumps his awkward adolescent son on the back. Then he heads into the apartment. His son, Smalls Soprano, looks awkwardly at me, and then kicks off his snow boots and heads inside after him. I get in the elevator and ride it up the the second floor, because I am extremely, extremely lazy outside of actual "exercise time." 

As the bell rings and the doors close, my mind comes to this ugly realization: 

I do not understand men AT ALL.

If my mom had said to me when I was five, "let's fight with swords," I would have run away crying. She scared me enough with the angry face she used to make while she was vacuuming. 

And there is no back-thumping in girl world. We are gentle. We don't whack each other on the shoulder blade. That form of non-verbal communication doesn't even exist for us. 

I have so much to learn and understand. Ugh.

More on this later.