So researchers at the New England Historical Genealogical Society traced the lineage of our presidential candidates and found that Barack Obama is the ninth cousin of Brad Pitt and Hillary Clinton is the ninth cousin of Angelina Jolie.
This leads me to one conclusion: Everyone is the ninth cousin of everyone else. You are the ninth cousin of me. I am the ninth cousin of you. Which means when I ask to borrow money, you have to relent because I. AM. FAMILY.
“For I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord. Plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.”
Jeremiah 29:11
I used to read this verse and envision God, hunched over a chessboard, strategically contemplating the course of my life. You know, making plans to prosper me and not to harm me and whatnot.
The best part about this imagined scenario is that God would dutifully let me know whenever I came close to stepping out of place. In my mind’s eye, he already had a cure for every small hiccup and a bridge over every large roadblock before I ever encountered them. And he would help me maneuver past those predicaments by giving me a clear and distinguishable sign.
Check.
I wish I still believed that. Our lives are so in flux right now I hardly know which way is up and which way is down anymore. And the more I think about it, the more I am faced with the grim possibility that perhaps part of growing up is realizing that no one can make your decisions for you – no matter how risky the choices seem.
I’ve always been mystified by the kind of people who can make a major life decision based on the flip of a coin or the upswing of their swaying mood. I am too neurotic for that – too perpetually consumed by the what ifs of every scenario. Even when I tell myself I’m waiting for a surefire sign, I am never satisfied once that sign actually presents itself.
So I sit with this heavy indecisiveness and barter with myself, my inner monologue, my God to give me some sort of sign to make the decision easy.
Check.
Over the next few days, I’m going to share my photos from our Yellowstone trip last month over the next few days. To see more, visit my flickr page.
On Sunday (Aug. 19), Ben and I visited the Grand Prismatic Spring in Yellowstone National Park. It seemed other-wordly. Gorgeous colors, awful sulfur smell. Anyway, it made a great panorama.
It wasn’t until I returned and did some research that I realized what - exactly - the hot spring is: 300 feet wide, 160 feet deep. Water 188 degrees (F) in the center, cool around the edges.
NASA scientists are interested in the Grand Prismatic Spring because (duh!) it’s cool and because it might be similar to environments in the early days of our great planet.
I know I haven’t posted in a long time. I’m still slowly trying to get over this not-wanting-to-write-after-writing-all-day-for-work thing. But Ben did something so wonderful this weekend, I just had to break my Internet silence.
He made this weekend Tiffany weekend. We did everything I wanted to do, from eating a fancy Italian dinner on Friday (Ravioli Del Mari, Reisling and chocolate cannaloni). Saturday we watched an early matinee of my choice, and this evening he surprised me with dinner at The Melting Pot, where we indulged in delicious cheesy/fried food. It was a perfect weekend.
I’ve been meaning to type some notes from our trip to Destin, but I haven’t gotten around to it yet. Please accept my apologize and let me direct you to my flickr as a temporary substitute.
So Paris Hilton was sent to jail, left jail, and was sent there again, the Japanese are introducing the world’s first dog nursing home, a Charlotte, North Carolina-man is being taxed for his own environmentally-friendly ingenuity and I’m returning to the wonderful world of blogging.
Only I have to go to work in about 10 minutes, so this is going to be short.
When I stopped writing on the ‘net, I didn’t intend for my hiatus to be so long. I’ve always only managed to handle one creative obsession at a time, and when Ben bought me a digital SLR in February, I transfered all my energies to improving my photography. All of a sudden I didn’t want to write anymore.
For the most part, I’d still rather have a camera in my hands than a keyboard under my fingers, but lately I’ve caught myself constructing posts in my head while I’m driving down the road or washing my hair in the shower or wherever, so I think it is time to end my Internet silence.
Plus I really need a place to show off my photos other than my wall.
In three weeks, Ben and I are taking our first vacation in more than two years. We will spend the week of July 4th at my aunt and uncle’s home-by-the-beach in Destin, Florida. I plan to get a killer tan, read books that probably won’t make me any smarter (oh, shut up. I’m reading a weighty Russian tome right now) and eat tons of crab meat dipped in butter. Ben plans to parasail, so he says, and do adventurous boy stuff like fish for sharks. And snorkle.
Last night, I was craving an Oreo-cookie shake from Jack in the Box, and, typically, Ben was craving a Sourdough Jack burger. As I grabbed my keys and motioned for him to go with me, Ben looked down at his stomach and wistfully said, “I don’t need that. I’m going to be wearing a swim suit soon.”
“You are thinking about your figure now? What good is that going to do? You’ve known about this vacation for six months.”
“I still have three weeks to uncover my six pack.”
“Three weeks is only going to help if you plan on starve yourself. You might as well eat the burger.”
“I really shouldn’t.”
“You know you want to. Your resolve is crumbling like a delicious chocolate chip cookie. Eat the burger.”
“Okay, you’re right.”
I’m like the devil if the devil came brandishing french fries and brownies and ice cream sundaes.