Spiders

Alright, I have had some truly terrifying spider adventures in my current apartment. My apartment complex is wonderful, and I have loved living here for the couple of years I have had a lease. Well, except for the fact that giant monster spiders sometimes find their way into my apartment.

My apartment is not nasty. I keep it clean and pretty well maintained. The apartment complex is a little older, but is nice and has received excellent maintenance. In fact, there is supposedly even a wait list for people to get into this apartment complex. So I'm not really sure where the spiders come from, but every couple of months I will find a giant wolf spider just casually sharing my living space, that are like the size of my palm. I can't figure out if it is because my apartment complex is near the woods and river, or through what space they are entering my apartment. It also does not happen too terribly often. However, it is still a terrible problem to have.

A semi-accurate depiction of the size of a regular spider as compared to the size of the spiders found in my apartment.

I really do not find them often, but when I do find one I panic. I truly don't handle it well. But throughout my experiences, I have learned how to be totally courageous. Brave. Valiant. 

One of the worst experiences I have had with one of these creatures happened late one night. I had arrived home after hanging out with some friends, and in the dim light I had turned on when entering my apartment, I could see a spot on the carpet in my hallway. I went to investigate, and discovered that it was in fact a giant spider. Probably the size of my palm. But no, not just a regular giant spider. A mommy giant wolf spider. 

That's right. She was covered in her own live young. Which meant I couldn't step on her, since then the millions and billions of baby spiders clinging to her body would spread out across my carpet like a tiny sea of terror. I decided to trap her under a bowl, slide a folder under it, and then throw the whole thing outside. Except that when I approached her to trap her, her mommy senses took note of the impending danger, and she tried to escape.

That's right. She was moving. Now the only thing more terrifying than a giant spider that is running is a giant spider that is hopping. And the only thing more terrifying than a hopping giant spider is a giant spider who spills piles of baby spiders on your carpet with each hop it makes.

That's right. Now I have baby spiders all over my hallway carpet, despite my brilliant plan. I slam the bowl on top of mommy spider and commence to handling the new situation. I squish every baby I see moving, which was like a billion of them. And then I pull out the vacuum, and vacuum my apartment for about 45 minutes. After the carpet was as clean as it was on the day in which it was installed, I devised my plan for mommy spider, who somehow still had tons of babies still on her. I couldn't stomp on her, because not only was she a clearly one tough mom, but I also felt guilty about  what happened to all her spider babies. So my plan mostly consisted of taking the plastic bowl in which she was trapped outside to a tree that was not next to my apartment, and throwing the whole bowl against the tree, so that I did not have to be anywhere near her when she was released.

I didn't litter. I ended up picking up the bowl. But I did throw it in the dumpster. I didn't particularly want to use it again. I also called my dad as it was all happening to make sure that I was going to be okay. That's part of a daddy's job. But I mostly think he thought it was hilarious.

My second most terrifying experience happened much more recently. I saw a giant wolf spider in my entry hallway, and quickly stepped on it before he could escape, and I thought it was dead. When I came back a few minutes later to clean it up, its body was gone. I was confused, of course, but there wasn't anything I could do about it. It just wasn't there anymore. 

So I just continued to exist, doing whatever work I had been doing or watching some tv, probably. And then I decided to take a shower and get ready for bed. After I had gotten clean, I hopped out of the shower and what was right there, blocking my exit from the bathroom, but a giant wolf spider. And there I was, trapped in the bathroom, shoe-less, and very nervous. 

See, I was only able to draw two conclusions from my situation: either there were multiple giant wolf spiders in my apartment, or the spider was intelligent enough to pretend to be dead in order to escape and hunt me down later. Both thoughts are really quite terrifying.

The view between me and my hallway. Also, my bathroom is really not that ugly.

So I pretty much dealt with the situation like a superhero, by hurdling over the spider and racing to get a shoe, and then swiftly bringing to an end the potential danger imposed upon me by that spider. 

Really, I feel really bad whenever I have to stomp on one of those spiders. My guilty conscience roars to life, and I wonder if they had little spider families or spider career plans. And I know that spiders like wolf spiders are not bad spiders, and that they are important to have in our ecosystem. But ultimately, I just can't share my living space with a big, hairy spider. I feel like most of you understand. 

Y'all. My old diaries.

Ever go back and read your old diaries, and think, "wow, I was dumb." Because I have, on more than one occasion. Formerly, I was pretty good at keeping a diary. By formerly, I mean that when I was in my young to mid-teenage years. And by pretty good, I mean that I filled up a few journals over the period of a few years. 

I kept a diary when I was a young gal, but only would write in it occasionally, and usually it looked something like this: 

But then, when I was in junior high school, I read Anne Frank's diary. And of course, the magnitude of her situation and the greatness of her diary impacted me. I was in awe of Anne Frank. I knew her story, and I knew her family and those living with her, and I knew the people that were taking care of her. I knew that I loved Anne Frank and her family. She made me to know and love them because of her diary, that monument to history. To this day, I love Anne Frank and her family.

So she inspired me to write a diary. I was not Anne Frank. I could not be Anne Frank; I had not endured suffering such as she endured. But that did not stop me from unleashing my thirteen year old heart onto the pages of those diaries with the clasps that didn't lock and the gaudy covers. And I continued to write for a little while. 

There was a cycle that occurred with my diaries. I would write consistently for a period, and then I would quit. And then I would pick it back up again. However, also in that cycle, I would inevitably go back after a long period of time and re-read my old journals. And I would always think, "ugh, me, what were you thinking? That's so silly and dumb. I need to get rid of these before anyone else ever sees them and sees how dumb I am."

And I would throw them away.

This is a portrayal of 15 year old Carolyn throwing away a diary that she wrote in when she was younger because she cared too much what all the people who would never read her diary would think if they did actually read it. I really needed to learn a thing or two about personal style when I was 15.

I did that multiple times, all because I either was annoyed at myself for what I had written in the past, or I was embarrassed by how silly I had seemed. I would think that my diary entries had been silly and dramatic, or boring and pointless. And I did not see the value in them, and I never wanted anyone else to read them. So I would just throw them into the trash.

Now that I am older, I really wish I could judge the quality of those diary entries with fresh eyes. I have changed so much, and it would be so interesting to go back and read them. Not that I was particularly interesting (I really was not). But it would just be interesting to go back and review my life as I viewed it then, and see how I have changed (or stayed the same, oh my). 

I find myself doing the same kind of thing with my blog. Fairly recently, I went through and deleted some old posts I had written because I didn't like them anymore. I had to stop myself from deleting a lot (like all) of my old posts, and tell myself that it's okay that it's a silly post without much purpose. Who knows, though. Maybe soon you'll come to my blog and all my old posts will be deleted. Gone. Poof. Deleted.

Now this blog is not a diary. It's about my thoughts and experiences, sure. I might dance around some life issues that I am experiencing, or write about my thoughts, or announce great news (such as that my thesis committee approved my thesis today at my defense!), but that's about it. I only write about it on here if it is something I think is good to share with the general public, especially since most of the general public that reads this already knows me. No one is going to read about the details and problems in my personal life, etc. Those kinds of things are fit for an actual diary, and not for this particular blog. And hey, y'all with the crazy statuses and updates, not fit for social media, either. 

Because my sister and I are friends 4ever

The above is the text message conversation I had with my dear younger sister the other day. I'm true to my word. Also, she is clearly in college since she texted me at midnight. And I'm clearly in grad school because I was still awake.

My sister was born when I was approximately four and a half years old. I really wanted to her to be named Mary, and begged my parents for that. The reason: I thought you had to be named Mary to get married. I apparently didn't know how to spell yet; in my mind they were the same word. Also, I was looking out for you, sister. I knew that since I was named Carolyn Kate, I was going to be single forever and ever, and it would be against the law for me to get married. But I wanted you to at least have that choice. It never crossed my precious four year old brain that my mom was not named Mary, but she was married. Whatever.

But anyway, having a younger sibling was life-changing. We were always really different. We never even looked alike. When we were little, I was blonde, with straight hair, and had blue eyes. She had dark and curly hair, hazel eyes, and was covered in freckles.

 

My sister is WAY more adorable than this picture. She has freckles, not chicken pox. And her hair does not look weird. And she's cute as a button. And totally beautiful. And just way more lovely than this. I'm not an artist. 

My strengths were often her weaknesses, and her strengths were often my weaknesses. For example, she has always been extremely crafty and creative. Me, on the other hand... well, y'all are witnesses to my artistic capabilities. She's on another level.

But the point is, we had different personalities growing up. It often led to us bickering and quarreling, competing with each other.  We did love each other, very much. Even though we were extremely competitive with each other, we were a team. For instance, I didn't like broccoli, but my sister did. It really tastes okay, but what kind of kid likes broccoli? So we would wait until our parents weren't looking, and then she would take half the broccoli off of my plate and give me something else from her plate. Keeping it cool, just like sisters should. Also, I would like to ask for forgiveness for making my parents believe that I really did eat all that broccoli.

But the age difference was difficult at times. We never really shared a stage in life until she hit the later years of high school, and got past those horrible, angsty, awful early and mid-teenage years that we all have to experience before becoming regular human beings. But after that, we experienced something great.

We already loved each other. We were sisters. But then age truly cemented our friendship. We began to tell each other our secrets. She held my hand and gave me the sweetest of encouragements when I had a broken heart. I sat up with her at night and gave her advice about college. She confided in me about friendships and boys. I confided in her about my hopes. We grew closer together. Even our hair sensed the change, and now we have almost the same color of hair.

She is an amazing person, and I love her so much. I just want everyone to know what a lovely sister I have, and how thankful I am to have her.

Also, we have conversations like this.

I was thinking about this instead of the sermon on Sunday.

It was the most beautiful room anyone could ever be in, and there wasn't ever a person who didn't like that room. And there wasn't ever a person who could find that room until it was time for them to find that room. One day, they're just in the room.  Not everyone gets into that room. Oh no, not even a lot of people who do try to look for it. But of the people who get into that room, they all love it. It doesn't matter if they are architectural enthusiasts or design snobs; the room is perfect for each of them (funny enough, it's also the same for each of them).

So they're coming and going out of this room (a lot of them, but not as many as there could be), and at some point they all go over to this long table full of books. Every book is the same: The Book of Life. And each person gets to sit down and find their name in it. It's seriously better than anything you've ever done. They get to look it up (because anyone who gets to sit down and look through it like that has their name in it), and they get to read everything that's listed under it. 

On that list is a bunch of really good stuff. The kind of stuff that if you read it here, you'd get vain and proud. Folks wouldn't like you much anymore, and you'd just turn into a really yucky person. You'd try to do that same stuff more and more, just so that maybe you could read more good thing about yourself. But it wouldn't even be good stuff to do anymore, because you're only doing it for a pretty yucky you.  

But when they read that good stuff in that room, they don't even think about themselves. They just think about how happy they were to be able to do it. They didn't even know that that one thing they said to that one person would show up in this book. It just did, and wow! See how it helped that person! And they didn't know that they were ever going to read about spending time with that one person that one day. But hey, that one person was so blessed by it! And look at that: every single dollar, and food item, and pair of shoes that they ever gave in the name of the Lord shows up, along with its journey to help the helpless. Just think about where that pair of shoes walked. And it's delightful.

Eventually, they get done reading about themselves. They can only think about themselves for so long when they're there. But they're not done with that book. They get to look up other people! Grandparents, Fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters, uncles, aunts, cousins, friends, teachers, students, co-workers, and really just whoever else they want to look up. They get to read about them, too! 

Perhaps if you were to read really good stuff about yourself and then read really good stuff about other people you know, you might enjoy reading about yourself a little more. But not them. They're just as happy to read about the other people and everything they did that was glorious. Maybe even happier, because that means that they've been there. 

You see, they can only read the names of people who have been in that room. They'll look up some people, and find their name. And they get excited when they find their names. They get to read all about them, and be so delighted. They'll look up some people, though, and not find their name. Those folks aren't in The Book of Life. It's pretty sad, because those folks did some pretty good stuff and it would have been lovely to read about it. They can't feel too bad about it, though, because the next moment they'll find the next name they were looking for and get to celebrate over all that person's really good stuff.

Texting is ruining our lives

Now I know that the title of this post is a bit dramatic. Also, let it be known that I do text. But I think that texting has gotten a bit out of hand. (On a side note, this website doesn't recognize "texting" as a legitimate word when I type it. Get with the times.)

What I mean by this claim is that I have become increasingly frustrated with text messaging and the way it impacts my relationships with other people. It is a terrible way to try to manage existing friendships. It is a terrible way to get to know people.  It makes cowards out of people. It makes people lazy.

Now, I shall start with the defense of text messaging, so that y'all can understand my argument a little better. I text message people all the time. It is super convenient. For example, I might be in a conference where making a phone call to talk casually with my friend would be extremely rude and inappropriate. However, at the same conference, sending a text message to communicate casually with my friend would only be a little rude and inappropriate. I text people daily, and I like for them to text me, though I am sometimes (frequently) bad at responding in a timely manner (I don't mean to forget). There are many, many reasons to text someone. I might be touching base with someone about plans later that afternoon. I might be letting someone know I am thinking about them. Or asking them a casual question. Or coordinating a meeting between multiple friends. I might be texting them about a tv show we are watching simultaneously from different cities. Or just enjoying some talk about our day. And the list goes on and on, but it does not go on to actually form or maintain those close relationships.

That's says, "what is up?" because that's the number one way to start a casual conversation on an old cell phone.

But aspects of communicating solely by text have started to irk me. I find that I have not kept well-maintained friendships with many people, despite texting them. I don't really know about their lives, and they don't really know about mine. I get lazy about responding, and so do other people. I don't know what to pray for them. I don't know what is currently making them happy or sad, and I don't know how their work and their social lives are. And they don't know these things about me. Though I love these friends, I literally cannot show it over a text message. The friends who I have maintained a strong relationship with are the ones who I actually talk to, via phone call, on occasion. It doesn't even have to be that frequently. Once every few months will suffice in some cases. Yet, text messaging has replaced even that with many friendships. Unfortunately, I am only accusing myself of this. To those friends of mine, I am very sorry.

And there is the formation of new relationships. You cannot really get to really know real people through text messages. I repeat, you CANNOT get to know people through text messages. I don't care if you try to text me all day long - you are only seeing a fraction of me. I am only seeing a fraction of you. And you're only seeing a fraction of anyone else you try to text. I don't think that this is as huge of a problem when it comes to making new friends, because you're probably not trying to learn all about your new friends over text messaging. You're probably just hanging out and eating a lot of pizza and ice cream, talking and getting to know your friend. I feel like dating is the major area in which the problem of text messaging is used as a means of forming new relationships.

OH NO SHE DIDN'T.

Oh yes she did. 

Also, sorry that this is so scary looking but I took the few minutes to do it so it's going in this post.

But it's true. And okay, maybe it is excused in people who are not looking for commitment. Dating is scary, thoughts of marriage are probably for the distant future, and texting is a means of trying to become acquainted with someone that allows for avoidance of commitment if necessary. However, each person eventually outgrows that phase in life. Men begin to want to be treated like men. Women begin to want to be treated like women. That means pursuing, and being bold, and showing leadership. That means having proper standards and a personality that is worth the work. And I'm just going to say it: texting is not romantic. It is my opinion that rare is the man who feels well respected by text messages, and rare is the woman who feels very cherished by text messages. Some flirtation, some conversation, nice goodnight or good morning texts are always great. There is nothing wrong at all with texting the person you are pursuing or who is pursuing you! But text messaging as a replacement for talking is a mistake. Somewhere along the way, I think a lot of men and women in the dating realm have started to think that talking on the phone means having a boring conversation, or getting in an argument. But I think it's different. Phone calls are nice. Talking in person is better.

Now, I am not condemning text messaging. I think it has some good uses, and I definitely text message. I just think that those of us who are adults need to look at our friendships and other relationships, and see if we are satisfied at the depth of them. Is the text message, where meaning and feeling are difficult to portray and ascertain, the appropriate medium to maintain and develop those relationships? The answer might absolutely be YES in some cases. But the answer is all too often no.

Of course this is about the weather

I've realized that I am completely helpless when it is cold. It's painful. I don't know what to do. I don't have an ice scraper for my car. I don't remember to leave faucets dripping when it gets below freezing. I don't remember to go start my car ahead of time to let it warm up before leaving in the mornings. I'm mostly sure that I'm not a polar bear.

This has to be a product of being reared in Alabama. I just don't see how people do it up yonder in the Northern states. When the high temperature of the day is below freezing, I can barely face the outside. When I was driving earlier today, with the heat in my car cranked all the way up, I started to think about arctic explorers. How do they handle it? Especially back in ye olden days. I feel like if they even took a hand out of its glove for a second, it would immediately freeze solid and fall off and break into a million pieces. The reason I think this is because I'm pretty sure it almost happened to me, in Alabama, during the recent reign of ice.

And the worst part of it is that there is not any snow to be found. Oh sure, maybe that's why some people up yonder in the Northern states like the cold: because it often yields snow. But the only things we got with the cold was more cold, along with a side of a cold, and then a final serving of cold. You didn't look out your window to see a winter wonderland. You just saw dead grass, and trees without leaves, and probably a bird frozen in the birdbath. You know, the typical winter loveliness.

It's a Christmas room with a traditional Alabama Christmas view.

It has been so cold recently that when the high reached 46 degrees today, I almost put on my bathing suit and ran to the pool. It felt like summertime when compared to the high the day before. And that just makes me miss the real summertime. I'm ready for the warmer weather. For the butterflies and flowers. For the sun to still be up at 5:00 in the afternoon. For the lake and the beach. For sipping sweet iced tea on the patio. For watching fireworks on the Fourth of July down by the river. And sure enough, warmer weather will creep (or not creep, likely) back and cover this place. 

Although, in defense of this cold weather, I haven't been bitten by a mosquito lately.

It's just been a bunch of stupid seasons

Let's just be honest: I've been waiting for the new year since August. I'm not one bit sad to bid farewell to 2013. This year has been the most challenging, difficult year of my (admittedly, fairly short) life. Although I will wake up, God willing, on January 1, 2014 in the exact same place in life as I was on December 31, 2013, there is just something significant about the New Year. I can't describe why, apart from the feeling that it is just a symbolic turning of the page.

Now, it's been quite a while since I last wrote on here. And that post was all about change and transition, and wondering where I will go and how I will serve God. I was hoping that by now I would have a better idea of where I would go.

NOPE.

I guess I have narrowed it down to a handful of cities, but I thought that I would have a more definite idea of where I would head off to by now. I'm definitely keeping Tuscaloosa and Birmingham in the mix, and I've added in Nashville, Atlanta, and somewhere along the gulf coast. Oh, and I have to find a job in one of these places. Because, ya know, life. And because it's, ya know, life, I might not end up in any of those places at all.

However muddled and indecisive I am about where to go (or not go, if I stick around Tuscaloosa), I am very excited to say I have gained clarity on how to better serve God. Truly, I can't even describe the feeling of God's infinite love, mercy, grace, and compassion. The Bible does a better job than I could. Maybe you should be reading it instead of this, ya bunch of heathens. (Just try to read that as a joke. I don't know if you're actually a heathen or not, and I would really rather believe you are not one.)

I teetered on a brink before, wondering how to give Him more of me without really wanting to go through with giving Him more. Then, when I was made to step off the edge, I saw that there was really not a cliff there at all. The circumstances that made me step off the precipice (I'm really just seeing how many different words I can use to say the same thing in this paragraph) were not fun at all. But by stepping off that point, I was forced to obey God or ignore God. And when I obeyed Him, He not only affirmed me, He ended up starting an entirely new season in my life.

Ya know, I will say it has always annoyed me when people talk about seasons of life. I don't have a good reason for why it has annoyed me. But it just has. "You're just going through a season." "It's just a season of change." "This season will end and a new season will begin."

There are only 4 seasons: winter, spring, summer, autumn, okay??



But there's truth in that. By the standard of that kind of season, I would split 2013 into two seasons. And when the second season began, I met new people. I read new things. I picked up a sport (okay, so I play tennis by my own rules, and very poorly, but it counts). I prayed. I decided to learn from the change rather than just wait out the change. A lot of this is just vague blabbering, I know.

Maybe picking up this blog again will be my resolution for the new year. Or maybe not. Hope y'all have a fabulous 2014!