Natalee's Blog

I should be flattered that men are hitting on me. I guess.

The first thing I noticed about the guy a few weeks ago was his lopsided-on-purpose baseball cap. I wasn’t sure he was talking to me when he shifted in his chair next to me at the library and half-whispered, “How ya doing?” I just smiled. A few minutes later he got bolder: “Yeah, I gotta go to work pretty soon. I’m just looking for another job.”

I mumbled a reply, aware that every patron in the computer lab could hear the conversation. My new friend forged ahead, telling me half his life story. Finally he paused and asked where I went to college. When I mentioned it was a Christian school, the guy completely shut up. Not even a “see ya” when I left!

About a week later I caught the eye of an employee at a natural foods market. In between refilling bulk food containers, he encouraged me to try the unnaturally blue yogurt pretzels. I wandered away, but he struck up a conversation with me again and then accused me of distracting him from his work.

Older men have more guts when it comes to hitting on women. The man today—also working on a computer next to me at the library—outright told me, “You are really beautiful.” The full-body once-over with which he followed his words put a bit of a damper on the comment. This gentleman wasn’t necessarily more than 10 years older than me; I wouldn’t be surprised if his face is lined from a hard life on the streets (a certain odor put that idea in my mind).

I guess I can’t complain about life being boring. Especially now that I’m unemployed and, thus, spend a lot of time in public places mid-day. Maybe I should write a book.

I just applied for an editor position at a local newspaper, and I’m thinking my chances of getting this one are pretty slim. The publisher happened to walk out of his office when I finished the application, so the very kind assistant introduced me to him.

“I haven’t even advertised this position,” he told me, “and I already have 50 applications sitting on my desk.”

He went on to say that that stack included a guy who’s won two Pulitzers. “I’ve got applicants who are editors in Philadelphia, San Jose, Europe, and then there’s the Pulitzer.”

Apparently when you’ve won a Pulitzer, people just make that your new first name. I should win a Pulitzer. Then people will say things like, “Oh, you mean Natalee–The Pulitzer.” Ha! What does a person have to do to win one of those, anyway?

Let’s just say it’s a good thing I don’t actually want to edit a business publication, manage a newsroom of five reporters, and “take this publication to a whole new level.” Maybe The Pulitzer can do that.

Have you ever felt amazingly uplifted after complimenting someone? That happened to me the other night when I ran into the youth leader and expressed appreciation for a job well done. Last week the youth group performed the best skit I’ve ever seen—I had to dab my eyes at the end. When I told the leader it was awesome, he responded with such appreciation that I wondered if any of the other 2,000 people at church had offered positive feedback.

“Well, thank you for preparing the skit,” I said.

“Oh,” he said, “we practiced that thing for months!”

Being able to express heartfelt thanks to someone who played a role in blessing my life was a great source of joy. I walked away smiling in spite of a depressing day.

I haven’t seen that many religious-message skits, but the one that sticks in my mind from college was weird and bordered on gross. A girl pretended to take her beating heart out of her chest and throw it to a guy, who proceeded to stomp on it. It kind of communicated that some people will hurt us when we entrust our hearts to them, but yuck!

Even though I haven’t dealt with the issues depicted in the skit I saw last week, the message came across clearly. We struggle with pressures, temptations, and pain—sometimes for a long time—but Jesus is victorious over all the issues, and He will bring us freedom and joy as we seek Him out.

Several friends and I have a love-hate relationship with December. We love celebrating our Savior’s birth and enjoying sweet times with each other and with family. We hate shrunken days that make 5 p.m. feel like 8 p.m. This sounds trite compared with the joy of Christmastime, but it’s actually a pretty big downer. Cram everything in before dusk (and dinner), or you’ll be out in the dark and cold. And you can forget evening picnics or hikes. Near-hibernation becomes the best option.

A doctor and I were discussing Seasonal Affective Disorder (depression associated with the short days in fall and winter), and she commented that people in many cultures celebrate holidays that focus on light in the winter.

“It’s not surprising,” she said. “Everyone feels drawn to the light at this dark time of year.”

Many people in Asia have long celebrated a Lantern Festival beginning January 15. People go out to the streets in the evenings to watch parades and carry brightly lit lanterns. Iranians celebrate Shabe-Yalda around December 21 by sharing stories and poetry with each other, eating treats, and lighting bonfires outside. Then there’s Hanukkah, also called the festival of lights, where the central object is the menorah.

I guess the wisdom of the ages teaches us to create and enjoy light while the sun retires early for a season. So my new winter occupation: light-hunting.

I just spent a good 10 minutes trying to wrangle a six-month-old into a sleeper. About 15 seconds after I snapped what seemed to be the 20^th snap, the baby spit up on her once-adorable outfit.

As I tried to come to grips with the idea of squeezing the baby into another sleeper, her 2½ year old sister informed me, “I’m wet!”

What are you talking about? You’re potty trained! I was tempted to say.

Praise God that, after a clean sleeper; wet panties in the hamper; and two bedtime stories, both girls were fast asleep. Then I realized I needed to tackle a living room full of toys (which I forgot to have the 2½ year old help me pick up) and a table full of dirty dishes.

I almost fell asleep on the couch reading my book at 8 p.m.

When my friends returned and the girls’ dad asked, “How’d it go manhandling our kids?”, I just had to laugh and admit his word choice was apropos.

Even though watching kids is exhausting—and I know, moms reading this, that was nothing—it’s also rewarding.

Having a little girl giggle with delight and snuggle close to me as we read books together? Well worth wet panties. Having a baby gaze at me with blue eyes and grin when I cluck my tongue? Spit up and sleeper-wrangling aren’t so bad!

You know the feeling you get when someone does you a favor or gives you something undeserved? I felt it awhile back when my friend Tiffany and I were at her house scrapbooking, and I commented that it’d be nice to have a 12-inch paper trimmer.

“I’ll be right back,” she said, disappearing upstairs.

She returned and handed me a still-in-the-package trimmer. “I got this on a good sale once, thinking I could give it to someone.”

How generous is that?

Lately, a lot of people have been generous with me, which is all the more wonderful because I’m unemployed. My heart has been warmed when friends have unexpectedly bought me lunch, coffee, or ice cream.

Maybe it’s more surprising that strangers have generously given of their time. After I got laid off, a former coworker suggested that I get my name and “smiling face” in front of as many people as possible by doing informational interviews. I felt skeptical that I could make that happen for more than a week. Why would someone who doesn’t know me spend their valuable time talking to me about trends in the communications field?

But they have. Thirty of them since mid-September. People who work in organizations ranging from the Christian Booksellers Association to the YMCA. I’ve learned about everything from networking groups to Twitter.

These people are busy. But they’ve blessed me with their brainstorming, encouraged me with their smiles and prayers, and put me in touch with more kind people who are willing to talk to me. What a blessing!

Who came up with the idea that a whole baked cake should come out of a pan in one perfect piece? I know—it happens all the time—but not in my kitchen!

I sprayed and floured my round pan, even though that seemed like overkill for a nonstick pan, and it still wouldn’t release its prey (the cake). An entire chunk remained.

I wanted to create a Martha-Stewart-esque dessert for my friends, so I thought, “I’ll salvage it by using frosting to glue the rogue piece back on.”

This worked for approximately two minutes, at which point my too-loose frosting gave way and the broken piece slid off in slow motion.

“Fine!” I said. “I’ll swallow my pride and take an ugly cake to the party.”

Cakes really were never meant to come out of the pans in which they were baked, except in 3½-inch square or triangular pieces, with the aid of a spatula. Forget pretty; I’m sticking with in-the-pan cakes.

Note: Despite my extreme irritation with the imperfect cake, it tasted delicious. You’ll find the recipe here.

I almost went postal in Michael’s craft store on November 10. Well, “postal” in the sense of yelling in public—to no one. Being the type of person who believes people shouldn’t play Christmas music until at least December 1 doesn’t serve me well in this country. I was looking at overpriced Styrofoam spheres when I heard the chorus: “…’tis the season….” (I’ve subconsciously blocked out which song it was.)

Tis not the season! I thought. Then I pictured myself yelling that, right there in the Styrofoam aisle. In my daydream, passers-by wholeheartedly agreed with me and began chanting, “No Christmas music before December!” The jinglebell-necklace-wearing employees began to nod, and one headed straight for the source of the music.

Okay, so my daydream didn’t actually go that far, but I do wish we could enjoy seasons in their time. This is autumn, and that means Thanksgiving. Maybe Americans have a problem being content in each season of life, and it carries over to a desire to hear Christmas music at the first sign of snow. That happened in September this year, and one of my Facebook friends posted that he was listening to Christmas music.

I think I’ll wear earplugs whenever I’m in stores that play Christmas music—at least until December. So don’t be surprised if you say hi to me and I appear to ignore you. Hey, I’m just trying to avoid going postal!

“Could you walk me to my cabin?”

I looked up from my dirty dishes at the campground sink and stared at the woman.

“Uh . . . sure,” I said, setting my borrowed electric skillet on the shelf. Only one explanation came to mind: Maybe she wants to get me away from my skillet so someone  can steal it!

Realizing the ludicrousy of the thought, I turned and asked where the cabin was.

“Over there,” she said. We stood staring at each other until she finally volunteered, “I’m a little . . . liquored up.”

“Oh. Do you want me to–” Before I could reach her arm to steady her, she intercepted my hand and held on with a warm grasp.

I tried to hide my shock and push aside thoughts of what onlookers would think. She walked through the grass with surprising steadiness, and I noticed she was sock-footed.

We’d gone only a short distance when she announced that a cabin was hers. “You going to be alright?”

“Yeah,” she said, heading to the door.

I walked back to my (untouched) electric skillet and finished washing dishes in disbelief. How could she be drunk at 6:45 p.m. in a campground? At Yosemite—one of the most beautiful spots in America?

Maybe she got in a fight with her boyfriend and he went off on a long hike. Maybe she came here with all that alcohol to escape some problem at home.

I’ll never know the story behind the drunk woman at Yosemite, and I doubt she remembers the hand-holding-with-a-stranger incident. It reminded me that anywhere I go, people are hurting. No matter the beauty of the surroundings, someone is probably struggling enough to want to shut them out. Will I be quick to offer a helping hand?