when you miss the metaphor.

I was reading my Bible last night and came across a passage that spoke directly to me. In a very literal way. But Jesus wasn't speaker literally. Oh, how fun it is to take things out of context. Joel once tried to prove to me that aliens exist using random scripture references. What PKs do to amuse themselves....

Hmm. Perhaps subtitling does make me look silly.

Do you have any idea how silly you look, writing a life story that's wrong from start to finish, nitpicking over commas and semicolons?

Matthew 23:24ish (The Message)

In My Head

This song is in my head. Lyrically, it's a pretty great song to be stuck with. And it's Edwin McCain, the singer/songwriter responsible for two of my favourite love songs ever, "I'll Be" and "I Could Not Ask For More."

I would sing this for you, but my computer's not that fancy. Nor do I sound like a cool guy with a guitar.

Jesus, He Loves Me

I've been through the valley
But I've feared no man
Saw the beach and the footprints
Alone in the sand
And times seemed hopeless
The night too dark to see
The lone footprints on the road behind
Were the times when You carried me

Jesus, He loves me
This I know
Jesus, He loves me
For the Bible tells me so

Son of God, our Savior and King
You're taking away
The sins of the world
So I'll raise my voice and sing

I've held the hand of the devil
At the crossroads of my faith
My Lord came and rescued me
By His saving grace

And Jesus, He loves me
And this I know
Oh Jesus, He loves me
And you know, He saved my soul
He saved my soul

I think I'm going blonde.

This afternoon, I sat at my desk idly for over an hour, wondering why no one was giving me work to do. So I left early. When I got home a few hours later (I went to the movies first) and checked my work email, I realized that I had been sent an updated schedule with plenty of work early in the afternoon that I had somehow missed completely. Fortunately, my early leave didn’t hurt any of my deadlines, but I’m still kicking myself for not having stayed longer and being productive. Oh well.

I caught Ocean’s Thirteen. This is the summer of the sequel, and so far none of them have been really all that impressive. The one advantage Ocean’s had over Super-Man was chemistry. I actually believe that these guys like each other. I don’t believe that Tobey Maguire and Kirsten Dunst ever hang out. It was fun (better than Twelve), but it pretty much left my consciousness upon my leaving the theatre.

I will admit, however, that Ellen Barkin rocks the pink dress. Some women are all about the little black dress (LDB in fashion speak), but she’s pure LPD. Fantastic.

Chuck -- Coming to NBC

Some of you may know that I have that annoying radar that identifies Christian actors in Hollywood. Well, I'm pretty much in love with Zachary Levi, so I'm all over the pilot for his new show. Check out the preview for "Chuck" starring Zac as Chuck.

Maybe I should do something with the autographed 8x10s he sent me. Yes, I have autographs. He sent me scripts from "Less Than Perfect" when I was in college, and thought I'd want glossies of him too. No real complaints.

Subway Lessons

It all started with “I like your bag.” Always thrilled to have my accessories complimented, I thanked her and continued with my crossword.

Then she tapped me on the shoulder.

“I know why Adam and Eve had a relationship.”

From that moment on, my subway ride was a complete blur. I wish I had a recording device to capture the non-sequitur ramblings of the lady beside me. This is what she taught me:

• Adam just wanted a bite. But Eve had the apple. He wanted a bite so he could have a nap. But then God made us have babies.
• Every night she prays that God would forgive her sins and make her a man in her next life.
• Women don’t like having babies, which is why single women today call themselves cowboys.
• Baby girls prefer their dads.
• Men are better because they’re pilots and know all about San Francisco.
• Most couples call each other “baby” in public but throw things at each other in private.
• I should marry a man with a small flat head so I don’t need a C-section.
• A C-section will hurt my chances at a big family.
• Her brother and his wife have been married for over 40 years and have no children. She doesn’t understand why not. She’s very willing to look after them.
• She hopes I marry a man I like (which, oddly enough, is a personal goal of mine).
• Everyone always says that if women stopped having babies, there would be no next generation. But God could find a way.

And then, just as quickly as she began, she quipped, “Take care,” and was gone.

Mom

Today is my mom’s birthday. And since she’s starting to make her way around the World Wide Web, I figure that a blog in her honor is only appropriate.

Unbeknownst to her, I entered a short essay in a Mother’s Day writing contest. Naturally, the woman who won had the advantage of having a dead mother (much more sentimental; I’m not really complaining. At ALL).

This was my entry:

My Mother’s Eyes

I can’t remember if she held my hand. I can’t remember if she whispered anything in my ear. I do remember her sitting beside me as I tried to think of something to say to the girl behind the thick glass wall; the girl who looked so plain, so sad.

When I was born, there were boarders living at my house. Throughout most of my childhood, our guest rooms were inhabited by a rotating assortment of personalities: the young, the poor, the lonely, and the fascinating.

For a few brief months, our extra beds were occupied by Scott and Jessica*. My mother, her hands already sufficiently full with three young children, had inadvertently adopted a young, dysfunctional homeless couple. And when Jessica was arrested for one of her many petty crimes, my mom and I headed to jail to visit her.

Jail may not be the most obvious mother/daughter field trip option, but I thought nothing strange of it. If my mother could sign in so matter-of-factly at the security-surrounded front desk, surely it was no big deal.

My mom has an amazing cross-section of friends. It’s not because she’s a charismatic social butterfly, nor is it because she desires to be the center of attention. My mother is the most authentic woman I know. She isn’t shocked easily, she listens without judgment, she doesn’t smother or boss or offer sound bytes of sugar-coated Christianese.

There’s a light about her that attracts the broken, lonely and poor. Maybe it’s because she would sooner offer a meal and a laugh than pity. Maybe it’s because she’s not afraid of speaking the hard truth when a lie would be easier to hear.

When I was in university, my roommate would often ask, “What would your mom do?” fully confident that whatever my mother’s decision, it would be God-approved. My mom is the mother many wished they had: a genuine, refreshing, unpretentious woman of God, ready at any moment to both pray with you and dance around the living room to the amusement and embarrassment of her family.

I’ll never forget that first trip to jail. We later joked that the trip was intended as a deterrent to my pursuing a life of crime, but it was a far more important experience than that. The beautiful girl who lived down the hall from my bedroom was now a sad shell, awkwardly embarrassed by the presence of the little girl who loved her. And when my mother looked at Jessica, she didn’t see the glass, the captivity or the crime. My mother saw the child, the brokenness, the soul.

My mother looked at her with the eyes of Jesus. And when people say I have my mother’s eyes, I only pray that it may be true.

*names have been changed.

Happy birthday, Mom. I love you.

Lost in translation. Without the translation.

Sometimes I think this woman is the one who gets to translate my subtitled files when I'm done with them. And then I cry.

When Hockey is Funny.

I just couldn't get into the Stanley Cup playoffs this year. If Emilio Estevez was coaching, I may have watched.

Drenched

I had the great idea to stop by Sam the Record Man on the way home from work today. Oddly, nothing was really on sale. In fact, most of the CDs I looked at were more expensive than at HMV. Still, the store was highly picked over. I suppose Torontonians want the Sam’s experience while they can still get it.

Upon leaving, I felt a raindrop. Thirty seconds later, I was soaked to the bone. With an umbrella. The rain came down so hard that my umbrella was bending (it didn’t break, though. This one has proven itself quite impressively). And then the rain decided to go all horizontal on me. The water gushing down the sidewalks was two inches deep, submerging my *cough* suede sandals with dirty city water.

By the time I got home, I was cold and dripping wet. Probably not the best look for me (Remember that whole sexy-when-wet thing? Yeah, not happening), and definitely not good for a recovering sick girl. I couldn’t even step in my apartment. I tossed my sandals off in the hallway, and then reached into the apartment to grab a tea towel I could walk on before entering. My feet were covered in dirt. So now I’m in my pajamas, wet hair in a messy ponytail, ready for a cozy night in (so much for trips to the grocery store and Blockbuster this evening).

Fortunately, I brought my funky vinyl bag to work today. Completely waterproof. So my cell phone, wallet and DVDs (that I was supposed to return – not due till Sunday, so I’m okay) are perfectly dry. I like silver linings.

Oh, and Paris is back in jail. The subtitlers rejoiced.

Three Days. So Many Lozenges.

Well, my sick day went as planned. Sort of.

Monday night (after blogging), I couldn’t sleep. I would finally be almost comfortable when my body would be racked with chills. My skin hurt. I was a mess. I was smart enough to email my boss that night so I didn’t have to worry about my alarm clock in the morning.

Tuesday

The nice thing about being sick is that I have an excuse to do nothing. I practically ate lozenges for breakfast. No voice either. Unfortunately, daytime television sucks, and when I’m ill, I get ADD. I can’t concentrate on anything. No reading, no plot lines. So I ended up watching E!’s Ultimate Blonde series. I couldn’t believe they considered Leo DiCaprio to be a blond.

The cable guy came. He didn’t call in advance (like I was told he would), so I didn’t get any primping time. Fortunately I had already changed out of my pink sweatpants about an hour earlier. He went to the cable box outside and had me yell out the window when my cable connected and disconnected. That would usually be a decent strategy, but I had no voice. So I just whispered out the window as best I could. And now my Internet works.

On the Lot is on its way out. It gets worse every week. And the host can’t speak without fumbling. Not to sound sexist, but I generally don’t enjoy female hosts (with the exception of Cat Deeley on So You Think You Can Dance. But she’s British, so she’s automatically exponentially better than the Americans).

Wednesday

I called in sick again. I probably could have survived work, but I needed a day to catch up on the sleep I didn’t get the night before. The chills had subsided, but the coughing had started. Still not much of a voice. Getting better is boring.

Oprah is a little more interesting than yesterday. A holocaust survivor forgives the daughter of her torturer. A gay man befriends the ex-skinhead who once beat him and left him for dead. I love forgiveness stories. I’ve started reading The Sunflower: On the Possibilities and Limits of Forgiveness. I’ll talk more about that later. Later, Dr. Phil convinces me to never weigh 700 pounds.

My mom is now on facebook. My entire immediate family is. I have no idea if this means we’re all incredibly hip or just nerds.

I can’t stand TV anymore. Too much in two days. I went to bed early and read Clara Callan. So good. Again, I’ll tell you more about it later.

Unfortunately, Wednesday’s sick day meant I missed Camp Day at Tim Horton’s, and I missed the free Dr. Draw concert downtown.

Thursday

I went to work today. I was the first person in the office. Good thing I have a key and know the alarm codes. I like working in the early morning quiet. Everyone asks how I am, and then, in their awkward paranoia, want to know the order in which my symptoms came to see whether or not their own maladies are somehow linked to mine.

I consumed an abnormal amount of gum and lozenges just to avoid coughing fits. And I made it through the day without too much suffering. And then Paris got released and we all freaked out. In the words of my coworker, “What the blood clot?!” Yeah. I have an issue with spoiled rich kids who have panic attacks (or drug withdrawals) that get them out of jail for psychological reasons. What about the innocent people freaking out on death row? They probably cry too. Sheesh. She hopes that others will learn from her mistakes. Maybe she should learn from her own.

I didn’t want to go home and sit on my couch after work, so I headed to Yonge and Eglinton, tried on some clothes (no purchasing as per usual), and caught the flick Knocked Up. It is not my usual choice of movie. I don’t typically laugh at jokes related to porn, drugs, illicit sex, and all forms of vulgarity, but this movie had something that most of its kind don’t: heart. I found it surprisingly relatable, and man-boys even grow up a little (very refreshing). And for all of its raunchiness, it had a moral core. Abortion would have made more sense. Divorce for one couple seemed imminent. But this film had people fighting for each other even more than they fought with each other. Hard to recommend, but a nice change from the typical frat-boy fare.

And now I’m going to bed. And I will blog again soon. Because I’m connected. All the time.

The Seven Wonders of Monday

1. The cable guy is coming. Tomorrow. Which means that my Internet starting working today. Oh, well. I shall entertain him nonetheless.

2. Paris Hilton is in jail. I have no comment.

3. I went shopping for a bookshelf yesterday and came home with a bedside table. Not quite the same storage capacity, but much more charming. IKEA just couldn’t satisfy my real-wood-ala-country-cottage craving.

4. As the opening of Ocean’s Thirteen is approaching, TIME has posted a pretty interesting interview with its stars. Apparently, I share a brain with the cast. Case in point:

CLOONEY: I like Clive Owen a lot. Did you see Children of Men?
DAMON: That was my favorite movie last year.
CLOONEY: Me too.
DAMON: One of the most underrated actors right now as a leading man is Christian Bale. He turned in two great performances last year. He was great in The Prestige, and he was great in this movie called Harsh Times.
BARKIN: I like the very young Ryan Gosling.
CLOONEY: That couple—he goes out with Rachel McAdams ...
BARKIN: Splitsville. Don't you read Us?
CLOONEY: Well, those were two of the most talented young actors I've seen in a long time.
TIME: They're not dead.
BARKIN: And they should never have broken up—just for the sake of their careers.

Source

(Yes, Children of Men, Christian Bale and Ryan Gosling. I will totally be in Ocean’s Fourteen.)

5. Around 6 p.m. last night, I was struck with a sudden and severe sore throat. I woke up with no voice. Being the responsible employee that I am, I headed off to work to finish a file that was due today. Of course, the whole time I was plotting a sick day for tomorrow. Which I will take. My head has now joined my throat and they seem to be doing the pulse-with-pain dance quite impressively.

6. Even though I’ll be hanging out in PJs most of the day tomorrow, I have every intention of making myself presentable (lipgloss and all) for the cable guy. As my old screenwriting prof once told me, I shouldn’t be afraid to play my “woman card.” Last time the cable guy came, I got free extra channels. On the other hand, maybe the “sick card” will be more powerful. I know theatre makeup. I can emphasize dark circles and sunken cheeks. Hmm.

7. It’s official: I want to be Carrie Fisher when I grow up. Without the cinnamon buns on the side of my head. Just the act-a-little, write-a-lot Carrie (specifically the ghostwriting/script-doctoring. Did you know that she doctored The Wedding Singer and Sister Act?) So tonight, I shall watch On the Lot and crush on the Canadian contestant while planning my next career move.

(P.S. She considers herself as an "enthusiastic agnostic who would be happy to be shown that there is a God." Another hmm.)