Twas Brillig

…but there are pictures.  Of me.  In my pajamas.  Over on Gunfighter’s blog.

Hey, all!  Brillig here.  This guest-post came from my dear friend Gunfighter, but it arrived during the interim “I don’t have an internet connection” period while I was moving.  But better late than never, right?  Give it up for my pal Gunfighter!

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Hi! 

My name is Gunfighter… well, not REALLY, but that’s what people call me here, in internetland.  Anyway… since you are reading this, you already know that the lovely Brillig (no, really, she’s a looker)  is otherwise disposed for the time being, which leaves me as the last in a long line of guest posters.  It is my great hope that I won’t bore you to tears with my rambling prose (it’s happened before, people, and I am telling you that it isn’t pretty!)

Well.  About me… um, I am, first and foremost a servant of my church and family.  I am married with two children and I work in federal law enforcement…  I have a blog… and some of you may even have read it once or twice.  If you ever feel the need for something to help you sleep, you can just drop on by and read whatever I am raving about at the moment.  I run a friendly blog, and I swear infrequently… so, come on by.

OK, enough shameless self-promotion.

Recently I had a conversation with a fellow blogger, the subject of which was firearms.  In our discussion, we talked about how much training she had and things of that sort.  Eventually, she asked me for some advice on training, which I am only too happy to give.  I am posting it to my blog in hopes that someone else will read it and find it useful.

First, I’d like to address the title of this post.  I gave it the title “Training For Battle” because that is the essence of what we are talking about here, friends.  Carrying a gun for protection means that you  may need to use that weapon in a fight.  A fight for your very life.  There is no more serious contest that that.  The prize for victory in a gunfight is to be able to continue to draw breath.

The loser gets to take a dirt-nap.

So… in light of the things that I mentioned above, let’s talk about training.  I suppose the first question that has to be answered is “what do I want to do with a gun?” 

Remember, guns are tools.  They are tools made for a specific purpose, and that purpose is to kill.  If we are talking about handguns, I will amend that last statement to say that guns are made to kill people.  If you are in that particular group of self-delusional people that sometimes say that guns are a deterrent, that guns are about protection, that guns are made to “stop threats”, I will ask you to disabuse yourself of such self-indulgent nonsense.

My friends, using a gun is about killing.  If you can’t wrap your head around that, get rid of your guns, invest in a good alarm system, and buy a dog that barks.  Seriously, if you don’t think that you can kill.  You ought not have a gun.

That said, we ought to be right up front about the nonsense that some people espouse about shooting to “wound or disable”.  I call it nonsense because that is what it is.  Why?  because bullets cause horrible wounds, thats why!  You see, killing a person is more humane that wounding, or perhaps maiming them.  Yeah, I know… it’s a little ghoulish, but it’s true.

So, once you have decided that owning a handgun might be something that you ought to do, and you have made your peace with potentially killing someone, lets look at the next question that you have to answer for yourself, to wit:  “What kind of gun do I need/want?”

There are no small number of firearms manufacturers in the United States and elsewhere that will be happy to sell you the priciest gun around, and while some or most of those guns will be really nice… you probably don’t need to spend a large sum of money to purchase a fighting pistol.  While shopping, take the following things into account:  “Do I plan to regularly carry this gun concealed?”  If the answer to that question is “yes”, then you need to consider size.  Size also matters when you look down at your hands… if you have small hands, you’ll need a smaller gun.

If you plan to carry concealed, you are going to have to think about the sort of clothes you wear.

Another consideration is bullet caliber.  As Americans, we tend to believe that bigger is always better… well, as Sportin’ Life said in Porgy & Bess, “It ain’t necessarily so”  Personally, I am a fan of big bullets.  big bullets make big holes in people.  They cause greater wound cavitation and they do a better job of destroying tissue and breaking bones.  Having said that, you really don’t need a .44 magnum do do enough damage to put down an assailant.  The thing here is that, generally speaking, bigger bullets means more recoil.  My advice in this arena is to try different guns in different calibers… see what works best for you

Moving on, we have to ask:  “Do I have the self discipline to enter into a life of regular training and practice?”

You see, marksmanship is a perishable skill.  If you don’t practice, whatever skills you may have acquired will atrophy.  So, you are going to need to get some high-quality training… and by high-quality, I don’t mean some Nimrod who hangs around at your local range, who will tell all and sundry what he knows about pistol craft from his time as a Navy Seal/Ninja.  There are lots of good trainers all over the country folks, so do your homework.

Once trained, you need to practice regularly.  You need to practice shooting from the drivers seat of a car; while seated at a desk; while holding a child or a child’s hand; while running; while ducking; while seeking cover; while flat on your belly; while flat on your back.  You’ll need to learn to shoot and move…. and so much more.  You’ll have to practice those skills once you have acquired them.  Once you have practiced a particular skill to the point where it is ingrained, you STILL HAVE TO PRACTICE.   Get used to it… this is your life now.  It’s sort of monastic isn’t it? Well, there you go.

So, we are going to make intelligent choices about why/if we need a gun, we will make wise choices with regard to what type of gun/what caliber we are going to purchase.  We are going to make good training decisions, and promise to devote ourselves to a life time of training & practice.

All set, right?

Not so much.

Guess what we forgot?

THE LAW!

Hey kids… before you do any of the stuff I listed above, you need to go out and learn the laws concerning firearms and their use in your individual states, county, towns and cities.  Even acting in your own self defense, you still need to know what the law says.

Lastly.  Let’s talk about safety.  I don’t know of any more tragic stories than those of people who have done stupid things with guns.  So please, be mindful of a few basic things:

Treat all guns as if they are loaded.

Guns and alcohol don’t mix.  Ever.

Never point a gun at anything that you are not willing to kill or destroy.

Keep your finger off of the trigger until you have identified your target.

There are more safety rules, but these are a good start.  Learn them.  Know them.  Live them

If you have any further questions, feel free to give me a buzz.

GF

PS:  If you were planning to ask me what the best gun manufacturer is, I will tell you that the best gun top buy is a very personal thing, as the gun must suit YOU, the shooter.  Having said that, I will tell you that for my money, the best combat handguns, right out of the box, are made by Glock.
Thanks so much, Brill, for letting me blather to your readers… and if you plan to visit my blog, please note that I don’t spend much time talking about guns!

Hej, I’m JM!  I blog sporatically over at Jan vs. Wild (janvswild.blogspot.com).  I’m a 25-year old astronomer, originally from the US, but currently living in Denmark where “Jan” is exclusively a boy’s name.  But, I am in fact a girl.  There is no end to the fun my name has caused.  I have been reading Brillig’s blog forever, but being a lazy lurker, I never actually made contact with her to tell her how cool I think she is.  So this guest post can be my way of fixing that.  Brillig is awesome!  There, I finally said it.  Now, down to brass tacks…

I had this super-awesome idea for a post for Brillig’s blog, but then I got bogged down writing a HUGE astronomy paper which is due shortly, and I didn’t have time to write the amazing post I had imagined.  So, instead I decided to just edit a recent email into a less-than-brilliant, but hopefully somewhat passable post instead.  Here goes:

Today I was looking for a good recipe for yeast rolls, and I was getting so frustrated with all the recipes that say “one stick butter.”  Me being me, I blamed all Americans and ranted to my brother “I hate how Americans think that everyone in the world is just like them!  Does it not occur to anyone that maybe butter isn’t sold in the same sized “sticks” everywhere in the world?!  Couldn’t they put a real measurement like “1/4 cup” or something?”  (I realize that would still be ambiguous to those people here in Europe that measure in grams and such.)  Then we started talking about how so many recipes call for “one package yeast” and how we have only ever bought yeast in packages weighing a pound or more, so making the conversion to tablespoons or something was also frustrating.  Honestly, I STILL have no idea exactly how much a “package” of yeast is….

Eventually these somewhat trivial topics led to a discussion about how so many people don’t even realize that maybe other peoples’ lives are different than theirs.  It doesn’t even occur to them, so they don’t think about it.  My brother works in accessibility and he said “that’s the biggest challenge with accessibility and the whole disability thing, is just getting people to recognize that not everybody in the world is exactly like them.”  They always say not to judge someone until you have “walked a mile in their shoes,” and I totally believe that.  I think if everyone made an effort to think about other people’s situations, and wonder if maybe they were fundamentally different in some way, there would be fewer arguments, fights, misunderstandings, wars, etc.  One of my favorite songs has a verse that says, “In the quiet heart is hidden sorrow that the eye can’t see.”  I just love this.  I think if we could all see the sorrows that were hidden in others’ hearts, we would interact with them so differently.  Maybe we wouldn’t get quite so annoyed with the bank teller than was short with us, or get mad when the guy ahead of us on the road cut us off, or whatever.

My brother and I concluded that one of the biggest problems in the world is that so many people assume everyone uses “sticks of butter” and “packages of yeast” and so even though they aren’t necessarily “bad” people, they just don’t understand when something is different than the way they think it is, or the way they have always known.  So they react in perhaps a negative way.  I always thought the word “awareness” was mostly just a buzzword, and most people who used it didn’t even really know what they were talking about, but I think now I understand what it means, or should mean.

So, I shall end this post with a challenge for everyone to try to increase their “awareness.”  Be it awareness of a disability, of a struggle someone else is going through, of a difference in measurement systems between countries, or something else entirely.  I promise it will change the way you interact with people.  At least, it did for me.

Let me apologize if this post seems a little incoherant or choppy.  I hope it makes sense.  I am in the middle of writing a paper (whoo-hoo) and just took a break to finish this before I forgot about it.  Thanks for reading!!!

Hi, I’m Cheryl from over at A Little Chaos Theory. I have three sons, one husband, three cats, two dogs, and a revolving array of fish (although we have none right now and my husband is currently growing lettuce in the fish tank). I’m a full-time mom, full-time student, full-time wife, full-time lunatic. And my family is planning on a cross-country move this summer. We make a habit out of those; this will be our 4th since my 7-year-old was born and we can’t even blame it on the military.

I want to start by thanking Brillig for the opportunity to write on her blog. I’m sure goat herders in the Swiss Alps could hear squeals of glee when I opened the email with the date for my very own guest spot. The challenge would be deciding what to write about while providing some sort of cohesive whole to the post. Would I write about school? Moving? The challenges of autism? Road trips with kids? There were so many possibilities for one guest post.

Giddy with ideas for potential blog articles I very carefully marked the guest post date on my Outlook calendar and promptly forgot about it in the midst of my usual flurry of juggling way too many activities for one person. And Outlook didn’t help because the computer I was using back when Brillig sent out her gracious email died (just when all my final papers for the quarter were due sending me into school overload – but that’s a story for another day). I enjoyed the guest posts that scrolled across my reader (as well as the posts where Brillig actually had time to write something) and it wasn’t until June 21st when I realized that wowza, it’s time to send in MY post. And I had no idea what to say. The profound words that I just knew were there didn’t want to surface.

As I sat staring at my monitor I was saved by my toddler. He entered the room with a woebegone expression, his dishwater blonde hair a lovely shade of reddish pink because his brother had poured Gatorade over his head.

Mommy: Why did you pour Gatorade on Roegen?
Jude: Because he wasn’t napping.

While I was talking with Jude about how it is my job to keep his brothers in their beds if that is where they need to be (he desperately wants to be a parent which scares me – that’s been what he wants to be when he grows up for several months now and I devoutly hope that he outgrows that wish before he’s a teenager), Breydon came running into the room waving a tooth. It’s the third baby tooth he’s lost, but I didn’t even know one was loose this time.

So we had to find an envelope for him to put the tooth into so that the Tooth Fairy can leave him a dollar coin tonight. Breydon’s hoping that this one will have John Tyler’s picture on it but he’ll have to make due with Thomas Jefferson.

In the midst of the tooth excitement, while Jude was screaming about being on the naughty wall, Roegen came running up with a pair of Elmo underwear on his head.

Mommy: We can get you your own Elmo underwear when you go potty on the potty.
Roegen: I don’t want to.

Then the dogs started barking.

This is my life. The words may not be profound but I treasure it nonetheless.

Hi everyone. My name is Karlene and I live over on Inksplasher. [link: www.inksplasher.blogspot.com] I’ve been blogging since January 2006. I met Brillig at a blogger luncheon several months ago. I guess that makes me one of the few who’ve actually seen Brillig’s gorgeous eyes and eyebrows in person. Brillig is just as fun and entertaining in real life as she is here on her blog. I’m excited to have the wonderful opportunity to be a guest blogger here—my only claim to fame.

A little history about me: I’ve worked as a writer, editor and publisher at various times in my life. Now I’m taking it a little easy and doing freelance copy editing and book design, layout and other pre-press work. I also blog a lot. The coolest thing in my life, however, is that I became a grandmother last year. Grandson #1 just turned 1 year old; grandson #2 is almost 7 months. I’ll be gaining a granddaughter in August when my son marries a sweet girl with a 2 year old. I do “Grandma Day” once a week when I tend my two grandsons all day. It’s tiring, but lots of fun. It’s with this in mind that I wrote the following post.

Grandmother’s Hands

I don’t know why the image of your hands comes to me this morning, but I see them, folded together, resting on your kitchen table, right-hand fingers embracing the left hand, slowly rubbing, stroking, kneading. Do they hurt? Is it arthritis, that dull cold ache of bone against bone that I sometimes feel in my own hands?

You open your hands, stretching your fingers out flat, pressing them onto the tablecloth. I can see little ribbed drawings of apples and oranges playing peek-a-boo with me between your fingers—the pattern of the plastic tablecloth.

Your hands are bare but for the single, thin, gold band on your left hand—the symbol of your love for Pappaw, your commitment to the eternal family, your devotion to the family the two of you created that grew from two, to six, to sixteen, to thirty-seven and 7/8ths.

Are you proud of that? As you look down at us from heaven, are you pleased with who we have become, who we are becoming? Or does your heart ache over our weaknesses?

Your nails are short, but not too short. They stop just at the tips of your fingers, a thin white crescent at both top and bottom. They are smooth but unpolished, unbuffed. No pretensions here. They are working hands, practical hands.

Your hands are creamy tan, covered with the darker spots of age. Liver spots, some call them. I prefer to think of them as medals of honor, hard won through life’s trials, markers of wisdom gained, experiences shared; the many wrinkles that criss-cross the back of your hand and gather in clumps around your knuckles are ribbons awarded for effort and endurance.

Your hands reach across the table, across the worlds between us, and clasp mine. They are softened by love and warm with courage and strength. Your hands give mine a squeeze that says everything—how much you love me, how you’re there for me even when you’re so far away, how you’re proud of me no matter what I’ve done, or do. You give my hands another squeeze and a pat, glad that I understand. Your hands grip my fingers tight, as if by force of will alone you could push all the wisdom and knowledge and experience from your hands into mine, to make them stronger, warmer, softer.

The pressure of your hands begins to lessen as they gradually fade away. My hands are all alone now, folded together on your table, right-hand fingers embracing the left, stroking, kneading, as if to convince myself that it is okay, that my hands are up to the task ahead, whatever it may be.

My hands are not as bare as hers. I wear two rings, symbols of my family—all nine and 7/8ths of them—and my faith in the God she taught me to love. My nails are short, but not too short. They fit well on practical hands, working hands. I have a few wrinkles and medals of honor of my own. A few scars, each with a memory of experience archived, lessons learned.

My grandson cries out as he wakes from his nap. I spread my hands out on the table, fingers wide as I push myself up to go get him. I watch my hands reach into his crib, pick him up, gently stroke the damp hair away from his face. His smooth and chubby hands reach up to grab my older spotted ones. He chews my knuckle. I feel the wrinkles move and the loose skin provides padding between his gums, soothing the pain of teething.

This is not a conscious act on my part, nor his. It is automatic, instinctual, bonding the hearts between the generations. I am glad for the hands I have, so much like my grandmother’s, yet still my own. I am proud of each spot, each scar, each wrinkle.

I look at my grandson, still biting at my fingers. He smiles at me and in the moment of that smile I know that I will always love him, always be proud of him despite the challenges and weaknesses he might face in his future. That is a grandmother’s job. That is my job—to reach across the table and give his hands a squeeze and a pat as they earn the scars and the spots and the wrinkles that will define him, that are his very own.

Please welcome the always hilarious and fantastic Jenny of Absolutely Bananas!

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When Brillig asked if anyone would like to guest blog for her, I raised my hand with excitement.  “Pick me! Pick me!” I shouted, (as much as you can shout in the comment section), “I want to do it!”  Deep inside me I could FEEL this burning, broiling THING that needed to get out.  This was my chance to write about whatever I wanted in a place where no one who knew me in real life would ever see it.
I have things to say!!!
So Brillig signed me up to guest post.
And I promptly forgot what I so urgently wanted to blog about.

I find myself stewing over THE GUEST POST.  What will I write?  What do I say? 
Why all this pressure? You may be asking, Brillig’s a stand-up kind of gal.  She won’t fault you for giving her something less than your best. A movie review? Funny anecdote? Rant about the weather? All fine with Brillig, I’m sure.

And I’m sure you’re right.
But here’s the thing. Having the opportunity to write a post on someone else’s blog is big.  Really big. HUGE.

Every. Single. Time. that I sit down to blog, I am haunted by the awareness that THIS POST (along with the other 5,432) will be delivered directly via email to my Father.  And there’s this little voice that never shuts up whispering in my brain, “Do you really want him to read that?”
Then there’s the knowledge that every week my mother-in-law sits down at her computer, puts on her reading glasses, and peers into the screen and directly at my blog.  There go another 201 topics, right out the window.

And if that wasn’t enough, my mom is certain to call with concerned tone if I blog anything that seems to be at all sad, angry, or despondent.

“I read your post, honey,” she’ll say, “and here’s what I think.”

And good though her intentions might be, I DON’T WANT TO KNOW WHAT SHE THINKS.

I DON’T WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT!!!
MY BLOG IS NOT A LAUNCH PAD FOR DEEP AND MEANINGFUL CONVERSATIONS!!!

Then, like my own personal demons, there are the hoards of ex-coworkers, neighbors, relatives, friends, friends-of-friends, enemies, playground acquaintances and MORE.
AAAGGGHHHH THE PRESSURE!!!
Do you feel the pressure?
Cause I’m feeling the pressure.
There’s many good things about having an “open” blog.  Like, for example, you don’t write mean things about people, which they later find and hate you for.  Then there’s the fact that people sort of “get” what you’re doing and “support” you in their own special ways. 
But there are definitely the moments where I would give my right leg and maybe my left one too for the chance to blog in total anonymity.

How freeing would it be to be able to say whatever I want?!

The problem with freedom is that, without walls and restrictions and guidelines, you get bogged down by the available possibilities such that you can’t think of a single thing to say.
And then you’re stuck, right back where you started.

Hmmph.

Jenny is an award-winning TV-watcher, peanut-butter-from-the-jar eater and chore-avoider who usually can be found blogging at Absolutely Bananas and Seattle Mom Blogs. 

Ok, ok, so she actually didn’t win awards for any of those things.  But she should have.  She definitely should have.

Hi people! This is Jill from “Thou shalt not whine” at http://andimeanit.blogspot.com
I’m excited to be guest posting for Brillig today! I had the pleasure of meeting Brillig at a Blogger lunch a few months back, and I will say that she is as delightful in person as she is on her blog. She kept us laughing the whole time.

I was watching a local daytime talk show a few months ago, and one of their guests for the day was a lady who they referred to as a “fashion expert.” She was there to tell us all about the new fashion trends.
Just the day before, this fashion expert (we’ll call her Laverne) had gone through the closet of one of the ladies hosting the show, (Let’s call her Shirley) and removed a large stack of clothes, and brought them to the television studio, and picked through them on live television.
She told Shirley that her that her clothes were out of style, and she just couldn’t wear them anymore.

Shirley was shocked “But I love those clothes!” she protested.
“No” Laverne told her, picking up a really cute skirt “Nobody wears skirts that length anymore.”
Shirley: But that’s my favorite skirt! It’s so comfortable, and it looks so cute with that pink blouse that I you told me to buy.”
Laverne: No, I’m sorry, it’s got to go. You really shouldn’t even have this in your closet, it’s quite dated.
Shirley: But I just bought it last summer!
No, it’s just not in style anymore. You can’t be seen in it. Donate it to charity.

Laverne went on to pick apart this poor lady’s wardrobe. There was something wrong with everything.

Laverne: You really need to get rid of this suit also. The color is all wrong. This year turquoise is the “HOT” color. Everybody will be wearing turquoise.
Shirley: I thought that gray was the hot color this year. Just a few months ago, you told me to buy everything gray.
Laverne: No, not anymore. Turquoise is now the hot color. Nobody will be wearing gray this year, everybody will be wearing turquoise!

I really felt sorry for this television host, and if I was anywhere near the size she is, I would have gladly offered to take the clothes off her hands. They were darn cute.

My question, where does this “fashion expert” lady get all this information, and why does her opinion matter so much?
Who is it in the big scheme of things that decides what’s “in” and what’s “out” as far as fashion trends go? Who is it that decides what does and does not look good? Why do we all need to follow what they decide?

This past winter, we were just leaving a movie theater, and a group of teenage girls came running in the door. Outside it was snowing heavily, and quite cold. These teenagers were all wearing shorts, flip flops and hoodies. The girls were all huddled together shivering, goose bumps all over their bare legs, and complaining about how cold they were.

Hello! McFly! Put some clothes on!

I would really like to know which girl in the group decided that it would be cute to wear shorts and flip flops in sub freezing temperatures, and why the other girls in the group were compelled to follow her. I wonder what would have happened if one of the girls had rebelled and worn, oh I don’t know, maybe A COAT! Would she have been shunned from the group and not allowed to participate in the group activity? Would the other girls have left her alone, and then made fun of her saying how stupid she looked in her warm clothes while they stand shivering in the snow?

Why are we all such a bunch of “fashion sheep?”

What do you think, are you more likely to buy something you like that is comfortable, or something that someone else has decided looks good?

(Of course, this post doesn’t apply to shoes, because most fabulous shoes just can’t be comfortable )

Jill

Hey, Brillig here.  Please welcome today’s guest-blogger, a dear bloggy friend who never fails to inspire me, Dr. Bolte.

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when i was little, according to my mom, i ran everywhere.

ran on the beach.

ran in the field.

ran from here to there, ran to do anything.

i was sassy and on the move.

i’m still sassy, but for many years i have been definitely not on the move.

on the day that my mom told me that, she was in the midst of
transferring old super 8 home movies onto dvd for my granddaddy’s
father’s day present. every time i would talk to her during the week,
she’d have new stories for me, of the time when she went to the grand
canyon as a teenager and forgotten how much they were in the car until
she saw the movies, which were just a succession of images of children
in the requisite 1960s tourist wear waving from beside a station
wagon.

on the day that my mom told me the story of my running toddlerhood, i
had been on the elliptical for an hour. i realized, in the midst of
the hour as i was counting iPod songs in an attempt to keep track of
my goal, that i really liked it. i should hate it. i thought i would
hate it. i was doing it to do it, not to love it. but i did.

at that moment, i began to wonder if maybe i am a runner after all.

i’ve never been athletic. not once in my life. i have fond memories of
bright shining moments of athletic effort, like the time i played
football with my friends in the park and loved it or all of the times
i rode my bike as a kid and found freedom in the wind in my ears. but
for the most part, i’ve lived a book life, a very sedentary book life.
but somewhere down deep, i always wanted to know if i could play
soccer. just never tried. i was never quick enough for something like
softball, because i always got tagged out before i could make it to
base. but what about basketball? it, too, was on my list of things to
know how to play…but i just never did it. i always thought it would
be incredibly cool to run a marathon, to be that kind of long-distance
runner. but i never tried. i never thought i could do any of those
things. i just didn’t think it was in my nature.

until i realized, that day on the elliptical, that maybe i have that
nature somewhere in me, just waiting to come out.

and when my mom told me that i ran everywhere as a child, that i was
unstoppable, i think something clicked for me.

we can be anything we want to be.

so i’m a book person. i like to be lazy sometimes and read all day in
my bed. that doesn’t mean that i can’t also be a 5K person. that
doesn’t mean that i can’t train myself to be whatever it is that i
want to be.

we put ourselves into too many boxes, i think.

i have put myself into too many boxes.

i am tired of boxes. aren’t you?

we are who we are. we all have innate talents. we all have gifts. when
we refuse to believe that we might have a gift and a talent and a
passion for something that just might be completely different than we
ever thought we could be, we lose out on cultivating a flicker of the
divine within us.

so, i’m working on being a runner.

i’m also working on being a runner who believes in her capacity to do
anything she wants to do.

i may never make it to a marathon. some days, i’m lucky if i make it
to the elliptical at all. and i may look like an idiot on the
treadmill as i try out these new running legs. but in october, i will
be running a 5K for breast cancer, in honor of my mom who puts one
foot in front of the other every day with courage and a great deal of
spunk. and on that day, i will prove to myself that i can do anything.

because, honestly, i think we can do anything.

we just forget that sometimes.

Hi, I’m Jen of a2eatwrite. I’m a long fan of Brillig’s, and despite the fact that I have many years on her, I wish I could be her when I grow up.

For my guest post today, I thought I’d come up with some moving tips for Brillig:

I have moved many times in my life. I’m not sure I’ve moved as many times as Brillig has. If you read her “About Brillig” section, you’ll see that not only has she moved many times, but she’s moved to and from all kinds of interesting places.

Nevertheless, I’m seeing fit to give Brillig moving tips because obviously she really needs to hear this from me, a much less experienced mover.

Be that as it may, I really have moved a number of times, and I can prove it from my mortgage application. In said application (completed two moves ago), I was asked to list all places of residence for the previous seven years.

I listed ten.

For each of these places, I had a system down. Do it all myself, and what I couldn’t do myself, I bribed big, burly friends to do. I’ve found that pizza and beer is a good bribe when you want household stuff done. There’s a current commercial by McFastFood’s that says that Sweet Tea is the proper bribe. Not. So. Beer, pizza or diamonds. Trust me on that one.

By the time I married D., I could fit all my worldly goods, including furniture, into the back of a Dodge Omni. For those of you who don’t remember this gem of engineering, it was a VW Rabbit knock-off. For those who don’t remember the Rabbit… think Golf, only smaller. In terms of “furniture” this included a futon frame and said futon, folding chairs and card table, and various knicknacks to make it all pretty. I usually bought a couple of other things at used places and then sold them back to used places when I moved.

Then, as I said, I married D. D never met an object he didn’t think he could eventually find a use for. D’s parents had about 1500 square feet of basement filled with glass jars, stacks of newspaper, scrap metal, etc., etc., in case it “came in handy.” My in-laws are the most wonderful folks in the world, but they survived the Depression and are Yankees from Vermont.

‘Nuff said.

So by the time D and I were ready for our first move together, I knew the Omni wasn’t going to figure into it. Maybe for the contents of his desk drawers, but no more than that.

Now, I should also mention that D had a bad back in those days, and couldn’t really lift heavy objects. (And all of his objects were heavy, because “useful” objects always seem to be). I also had background as a theater technician and had spent many, many hours loading and unloading trucks and carrying objects that seemed to be three times my weight or more. So guess who was in charge of moving?

And yup, the pizza and beer trick worked again, too.

Our move across country, however, was into yet another apartment. This apartment served us very well until I was about 7 months pregnant and decided that going down three flights of stairs and through two locked doors every time I wanted to do laundry would be a bit much. Especially while carrying said laundry AND the baby. So as pregnant women can sometimes do, I convinced harangued, threatened and pleaded shamelessly D that maybe this would be a good time to buy our first house.

Then my OB stepped in. Lift things? Moi? BAD idea. She wanted it all done for me.

Voila.

Now I knew the secret to moving. So I sat there, eating pizza (no beer for the pregnant lady, obviously), while various friends (and D, whose back miraculously healed upon learning I was pregnant) lifted and grunted and placed things, and I sat like a princess.

Brillig, Dear, I know you have your hands full and probably don’t need any pitter patters of more feet just at this moment, but think… just think… about packing a pillow. After all, Mr. Brillig hasn’t seen you for awhile, right?

Just sayin…

Today’s guest blogger is my dear bloggy (turned “in real life”) friend Kimberly of Temporary? Insanity!

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So I’m experiencing an odd mix of excitement and anxiety here. I mean…this is Brillig’s blog. It’s the blogging equivalent of Carnegie Hall, really.

I thought I’d start off with a quick blurb about how I met Brillig and all the attendant fabulousness. Because I figure if you’re here reading this, then you’re a devoted Brillig lover as well and maybe, just maybe, I might catch your attention enough that you’ll read the rest of my drivel.

I honestly don’t remember who read whose blog first. Did she leave a one time random comment on my blog which subjected her to the full force of my almost stalkerish devotion, or did I find her blog during one of my blog browsing expeditions (that is, randomly clicking the links on my friend’s blog rolls, then their friend’s blog rolls, and so on).

Anyway, I read one post and I was simply enchanted. She was funny, intelligent, and also believable as a human being (very important quality, that). I immediately went into her archives and read her blog. The entirety of it. In one sitting.

My excess of spare time is a whole other subject though.

Anyway, I eventually left enough comments that I got her attention and she’s been stuck with me ever since. She even got roped into meeting me in person last summer, and put up with my antics for an unbelievably long time. I think we stayed at the restaurant for what? Four hours or so? Okay, I admit it, I think she loved me almost as much as I loved her. I’m pretty fabulous, after all.

Anyway, what it came into my head to blog about here is someone that I don’t love. Well, hardly at all. I mean, there’s that little kernel of an idea revolving around brotherly and sisterly love and all that, but that put aside, I couldn’t stand this woman. And I’ve never been able to blog about her before as a mutual friend reads my blog.

Being widely read has its disadvantages, you know.

So this gal, I’ll call her Belinda, is completely maddening in nearly all ways possible. She talks to the exclusion of everybody else, wears shirts cut down practically to her navel, shares intimate details about her medical issues (even if you tell her you’d rather not know!), and her parenting frequently makes me wince. One of her children got frostbite this winter and she said it served him right for refusing to wear his mittens. He’s only four years old! Suffice it to say that she is not the most perceptive or thoughtful of women.

Probably what rankles the most though is that she thinks the world owes her support and help, and takes advantage of people without any thought. She has little or no gratitude in her. She expects rather than thanks. So, she’s a very difficult woman to like. But I can’t avoid her. In a church congregation of forty people avoiding someone is next to impossible.

I spent a year and a half detesting this woman.

The last few months have seen a change it those feelings. She and her husband bought a house, as they’d been evicted from their apartment and couldn’t find another willing to take them on. The house had to be fixed up in 30 days or they’d lose it. One of my closest friends watched her kids, another did her laundry, my husband helped arrange moving parties, dry walling parties, etc.

It was a rough month.

Through a series of seemingly unrelated experiences, my attitude, my perspective, began to shift. I saw the ways in which my friends were being blessed for the service they’d given. Inexplicably good things kept happening for them, and they swore it was because of the service they’d been giving to this family. Huh. I kept having experiences that seemed specifically tuned to teach me about being more patient, tolerant, and loving. I was pretty much forced to face up to my feelings for Belinda and deal with them in a more positive manner.

I realized that the source of my ill feelings toward her was anger. I was angry that she took advantage of my friends and offered so little gratitude in return. I was angry that my husband’s time was so absorbed by her family’s needs instead of his own. And deep, deep down, I found an even less pleasant feeling. The feeling of anger over the fact that she, who did everything wrong, was getting all the attention.

Not pretty, people. Not pretty at all.

I spent several days just mulling things over, taking every aspect of her that made me angry or disdainful and trying to twist it around. Her immodest dress? Quite possibly because healthy problems have contributed to her being overweight. The poor girl was trying to feel better about herself. Her parenting techniques, while disturbing, were better than many. She was loving with her children, provided for them as best she could. All too many children in this world of ours have it worse off. Hers could even be counted as lucky for having come into a home where they are loved and wanted, if not always taken the best care of. Perhaps I could do more to help in that respect? Spend more time with her? Set an example instead of sitting in judgment?

I got thinking about her lack of gratitude and her expecting all manner of help. And then I thought about her difficulty in understanding some simple things (like when people’s eyes glaze over you should possibly change the subject) and the fact that her little family is always in some trouble or other. People are forever leaping to the rescue. How can she help expecting what she’s always been given? And how can people do anything but help when help is always so urgently needed?

Suddenly, I was overwhelmed by pity. This poor woman has so many earthly struggles. A diminished capacity for understanding. A life that has dealt countless blows to her physical health and her family’s finances. Every day is a struggle for her, and like most of us, she wants to be looked up to and admired. Envied even. Hence the talking. The insisting that conversations focus on her and her alone.

I confess, I still don’t enjoy her company very much. She came up to me on Sunday and commented on how tired I looked. I was surprised, thinking she actually remembered that I’d had a rough week (I had a miscarriage a week ago) and was going to offer some sympathy. Instead she launched into a bitter diatribe about how her daughter is keeping her awake at night. I was late for class because it took awhile to get her attention and let her know I had to go. Instead of being angry though I felt keenly how fortunate I am to have so much outside of myself to be interested in. She doesn’t currently have that blessing in her life. Her life is all struggle and strife, and I am so keenly aware now how fortunate I am in comparison to her. I’m pretty well taken care of. I’m blessed to be able to turn my attention outwards (only sometimes of course, and not as often as I should).

It’s amazing what a shift of perspective can do. It can take anger and disdain and transform them into sympathy and love. Yes, love. Because it’s nigh impossible to understand someone without loving them.

I’m grateful for perspective. It makes for a much happier life.