And now a break for some logic.

Here's the thing about being a member of the Religious Society of Friends. (A Quaker y'all.) The thing is - one of the tenants of Meeting is that well, you don't necessarily need a meeting. If you can't make it, that's generally considered ok, because you can meditate for guidance from the Spirit (a piece of which is in all of us) as needed.

It's pretty darn convenient.

Meetings (what we call services) are silent and turn into a discussion only when members are moved by the Spirit sufficiently to share with others. (We don't have a service, nor do we have a minister or priest. Meetings are not lead by anyone.) Sometimes, no one feels much like talking. Great as an adult. Painfully, mindbendingly boring as a kid.

The last actual meeting I went to was right after Husband and I decided to get married just shy of 11 years ago. But see, just last week, I was having a hard time. My anxiety (about what I couldn't tell) was affecting my sleep, making me jittery at work, irritable, and just generally, not that fun. I asked for some help on Thursday.

On Friday, as I drove to work, I got my response. The thing about dealing directly with the Spirit is that his words are not filtered through someone else. It's a direct line in a language I usually understand, and it went something like this:

"You know I have your back."

Yep. I do. Really. (I don't talk about it much, and I do what I can with the whole blending into Catholicism thing. But I talk to God when I need to.)

"So if you know I have your back, how dare you have the audacity to be anxious? Get out there and do your best. The rest is up to me."

It seems so beautifully simple that I just had to share.

Boss Lady

I'm having domestic help issues.

As I scrubbed the upstairs bathroom this weekend, I tried to remember the last time I did it. I don't think I can. Could it really be sometime this spring, before Lolo's hospitalization? Very probably.

LACKLUSTER. (please note: spray and wipe has been done relatively frequently. I've also cleaned the tub in recent memory. It's just the deeper stuff that has been left to its own devices. The floor, for example.)

We have a running joke in the Casa Valentine that someone needs to speak with the cleaning lady (that'd be us). She's not very good. (Well, we're busy!) In fact, we routinely question why we're paying her. (We're not. Maybe we should?)

But then today, as I heated up my leftovers for lunch in the kitchen at work, I took a good assessing look at them and found them to be somewhat sub-par. They were: 2 whole wheat tortillas with reheated chopped steak. (Not so bad, but distinctly lacking in chlorophyll.)

But then I thought of what husband had: 1 hot dog and 3/4 sausage with the rest of the steak bits on top and 1/2 corn on the cob left-over from last night. No buns, no sauce. Husband gamely called it meat mosh and some corn. I totally put that together for him and called it lunch. That's not cool. Not cool at all.

Our personal chef is heading for a smacked bottom.