Shiner

Our yard is looking pretty ragged right now. Between my project last week (and yes, I am still planning to go into detail about it, give me time!), friends coming to town, and the wonky weather, we just haven't had a chance to get out and mow it the way it needs.

When I got up yesterday, the weatherman was predicting rain for yesterday afternoon through today. With that in mind, I decided that I would help Sammy out and go ahead and mow the lawn. I grabbed my old-lady-gardening hat and headed outside to the garage.

Currently Sam and I have two push lawnmowers--one from each of our fathers. Last summer we had issues with neither one working very well, but this spring Papa got one of them running for us. This was fantastic! Unfortunately, I couldn't for the life of me remember which of the lawn mowers was the working one. However, when I went into the garage, one of the lawnmowers was easily accessible and sitting next to the trimmer, while the other was clear in the back and difficult to reach.

Obviously, I went with the one that was with all of the other lawn tools.

I got it out, checked its oil and fuel, and decided it was ripe and ready to run.

I then proceeded to spend the next 10 minutes trying to get the bloody thing to run. I'd likely have stopped sooner and gone for the second mower, but on three separate occasions I did get it to turn over and start, but before I could increase the throttle it would die again.

Finally I decided I'd give it one last try. I'd primed it, pulled gently back on the pull start until I had tension, and then YANKED.

Next thing I know, something's whipping across my face and my glasses are flying across the yard. Somehow, in the course of pulling on the pull start, it got loose from my grip and pistol whipped me across the face.

Needless to say by the time I finally recovered my glasses, I decided I was done with that for the day and went back inside. Of course, when I talked to Sam later, he explained that the other mower was the working one, because he found it easier to take it out of the big garage door. Which makes sense, except I can never open the bloody thing.

Ah well.

Anyway, this morning, this is what I woke up to:

It's kind of hard to see in the pic, but I have one helluva bruise at the corner of my eye/temple of my forehead. o.0

Day Twenty-Eight -- Tales from the Front Lines, Part Two

So this should have has us completely back up to date. Sorry everybody!

Here are some examples of people/situations I've ran into at work this week.

--I had to deal with a person's psychiatrist over the phone because he suffered from an anxiety disorder and his bill was giving him a panic-attack.

--There was also a woman who spoke with a very thick Russian accent who refused to pay her bill because of her service wouldn't work, even though we had documented proof she'd been using it.

--An old man called in because their old equipment (not what they're currently using, but what they used before) was "stolen" by that "shady teen" next door and he needed the serial number from the old equipment and the original retail price. Forty-five minutes later after I'd finally tracked down all the information, he asked me to keep the info handy, and if he needed it for the police report he would call back for it.

--A lady called in and wanted to know why she had to pay a deductible to replace her equipment when she'd been paying for insurance for years. After explaining that just like with insurance for your house or your car, you pay a monthly premium and then if something happens you pay a small deductible instead of the full price to replace everything, she then said she was very disillusioned with us and would call back later to cancel her service.

Don't you wish you had my job?


"Yes ma'am, Hawaii is considered part of the United States."
--Me

Day Eight -- Co-Exist

Sunday mornings are always rough for me, namely because church in general is rough for me. I started going to my current church when Sam and I got engaged, and it's been a very different experience. Up to this point all of the churches I have consistently attended have been, well, small-town churches with no more than about 50-100 people in attendance. This is a much, much larger church (though no where close to being a mega-church, much less a Six-Flags Over Jesus). Which is great and all, but I feel overwhelmed by people every time I'm in there.

Also, I find myself having a hard time listening to the pastor there sometimes. It's not intentional, it's just invariably he'll tell us what chapter and verse(s) he's looking at for the day's sermon, and the next thing I know I've read about 5 other chapters in that book and he's two-thirds of the way through his sermon.

Books have always had a way of distracting me.

Anyway, on Sunday our Pastor was talking to us about the idea of unity and community in the church, which overall I thought was good. At one point, however, he began talking about how American culture as a whole is obsessed with the idea of unity or "oneness," and that in the process we lose truth. He then proceeded to talk about how he had seen this bumper sticker:

and that he had serious issues with the idea presented here. He continued to illustrate the point by talking about how he'd heard a "former President" speaking about why couldn't people of the various religions in the country set aside their differences when it comes to things like abortion and homosexuality and find points of unity. The Pastor disagreed with this because he felt we should "stick to our guns on these matters of truth. What's so great about the ideal of unity if we lose the truth?"

I completely understand, on an intellectual level, what his words were trying to communicate. However, the way he stated it, and the approving murmurs from the congregation set my hair on end. The tone wasn't one of "lets not compromise our values in an effort of trying to find 'unity' or 'acceptance' in the world, for while we are in the world we are not of the world." The feel of the words--and the emotions it sparked in the congregation--was of self-righteousness and arrogance, of hate and superiority. It actually made me grind my teeth.

Because to me, bumper stickers like the Peace sticker above or the better known Co-Exist sticker--


--is about promoting the over-riding tenet of love that these religions claim to profess. Are there sound, objective, Biblical and moral truths that we should live by? Absolutely! (For an excellent argument about this, I recommend C.S. Lewis's Mere Christianity.) But tell me what is wrong about recognizing the fact that we are all people, great or small, that we all have the same basic needs--physical, mental, emotional, and spiritual--and that nothing will change unless we can have intelligent discourse? The vibe I received (and it could totally have just been Holly in natural paranoia mode) was the unyielding anger of "we're right, no matter what anyone says, and we shouldn't have to listen to them or try to find out why they think and feel the way they do. We should just get rid of them all. Who needs'em? Damn queers," and so on and so forth....

Should we be willing to discuss our tenets and beliefs? Should be willing to tell someone that they're leading a life of sin and need the redemptive blood of Christ? Without a doubt. Does that give us the right to espouse violence and spew forth hatred and claim that we are "sticking to our guns" and "not diluting the truth"? In my opinion, no. Hate the sin, not the sinner. Show them love. Tell them of Christ and what He's done for us. Explain why our beliefs show their and our actions to be sin. And tell them that we love them any way. That we are here for them no matter what. Because that, that is what the Christ tells us every moment of every day.

I believe my feelings about talking to others about sin is best described with the following:

A good friend of mine at work told me the story of one of the last times she ever spanked her son. She couldn't even remember what it was that he had done that she felt the need to spank him, but it had completely infuriated her. After about twenty minutes of spanking him, he finally stood up, took the belt gently out of her hand, and told her that was enough, which simply enraged her more. Before she could do or say anything, however, he asked her: "Are you punishing me because you truly love me and need to discipline me, or because it makes you feel better?"

He then kissed her on the cheek, thanked her for loving him, and walked out of the bedroom. To this day she still hasn't decided why she spanked him that day.

So here's the thing about talking to people about sin and beliefs in regards to abortion, murder, usury, lying, sexual misconduct, whatever: are we talking to them about it because we love them and need to discipline/help them to learn and grow, or are we talking at them and using it as an excuse to hate them because it gives us a sense of superiority and makes us feel better?

The feeling I got from the people in the church yesterday was the latter.

It terrified me.


"Do all the good you can, by all the means you can, in all the ways you can, in all the places you can, at all the times you can, to all the people you can, as long as ever you can."
--John Wesley


(Please feel free to make comments and discuss as you will, or completely ignore it as you will. All I ask is that it stay cordial and in the spirit of love.)

Day Two -- I Am Not A Man or Why Holly Hates the Social Security Administration

Today's rant is brought to you courtesy of the U.S. Government.

Ever since I tried to get a job with Radio Shack in the summer of 2005, I have had an ongoing argument with the Social Security Office as to my identity. When "the Shack" (whose horrible idea was that catch-phrase, by the way?) ran a credit check on my Social Security number, it came back that I was a man. You can imagine my surprise when I heard the news, as everything I'd been taught in the 9 consecutive years of sex-ed I had in the Wellington School System told me that I was definitely female. Of course, we are talking about public education, so there was a chance I'd been misinformed, but I was pretty sure I fell under the definition of "female."

Radio Shack decided to go ahead and hire me despite the discrepancy in the paperwork. I submitted a few forms to the Social Security Administration (from here out referred to as the SSA) and thought it was all resolved.

In the summer of 2006 I moved to Dallas and decided to open up a bank account there. Imagine my surprise when I discovered that there was already an account opened under my number. Further research determined that a man back in 1993 had opened an account with that particular bank, and they'd transposed two digits on his Social. They'd opened a new account with the correct Social for this gentleman, but they'd never actually closed the incorrect account under my Social Security number. They closed it out while I sat there and I thought to myself, Well, at least we know where that particular confusion originated.

In April of 2007 I submitted my tax returns. Rather, I tried desperately to submit my tax returns, but they wouldn't actually process them because it said my birth date was wrong. Down I traipsed to my local SSA building with my passport to have the birthday corrected--apparently they thought I was born on the 18th instead of the 17th. They said they had everything updated for me, and once I again I thought I had the issue taken care of.

In April of 2008 I once again submitted my tax returns.... and once again they told me they couldn't actually file it for me because my birth date was wrong. This time, however, I was in a panic trying to figure out where my next job was going to be, so I didn't actually go to an SSA building until in the summer to get it straightened out. This time when I went to the SSA they told me that my passport didn't count--I'd have to present them a birth certificate. I also found out that they had the right day; now the month was wrong.

Whatever.

Later in the fall, after I'd obtained my birth certificate from my mother, I went downtown in OKC to present my birth certificate and get everything fixed. They looked at my birth certificate, told me everything was hunky dorey, and sent me on my merry way thinking everything was fixed. And when I filed my taxes and everything went through, I believed them.

Fast forward to July. Sam and I had been married for a month, and we'd finally received our marriage certificate from the wonderful state of Nevada. Hurrah! Holly can now go to the SSA and get her name officially changed! Being a paranoid person, I decide to take my birth certificate with me, because that's the way my luck runs.

Sherri and I had decided to spend the day together, so we went to the SSA in Shawnee to submit the paperwork to get my name changed. I sit down, tell them my Social, tell them my birthday, and have the gentleman tell me that that's not the birth date they have on file.

You. Have. To. Be. Bloody. Kidding. Me.

I present the gentleman with my birth certificate, proving once again that I was born when and where I was born. The nice guy behind the desk says we'll get that updated at the same time we update my name. We move further along in the process, and finally determine that the birth certificate I have was issued by the hospital and not the state, and therefore does not actually count.

Apparently, when I was at the previous SSA, they had thought that once they saw the certificate they could just file the form and it would be done, but they actually needed a number that's only found on the state-issued certificate. And instead of trying to contact me to inform me of this, they just let it go. I am currently awaiting my birth certificate from the state of Kansas to arrive so that I can put this to rest for once and for all.

Until April comes and we find out that my name was never actually changed, even though I have my new SSN card.


"The information encoded in your DNA determines your unique biological characteristics, such as sex, eye color, age and Social Security number."
--Dave Barry