Well, that stinks.

It all began with a hearfelt prayer. (Those are the kind that seem to work best).

At 10:00 on Thursday night, I ended two teary phone conversations--one with my boyfriend and one with my mother. Boyfriends and moms are great at listening to teary conversations.

Maybe the tears had genuine reason or maybe they were induced by simple exhaustion, but they were flowing hard. I was frustrated. Frustrated with my general inability to wake up in the morning (see previous blog post). Frustrated that the only events I'd had time for on an average morning were a quick session with my tooth brush, time to sigh at my too-wrinkled-to-wear pants (oh well), and a quick minute to accessorize with a pretty plastic head band or giant earrings to distract from my swollen, bloodshot eyes. But above all, I was frustrated that I hadn't been making time to meet with Jesus before my days started spiralling into disorganized, chaotic whirlwinds of work and activity. Not even a few moments with Him. And that, I knew, was the real reason I was crying.

My boyfriend was thoughtful (and insightful) enough to pray for me. My mom did the same. Then I sent an email to a few good friends asking for prayer as well. They didn't have to pray that I would spring cheerfully out of bed every morning for the rest of my adult life, I just needed prayer for the next day. Change had to start somewhere.

Just as I was drifting into a sniffly-nosed, post-cry sleep, I prayed as well.

It worked.

At 5:30am, I was abrubtly awoken by the shrilling yelps of my roommates' dog, Brody (coming from just underneath my window). I immediately thought about how displaced his bark sounded. I was not used to waking up to Brody barking, because he almost always sleeps inside the house. But on this particular evening, he had curiously miandered into the moonlight, only to find a fluffy black and white friend who left him with a gift that was more than he bargained for. Brody had received a painfully pungent skunk spray, square in the face. Poor Brody.

I had known there was a notorious skunk population living somewhere near our home as I often picked up their whereabouts with the occasional faint, foul-smelling odor that was carried by a wind past my window. But never before had I had such an "up front" experience with a noctural little stink bomb. Before long, the sharp smell was trapped somewhere in the confines of my nasal cavity...not to mention it had saturated into everything else--bed sheets, clothing, carpets.

"I'm up! I'm up!" I told the Lord. There was no way I could have gone back to bed...even if I wanted to.

Hours later, it seemed as if the skunk had followed me to work.  "Does this copy paper smell horrible to you?" I asked the lady at the desk next to me. "No, " she answered.  Five minutes later, I asked again, "Do you smell something?" Again..."No."  The piercing odor was with me for good, it seemed.  My coworker, Meredith, was kind enough to give me her "Breathe Easy Peppermint Satchel"--fragrant potpourri wrapped in a small burlap sack she had tucked in her desk drawer.  I had the peppermint bag glued to my face for awhile, until I decided I didn't like the intermingled mixture of skunk and peppermint together. Over lunch I had a few quiet minutes to myself.  I stared at the bowl of hot soup in front of me, reluctant to eat it, because it smelled like skunk.  

Every breath I took that day was a reminder of the skunk and, strangely, of God's awesome love for me.  He really will do anything to spend time with his children. Just ask Him...I dare you.

Life Lessons: Nine Steps to Making it to Work on Time While Managing to Look Like a Complete Idiot

What do you do (on a day like today) when you wake up at 7:30 and are supposed to leave the house by 7:35?

1) Skip a shower (that’s relatively easy for me, I was never a huge fan of them in the first place).
2) Throw on the closest work-appropriate outfit you can find (and if you have an extra 5 seconds, toss a scarf around your neck for good measure…and to make up for the un-showered hair look).
3) Forgo breakfast (ouch).
4) Forgo packing a lunch…

…are you kidding me?! There is no way that was going to happen this morning. Not after a missed breakfast and earlier-than-normal dinner the evening before. I was beginning to feel (and hear) the hunger pangs raging from the mysterious caverns below my diaphragm. Be quick about it, you only have one minute left, my interior monologue chanted like a school bell. So I proceeded to step five…

5) Pack a ridiculously large lunch, because you have no time to separate it into more normally-proportioned Tupperware. This looks like: packing enough leftover curry to feed 10-12 mid-sized adults (and not bothering to remove it from its present Tupperware container the size of a beach ball). Packing rice to go with it (enough to feed a soccer team). And, finally, packing a salad to “get your greens in”. Only, this salad will have to just remain in its Costco-sized plastic container because you only have thirty seconds till go time. Oh, and don’t forget salad dressing. Shoot, you only have 15 seconds—bring the whole bottle. But what will you pack this “picnic for seventeen” lunch in? It’s too big to fit in the usual lunch pack. Take two seconds to think. Now you have 13 seconds to find a solution. Run upstairs, grab the reusable plastic bag you purchased for $1 at IKEA with your good intentions to be kind to the planet. Think for a another second about how the bag is so large it looks more like a tarp that could cover a dead body and how the bag is really intended to carry copious amounts of home décor items or pieces of unassembled furniture…not lunches. Shake that thought and put your lunch inside.

6) Leave for work with just enough time to enter the office, looking like a total idiot, with a lunch strapped over your arm in a bag that is half the size of your body and causes you to shift your weight to one side.
7) Try to explain what happened to your dumbfounded co-workers.
8) If this ever happens again, remember to enter work through the back door.
9) It will happen again.

My sincerest apologies to the Gig Harbor Chevron station...

Yesterday I pulled a Zach Braff in the opening scene of Garden State. If you haven't seen the movie, that's the scene where he accidentally drives away from the gas station with the gas pump still in his car. Idiot. That makes two of us (although I guess I'm the bigger one, since my experience wasn't in a movie).

I was driving my grandpa's beautiful ride--a 2005 Suburu Outback. My grandpa was in the passenger seat while I pumped the gas for our road trip back to Lake Oswego. To up my chances of one day inheriting his incredible car, I decided to give the windshield an impressive wipe-down while I waited for my latest paycheck to wither in my gas tank. After finishing, I climbed back in the car to hear my grandpa "ooh and aah" at the windshield glimmering in all it's glassy brilliance. Ten points. It was a glorious sight as we drove away--sun beams bursting through the windows, an uppity Oldies song playing on the radio...then suddenly an abrupt CRUSH. It sounded like I was driving over the top of a rug made of alluminum cans. Woops.

"Probably just the curb, " I said as I continued to drive. The only thing that stopped me from pulling out of the gas station parking lot was a bearded man who jumped in front of the car, bouncing and violently flailing his arms around like a rag doll. "What's his problem?" my grandpa said in a moderately sarcastic tone. The man started to point behind me, so I turned around. How embarrassing.

After a quick "Thank you dear Jesus we didn't just blow up the gas station and ourselves" I went inside to apologize for the damage that I didn't exactly know how to repair. Ofcourse, there was a line of customers waiting behind the counter staring at me as I tried to explain what had happened in a frantic tone. And ofcourse, the attendant spoke very little English (which led to me trying to explain, with elaborate guestures, three or four times how I had managed to rip the gas pump out with my car). Without any luck in successfully explaining what had happened, I finally had to take the attendant out to the "crime scene" with me. He just stood there laughing out loud and shaking his head then he waved me and my grandpa on.

"I guess we can go now," I said to my grandpa. Then, in his grandfatherly sweet tone he said, "I'm sure they see this happen all the time."

Let's hope so.

In my defense, I must say I have been an Oregon resident for a whole year now. Perhaps in my moment of stupidity, I had just forgotten what it was like to pump gas on your own.

Peng and the Puppy

Today began with incessant text messaging between my siblings and I. All five of us were involved. The task...come up with a name for the newest addition to our family, a little red dachshund.

Wiener dogs. Gross. I know. I thought so too, until my oldest sister Lindsay texted me a photo of the puppy. Seconds after seeing the picture, I was convinced by the little fluff ball's shiny red coat and sparkling beady eyes that she was God's glittering will for our family. She sure is a darn cute puppy. As long as she stays that cute, I will willingly show her my love and affection. So, I figure we'll at least be good friends for the next ten to twelve months. After that, it's negotiable. It kind of freaks me out that where most dogs (and living things in general) grow upwards, weiner dogs grow outwards in length. It reminds me a bit of that trick when you scrunch a straw wrapper and dabble it with water to watch it grow like a slinky. Perplexing.

So, we ping-ponged text messages back and forth:

Heidi: "Let's name her Carrot!"

Me: "You can't give dog's vegetable names, Heidi. But if we did...we should name her 'Potato' and call her 'Tot' for short."

Lindsay: "Eww. How about 'Patsy'?"

Ellie: "No! Let's name her 'Pearl'."

Josh (Lindsay's boyfriend): "I like 'Thor'."

Lindsay: "Josh, that's clearly not a feminine name."

Ellie: "What about 'Petunia'?"

Heidi: "What about 'Nordlund'?"

Me: "Mom's maiden name? Hmm, I like it. We could call her 'Nordy' for short..."

...and so on....

Hours (and thirty-something text messages later), we still didn't have a name.

Meanwhile, the only thing cuter than a puppy walked in the door to my office around 10am. His name is Peng (pronounced 'Pong'). Peng-Peng is what his mom calls him. He is a darling four-year old boy who was adopted a year ago from China.

There really was something magical about Peng-Peng's pomegranate pink cheeks and wide smile revealing two perfect little rows of baby teeth that convinced me this morning I should have adopted him myself. I think his mom could tell I was a little jealous as I stared at him from behind the cabinets. Creepy? Of course. But you would have done the same. This boy really was too cute for words.

Peng's mom asked me if I would "do her a huge favor" and "walk Peng Peng to the ladies' room to help him 'try potty'." He had been wiggling his legs around in a funny little dance for awhile and I knew something was up.

"Sure!" I said and took Peng's hand to guide him to the bathroom. Before I knew it, he bolted ahead of me down the hall and ran into the men's room. All by himself.

I stood outside the door waiting for a few minutes, assuming he'd done this on his own before. After ten minutes of waiting and hearing no flush, I started to get a little worried. "She did say 'take him to the ladies' room', " I thought. Peng's mom was preoccupied, so she didn't bother coming to check on the situation. I couldn't leave Peng, so I just kept waiting. And waiting.

Waiting turned quickly to worrying as I imagined little Peng falling in the toilet water and drowning (the boy was seriously small enough to fit in the bowl). Hypothetical catastrophes were darting, right and left, into my mind.

Meanwhile, the lady working in the front office of Pinnacle Insurance just opposite the bathroom door was staring me down. She had been watching me like a hawk for the past ten minutes as I stood within inches of the men's bathroom door with a petrified look on my face. The only thing she failed to see was Peng. She didn't even know I worked at the adoption agency down the hall, so of course she wasn't expecting that I would be waiting for someone else's four-year-old Chinese son to exit the men's room. I kept glancing at her, then back at the door. Insurance lady-door-insurance lady-door. I was a bit paranoid. The more I looked at her, her fire hydrant red lips seemed to get redder and her cotton ball poof of grey hair seemed to grow. She just shook her head at me, her broccoli-floret hairdo waving with each nod. I felt like walking in to her office and explaining what I was doing, but I was more worried about Peng. Finally, I pressed my ear to the door. Nothing. So, I started to shout, "Peng! Peng! Peng!"

Just as I was shouting, the FedEx man approached me from behind. On a side note, the FedEx man always seems to catch me doing the strangest things--like singing musicals when the rest of the office has gone home. So, though this was probably not at all a strange sight for him, he still seemed a bit uneasy. For all he knew "Peng" wasn't even decipherable as a name and he probably thought I was shouting "Bong! Bong! Bong!" (and we all know I don't abuse drugs).

Finally, exasperated, I asked if he could go in for me and check on the situation. I explained everything to him and he willingly agreed to go rescue Peng from his potential watery grave.

Fortunately, seconds later, little Peng came out in one beautiful, protected piece....with a giant wet spot covering the front side of his jeans. He had been hiding in the bathroom because he was afraid his mom would be upset he peed his pants.

"It's OK, Peng", I assured him. "Did you remember to wash your hands?"

He shook his head, "no". So, I grabbed his tiny hand and led him into the ladies' room--the original plan. There, I hoisted him up (carefully avoiding his bottom half) and helped him scrub and dry his palms. Before long he was smiling again.

Together, we walked out of the bathroom, hand in hand, while the Insurance secretary continued to shake her head in utter confusion.

As soon as I stepped back into the office I gave him a sticker from my top drawer. Before long, my phone buzzed. Another text message. It was from Heidi.

"Let's name the dog Penny!"

"How about Peng?" I replied.

"Huh?"

"Oh, never mind."

I smiled as I thought about Peng and the new puppy. Both so adorable and innocent...and so desperately in need of house training.

Confessions of the Over-heated.

When does a bad habit become a way of life?

I'm afraid the answer is: when that bad habit becomes such a repeated offense that others begin to attribute it to your personality.

"Oh, that's just who she is!" they say.

"Oh no," you think. "They're absolutely right."

In attempts to detach some of these bad habits from my lifestyle, I figured I should start with confession--get them out there in the open in attempts to override them with new, pleasant and positive attributes. Here's my confession of the day...

CONFESSION: I still don't know how to use a microwave properly.

"Why do you even use a microwave at all?" you may be asking. That's a great question. I should have bagged using the "death box" (as my roommate refers to it) a long time ago. But once and awhile, when it comes down to watching a yam bake in the conventional oven (and poking it with a fork for what seems like hours only to find that it is tougher than sandstone) versus a little beep-beep-done, I opt for the latter. So sue me.

Generally, I try to limit my microwave use to reheating things. Coffee at work gets cold multiple times a day because I sip slower than molasses in January, so I reheat it. Abuelo asks for a bowl of ice cream, which might-as-well be an ice block, so I soften it...ever so slightly. Or so I'd like to think...

You see, my problem doesn't lie in using the microwave, it's how I use it. I tend to overestimate the time needed to heat a bowl of soup or warm a muffin. It's just a bad habit. If something should be heated for 10 seconds, I punch in 3 minutes. If it should be heated for 3 minutes, I punch in 9 minutes. It's weird, I realize. Weird like my obsession with filling the gas tank until the price is rounded to the nearest 10-cents. Stop pumping gas at $23.39? Heck no. Tug that trigger to make it $23.40.

I always intend to keep an eye on the food I am microwaving. I like to overestimate the time required, then just watch it till it's done. This way, adding additional seconds is never needed.

But, from time to time--life calls. The phone rings? I go answer it. Some one's at the door? I leave the room. Meanwhile, tub of ice cream becomes a river of life springing-up-a-well in the microwave. Reheated coffee blows up like a time bomb. Yam becomes toasted, undecipherable black ashes.

I exercised this "bad habit" today in the office. My coworker brought cinnamon scones. Delicious. I thought "I'll just do everyone a favor and heat them up." I slid the plate in the microwave and punched in 4 minutes (note: should have been 20 seconds). I sat watching and waiting, sniffing in the savory goodness and--RING!--darted out of the break room (with all intentions to return quickly) to answer the phone.

Turns out it was a lengthy call by a long-winded caller (who took much longer than four minutes) and before I knew it--BEEP BEEP BEEP--Oh my.

After hanging up the phone I ran to the break room, but it was too late. By this time the cinnamon aroma had immersed it's way into the entire office (and beyond) and people from the insurance agency down the hall were meandering to our office to ask why it smelled like Thanksgiving.

Burnt frosting caked the inside of the microwave. A smoky haze lingered in the air. Our breakfast was torched. Sorry guys, my bad.

Lesson learned. From here on out, my food will spend less time in the death box.

Curry Hangover

I had a serious curry hangover this morning after attending a Pakistani mission’s banquet last night.

The food was incredible. Awesome food and spending the evening listening to missionaries with hearts for the Muslim world…it was a beautiful thing.

You don’t get to eat Pakistani food everyday; well, at least I don’t.

Aware of this, I piled my plate high with samosas, naan, rice and curries…

Upon coming back to the table, my friend Brinda’s fifteen year old son stared at my plate (jaw dropping) and said, “WHOA”. After a long pause he finished, “I hope my wife can eat like that someday!”

I think it was a compliment? Maybe? I shrugged my shoulders. Like I said, I don’t get to eat Pakistani food every day.

The group I sat with at my table was as spicy as the food on our plates.

My favorite was Scott. Or at least I think his name was Scott. Something with an “S”… He must have been in his late fifties and he was cracking jokes the whole night.

Brinda leaned over to her son after dinner and said in a very mom-ish slow tone, “Nick, you should introduce yourself to the table of Pakistani men behind us. Ask them where they are from in Pakistan”.

Nick replied, “What if they aren’t Pakistani mom? What if they’re from India?”

Good boy.

Scott chimed in, “Watch, they’re all from Toronto”.

Scott continued to entertain as he gave his wife fist pounds every time the speaker talked about the powerful ways God is moving in Pakistan. Some “hallelujahed”, Scott pounded. Genius.

When I asked how he met his wife, Scott replied, “E Harmony. Duh.” A statement which his wife laughed at, then quickly corrected, “We’ve actually been married 35 years.” I was loving this guy.

I also loved the people to the right of us. The unidentified Pakistani/Indian/ Toronto clan. Cynthia bet they were all New Yorkers. We were all dying to ask at this point.

Finally, ecstatic, I recognized one of the men at the table. Raj. (Raj is an Indian man I met when I moved to Portland. He has an East Indian fellowship he leads over in Beaverton).

“Raj! How are you!” I said. “I’m Abbie—we met earlier this year”.
“Oh yes,” he replied. “Let me introduce you to my friends”.

Yes.

To my surprise, one of them was from Tamil Nadu. This is where I was in India three years ago, and where I hope to return this summer.

Eppati irukkinga? (How are you?) he asked in Tamil.

Nallaa irukéan! (I’m fine) I replied.

Yes. He asked me the one question I remembered how to answer.

I just hoped he wouldn’t ask any more as my Tamil vocabulary has pretty much been whittled down to pambu! (snake!) and Nandri Yesu! (Thank you, Jesus!).

En Thamizh romba mosam (My Tamil is very bad) I told him. We laughed out loud together.

I missed India for a moment and sighed deeply.

On the way home I thought about how I have got to start practicing my Tamil.

Cynthia tried to help me the other night. We opened my book “Learn Tamil in 30 Days.” A bold promise of a title, considering the Tamil word for “lemon” has more letters in it than our English alphabet.

Near the end, there was a section called “Practical Conversations”. Perfect, we thought.

“Ok, you be the ‘foreigner’ Abbie and I’ll be the ‘tour guide’,” Cynthia said.

It was a hypothetical conversation that was “likely to take place when touring a temple”. It went like this:

Foreigner: "Athoh, Oru Yaanai Nerrkerrathae! Athu Appade Engu Canthathu?”
(Yonder. I see an elephant standing! How did it come here?)

Guide: "Athu Unnmaiyana Yaanai Alla. Athu Orae Kallel Chethukkappatta Cherrpam."
(It's not a true elephant. It is a monolithic sculpture.)

Very useful indeed. Definitely a practical conversation.

Who’s used the word “yonder” since Laura Ingalls Wilder anyway? And how many of us really know what a monolithic sculpture is?

“Learn Tamil in 30 Days”…

I think the book should have been called “Learn Tamil in 30 Years Without Breaking Down and Weeping in the Fetal Position…I Dare You”.

I guess I’m back to square one…pray a lot and keep practicing.

A Post-Lunch Break Up Note

Dear “Eating Right” Safeway brand microwavable Frozen Meal,

Why did you lure me in with your box cover of a beautifully photographed bowl of pasta? A photograph that was so enticing, you weaseled me in to buying eight of you. Little did I know that when I peeled back the plastic mask you were wearing, you really looked more like the cerebellum.

You took advantage of me in a vulnerable moment. You know I am a woman of character and smart-eating choices, and yet you tricked me with your smooth talk and smart marketing.

“Uniting Flavor and Nutrition” you told me from behind the foggy frozen doors.

You should have told me the truth. “I contain modified corn starch and xanthan gum.”

You should have let your true colors shine, Frozen Meal. But even they are probably derived from food coloring, you sack of lies.

“You will make a good companion on those days I can’t cook for Abuelo,” I thought when I first met you. Well, you should have introduced me to your best friends, High Blood Pressure, Clogged Arteries, and Kidney Stones. You really do hang out with bad company.

“Inspected for Wholesomeness by the US Department of Agriculture,” you told me. Since when is fluid retention due to excess sodium consumption wholesome?

You’re so unwholesome-- you could be a metaphor for sin, Frozen Meal.

I’m headed back to Brussel Sprout. He knows how to treat me right.

It's too late to aplogize. We’re not speaking anymore. You can take the rest of your friends and leave my freezer.

(Un) affectionately yours,

Abigail