Feel guilty for laughing

So, there's this new-fangled thing called Pinterest. I discovered it this week, or maybe it was last week. That's the thing. Pinterest is a vortex that makes you lose your place on the space-time continuum. Seriously.

Anyway, as a true "communication professional" (I don't know why those quotes are there), I felt obliged to figure this medium out and ascertain whether a certain small college ought to jump into the pinning mix. More on that later...or maybe not. You probably don't care about that. And so I plunged into the blackhole of endless pins. For the most part, I just re-pin outfits, crafts and recipes. But tonight, I just now had the good kind of fun I forgot you could have on the Internet.

You know the kind of fun. It's the kind of fun that elicits gut-busting, tear-trickling laughs like the ones I let out (and still feel every time I think about) the first time I read about Camaro mullets, mulletards, and minitruck mullets. Too bad mulletsgalore.com is no more. Sad day.

OK, back to Pinterest. Tonight, I let out a couple gut busters at the following. I hope you (especially if you're either my mom or my children) won't judge me too harshly for them. If you disapprove, take heart. I definitely *almost* feel guilty for laughing.

I do apologize for the profanity.

Source: Uploaded by user via Marathana on Pinterest

Source: funnyjunk.com via Marathana on Pinterest

And my favorite:

Source: iwastesomuchtime.com via Marathana on Pinterest

Afraid of the monsters in my basement

I'm old enough to know that monsters aren't really real. But I'm also just enough of an irrational scaredy cat to expect some unmentionable horror to be nipping at my heels when I bound up the basement steps after doing laundry and stupidly flip the switch at the bottom of the steps rather than at the top.

Most times, I force myself to not sprint up the stairs two at a time lest Brett have me committed or get the idea that it might be fun to hide in the basement and scare me the next time I'm forced to do laundry after dark.

And another thing: Everyone knows you're much safer after the door is shut than in the nanoseconds before. It's why I only open the door enough to squeeze my arm through when throwing soggy, dirty dish towels down to the basement. Someday, I'm convinced some ghost in the basement will fling the wet towel back up the steps. I'd rather that bone-chilling slop smack the back of the basement door than my face.

>shiver, shudder, shiver<

I just considered the possibility of taking a picture of the dark basement from atop the steps to post and include in the blog. Yeah right. Who knows what that might yield. The last thing I need is to inadvertently have my flash create some spooky shadow that I can publicly puh-shah and inwardly fear is validation for my quirky relationship with the steps to the basement and the proverbial people under the stairs.

No thanks.

Dream of Kinshasa

Last night, in the midst of my dreams, I found myself wandering through the streets of Kinshasa, carrying Atticus and looking for shelter. We arrived by boat via the Congo River and as I carried him onto the banks, I heard the rattling of gunfire. I kept asking for "Mennonites?" Finally, someone led me to a door. I knocked and knocked, saying "It's me, Marathana! Let us in, please; I know you're here! I have a baby, and it's not safe out here."

The door opened to a tunnel back to a paneled, mid-century modern North American vortex hidden behind a wooden door with three deadbolts. The place was complete with the obligatory Mennonite missionary mementos. You know the stuff -- trinkets and symbols of all the places you've served. Peppered in were brown and cream colored dishes and the kind of thing responsible grandmas hang in their dining rooms and kitchens.

We crossed the Atlantic because Mennonite Church USA was to be doing something related to the church in Congo of which I disapproved. I don't know what it was, but I was riled enough to pack up my infant son without packing a thing (no Powerbars, no Malarone, no baby wipes).

Somehow, the house (which in retrospect felt like that weird house whats-her-face finds herself in under the trash in the Labyrinth) had a backdoor that let us out in downtown Kinshasa. All of a sudden Brett was there, too. We made our way to the camp-like building where our delegation stayed back in 2007. Though we kept getting lost and somehow, in the distance I saw the stadium where George Foreman and Muhammad Ali fought the Rumble in the Jungle (which, is NO WHERE near a jungle, rather it's situated in a city of nearly 8 million people).

"Ali, boom-ba-yay!" I said. "Drive that way, Brett. It's near there." (We were in a gray Toyota mini van circa 1987. ) I was holding Atticus (forgot to pack a carseat, too!), and all the while I kept thinking "I need to warn Brett about the milk and how it's not like the milk at home."

We found our way to the meeting and tons of other people had come, too. Laurent was there. So were Jeaque and Pastor Jackson.

I don't know what it all means, and I wish I knew what made me dream of Congo last night. I do know that it's been too long since I thought about that trip back in 2007 and too long since I did anything to connect with the friends I made while there.


Here are some of my pics from the Congo.

And more writing from the Congo:

Women work toward Equality
Congo churches engage Mennonite Church USA visitors

Ready to pick this (back?) up

It's been too long since I've written for my blog. As of recently, I've stumbled upon blogs of friends and acquaintances that make me want to write more often. If you know me, you know I've got a lot to say. It's not always the most poignant stuff, but what do you expect? I'm not Jesus or the Dalai Lama. I'm human and so are my thoughts.

All I can promise is that I will write with honesty, use appropriate "there, their, they're" and "to, too, two" and never use Comic Sans because it isn't really a font.

Here goes...