Goosebumps

This morning I went in to work, where the night staff told me about an interesting thing that happened at around 11:00 pm. She was in the kitchen making pudding, when she heard someone saying "Help me please, somebody." She turned around and saw Ruth standing by another resident's doorway. Picture a short, thin woman in her mid-nineties, stringy white hair in a messy bun, denture-free, in a pink long-sleeved nightgown. Now picture that for the last few months, you've only ever seen her in a wheelchair. Her weak, shaky legs have prevented her from taking even ten steps since about July, and her dementia has made it impossible for her to know what's going on around her.
The night worker nearly panicked, thinking Ruth's legs were about to give out any second. She said, "Hold onto the railing, Ruth, and I'll go get your wheelchair." Ruth said, "That's fine dear. I can walk." Then she took the night lady's hand and walked with perfect normalcy back down the hallway to her room. When she'd returned to her bed, she looked up at the night lady and said, "I was just walking on water..." then she began to speak in tongues.

Patzerbum

The sweetest time of all was had by many a Saskatoon guy and gal at yesterday's celebration of Megan P's 21st birthday. We all dressed up in our most fanciest clothes (even the guys had suits and a top hat that circulated amongst them all evening), and aside from my house being typically a few minutes late, it went off without a hitch. We all went to Ricky's for supper (so good, try the Summer Splash Chicken Salad) where each of us ordered Megan a Megarita and she drank them all within an hour. Then the restaurant people came and had Megan stand on the table while we all sang happy birthday, during which she broke out into a fantastic version of the Megarena. Finally, we all headed to the Patzer house (word to the wise...don't wave at a mini-van with two middle-aged male passengers who happened to be looking your way. And also, tell the people at Super Save Gas if it's your birthday; you'll get free cigs or a free iced tea). There, at the Patzer house, we sat around and visited and some played Chinese Checkers. The birthday girl looked Meganificent.
Okay, so the Megarita's and Megarena's didn't happen...but Megan sure got giggly after her iced tea, and she sure got a free future burger from Ricky's, along with an amazing brownie ice cream dessert that we all got to eat.
Thanks for having a birthday, Megan! I hope you felt so loved, cause you are!

Rec Centre

So I've been reminiscing about the Frontier Rec Centre since hearing about its probable closure in October. I'm actually quite upset about that, cause it's one of my hometown's mainstays...so many people move to Frontier because it's a close, active community, and the Rec Centre is a huge part of that. If it closes, we will no longer have a skating rink, curling rink, bowling, mini-golf, movie rentals, pool tables, kitchen (with the world's best soft ice cream)...and a general hang-out place that everyone enjoys. Early in the afternoon, the old-timers sit around the tables by the fireplace area, sipping coffee and talking about life. During recess, lunch break, and after school, teenagers and elementary kids steal across the street for slushes and french fries. The Rec Centre also hosts many (if not most) of the community events, like our annual Frontier Days and numerous potlucks, sports tournaments, and ceremonies. It's a great place to entertain relatives and friends when they come down for a visit. So much of my childhood and teenagerhood happened in the Rec Centre, and it's hard to imagine anyone in Frontier growing up without it.
In conclusion, lack of money sucks.
If anyone reading this ever thinks of it again, could you actually please pray about it? It might not seem like a big deal, but if you were from Frontier, you'd understand that it really is.

Sick & Twisted

I'm often home alone during mealtimes, and since that's boring, I will usually watch TV. Sadly, that means I have watched Zaboomafoo twice this last week (we only have three channels). Then I realized, that's it. No more rock bottom for me. It's time to upgrade, become less reliant on the booming colourful box, learn to be comfortable with eating in quiet solitude. So this morning, I spent an enlightening hour-long brunch poring over the pages of my medical dictionary, learning all manner of things about diseases like pericarditis, cyclopsia, anencephaly, and Marie Charceau-Tooth Syndrome. And while it certainly stimulates my brain more than the TV does, I'm not entirely sure I should make this a habit either. Ingesting food while my mind ingests this information might have a psychological impact on me that will show up later in life...I'll be the old lady everyone hates because I'll think I have every infirmity on the planet.

Um...where is it?

A few weekends ago, I went camping with my family. On the way, my uncle and I stopped at a golf course, and I did some reading/writing while he puttered around the 18 holes. Then while we were all camping, I went off on my own a couple of times to do devotions in a quiet spot.

That was a long time ago. Since then, I've been unable to locate my journal. And this thing basically contains my soul. It's full of random poems and songs about God (it's actually my "God and me" journal), painfully raw emotions from really hard times, foolishly happy paragraphs written during spiritual highs, questions and confusions and rantings and ravings...and there are no identifying factors whatsoever. If anyone finds it, they won't know it's mine. So if my journal isn't simply missing in my house somewhere, that means it's possibly in the hands of a golf course staff member, or half-buried in mud, or being ripped apart by small rodents. Needless to say, that makes me sad. But it's also kind of funny...if someone has found it and read it, then some random stranger out there knows my soul without ever having met me.

Words of Wisdom

Lately I've been struggling with the idea of God's specific will for my life, and how much He really cares about the small details. I used to believe He'd care about the type of blue jeans I bought (and have since slightly relaxed in my understanding), but now I often find myself bombarded with the other-end-of-the-scale idea that we have a lot more elbow room than we think. For a month or so I was feeling paralyzed, not knowing what to do about my "career" such as it is, and finally decided to take a step in one direction. If it's not right, God will shut doors in my face or whatever. If it is right, then it'll work...or maybe I'll have to fight really hard for it. I just pray I'll be able to sense His guidance along the way if this truly matters in light of how much I can do for His Kingdom.
Anyway, a few days after I'd made my first step in this one direction, my mom called just to tell me something she'd heard at Bible study (from Emily Patzer). Basically, it's this: God knows that we don't know everything.
He knows that we are finite! Simple and possibly inane as it sounds, that truth really impacted me. I guess I still expect myself to be perfect sometimes, even though I'm so insanely human it hurts. God knows that His own thoughts are above ours, and we must look really cute the way we panic and run around like headless chickens, when all we have to remember is that we're toddlers next to His great mind. He knows this, has the patience to deal with us, and has the love to guarantee He wants what's best for us.
Thank You God!!!!

Millie

One of the 80-year-old ladies at work asked me the other day, "What's the smallest thing in the world?" I told her I didn't know. Her response: "A pimple on a dimple on a wrinkle of a sandfly's nut!"
So basically I almost died laughing.

"The Boy Who Couldn't Throw High"

This is a story about John.
John was a little boy who lived with his mom and dad in a house.
One day John went to school. They had gym. John was the only kid in his class who couldn't throw the ball in the hoop. His gym teacher gave him a D-tention. John was mad that he had D-tention. He had to write 10 lines: I will get the ball in the hoop, I will get the ball in the hoop... John made an angry face as he walked home from school.
That night, there was a robber outside John's home. The robber tripped and fell through a car window, making a loud crash! John heard it and woke up. He looked out the window and saw the robber. He quickly changed, then ran outside. He saw the robber. He threw a rock at the robber's head...which was as high as the basketball hoop!
The robber was knocked out. When he woke up, he was in jail.
John became a hero.
The next day, John went to school. They had gym. He threw the ball....
and it got in the hoop!
John's class lifted him onto their shoulders. His gym teacher said, "Even I can't throw that good!"
And John was in the newpaper for three things: for catching the robber, for throwing so good, and for winning a trophy because he could throw so good.
The End.


And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the basic premise of a story I wrote when I was six years old...this one was originally complete with a picture of little John completely naked when he was changing. When I was about eleven, I rediscovered this book and drew some underwear on him. Kids are hilarious.

Butterscotch

I had to dedicate at least one blog to my precious fat baby, Butterscotch Pumpkin Pudgy Penguin Bobbing Muffles Rhythm Bouncer Pouncer Ball Friggstad, otherwise known as Butterscotchy, Babyson, or Poop. He is maybe the best cat in the world, and I gotta be honest, whenever I go home he's usually the first living thing I hug (that's not to say I hug nonliving things...I was just squishing humans and animals into the same category for the sake of minimalizing verbosity, which I have failed at miserably by now). But if Mom, Dad, or either of the sisters were living out on the front porch, they'd probably be the first ones instead. My baby's proximity when I pull up in the driveway gives him this special privilege.
I don't know why, but lately I've been thinking about him so much. I even went out and bought a picture frame just so I can look at his squishy little face every time I enter my room. Maybe it's cause if I were living in the olden days, I could very easily be having real babies by now. Butterscotch is therefore the receptor of my unfulfilled maternal outpourings. I wish I could write him letters to ask how he's doing, if the other cats are staying away from his food, if he's been climbing onto the carport lately...sighhh...I know I'm the only one who ever holds him, cause nobody likes his claws (or his weight). But I think that growing up with him is what gave me the rippling biceps and mountanous shoulder callouses I possess today. Jannaya, Courtney, pick up the cat! He needs the love, and you need the muscle! And he's just a sweet little baby who misses his mommy. Be nice aunties.