I have found myself going around in my best British teen accent (which, I admit, sadly, is not as good as it used to be. Pity), saying,
"May I go to the piddly-diddly department? Certainly not the poo-parlor division".
I crack myself up with British whit.
Or wit. Idk.
The British, and the Canadians, add odd-ball letters to things. Whit looks good.
Jen hatmaker (my BFF!!) did a podcast with Shauna Niequist (new bff??!! and author of a book I DEVOURED called, Bread and Wine- read it!!!) and she mentioned her love of some, random, British teen series which makes her laugh endlessly. Sadly, it was not the Georgia Nicolson series, which can olny mean one thing: Jen Hatmaker (my bff!!!) does not yet know of said series and I want to introduce it to her and solidify what I know is written (comedic) genius!!
My all-natural routine of coconut oil and honey for face cleanser is not, ahem, doing it's job these days. I think it has to do with hormones. My father-in-love used to tell me that I broke-out so much because I wasn't having enough sex....
I was taking birth control pills to ward-off the boils on my neck, but, alas, there is a great-big red one there as I type. Arggg.
My zits like to hang around in my general neck/upper lip area, like a beard and mustache. Ewwww!!!
I have been remedying my acne with Stridex cleanser pads, which makes me feel like an 80's teen.
(Honing in on my inner Erica Goldberg.)
Meanwhile, I have a friend who just recently began taking Wellbutrin (which almost killed me). It is working miracles for her! Horny? Yes, and she has her orgasms back! Skinny, yes! She cannot sleep and has tons of energy. She's also happy.
That's the three.
Happy.
Horny.
Skinny.
The drug which lied to me, affording me none of the above. (READ)
But it's good for her, so, good.
She would not even like me writing about this, but she shall remain nameless so....
And I have homeless friends which I know writing like that makes me sound like a prat.
The thing with them is, they are like friends, but not really. But they could be...although I am not certain how I feel about that.
My feelings are multi-faceted: I have known the dude for a long time and don't know how to feel about him. Prior to the 4th of July, he was a total butt in my opinion. The chick I barely know, but she seems nice enough and I could tell that she would like a friend.
In my mind I'm all, W.W.J.D.?
And really, what would Jesus do?
Having homeless friends is really difficult.
I don't mean to sound cliche or ignorant- no doubt it is more difficult on their end than my own- but there is a LOT of what-to-does involved.
So far I have done little.
This is terrible, I know, but also true.
We have a downstairs bathroom which is like the showers at summer camp- there are always a few spiders in it. Our basement is cool, clean, and offers a couch to lounge on and a pool table for fun. It also hosts our washer/dryer and shower/potty. Big Strong Man and I keep talking about inviting our friends to come and rest downstairs: wash some clothes, take a napper, take a poo. It could totally be "their" space, until night. At night they must go. Naturally, this makes me feel very funny and inadequate. And mean.
Time for you to return to your little car and great big dog while we sleep in our comfy beds and can use our own potties in the middle of the night. You, of course, have to fend for yourself at the public park after dark.
It seems so unfair.
It is so unfair.
We gave them some money the other day. They asked for a tank of gas and offered to pay us back come Monday (it was Friday). We gave them more than what they asked for and told them that we did not want it back. It was a gift.
A few days later, I received a phone call and the she asked me if I knew they were homeless (yes) and proceeded to tell me that the he was hurt.
What is a girl to do?
I was sympathetic, and kind.
I listened and asked what I could do.
She was either too shy or too prideful to tell me what could really help (a roof over their heads; a place to call home; work for them both; his health; more money than what they have; etc.) and I was so timid that they would ask us for more than what we feel comfortable with.
Like a semi-permanent home.
Even if we wanted to, that is not an option with our landlords.
But I don't want that. I want them to be adults and get work and live in a house. I want them to be proud of their circumstances. And self-sufficient.
I told her that we cannot keep giving them money.
She hadn't asked, and I most certainly offended her.
Later, I explained the conversation to Big Strong Man and he rebuked me, reminding me that that was actually not what we had discussed. If the Lord prompts us, we will give them more money. It isn't ours anyway, and who are we to be stingy and say "no more"?
Most days I see their car parked at the recreation park as I drive by.
There is other news, though none as worthy a cause to write about, still...
I am drinking coffee again. With coconut creamer, yummy-yum-yum.
My middle son was calling out to me as I was vacuuming and I just wanted to tell him to move his arse out to where I was and ask in his normal voice. I reminded myself of my father, who would make my siblings and I come down from our attic-playroom to talk as opposed to yelling down two flights and a room to ask him something.
I am currently on book #5 of Confessions of Georgia Nicholson: Away Laughing on a Fast Camel.
Until next time,
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