A slave to fashion

Here is a good example of why I will never be considered a Fashion Diva:

I do not look at the above sandal and think fashion.  I look at it and think, “What in the hell is it?!!!”  A medieval torture device?  Summer footwear for the Roman Legion?  The mere thought of putting that on my foot gives me the creeps.  I get claustrophobia just looking at it.  I mean really, isn’t the whole point of a sandal to give your foot some breathing room?  Why – oh why – would you want to shackle your foot in up to your knee?  It gives whole new meaning to the phrase, a slave to fashion …

OK, NS!

We think we’re all cool with our texting abbreviations – like we made it all up or something.  Well, let me just tell ya, it’s KY; that’s know yuse to you – or, you know, no use. 

Comical abbreviations were a fad that began in Boston, 1838, and moved to New York and New Orleans the following year.  Some of the abbreviations were straight forward:  GT (gone to Texas) or SP (small potatoes).  Others took the lead of humorists of the day, using exaggerated misspellings:  OW (oll wright) or KG (know go).     

While most of these abbreviations barely survived a generation, there is one infamous exception.  OK was first printed in Boston’s Morning Post March 23, 1839.  Sure, we may have forgotten what the abbreviation stands for (oll korrect), but we understand the meaning all the same.     

So you see quirky abbreviations are nothing new; it’s their usage that has changed.  I guess you could say the main difference between the two is that our texting abbreviations are an offshoot of laziness; the abbreviations of yesterday – an offshoot of wit.  

And with that, NS (nuff said). 

Note: There are many stories concerning the origins of “OK” – most can be refuted.  The information, above, was included in a series of articles by Columbia University professor, Allen Walker Read, published in the American Speech journal in 1963 and 1964.  Professor Read’s research seems to have passed the test of time.

Don’t panic!

I decided to do my part to aid the ailing economy today.  I was chauffeuring my mom to church this morning – happy in my own little world – when I heard her say, “Are you going to stop?!”  This, of course, brought me back down to reality.  But instead of breaking, like a rational human being, I panicked and gunned it.  Right through a fence.

Really, if you think about it, it was rather impressive the efficiency with which I accomplished it all.  In a matter of seconds I managed to fly through the air, over a barrier, through a wooden fence, reverse, pull back into the parking spot, shut off my car, and start crying.

Of course, I had to explain my plight to my friends.  The conversation went something like this:

Me: Who drives their car through a fence? Besides, you know, really old people.

Mom: You.

Kristi: Don’t feel bad, I’m sure a lot of people drive through fences – Francine, you’ve driven through a fence before, right?

Francine: [deer-in-the-headlights-look]

Mom: We’ll take that as a no.

Kristi: Well, it wasn’t your fault, there should be barriers of some sort.

Mom: There is.

Jen: She ran over the barrier.

Kristi:  You did?

Me:  Flew right over the top.

*sigh*

So now a family gets a new portion of fence; a friend will earn some business; the church will get some free writing; and some point down the road the auto body shop will have a new customer (they make cars so cheap nowadays – I mean really, you can’t even even drive through an old rickety fence?! C’MON!).  It’s a win-win really.

But here’s the thing that gets me.  Just this morning I was perusing the paper when I caught sight of a headline regarding a car being driven into a storefront.  I didn’t even read the article; I just thought, “What an idiot!”  Yeah, well who’s the idiot now, my friend? Who’s the idiot now …

Bad sign

One of my all time favorite movie quotes is spoken by Navin R. Johnson (Steve Martin), in The Jerk: 

I know we’ve only known each other for four weeks and three days, but to me it seems like nine weeks and five days.  The first day seemed like a week and the second day seemed like five days.  And the third day seemed like a week again and the fourth day seemed like eight days.  And the fifth day you went to see your mother and that seemed just like a day, and then you came back and later on the sixth day, in the evening, when we saw each other, that started seeming like two days, so in the evening it seemed like two days spilling over into the next day and that started seeming like four days, so at the end of the sixth day on into the seventh day, it seemed like a total of five days. And the sixth day seemed like a week and a half. I have it written down, but I can show it to you tomorrow if you want to see it…

I’ve been on dates like that – only I’d have to substitute minutes for days.  Seriously.  The date is over and I feel an overwhelming urge to grab the shoulders of the stranger walking along side me and scream, “What day is it?!!” because I’m certain I must have lost several. 

I don’t know about you, but something tells me this is a bad sign.  Sigh.

If we could but…

I was raised Pentecostal.  My father was a “Holy Roller,” my mom a Baptist, and I settled somewhere in the middle.  Catholic or no, I’ve always liked the idea of Lent.  Giving something up for God, who gave so much for us, seems a good way to say thanks.

But have you ever noticed?  It’s often all about us.  We surrender things we love, sure.  We give up our coffee, our sugar, our television.  We do so for God; but the end result is often to our benefit. 

This year, it’s different. 

This year the church I attend is joining countless others in “Seek God for the City 2009.”  Starting Wednesday, February 25 – for forty days leading to Palm Sunday – we have been praying the same promises, for the same people, on behalf of the same countries.  If I thought it a good idea when I picked up the book, I think it’s an amazing idea now.  There are countries I never knew existed; there are groups of people I may complain about, but never thought to pray for.  

Guess you might say I’m giving a bit of myself, to seek God’s blessing for others. 

And prayer seems a natural extension to the usual Lenten offering.  After all, Christ gave his very life to save the lives of others; it’s only fitting that we should give a few minutes that we might be a part of the same.