How am I? Better to ask, where am I?

Today my body and half my mind went to the office. That's most of me; a pretty good margin, anyway. The other half of my mind was elsewhere:

-I stood in the stands at the Olympics and smelled the sweat coming off the athletes and looked up through the hole in the Bird's Nest and watched clouds sail by. (Obviously, my imagination transcends both place and time, but whatever)

-I flew to Venice and reclined in a gondola, trailing my fingertips in the water as I glided past the architectural feats lining the canal.

-I lounged in an opium den in India and let myself myself be the water, the smoke be the tea that steeped and saturated my clothes, hair, and senses.

-I sat around the long table at the cabin in Estes Park playing cards with my family, calling each other "sorry ass" and laughing so hard everyone's glasses came off as we wiped tears out of our eyes. "Y'act like you haven't got any sense," Grandma said which only caused us to double over in laughter again.

-I drove to Napa and stomped grapes and paid tribute to bacchus.

-I returned to France to share breakfast on a balcony with a debonair gentleman who refused to make any plans for the day or any following because, really, what was the point?

-I was swept up in a blur of sequins, stilts, and color at Carnival in Brazil.

-I stood before an intimidating Easter Island statue and wondered at how immovable and ancient it was.

-I sat around a table laden with tapas and sangria with my nearest and dearest girlfriends, pulling my shawl closer around me against the cool breeze coming off the Mediterranean coastline only to have my girls make me laugh so hard that it slipped right off again.

That's about all I had time for.

How was your day?

Sand in My Shoes Due to No Self Control

My pointy-toed leather flats are full of sand. My favorite jeans smell like low tide, and pieces of sea glass clinked together in the pocket as I wriggled out of them at the front door. I stepped out of the jeans and glanced back, it looks as though an invisible man followed me into the house and proceeded to obscenely drop trou. Three hours later they're still there. I ate some pizza and I haven't gotten around to washing the dish yet, two hours later. The contents of my suitcase are strewn all over and I'm not really sure what article of clothing my cell phone is under so sorry if I missed your call. But I'm home. I'm home in Cali though I just returned from home in Lincoln. I didn't know a person could have two homes, I thought you only got one at a time. Wrong.

Today I went to my library by the sea after work. After agreeing to a beading-and-pizza date (because pizza is popular with the young folks, as my adorable librarian Connie said) this Thursday, I left with some books on how to write, much to my blog audience's rapture. But once outside, I could smell it. Though I had made an extensive to-do list in my journal to which I knew I should adhere, I bypassed the way home in order to turn down a familiar street and saw it rise up like a wall before me. I parked, rolled up my jeans (little good it does me, I always go in nearly waist deep) and slid down the worn cliff path to the ocean. I always promise myself I'll return to the car somewhat dry; never happens. The water seduced me into immersing my feet then my calves then my knees until my whole body begged for the sun-warmed waves to take all of me.

I collected sand-worn glass bits. I have no idea what makes such innocuous objects so fascinating. I can tell you that as a kid I was clumsy and, as a result, broke a lot of glass. "Mary Margaret, don't EVER touch broken glass!" I resented my mother for not allowing me to pick up the glass with my fingers; if performed slowly, the process of collecting glass shards is a fairly simple and harmless one. I liked how glass looked when broken with no consideration for shape or line. It was beautiful and dangerous. My mother was right, of course, in protecting me, but someday I intend to bring my daughter to the ocean and teach her that there actually is a perfectly acceptable time to pick up broken glass; once the ocean has had its way with it.

When I stood on the shore tonight, when all the surfers were making their way back to their cars, I fixated on the empty expanse of water and felt, for a moment, as if I'd reached the edge of the world and I was the only one in it. It was so peaceful and I felt more aware of my senses than I had in a while. The broken shells and coral bit into my feet, the water glided around my ankles, and the wind lifted my hair effortlessly off my shoulders. I thought at that moment that I was happy to be the last person on earth left only with the ocean but then a small voice said, "Does it feel good?" For a second I thought, "God?" then processed, registered the voice as that of a child, and looked to my left to see a skinny black girl staring at me. She wore a purple bikini, had pig tails, and huge curious eyes. I rifled around in my mind in order to employ some articulate explanation of just how good it felt but produced only a "Yes." She laughed and said "I like the water too but why am I so scared of it?" and kicked some sand at the offending element. I didn't have any idea what to say, I wish I'd said something sage about respecting the ocean without fearing it and shared a very sesame street moment with her but instead, I just took a few steps deeper, put my hands into the air, palms facing her as if to say "See? Not so bad." She laughed and stepped in further too. There was no more interaction and I loved her for her outrageously overenthusiastic cries at each and every found treasure (read broken seashell and algae bit) just like I used to.

I miss Nebraska already, but I'm here in San Diego with my first and greatest love; the ocean.

Home, Home on the Range

Alright, so despite the fact that we have a Lincoln, NE office, my coworkers have been drilling me on what I'll actually DO in the state of Nebraska. They can't believe I'm "vacationing" there. I shrug and respond that I'll probably go ride my cow, Husker, eating a cob of corn as I sit on her back. Then if things get a little hog-wild, we may go down to the ole' pond and listen to the frog, locust, and wildlife symphonies of the countryside while throwing back moonshine. I promise to bring back some steaks and the ever-popular cosmetic "Udder Balm" for everyone so the Californians can be as supple as our bovine...
Most of them aren't that gullible, but I've definitely gotten a this as a response to my "travel plans", "Heh heh heh...really?"
See you all soon.
http://www.originaludderbalm.com/ This post was unofficially sponsored by UdderBalm

Ooh La La!

It's Sunday morning and I'm at Wired Le Bistro, a très chic little cafe in La Jolla whose name belies its fabulousness. It really is one of my favorite spots in all of San Diego. The inside is cozy enough to make you want to stay all day but trendy enough to be in keeping with its cuisine's Parisian edge. The ceiling undulates with old burlap coffee bags that have been tacked up above, seating options include hard wooden high backs, black wrought iron chairs, or cozy eggplant-hued benches that outline the perimeter of the room. I enjoy the old-fashioned patisserie glass case, and that they imported the female servers.
If I were a gentleman, I'd be tempted to haunt this cafe for nothing more than the beautiful women who drift past the tables. The first time I was here, I knew they were French before they opened their mouths to speak with their quick, sharp little consonants and longer sweeter vowels that charactarize their accents; petite graceful bodies, hair slicked back to expose their fine bone structure and wearing black. You can also tell a french woman by her Mona Lisa smile curling slightly and inexplicably on her rosy lips. Somehow, it makes me feel more beautiful to be around them.
Today, at the urging of the server who recognized me, I ordered crepes nutella (as in that sinful hazelnut/chocolate spread Europeans have the good sense to put on everything) and a cup of coffee, and cream. Her recommendation reminded me of an important fact I wish all to know: the key to ordering a breakfast that won't leave you with a bellyache. It's simple; order a plain coffee if you're going to have a sweet dish, order a sweet coffee if you're going to have a savory dish. That's it, don't be seduced by an indulgent mocha to accompany your crepes, or you'll be sorry.
I think now would be a good time to mention that I'm being watched by a handsome young gentleman. He is with a woman who isn't offended by her date's inattention to his and blatant window-knocking at me as I sit on the other side of that window on the patio. His feet dangle two feet from he ground, his plate, bearing a large sweet roll, is poised perfectly at mouth-level. His mother watches fondly as he takes advantage of his position. He reaches forward with both hands cupping the back of the roll, scoops it toward his face and sinks his teeth in. He then flings his arms apart that conveys some sort of achievement and turns to look out the window, directly at me with full mouth and messy face as if to say, "check it out!" I assume a serious face and nod approvingly. He grins with flaky bits and cinnamon frosting all over his small teeth and turns back around.

In unrelated news, a bee has alighted on and made a home of my book which is in my purse. My book that I would very much like to be reading as soon as I've posted this. However, he's been there 45 minutes so far and seems to have decided that my tome makes for a good napping spot. I have a straw I could use to prod him away from my belongings but in a zen moment, I decided that this would be an unkindness as I wouldn't like to be awoken in such a manner. So he stays.
What I love even more than the sun-drenched patio with its wood-framed umbrellas, and strong European coffee is that every time I'm here I am privy to a variety of languages. French on left, South-American Spanish on right, Castillian Spanish behind, some language I can't identify at the table in front of me, old women two tables away slipping in and out of their old Italian in croaky tones complete with hand gestures. By sitting on the patio I miss the great music inside, but I gain the musicality of these different dialects as they float around me.

I Am the Church, You Are the Church...

Three personal pet peeves of Christian culture:
1) The word "just" as used in public prayer. "Lord I just, I just thank you for just all your goodness and just all the thing's you've made and that you're just always vigilant in caring for our needs and we just..."
AHHHHHHH, I JUST want to scream "You must stop! My ears are bleeding!" Is satan using these syntax faux pas to ruin public prayer for me? Probably. Does that mean we can't all try harder to exercise our right to employ well-thought-out sentences, even in prayer without using "just" to the same effect as one would use the word "duh"? Nay, I say! I hear "Lord I duhhhhh, I duhhhh thank you for duhhhhhh..." I really do know God doesn't care what our prayers sound like on whit, and no, I'm not asking public pray-ers to wax poetic and deliver these "perfect" prayers but I pray of you, just leave out the "justs."

2) The title of this entry refers to the most putrid song I have ever been forced to sing, memorize, and repeat in my life. This song is first on my list of songs I cannot stomach. Second place? "What the World Needs Now...Is Love Sweet Love," "It's a Small World," and "Puppy Love."

3) When people ask for prayer about something and never get back to you on how the whole shebang worked out for them! Which leads me to my point: I practiced my own dang pet peeve. I enlisted almost everyone who reads this blog to pray that I find a good church in San Diego. Well, I found one...about a month ago. And I forgot to tell you. I am so sorry.

It's called "Flood Church" and it is amazing. It was one of the first of 15 I tried here in San Diego during my church shopping and I liked it when I first attended it. It had mixed races, mostly my age attendees and the sermon was rock solid. I'm really embarrassed to say that the most off-putting issue was the music. Even as late as 10 A.M., the band's precussion reverberating through the room so my cheastbone pulsed along was just too much. I couldn't hear myself sing and I didn't like it. Period. So I kept shopping.
Well, a little over a month ago, two new girls entered my life. Lindsey and Annie are from NE too and, like I was, they were all over the church scene right away. Unlike me, they alighted on Flood Church by chance, attended, and loved it. And for reasons of morning-intolerance, they decided that night church would be best so we started attending at 7:00 P.M., now 8:00 P.M. What a difference! I was much more awake, relaxed from having the entire morning and day all to myself to get things done and this way the music wasn't nearly so jarring, the sermon sunk in a little bit more, and it's pretty much church, off to bed, rise Monday morning spiritually charged for my week. I have no doubt in my mind that it wasn't pure coincidence that these girls just happened to choose Flood as their church, I think God wants me there and there are lots of service opportunities, bible studies, and community things for me to get involved in. Thanks Lindsey and Annie for reinvigorating my appreciation for this great church and for being someone I can pal around with.
(Bonus: check out their videos sometime, they're of the church's work in Malawi and some skits done at church, I like The Exorcism by the hip hop group http://diveintoflood.com/videos/)

All it all, it's exactly the answer to prayer I've been looking for. Thank you all for talking to God about this on my behalf and again, I'm sorry that some of you had to ask before I updated you on this.
Also, I'm a TERRIBLE prayer warrior (I am, I usually start praying and then without warning, my thoughts turn into a grocery list) but practice makes perfect, and I would love to try to pray for any of you if you have any sort of prayer request or even a praise. Big or small, seemingly silly or pretty serious. Leave it as a comment to this post or e-mail me at mschude2@bigred.unl.edu God'll take your requests and I'd be happy to be the courier.

Viva la Vivahhhhhhhno

Meg: I'd like to try one of your smoothies.
Bucky (the Starbucks lady): Oh these? (pointing to the big chalky ad) These aren't smoothies. (pause and her face stifled suppressed glee, like she had a great secret to divulge)
Meg: Oh, okay. Well can I have a banana choco...
Bucky: They're Vivahhhhnos.
Meg: ...colate oh, right. Well can I have a banana chocolate vivahhhno with a shot of...
Bucky: I'd recommend a shot of espresso.
Meg: Right, one of those and can I also have you...
Bucky: And we can use any kind of milk you want including soy and we can also add a powder shot that contains...
Meg: Nonfat. Espresso. Chocolate Banana Vivahhhno. Grande. Please.
Bucky: Mmmm, excellent choice. Here's our nutritions facts chart, you can see there's lots of fiber and protein and you've made the best choice by selecting non-fat milk...

Taking the chart from her and nodding as she went on I wanted to be annoyed, but I remembered my days at the GAP.
Customer: Um, how much are these jeans.
Meg: (drawing on pre-programed script) Oh they're not jeans.
Customer: Really?
Meg: They're denim trousers, see the flat back pockets and trouser clasp front...
Customer: So these cotton, blue pants aren't jeans?
Meg: No, and it's not really indigo, it's a special dye designed to be resiliant against the harshest detergents so your jeans never lose their color.
Customer: Trousers.
Meg: Righ...what?
Customer: You said jeans.
Meg: Right.

I don't miss that job. Maybe the discount, but not the job.

In conclusion, thanks Peter for the recommendation on the Vivanno. It was absolutely delicious!
P.S. An editor's delight: these photos came from Reuters blog and I love that this latter features a misspelled "Vivanno," looks like even baristas have trouble with Starbuckanese.

Editor's 911

Okay, so today I had a grammar question that even stumped my mentor, goddess of grammar, and I was in panic! So I looked up some grammar hotlines online. It's hilarious and awesome that there are actual hotlines for this; about one on every campus worth its salt. Anyway, I called up Purdue U and got a hold of "Tony." He had a nice voice and spoke to me of such things as clauses, structure, and participles. It was very hot. I started blushing and thanked him about five times consecutively out of nervousness. He laughed and told me to have a good day.

We'll probably get married.
And have four grammatically correct children.
And they'll never start their sentences with a conjunction, like their mother.