Perfectly Flawed

I love to drive.  Solo, in the car- radio blasting.  If alone, I'll sing until my abdominal muscles ache, and pound the steering wheel rythemically to the beat.  At times, I don't sing at all.  I am still, and quiet.  I listen to the words carefully, and consider the lyrics thoughtfully.   I pray, and I ponder, and I wait.  Patiently, I wait to hear what The Lord might say to me.    I hear God best in my car.  Alone.

I love sign language.  I have been learning it for several years, independently through videos, books, and varied websites.  I've cried out to God, begging him to gift me with a beautiful singing voice.  He heard my cry.  His reply?  Sign Language.  I can sing with my hands.  I've yet to learn how to communicate with the deaf, but I know a few words, and a few phrases, and a few songs.  It's the most beautiful language to sing in that I've ever seen.

For some reason, I can't grasp the concept of putting away the half and half.  Or placing a trash bag in the trash can.  Or unloading the dishwasher.  Or taking on the grueling task of laundry one day at a time.  For all of these reasons, there are times that the half and half becomes sour, our trash can acquires loose trash, our dishes pile up in the sink, and we have various mountains of laundry forming all through out our house.

I am an untidy house keeper, finding myself more focused on ridding our home of the clutter than scrubbing down the baseboards.  Clutter can set off a panic attack- with out warning.  I'm claustrophobic.  (And I just spelled claustrophobic with out having to turn to spell-checker.)

I like the interior of my car to stay organized.  There is a refreshing inhaled breath that I take when I've put my car in order.  Water bottles are stored in a neatly placed cooler.  There is a trash container behind the seat to catch the gum wrappers and Chick Fil A containers. The vacuum has sucked out all of the leaves and the dirt, and random cracker or cheerio that has dropped in between the seats.  Ahhhh.  I love a clean car.  It's not often that I get to experience it- nonetheless, a clean car soothes me.

I am notorious for unfinished projects.  As I type this- there is a set of dressers in our garage.  Half painted.  A bulletin board that I am "redoing" leaning against our dining room wall.  I only need to hot glue the fabric in place.  It's been unfinished for 3 weeks.  I have random containers of "give away" items in random places that have been full for random periods of time- waiting on me to bag them up, and take away to our local thrift shop.  I have baskets that hold papers, cd's, nail files, magazines, flashlights, loose change, and other such items that are waiting on me to clean them out, and put them where they belong.  And I have 3 or 10 blogs in my drafts that I started- put aside- and lost an interest in finishing.

To my left sits my husbands guitar.  I spent weeks and weeks practicing.  On my left hand, I had even acquired a few nice calluses, just on the tip of my first, second and third fingers.  I had memorized several chords, and began the frustrating task of strumming from chord to chord, trying to memorize where to place my fingers.  And now? This guitar sits.  Untouched by my (now) soft hands for 2 weeks.  One thing after another has led me to miss my (paid for already) guitar lessons.  Circumstances that have been out of my control, but some have been due to a lack of motivation as well.

I have a switch that goes off when I find an injustice has been done.  No amount of will that I've found has allowed me to keep my lips tightly closed when I feel as though somebody has done something very wrong.  My blood pressure rises a bit, and though the wrong doing may not have been done to me, I passionately express my opinion as though it had.

I have a deep empathy for most people; but not for those that can not empathize.

I am in an ongoing battle with myself to not judge.  Specifically, to not judge those that gossip, lie, manipulate, or use passive aggression to get their way.  I have to be careful not to turn away from those that are blind to a Truth they claim to know- I am cringing now as faces come to mind- working extra hard not to assume that these are the people that will stay blind forever.  


It's easier for me to pray for a stranger, and get broken hearted in their grief- than it is for me to pray for own family.  There is an exhausting guilt to be experienced in admitting that truth.

I am completely real, and honest, and open- and crave relationships and friendships with like-minded folks.  On the other hand- I enjoy diversity.  I love that we are all so different, each holding onto our individuality as we find common grounds with one another.

I like myself most of the time, except for the times that I hate myself for messing up.

I am harder on me than anyone else.

I am one part dork and one part awesome, which makes me the awesomest dork EVER.  I've yet to establish a difference as to whether someone is laughing at me, or with  me.  And I'm totally ok with that.

I only went rafting once in my life- but I'm pretty sure I would be a great kayak-er.  I love walking, but not running.  I like hiking, as long as we're not taking on one of those big-huge hills and I'm hiking with a pro.

I'm self-conscious and confident all rolled into one- typically I am uncertain as to if a compliment is sincere, but (mostly) certain of myself and who I am.  I need my husband to tell me great things about me, and when he forgets to,  I typically assume he doesn't think I'm all that great.  That makes me sad, and it means that I can forget too quickly who I am.


I love myself the most when I am goofy.
My sister brings out the "giddy" in me, and I bring out the giddy in her.

I like tattoos (on everyone) and I love my blue-collar man;  I love his scruffy beard and his rugged tan in the summer time. I love that he's a man's man and can build a fire and a cabinet and fix my car and play a sexy tune on his guitar, and he can grow a rockin' garden and if we ever went on a 'live like a pioneer' reality tv show, we'd win, because he would be able to perfectly provide for us.

Once upon a time, I had a celebrity crush on Kris Kristofferson.