there's no place like gnome.

I feel like I’m living in wacko-dreamland lately.  I wake up with odd inclinations towards obscure storylines that were reality to my dream self.  I figure some of these dreams – dreams of hostage situations, spying on people, trying to access information off of another’s laptop – are induced by my joy in rewatching the television show Alias.  All Alias-like situations.  Other dreams of long-lost friends contacting me, joining parties, and shopping together I figure are all indications that I miss my long-lost friends!  It’s been an odd combination of waking up at 2am freaked out and lovely dream conversations with friends.  Strange indeed.

Not a dream?  The phone call I just received from Los Angeles.  Hi, this is so-and-so from MasterChef.  Just checking in – we still haven’t received your home video.  Um, hi.  I thought I had only those first three days to complete it.  That was two weeks ago.  Please just disqualify me.  If you were to get it in today, it could still be in time.  What?!  There was a twinge of excitement … but then I realized I had a full slate at work, that I still didn’t want to cook and plate an impressive meal, and I still don’t want to be a MasterChef.  I told him I was bowing out.  He seemed really confused by it.  Oh, okay. Have a nice day.  You too, sir.  You too.

Did I mention I was on vacation this past week?  That meant that I drove home to Aarback Road on Monday evening [not until Monday because of official MasterChef business – a story I will tell in due time, due time] and stayed the duration of the week.  It’s always crazy how busy vacations at home are; I feel like I come back to my Austin home just to catch up on sleep.  But when I’m home, I don’t even open my computer.  I take it with me, but it pretty much stays off.  Computer closed = no blogging.

Right now, I’m polishing the sermon for tomorrow but I’ll update you soonly with tales of home, family, showers [the baby kind], and bunneeps.  Yes, bunneeps.

1. I painted an upstairs bedroom palm leaf.  It was a gross green.  A new color and four coats of paint later, now it’s painted asparagus.  

2. I painted an upstairs bedroom because it will become my craft room.  Former craft room is now exclusively a spare bedroom.  Come visit!

3. My mom was here.  She brought me a bed for the now aptly named spare bedroom.

4. Mom and I spent a full day in the cities.  We went to the Junk Bonanza and IKEA and spent much money.  My list of current household projects is now very long.

5. I’m on vacation this week.  Thus far I’ve painted, done laundry, cleaned, watched too many episodes of White Collar, and slept.

6. I leave tomorrow morning for a two-night stay in northern WI at a resort in the woods with my friend Kate.  It shall be fun.

7. I tried the pumpkin spice latte from Starbucks again, really feeling like I should like it.  Verdict?  I still don’t.

I was in my kitchen last night, fixing this for dinner.  It had been a shitty, shitty day.  I won’t even pretend that it was nice; I cried pretty much all day and in front of all sorts of people.  But then, in the midst of dinner –

knock, knock.

Someone was at my front door.  I grabbed Mabel by the collar, opened the storm door, and began to push open the screen door.  The mystery knocker was standing kinda off to the side and as I pushed open the door, bent over holding onto Mabel’s collar still, my eyes gradually sized up this man in front of me.  Around my age.  Spandex shorts.  Tight biker shirt.  And off-sided grin.

His name was Eric and he is biking across the country.  He wondered if he could sleep in his tent in the church yard.  

Living in a house in the middle of nowhere by myself, I’m always skeptical.  My inner voice wondered if this would be a good idea.  I nearly sent him to the open field next to the cemetery but then decided that wasn’t very hospitable of me.  He didn’t seem like a creeper; he appeared very innocent and kind.  [The murderers always do, don’t they?]  I told him to go for it – sleep under those oak trees.

All night, I would casually glance out the windows that faced the church and wonder what he was doing.  [At one point, I looked out and he was half naked.  eek.]  I called the church president to let her in on the loop, and called Marilyn just in case he was still there when she arrived to the office in the morning. 

Then, this morning, I woke up and looked outside.  He was still there, apparently asleep.  Really, I wanted to talk to him.  I wanted to know why he was doing this crazy thing and where he was from and all of that.  Ate breakfast and checked.  Still there.  Walked to the office and positioned my office chair so I could see out the window.  Still there.

Finally, he was up and I went outside to say good morning.  I apologized just a bit for being so skeptical and skiddish the night before; he said he gets that a lot.  I asked him where he was from [Palmer, Alaska] and how he came to be biking like this [at 18, he decided his goal was to bike around the world].  He’s done his European leg, as I understood it; is heading for Nebraska to stay with friends for the winter, and then next spring will bike from Niagara Falls to Alaska before doing the Asian leg of his goal.  Crazy.

I told him he could use the bathroom in the church if he wanted and that he did.  On his way out, he paused in front of our offices and said, Thanks for the hospitality.  

Hospitality, not horror movie.  Thank you, Jesus.

Look at me, not writing on this blog again.  

I know I say it all the time but life is crazy.  

I hope to be back soon.  In the meantime, off to an overnight confirmation retreat!

Last week I freaked out on you.  In what has become the third most frequently viewed post on this blog, I lashed out in anger at the disappearance of my current go-to show from the list of streaming shows through my roku.   [what determines a popular post on this blog I will never know – that particular one was about a tv show and anger at netflix.  really?]  In McLeod’s Daughters‘ absence, something magical happened, proving that even in the most dire of situations, there can be good.  

A curse came over me and, in moments of weakness, addiction, and extremely late nights, I consumed the entire first season of Once Upon A Time on hulu in a week.

Have you seen it?  Its first season aired last year on ABC, to return again this fall.  I was drawn into the magic, the story, the fairy tale, and my new fashion idol.

In fashion sense, I want to be Snow White as she is in Storybrooke.  Mary Margaret is her name.  I love her skirts, her coats, and her cardigans.  And her hair.  Her hair.  I want my hair to do what her hair does.  My television fashion idol used to be Lorelai Gilmore and I do fear she has been replaced.  Lorelai, you did not receive a rose; please say your goodbyes.

Now that I’m finished with the first season of Once Upon A Time, do you worry I will return to my angry self at the loss of my Australian soap?  Do you fear another snappy post or continued depression at my lack of the drama on the sheep farms in my life?  Do you have concern for my general well being and the emphasis I put on television shows in my life?

Don’t.  Because I looked again and McLeod’s Daughters is back streaming on Netflix.  Perhaps they heard my cries and decided to do something about it.  Perhaps they were enraged to know that 59 people read my blog post against them.  Or maybe it was just temporarily unavailable on that one day when I freaked out.

Whatever the case, I thank you, Netflix.  If you had not momentarily been reconfiguring your catalog of television shows, I may not have stumbled upon Once Upon A Time and Mary Margaret’s hair.  

Oh, the hair.

That cheesy australian soap drama I always talk about?  McLeod’s Daughters?

Netflix has decided to no longer stream it.

Just pull the rug out from under me, Netflix.  I was 133 episodes into a series with a total of over 200 episodes.  Am I supposed to just forget like I’ll never know when Tess and Nick come back from Argentina?  Or pretend like I don’t want to know the alluded-to tragic and sketchy back story of the new farm hand at the neighboring farm?  Or say I don’t care about the potential Kate-and-Dave-the-veterinarian relationship or whether Jodi’s father is Jack?  And – she scoffs – never know what kind of drama will happen around sheep shearing season this year?  [Sh*t always goes down at sheep shearing time on Drover’s Run.]

Guess I’ll be signing up for a discs-in-the-mail kind of subscription.  I can’t just leave it like this.  Thanks a lot, Netflix.  You piss me off and get a customer all at the same time.  You win.  

Panic is planning a day camp at Red Oak Grove kinda last minute but not really planning any of it because as of Sunday, only three kids had signed up.  [Five was the magic number to go forward with the camp.  I wasn’t going to plan it if it wasn’t going to even happen, and for a church that doesn’t participate in VBS – though invited – I doubted it would even go forward.]

Panic is having sixteen kids on the signup sheet by Monday evening.

Panic is having to find adult help, go shopping, and schedule the day [which is tomorrow] of games, snacks, and crafts all today.

As I read what I’ve written, perhaps panic is instead irresponsibility.  My bad.

But the first annual day of camp at Red Oak Grove tomorrow will be awesome even if I have to work through the night to get everything together!