This Suburban Life

A strange thing I've noticed since moving to the 'burbs is how acceptable it is to be alone with a man your own house under the guise of home maintenance. Even though Bob and I both work equally full time, for some reason it seems that I am the one who ends up hosting the house consultant guys.

Whenever such a man knocks on the door, my first thought is why in the world would I ever invite this strange man into my home? And then I remember that I'm the one who made the appointment. I must invite him in. Due to the nature of the visit it doesn't work to politely chat in the living room reception area. I must escort this strange man to the most private areas of the house.

the furniture delivery guy
the washer delivery guy
the home warranty inspection guy
the vent duct guy
the furnace guy
the wet carpet guy

I've already told you about the pool guys, Mr. Cigarette, Mr. Toothless, and Mr. Potbelly. And to be fair, Bob hosted the air conditioner guy and the furnace guy's wife, who actually installed our new furnace.

So today it was the recycling guy, Mr. Curious. Thankfully, the recycling is actually picked up at the end of our driveway so there was no pressure to acceptably invite Mr. Curious into the house. Our recycling had piled up and the green bin was overflowing. Amanda was herculean in transporting that thing down the end of the driveway.

Anyway, I decided that I wanted to see exactly how Mr. Curious handles the pick up and if he would just spill over a huge mess that we would need to clean up; given the fact of our overflowing green bin.

And so I spied on him out the window.

I'm pleased to report that he did a great job of carefully separating all of our disposables. But here's the thing. Because I was spying on him through the front window, I noticed that after Mr. Curious finished our job he looked at our house. Twice. Oh my goodness, what must he think of us? They drink a lot of milk. They are sloppy people. They have many parties. They should mow their lawn. How could such a nice house produce so much trash?

And then I'm wondering why I care what Mr. Curious thinks of us.

And then I'm thinking that there is something appealing about being a sanitation worker. A part of me could easily don coveralls and gloves and just have at it. Single handedly sort my whole portion of the city. It's that same part of me that would enjoy being a letter carrier. Go for a really long walk everyday and get paid for it. I wonder what our mailman thinks of us.

Throughout history the role of women has been in the private domain; the role of men in the public. And yet Bob and I think that everything would be much better if it were reversed. Women taking care of world affairs. Men taking care of the home. Generally speaking of course. Give us ten years or so and that's how it will be in this family.

I think I've read one too many John Steinbeck novels.

Gotta go. Thanks for coming over!

Cheers, T

Calling All Men

Bob has a secret. Strong women are not to be tolerated. Strong women are not to be mediated. Strong women are not to be politely affirmated.

Strong women are to be CELEBRATED.

It seems that Bob tends to hang around women who are leader-types, pastor-types, visionary-types, bishop-types. With the exception of me, of course; I'm an Ipod type.

And Bob's secret is this, working with these women is full of joy. And so much more.

I for one don't get all high and mighty that our denomination ordains women, because in the history of the world it's only been for the past 35 years. Sure that's great, but all in all we're not that far ahead of denominations who do not ordain women. And besides, counting our Senior Pastor, there is barely even a handfull of female Senior pastors in the whole denomination. So, friends, let's not get too self righteous over that one.

But I will say this, take a look at these pictures and you will see the front lines of those who pave the way (pave as in present tense) for women's leadership in the church. And they do it with wit, wisdom, elegance, and grace. They do it with style, smarts, and strategy. With all their hearts and souls.

So, while I'm thinking on how "Two Tickets to Paradise" would be a great karaoke tune, these women are discussing how to bring about peace in Kenya, how to be in the city for good, how to be a relevent vessel of the Gospel of Jesus Christ. Maybe I'm still at princess camp, but holy cow, these women are intense.

I'm not a theologian but I have read that part in the Bible where it says that men and women are both created in the image of God. I also believe it to be true that God is neither male or female, no matter who translated all the pronouns into the HE-English. You would think that it would be a no-brainer.

In many ways for these women it was -- it still is -- a no brainer. They are simply called to be pastors. Even with the biggest, baddest push back they could get. And they've all gotten it, friends. Hense, strong women.

Before I go crass how about if I sum it up this way: The glory of God is women and men working together. That's the best way I've heard it said. And there's so much work to be done. There's so much joy to be had in doing that work.

Why am I getting so philosophical? Because dear friends from St. Paul came to Des Moines this weekend. See photos and captions.

Anyway, so that's Bob's secret. Calling all men: don't be threatened by strong women. Be thrilled. Be glad for strong women. Enjoy strong women. Let strong women do their thing and we'll all be better off. Work together people!

As always, I thank you for coming on over. Take care.

With love, T

photo top: The Rev. Susan Tjornejoy, our pastor in St. Paul; Bob; Margaret Obaga, aka Auntie Margaret to the kids, who really must be the Bishop of Kenya one day

phtoto middle: The Rev. Rachel Thorsen Mithelman, Bob's supervisor; Pastor Sue, The Bishop-to-be Margaret, bad-hair-day-me soaking up the woman power in this photo op

photo bottom: me and my Margaret, just trying to get through one single day without a downfall of snow; Margaret preached at our church for Mission Sunday; four different services, four different sermons; with prayers for Margaret's Kenyan homeland which is in great distress now making it very difficult for Margaret to be so far away.

Margaret Obaga for president!

Rock-a-Bye-Wrench

We tried and tried. Or at least I tried. I was certain we could avoid all those boy/girl preferences and raise our kids "gender neutral." Even still, Amanda loved pink, purple, and princesses for years. She now prefers a pretty blue. And even still, Aidan is now fascinated with wrenches. He found a huge one yesterday in the garage and carried it around the house all day.

Why?

I don't know. I don't know why he would want to carry a big, heavy wrench with him upstairs, downstairs, inside, outside. (Why was he not in school? Long story best not told.)

"Tell Dad I have his wrench," Aidan officially said to me when Bob called home. I did.

So last night when we did our secret reading cuddle before bed, Aidan balked when I started singing Rock-a-bye-Aidan. Not baby, but Aidan. No, that still doesn't work.

Ok, how about this for a goodnight song, in a gruff voice with no melody, "You're a really big boy with a heavy, strong wrench. . ." He thought it was a dumb song. But this morning for breakfast, Aidan was delighted to find a second wrench by his breakfast bowl. A surprise from Dad.

I don't get it. I think it's time for me and Amanda to watch the "RENT" DVD. Bob and Aidan are not interested.

Take care everyone.

With love, T

City Bob, Country Bob

This dispatch is dedicated to my Dad.
And to the Rev. Al Negstad.
And to Duane Rigg.

None of these people read the charmer blog because they are too busy with respective trucks, tractors, and John Deere collections. So they won't even know about this cyber honor, but I'm making these dedications anyway because our cylinder index just went up by 17. (I think those are cylinders. Or maybe that's horsepower.)

This is kind of like when people in New York City would say to me, "Oh you mean there are universities in South Dakota?" when I told them where I got my degree. They were not trying to insult me; they were genuinely curious. Or when I was dubbed as "farm girl" even though I never lived on a farm. Or when someone said, "Hey a friend of mine lives out your way." He was referring to the state of Washington, which is of course 1,000 miles away from the Midwest but to some New Yorkers it's all west of the Hudson River.

So when our new neighbors do talk with us about the first thing they say, "You sure got a big yard." and "That's a lot of mowing." and "I don't know why anyone would want all that yard work."

My stock response is this: Well, you see, my husband is from New York City and he's never had a yard and so when he saw this yard he just fell in love with it and he actually likes yard work . . .

And by now the neighbors' eyes have glazed; they are wondering why this wife gives such lengthy response to an innocuous comment.

*

"Did you tell the tractor dealer-guy that you're from New York City?" I asked Bob.

"No," he replied.

I think it's a guy thing.

Otherwise it might be like, "You mean, there are no riding lawn mowers with mulcher attachments in Brooklyn?" Meaning no offense, but just in wonder. While I somehow invite such a comments, Bob deftly eludes them. Even when the John Deere guy came to deliver the used-a-bit treasure, Bob could put on his "this is not such a big deal" kind of posture.

But make no mistake. This is a big deal. We have settled in Iowa. We have a homestead. We live in the original house of a former horse farm. We are all well and Bob has a call at a church who counts their top two priorities as "social concerns and fine arts." And they really do mean fine. The little green and yellow tractor has joined with the big city boy and they are happily one. Who says you can't change in the second half of a life's century?

Thank you for the glorious extra hour of sleep tonight.

With love, T

P.S. It's so great to chat about mulching fall leaves on the one-year anniversary of the hospital-binging we did last November. Thanks to all of you a thousand times.