Talents

In the last month, I have been told that I am good at two things:
Beyond Balderdash and talking to people about things I don't care about.

[Beyond Balderdash is a game where you make up stuff:

definitions of words, what abbreviations stand for,

what happened on certain dates,

what people are famous for,

plots of movies.]

This means that I am good at lying and at feigning interest.

So, you know, deceiving people.

Louisville by the Numbers

I spent last week in Louisville, taking a class for my master's degree. Being a houseguest, reuniting with old friends, and getting my first taste of live-and-in-person seminary class made for some fun times. If I had to describe the week in one word it would be: amusing. Here are just some of the amusements, by the numbers:

3 credit hours earned in 5 days? Yes, please.


50 pages of notes taken in class (because I'm old school and learn better by writing things, not typing them).

26 hours spent listening to lectures/taking tests.

I met up with 3 different "old" friends. For dinners/movie/staying at their house.

Approximately 6 times my mother implied that one of my top priorities this week should be looking for a potential husband.

2 times I had conversations about breastfeeding in mixed company with almost complete strangers
(and just in case you read this blog and don't know me, please understand that I am not currently breastfeeding, never have, nor am I planning to in the near future--so this was not normal. And it happened twice.).

1 time I had a conversation about timing "it" so as to determine the gender of your baby in mixed company with almost complete strangers.

I overheard 3 conversations involving the scheduling of having babies around semesters or vise versa.

Apparently, Louisville loves babies.

breaking news

My mom just made a facebook album for pictures of herself in clothes she's bought at Goodwill.
The pictures feature her modeling the outfits and the captions feature information on how much she paid for each item.

I love my family.

at work...

I get asked some fun questions at work...who knew people expect church secretaries to know everything? Good thing I do know how to use Google.

Deborah [the receptionist/ministry assistant] was out of the office for a few days last week, so I got to answer the phones. Here is just a glimpse of some things I was asked:

--a senior adult: "Where can I find a video of your rap?"

--on the phone:
    Church Member: "Is Deborah there?"
    Me: "No, she's out."
    Church Member: "Okay, well, weird question: Do you know what they make stencils out of?"
    Me: "Like, the plastic?"
    Church Member: "Is that called mylar? or mylemar?"
    Me: "I have no idea."
   My question is, would Deborah have known the answer?

--on the phone, after a confusing discussion about preschool programs/early childhood education:
    Lady: "It's been a while since I've been in the Southern Baptist church. The miracles in the Bible--you all believe they're true?"
    Me: "Yes, that's what we believe."
    Lady: "Okay, good. Just making sure."

--a church member's mother passed away this week at the age of 108. At least three people told me how old she was. She was born in 1902. She retired in the 50s. She has definitely seen some crazy stuff.

--Church Member: "You work here now?"
   Me: "Yes, sir." (since last year)
   Church Member: "Several new people working here, now."
   Me: polite laugh.

the flute

When I was 10, I joined a band. [I would say "the band" to clarify that I mean more the marching type than the rocking type, but I'm not sure I can claim that, since we never marched and we were homeschooled. So, it was never really "the" band just "a" band.]
It didn't take me long to decide that I would play the flute. My parents and I went to the local music store and, because my parents are intelligent human beings, we rented a flute.
I went to the next band practice and learned the very basics of flute-playing. Armed with some sort of instructions (I don't think I even had sheet music at this point) on how to play "Mary Had a Little Lamb" and my little flute case, I went home at the end of band practice with dreams of Carnegie Hall.
I practiced the next day. Two minutes after assembling my flute and beginning to play, I had to sit down because I had hyperventilated. I tried to play a few more times, seated, but continued to get light-headed. After the next band practice, I decided to give up on my dreams of becoming a world-renown flautist and quit the band (and the flute).

You know that song, "Everybody Plays the Fool"? For a long time, I thought it said "Everybody plays the flute...sometimes." At first I thought this was a very specific experience to apply to humankind universally, but after my flute playing days, I totally got it. I specifically remember turning to my dad one night as the song played on the car radio and expressing what I thought at the time to be a deep thought: "It's so true. Pretty much everybody does play the flute at some point. I mean, I did and a lot of people do in school..." Either my dad didn't hear me, misunderstood me, or thought I was joking, because he didn't correct me. So, my belief was cemented.
Upon learning the real lyric, I found that the song made a lot more sense. I did know a lot of people who had never played the flute, after all.

what. a. week.

The last seven days of my life, in outline form. [btw, I do know the rules on outlines. I chose not to follow all of them.] You're welcome.

• At the wedding of my life-long friend, Joanna
• "Three times a bridesmaid, never a bride" please don't apply to me.
• My friend's mom told me "Yours [meaning my wedding, though it took a second for me to grasp that] is next year. Are you ready for that?" What?? (<-Which is, literally, what I said to her.)
• After the wedding
• I was asked at least twice what I was planning to do with my Master's degree.
• I surprised myself by knowing the answer
• That answer was extremely vague
• Sometimes you just need a friend to tell you you aren't crazy
• On the way to and from the wedding, I listened to a dramatic reading of Screwtape Letters. I highly recommend both dramatic readings for long car rides and the letters of Screwtape.
• At work this week:
• I was asked on Monday to write the intro to the sermon
• I was actually asked if I could "Script out the sermon." I later found out this meant the intro only.
• It's about lying. So, if you should ever need an intro for a talk about lying, let me know. There may or may not be a small fee.
• I made a Justin Bieber wig for a stuffed beaver.
• Justin Beaver--get it?
• I tweeted about it
• I got a Reply Tweet from one @elusivebeaver (whom I do not follow, nor does he/she/it follow me) accusing me of wrongly harassing the beaver population
• It was kind of a lame attempt at a wig, therefore, no picture
• I learned what a "gnome sky" looks like
• It looks like colored tissue paper wadded up and stapled to a wall
• This is not scientificly proven
• I spent approximately 20 minutes lodged behind a desk, sitting on a milk crate (because I'm short), with sock puppets on my hands, performing a puppet show with the children's minister.
• We had to literally slide on our stomachs to get under the desk. The one day I didn't wear jeans this week.
• Were there kids present? No.
• This is on film. Well, the puppet show is, not the sliding under a desk part.
• I went to a website training seminar all day on Thursday
• It was dumbed-down for church secretaries, so I understood everything.
• except the conversation between the media minister/graphic designer next to me
• I think they were making fun of my mac
• The seminar wasn't boring. 
• I actually enjoyed learning all the cool stuff we can do with our website
• I realized that if I actually did all of this cool stuff, I would have no time left in my work week to write scripts for sermons and put on puppet shows in the choir storage closet.
• All of this somehow falls under the "other tasks as assigned" category on my job description.
• This is the fourth blog post this week. 
• crazy.
• don't get used to it.
• most viewed post in one day ever on my blog? Things I've Learned Being Friends with Boys

So there you have it--the last seven days in my life.
How was your week? Anything exciting/interesting/completely mundane happen?

Things I've Learned Being Friends with Boys

I had three really close guy friends in high school/college. If they were girls, we'd be BFFs. But they're not, and really, I was always one of the guys, too. Lots of girls say that, but let me paint the picture for you with a few random scenes:

--Numerous conversations would be interrupted with a "Guys, I just remembered, Elizabeth is in here." "So?" "So, she's a girl." "So? It's just Elizabeth." (And yes, this entire conversation happened in my presence)

--One of the guys had a "man-cave" at his house. His dad said no girls/women were allowed in "except Elizabeth."

--I once hosted an all-boy sleepover. (I slept in a room upstairs, they slept in a room downstairs; doors closed; parental supervision. Just so we're clear.)

During all this time spent as one of the guys, I learned a few things:

1. Eat quickly. I am naturally an extremely slow eater. It is not at all uncommon for me to look up from my 1/3 finished plate to realize everyone else is finished. Girls will politely wait on you, because they really want to talk for a while anyway. Guys, not so much. As soon as the last bite was taken, they were looking for the bill. I think the first 10 or so times I ate with these guys, I probably only finished 3 complete meals. I had to learn to eat a lot faster or starve.
2. There is a difference between "hot" and "pretty." It was not uncommon for me to be interrupted when talking about a friend with the question "Is she hot?" Sometimes the answer was yes, and sometimes it was "She's really pretty." One is not necessarily worse than the other; they are just distinctive ways of describing someone. There is also the less-common "cute." I also learned to rate all three descriptions on a scale of 1-10.
3. Everything is a competition. Drives from one side of town to the other, grabbing a certain seat on the couch, getting everyone to agree with you, etc. To say that guys are competitive is an understatement. When I was hanging out with these guys all the time, I had to learn to compete, or just be left out.

4. Guys are more laid back. Whereas girls like to have a plan, these guys rarely had an "activity" planned. The whole of the afternoon would be spent watching TV or at the pool. Sometimes we'd play games, sometimes we'd do absolutely nothing. It didn't really matter.

5. Despite their reputation, guys get their feelings hurt, too. I have gotten the "she rejected me" phone call. (Just a note on this, please do not flirt with one guy if you're already seeing someone. I mean, seriously, how are they supposed to know?) I think I offered ice cream and my company as a consolation (and I kept my mouth shut on the "I didn't really like her for you anyway" matter for a few weeks). 

One thing I did not learn from the guys: how to burp on command. Despite their best efforts--about 30 minutes of 3-to-1 tutoring one day--I still cannot do it (nor do I really want to).

I love my friends that are girls and have had many girl friends throughout the years, but these guys have been constants in my life. I love getting a different perspective on things--it's entertaining and educational!

other people's weddings

"Oh," she thought,"How horrible it is that people have to grow up--and marry--and change!" 

--Anne of the Island

It's a running joke between me and even mere acquaintances: "What did you do this weekend, go to another wedding?"

This weekend, the answer was yes.

Between shoes, dresses, gifts, bachelorette parties, showers, and gas to get all these places, I have spent an estimated $800 on other people's weddings this year. 

Crazy.

None of those above statements are complaints (except maybe the first one, but Anne said that, not me), just a statement of facts.

I love my friends. I love that they have found love. I love being a part of their big day. [And I hope that someday, they'll get a chance to return the favor :-)] Also, I just love weddings.

I think I have been to my last wedding in 2010, but I already have at least two penciled in for 2011. Bring it on.

yo, check it

I wrote a rap.

I got into the assignment by accident. See, at work, we have these creative meetings where we plan out sermon illustrations, kids videos, logo designs, and other creative stuff. The particular meeting where I was assigned rap-writing duty was one to discuss creative elements for a sermon series on the Ten Commandments. The pastor said something about the sixth commandment (do not murder) and how he wasn't going to simply preach on physically killing people. I replied, to clarify, "Like, killing in the head?"

Somehow that translated in his mind to "Killin' in da Head"--the perfect title for a rap. Since I was the one to "come up with the title", I was assigned to writing the rap (also probably because everyone thought it would be funny to make me write a rap).

Using this (hilarious) guide, along with this video, I wrote a rap.

Without further ado, "Killin' in da Head":

Killin' in Da Head from FBC Goodlettsville on Vimeo.

Performed by Jeff Kelly and Ryan Coatney
Lyrics--Elizabeth Hyndman (2nd verse edits--Ryan Coatney)
Music--John Carroll
Video/Editing--Jeff Kelly

shepherds and sheep songs

A Couple of Things I Thought I Learned in Sunday School

My first Bible, well the first one I ever really read, was a pink Precious Moments version. I liked the pictures--those tear-drop eyed, big-headed kids that always seemed a little sad. Mine was the King James Version (because that is the easiest version for a girl of 6 to understand?). I remember this because of one "precious moment" in particular, when I was called upon to read some verses out loud in 2nd grade Sunday School. I stopped short when I saw a certain word. I knew it meant donkey, but it didn't say donkey, if you catch my drift. I began to turn red and shift uncomfortably in my child-sized chair. Was I allowed to cuss if it was written in the Bible? I knew the rules on Hell/hell (the place--okay; any other context--not okay; replace with heck if unsure) but this had not come up before. Could I lie about what the Bible said? After about a 20 second pause, I read it as it was written, amid snickers from the boys.

Anyway, also in 2nd grade, I was required to memorize the 23rd Psalm for school. I memorized my pink, Precious Moments, KJV version. The first verse (in the KJV, and several other versions) reads: "The LORD is my Shepherd; I shall not want." Since this was before I completely understood the semicolon, this verse always confused me. Why would we not want the Lord, our Shepherd? Furthermore, why were we always quoting this verse about not wanting God? It wasn't until much later in life that I put two and two together and realized that it meant "Because the Lord is my Shepherd, I will never be in want." (my paraphrase).

On a somewhat related note, I always thought that "I Have Decided to Follow Jesus," the invitation hymn of choice (on alternate Sundays: "Just As I Am"), was about sheep. I guess I only paid attention to the part about "No turning ba-a-a-ack." See: ba-a-a-ack? Kind of like "ba-a-a," like the noise a sheep makes? I suppose I was daydreaming during the other portions of the song? Probably thinking about sheep.

Starbucks Engineering

Last Thursday, when I stopped by Starbucks for my once-a-week indulgence, the barista knew my order. I was shocked, mainly because I was in the drive-thru and he saw me through the little camera in the speaker, with my sunglasses on, and still knew my order (normally I go inside), but also because it's Starbucks. They see lots of people every day and I only go once a week. But, I do have a weird order (green tea latte), so I guess that helps. Anyway, all this reminded me of an article I read, and wrote about, once in college.

As I was glancing through the Wall Street Journal (thanks to some program designed for college students to know what's going on the world, we get WSJ for free), I noticed an article about Starbucks. Since I drink Starbucks coffee, and since I had nothing else to do while waiting on my food, I decided to read the article. It turns out they are making efforts to get people in and out of Starbucks faster, or at least get them their coffee faster. As of now, the average Starbucks customer has to wait about 3 minutes from the time they step into the store until their coffee is ready. Ridiculous.

So, in order to remedy this problem of taking so long, Starbucks has hired engineers to help shave off a few seconds. These engineers are very intelligent people. They figured out a way to make the ice-scooper bigger so that the employees would only have to make a scooping motion once when filling a Venti frap, instead of twice. They called these new-and-improved scoops "volumetric ice scoops." The first big scoop model did not work out as planned; the handle broke off. Luckily, the oh-so-intelligent Starbucks engineers were ready to create a newer scoop, this time with a stronger handle. The new scoops shaved 14 seconds off the preparation time. While the article does not say, I'm sure this improved their sales tremendously.
Another attempt at making things faster for coffee drinkers was the addition of "floaters" to take orders while customers are still in line. Even though floaters cost Starbucks money, they subtracted 20 seconds to service time. Other efforts were new espresso machines, taking off 24 seconds from the time it takes to make a latte.

For those who claim that Starbucks is too expensive, I would like for them to take a moment to think about what they are paying for. Other coffee places probably do not have engineers, floaters, and new espresso machines to make their coffee 58 seconds faster. In those 58 seconds you could do so many things, like find a seat, leave the restaurant, or, if you're quick enough, start your car. And can we really put a price on time?

Christian School Rules! No, seriously, here are the rules:

[Again, from college. Some things maintain absurdity with the passage of time.]

We had our annual dorm meeting last night. I must say that my very favorite rule here at Union is that while in the commons [area], you may prop your legs on the legs of a member of the opposite sex, but only from the thighs down.

Mr. Brown*

(This is an old piece of writing that I found the other day. Probably written during class. Definitely sarcastic.)

"If you see a new number or symbol, don't pass out."

This entry is dedicated to the wonderful man that I quoted above. Mr. Brown, my math teacher. He is probably the most creative math teacher I've ever heard of. He tells us all these stories about the people who invented certain formulas. Believe me, I'll need to know all about these people later in life. As an English major, I'll probably be asked daily who Guass is, and thanks to Mr. Brown, I'll have an answer. Mr. Brown also realizes that some of us in the class are not math people. Whenever he makes a profound statement, such as "1 plus 99 equals 100, and 2 plus 98 equals 100," he pauses for a long time to make sure no one has any questions. Since I've been in the class (four days now) we have done a grand total of six problems in class. Mr. Brown says he doesn't want to ruin the fun for us by telling us the formulas for all the problems. He's really very considerate. Since Fundamental Concepts of Math is really a 132 class for teachers, Mr. Brown wants to make sure we don't go unprepared out into the world. He explained to us that matchsticks are not best to use in math problems. Some things that might work better are popsicle sticks, or toothpicks, though toothpicks may be somewhat sharp. He's the kind of teacher that looks as if he's making up formulas and theories right on the spot. I always wonder if he's correct or really just a janitor acting as a professor. 

*The name has been changed to protect everyone involved.

Camp--it will always be with me

Camp season is over. I didn't work camp this summer, but I did work as a CentriKid staffer the four summers before this one. (I wrote a few guest posts about camp at this blog.)

There are a few habits I picked up from camp, though, that I just can't shake off. Here are 7 of them:

1) The 90-second testimony

During training, we learn to give our testimony in 90 seconds--approximately the attention span of an elementary student. I became so good at this, that I don't even use all 90 seconds to tell my faith journey. Outside of camp (and sometimes during camp, actually), the 90 second testimony is kind of strange. People expect you to talk for much longer, so it's a little awkward when you finish 78 seconds later. I now try (sometimes successfully) to remember to include more details, but it is still a struggle to overcome my habit.

2) The Budget-Line

When you load and unload a Budget (or Ryder) truck full of boxes, pool noodles, sound equipment, archery targets, and a sno cone machine once a week for about 8 weeks, it's best to form a line and pass things, assembly-line style. I think this is how everything should be moved and I'm often disappointed to find that no one else believes this.

3) The Debrief

At camp, we say that anything can lead to a conversation about Christ, and try to make that happen as much as possible. We call these little Christ-application moments "debriefs." I have, in all seriousness, gone from a light-hearted discussion of a little girl's stuffed lion into a full presentation of the gospel. We would jokingly "practice" this debriefing in our free time using songs ("Ridin' Dirty" is about accountability, and the friends you choose to associate with) and other silly situations. To this day, given almost any topic, I am certain that I could figure out a way to present a biblical truth.

4) The Motions

Having served as a "back-up dancer"/motions instructor many times (once for an entire summer), it is difficult for me to hear songs sung at camp and not jump around/wave my arms/look like an idiot. I'm also pretty skilled at making up motions on the spot. Just sayin'...

5) The Alternate Lyrics

At camp, we take popular songs and change them to apply to our teams for "cheers." There are some songs that I remember the alternate lyrics to before I remember the real ones. It is slightly annoying.

6) The Games

Give me 25 kids and no props, and I can come up with 5 games to play without even having to think, not including tag. Don't believe me? Eleven, Captain's Coming, 60 seconds, Squirrels in Trees, and Look Up, Look Down. Add some rec equipment, and the possibilities are practically endless.

7) The Unmarketable Skills

Along with the skills listed above, I can also french braid, make balloon animals, fill and tie hundreds of water balloons in record time, drive a 12-passenger van, scoop a beautiful sno cone, and decorate a classroom using only butcher paper. These skills are excellent ones to have at camp...and maybe a carnival. But in the real world, not quite as impressive as an internship at a publishing house.

The truth is, I would have been more "successful" career-wise, if I had gotten an internship or a "real" job in the summers, instead of working camp. I would have gained skills that would help me make money, instead of skills that would help me be a carnie. But camp was my dream job. I grew and learned more (in addition to the amazing skills listed above) at camp than I believe I would have otherwise. I would never trade in those summers.

Poetry Class

By the second week, we had separated ourselves. Those who wanted to be poets sat at the end of the table closest to our professor. The rest of us congregated at the other end. Don’t get me wrong, I was a poet--a doodle poet. My poems were written like doodles--when I was bored, mostly--in class, in church, in lectures. I did not desire to become a better poet.

The class was to be a workshop and those sitting closest to the professor feigned horrification while they secretly could not wait to begin displaying their talent to the creative geniuses they believed the rest of us to be. Those of us at the other end of the table were either seriously horrified, or apathetic. The apathy was directly related to how many workshop classes we had been in before, as well as how much we valued the other opinions in the room. The latter, for this end of the table, did not equal much. Each week, we would come in and read the poems our professor had selected from those we had written the week before. I both hoped and dreaded that my poem would be in those selected. I hoped it would be, because that meant I had done at least something right, and despite the fact that I did not want to be a poet, I wanted to do something right. I dreaded having my poem on the worksheet because that meant it was about to be torn apart by my peers and professor. The author of the poem was required to sit and take criticism without explanation, because, my professor said, when people read your poetry, you are usually not there to explain why you used those words.

The first week, we were to write a poem about a moment in time (or something like that). I wrote my poem and actually put some effort into it, since this was the first of the semester and I generally do put more effort into assignments when nothing else is going on. I knew my poem wasn’t good, but I thought I had done an okay job of expressing the moment. At the very least, I thought readers would get the general idea. My poem made it to the worksheet.

The class had no clue what the poem was about. At first, the professor opened up the floor for saying good things. There was silence for a while. Finally, somebody mentioned some minute thing that I had managed to accomplish on accident. Then the professor opened up the floor for saying “what needs work” in my poem. There was an explosion from one of the girls near the professor: “Adjectives! It needs adjectives!” she cried, carefully pronouncing each consonant, including the “c.” It was as if she were trying to give my poem mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. I wanted to yell at her that it was still breathing.

By the time they had finished, I wanted to cry. Not that I cared.

Poetry classes, well, writing classes in general, usually lend themselves to a certain group of people. There are writers, wannabes, and those just trying to get a degree. Let’s start with the writer. At the end of the table closest to the professor, was his prodigy. He looked like a poet, with his skinny jeans, flannel shirts, and scraggly hair. He read every poem with a slow, scratchy voice that made anything sound deep and artistic. We liked when he was chosen to read our poems out loud. His poems usually lasted for an entire page, with lines spanning the whole eight-and-a-half inches of the page horizontally and he would use words that even the professor had to look up to understand. One day, he came in and told us that his poem on the worksheet had no meaning. He had literally just written some words down on a page. We still debated for 30 minutes about what the poem meant. He just sat, smiling, like he had just played a trick on all of us. I put in my opinion to get a good participation grade, and then sat back, thinking alternately about the genius of writing a poem about nothing that begs to be interpreted and the idiocy of discussing for 30 minutes what the author had already admitted was nothing.

The BFFs hovered between wannabe and writer status. They sat on the other side of the professor. One of them would write poems involving French, Latin, and made up words. I never knew what any of her poems were really about, but the professor loved them and she was published before the semester ended. The other friend wrote some of my favorite poems that semester. She loved adjectives, similes, and metaphors, and she loved poetry. The two of them would write their poems, then show each other for a pre-class critique, which I thought was unfair to the rest of us. Not only would they correct what the other thought was bad before the rest of us saw it, but they would also explain the difficult parts to each other. Therefore, at least one person in the audience knew what the poem was about and that meant the poem was a success (maybe. What is a successful poem?).

Then there were the ones just trying to get a good grade: the girl who wrote country song poems (once, we debated for half the class time about whether country songs were art. The verdict is still out.) and, of course, a girl who wrote love poems.

And the guy who was really only trying to pass. He would come in late almost every week with only a pencil behind his ear—no backpack, no notebook, no textbooks. I appreciated his honest apathy toward the class, but at the same time wondered at his bravery. Several times, he came into class and complained, “Why can’t they have classes on something that can make us money, like song writing? Poetry doesn’t sell.” At this, the writers and wannabes would exchange glances that said, “This is art, not a job.”

After the first week, my poems began to get a little better. I researched things before writing about them and included more adjectives. I looked at Crayola’s website for about twenty minutes trying to determine the name of the exact color of the dirt I wanted to have in one poem. I also went back and rewrote the first poem, looking up statistics and bug species. I spent almost an hour looking at Google images before figuring out that a bug I had seen crawl across the floor of chapel was probably a boxelder bug. I can’t be sure, but neither can my professor, so it worked.

Toward the end of the semester, I was working on my undergraduate thesis and did not make time for poetry one week. So, I did a dangerous thing—I turned in a poem that I loved. It was kind of experimental, playing with double-meanings. The structure had been inspired by a pop song and the content by a cathedral. I had worked on it off and on for an entire summer and-- the most dangerous part--I thought it was good. It did not end up on the worksheet that week. I was both relieved and sad. A couple of weeks later, though, the poem turned up unexpectedly.

I got to class early that day and the best friends were reading my poem. “We were just talking about your poem, Elizabeth. We like it.” Relief rushed over me. If the best friends liked it, the poem stood a chance. Thankfully, surprisingly, the rest of the class agreed.

That day, I was proud to call myself a poet. Not that I cared.

My Best Friends' Wedding: A Rehearsal Speech Story

[This is a long one; get ready. (I won't be offended if you don't read the entire thing.)]

As mentioned before, my best friend, Erin, got married this past weekend. I was the Maid of Honor, which I was happy, and honored (yeah, I know it's a pun, but I'm serious) to be. I had many jobs to complete, not the least of which was a speech made at the rehearsal dinner.

Let me set the stage for you:

Erin had told me months ahead of time (per my request) that I would be giving a speech at some point, along with the Best Man. The week before, I learned it would be at the rehearsal dinner (later I learned I would also be giving a toast at the reception, too). I wrote a speech and read through it a couple of times to practice. I didn't memorize it, because I am awful at remembering things word-for-word. For some reason, I thought there would be some sort of podium for me to put my paper on. Looking back, I have no clue why I thought this. Why would there be a podium in a dining area?

So, the night of the dinner, we get to the dining area and I realize my hopes for a podium would not be realized. I would have to hold my paper. I knew my hands would shake--I don't really fear public speaking, but I still get shaky. As the dinner progressed, I began to get more and more nervous. I even passed up the ice cream dessert, because of my nervousness (and I really like ice cream).

Then, the Best Man gets up to make his speech. He's an actor. Like, for real--that is his profession. As you can imagine, this makes him a pretty good speech-giver.

He had memorized his. It was a comparative speech--the groom, David, to the biblical David. A literary work of art. He's acting the whole time, too, walking around and projecting his voice enough for the grandparents to hear (I'm sure they heard none of my speech).

And then he starts to sing.

Did I mention he's a Broadway actor? Yeah. So he's singing...it's a little weird at first, but then the groom joins him.

I am dead serious.

They have this whole routine--singing, joking, dancing a little. They can both sing and act. Everyone was laughing, people were pulling out recording devices, there was applause at the end--I think I even heard some "Encore!" requests.

I was hoping, at this point, that people would just forget I was supposed to give a speech. No such luck. "Lizzy, your turn!"

[There will be no pictures of my speech. I guess standing in one place, reading a sheet of paper isn't exactly photo-worthy. Or maybe it's because I look like this while giving speeches:

Yeah...]

I made some joke about Erin and I acting out The Sound of Music (which we did, once, as we watched it) and then something about me being a writer, so I would just read my speech, thankyouverymuch.

I read this speech:

I can remember the exact moment my friendship with Erin began. While we met our freshman year at Union, I thought of Erin more as my roommates' friend than my own. One day our sophomore year, Erin was in our apartment studying with Jill. After a while, all my roommates were leaving to go to choir practice. I looked at Erin and said, "See you later," thinking she would leave when her friends did. Erin looked back at me and said, "What? We can't be friends?"

And thus began our friendship.

Throughout college, we had many adventures. We were "adopted" by the same Watch Care family at church, and therefore, became "sisters." We would take road trips to Memphis, just to shop, and watch chick flicks when Jill was out of town. We lived together our senior year and survived the entire spring semester without air conditioning. Erin and I made a great team--I'd get crazy ideas for things to do and Erin would make everyone do them. We made family portraits one day in the living room, had everyone participate in the church musical, and successfully executed a graveyard scavenger hunt.

After graduation and a whirlwind trip to California, Erin and I went to train for camp. Erin was working her second summer as a Crosspoint staffer, and I was working my second summer as a CentriKid staffer. This meant that we got to train together. Now, I realize that God brought these two together, but I'd like to take a little credit as the messenger. Erin and I determined that we'd each pick out a guy for the other one on their team. Erin later told me she just picked the first guy she saw me talking to, to which I immediately said no. I, on the other hand, took time to observe her team. I knew who D-Mac was--you didn't work camp then and not know who D-Mac was. He had a reputation as being a good guy and when I saw him and Erin together, I knew he was my pick for her. I told Erin and she said no; he had a girlfriend.

Then, a few weeks later, I got a call from Erin saying that David and his girlfriend had broken up. All of Erin's calls to me the rest of the summer included observations of David. She thought he liked her, but wasn't sure. Then she knew he liked her, but didn't know anything would come of it. Well, something did come of it, obviously; that's why we're here today.

Since graduation, despite being busy with med school and dating and being engaged, Erin has been there for me any time I needed her, to talk, listen, and give sound advice. My prayer journal from the last couple of years is full of "Thank You, God, for Erin" statements. I have also prayed for Erin, and for David, and their relationship together.

Erin, you are my best friend. David, I guess that makes you my best friend-in-law tomorrow. I know tomorrow is only the first of many happy days of marriage for you two. I love y'all!

It wasn't so bad. I made it through without crying--barely--or falling over on my shaky legs.

The next day, I stumbled through a cliff-notes version of that speech (that I did not have written down. I'm pretty sure I said something like "I hope you have a bunch-many hours...days...um, years of happiness.) before the Best Man said something very eloquent about the love the couple has for each other serving as an example to the rest of us.

Then this little old man posed us for an awkward picture, and I tried to forget what just happened.

"Stand behind the microphone and act like you're giving a toast. No, both of you. No, move the microphone, it's in the way."

All photos courtesy of Pam McDaniel.

Risks

Sometimes, you have to take risks in life. Like, even though you know it's possible to get sick from eating raw eggs, it's still a good idea to eat raw brownie batter, even with the eggs. And chocolate chip cookie dough, too.

That's just a risk you have to be willing to make.

What about a falafel?

The following conversation happened at work the other day:

C: Do you like euros?

H: Euros?

C: Yeah, do you like euros?

H: Sure, I like European currency.

C: No, euros.

There's a pause as we all look to C for clarification. He provides none.

E: Oh, gearos!

J: Oh, guyros!

H: Heh, I've always called them jeeros.

C: They're euros, man.

H: I don't know, I've never tried one.

C: I think you'd like it.

In case you couldn't tell, the food in question was a gyro.

I'm unsure if this pronunciation problem is limited to the southern U. S., but I can say that almost everyone I've run into has heard from someone who "actually lived in Greece" that the way they pronounce it is, in fact, the right way. Even if the other pronunciation in question was also said to be the correct way, by someone who "actually is Greek."

Which leads me to wonder: urban legend, or are the Greeks playing an elaborate prank on us?

How not to encourage your single friends

This isn't a part of the What If quasi-series, but it is something that must be addressed.

I was at a wedding shower the other day for almost two and a half hours. I knew approximately 5 people there, including the bride and groom. This left plenty of time to people-watch and, I'll admit it, eavesdrop. I listened to the following conversation (paraphrased, because I'm not that great at rote memorization):

Middle-Aged Married Man (MAMM): So, have you met anyone special over in Dallas*?

Single Mid-Twenties Man (SMTM): No, not yet.

MAMM: Haha, I'm sure you get tired of being asked that.

SMTM laughs a little.

MAMM: Well, don't worry. My brother is in his mid-forties and he still hasn't found anyone. People have just stopped asking.

*Places have been changed to protect the guilty eavesdropper (me).

I believe the last statement was meant to be encouraging to the SMTM and to give him hope. This reminded me of a conversation I had had with a co-worker in which he told me, by way of encouragement, that he knew a woman who didn't get married until her fifties.

I don't understand why married people think it is encouraging to tell single people about the middle-age, and older, single people they know.

It's like getting off a roller coaster in a theme park, walking past those waiting in line and saying, "That was awesome! Don't worry, you'll get there. My brother waited in that line five days before he got to ride." or "It's okay that you're all the way back here. My friend has been in line for 36 hours, and she's not any closer than you are!"

Seriously.

We get it. Hope is not lost. Most of us probably aren't completely freaked out about it until you imply that we might have to wait 30 more years to find love. We're just kind of hoping we'll get there before your brother/friend.

Things I Like: Watching American Idol with my Grandmother

[See, Jennifer, I didn't completely abandon this series]

I watch American Idol with my Grandmother every Tuesday, and most Wednesday, nights. Mainly, I like watching the show with her because she provides excellent commentary.

Half the time, I have to remind her the show is on, and coach her to the right channel. But don't think that just because she doesn't know the time or the place, she isn't a passionate viewer. She states her opinion as fact and states it often--"You don't do that to a Patsy song. Oh, no. She can't do that to that song. Ugh." She disagrees with the judges with the same certainty--"I don't know why they said that. It was a great performance. They are just crazy."

Another thing I love is that she doesn't know anyone's name. We have to describe all the contestants, instead of referring to them by name--"the dreadlocks girl", "the one that played the piano", "the little guy." Just a few minutes ago she said, "I just love that little girl. I have no idea what she's called."

My favorite moment, though, is when she and my great-aunt were discussing the show. Neither of them knew anyone's name, which made it much more fun for the rest of us.

Great-Aunt: "What's that male-female woman's name?"

Me: "Ellen."

Great-Aunt: "She has a beautiful girlfriend."

Grandmother: "Yeah, she does. And what's that little runt that talks all the time?"

Me: "Ryan Seacrest?"

Grandmother: "Yes. He just thinks he's something. He got in Simon's face last week. Woohee! I couldn't believe it."

So great.