Permaybehaps I ought to back up.

i've been appreciating the pretty views and total impossibility of this window as an access point to my home.

Today, I got a knock on my door (and I wasn’t watching Three’s Company). I opened it to find a visibly shaken (actually – just shaking) woman telling her phone to say something. She said it in spanish. (I understand a lot of Spanish, much much more than I speak). Her phone started talking to me and I realized the woman in front of me was my Spanish-speaking neighbor, whose English-speaking husband was on the phone.

Telling me that his baby was locked in his house.

And his wife (the trembling woman on the phone) couldn’t get in because the baby had locked a deadbolt that she (two years old?) could reach, but to which they possessed no key.

And could I please

go to my bathroom
put a chair in my tub and climb on
shimmy through our shower window
crawl across the lip of a roof from my side of the duplex to his
open THEIR shower window (chest-high, from my place on the roof)
slide into their tub (which did not have a chair so I’m just careening head-first through the itty bitty window with nothing but cold porcelain to catch me)
and go downstairs to open their front door
thus allowing the mother access to the baby.

for reference, i snapped this with my hand ON the window. I.e. it's a bit wider than my hand is long.

So I said that yes, yes I could do those things, though he’d not explained them in that much description.  His exact words might have been, “The baby is locked in our house. We cannot get in. But our bathroom window is open.”

And my exact reply might have been, “I got it, don’t worry.”

Because yeah, I’ve wondered before if someone could get through that window, but it’s TALL and TINY and so figured no one would ever try. I certainly wouldn’t! That’s dangerous, and what if I got stuck?

the bottom sill of this window reaches about my eye level when I stand in the tub.

A baby is locked in a house. That’s what.

Maritza Amanda Valle, ladies and gents

breaking into other people’s houses (with permission) since….forever.

Days later, i keep discovering new bruises (thighs, knees, etc) that I must have gotten in my haste. I think “how did I get a bruise THERE?! oh yeah…burglary.”  I can only assume that from another vantage point, my escapades must have looked pretty funny.

Life. Always odd. Never boring. Grateful for a God of narratives and adventures and open windows.

Last Sunday, my mom sent me a text message to the tune of  ”I’m having lunch with a friend after church. Come join us! I’ve spent a lot of time with this friend and want y’all to meet. Also I have the clothes I bought you.” (she buys me clothes. Sweet much? yes, she is!)

It was odd verbage, but mama doesn’t ask me to hang out much, and we have such different schedules and preferences, I jumped at the chance, even forgoing the study session I had planned. Instead I went to the gym and showered there, planning to jet to choir straight from lunch to maximize mama time. Also to maximize time, I didn’t dry or style my hair or put on makeup or shoes. I was in a black tank, jean, and flip flops. With messy-wet hair and no make up. Cause my mom and her friend won’t care what I look like! (Stay with me, it’ll matter later.)

So I get there, to this house, expecting to eat lunch with my mom, and her friend, Art.

What I was not expecting was Art’s mom, siblings, and nieces-and-nephews.  Also maybe some neighbors and friends? Tough to say. I drive up and realize, oh, there are people, NICELY DRESSED, STRAIGHT FROM CHURCH, and THEY ALL KNOW EACH OTHER people here. And I’m not ugly, but I am n.o.t. looking anything like a good first impression. Awesome.

I knock on the door and walk apologetically in. I whisper to my mom

“Mom, I am so underdressed! I didn’t know there would be so many people here.”

“No, no, it’s fine! You’re fine. Let’s go out to the car and I’ll give you your clothes.” (I don’t think it’s fine and I don’t want to embarrass her, but I do want to trust her and i DO want to hang out with her…)

We walk out to her car and she lays it out for me:

“SO…I guess you’ve realized I have ulterior motives here…” She began, with a look that told me FAR more than her words that there was some serious plot going on, and she probably wasn’t going to give me all the details. I loose all concept of priorities at this point.

“DANGIT, MA!”

“Well, there’s this boy…”

“MOM!!!! IF you want me to meet someone, and you want them to actually LIKE me, you should tell me so I don’t come straight from the gym, looking like a scrub.”

“Well, you can go home and change.”

“Mo-ther! I don’t want to go home and change. This is what I have to be wearing later for choir. And you invited me to lunch- I just ran 7 miles, let’s not mince words here: I’M HUNGRY.” (and, apparently, angry. Hangry.)

“Well, it’s fine….” (it’s clearly not fine)

::sighofdefeat:: “Do you have make up? I’ll put on make up if you have make up.” (I at least don’t want her ashamed when the poor man revolts over my appearance.)

“Yes, and maybe we can find a blow dryer.”

Oiy. So she goes on to try and sell me on the issue.

“He’s a really good man. And he’s so good looking. He looks like a barbie.” (He didn’t)

“GROSS.”

“No, but…he’s getting his masters.” (he’s getting some kind of certification)

“In what?” (I’m thinking okay, maybe we’ll have something in common and can have at least a conversation.)

“Finance.” (wrong)

“HE’S A BUSINESSMAN?! Have you met me?!”

“Well, he is really serious about his relationship with the Lord. He likes good girls, who don’t party or drink, and he doesn’t like tattoos and peircings.” (I have no idea about the validity of any of these statements)

“This is about entertainment for you, isn’t it? WHAT PART OF THIS SEEMED LIKE A GOOD IDEA?! Why are you introducing me to this man who will not like anything about me?!”

“He’s really nice.”

“I’m sure he is.” (And that this will be awful.)

So I finally clean up enough to feel like I can at least look people in the eyeballs without feeling like a second class citizen (they are really all dressed so well) and eventually this man walks in (who doesn’t look like a barbie) and he and his (i later find out) mom come over to talk to the woman I’m next to. But I don’t know who they are and don’t really look at them because I just keep meeting people who sweetly tell me their names but then CALL ME MARISSA so obvi, I’m not paying great attention. At some point my mom choses to introduce me to the stranger-over-my-shoulder and it clicks. Oh.

Oh.

DANGIT!

Later she asks me what I think.

“He does NOT look like a barbie, mom. We need to work on your adjectives.”

“Yes, okay. And I was wrong about finance.”

“Thank the sweet Lord.”

“So?”

“So? I mean, yes, he seems like a nice man, whatever. Mom, why does everyone seemed surprised to see him?”

“He’s not usually here.”

“What?!”

“Uhm, he’s busy, like you.”

“Why is he here now?”

“Well…”

“He knew?! He knew he was here to meet me?! MOM!!!!!!” (I just keep calling her mom like it will remind her about familial responsibility to not sneak-attack introduce your daughter to your friend’s nephew (or cousin?) without warning her or even asking if she wants to meet someone, especially when he’s expecting to meet her. It, apparently, does not. she’s just too sweet and too set on me being with someone nice. and handsome. no matter how much we don’t have in common. nice and good looking are her requirements).

“Well, Art mentioned I had a daughter, so he said we would meet you.”

“Good of him to make the concession.”

Later, I jet out, and my mom texts me once I’m at church.

“How did you like your clothes? And that boy would like your email. Is that okay? Also, I don’t know your email. Plus, the whole family liked you, of course.”

Ya like how she just slips it in there like that?

my mother is the cutest little bit of generous nonsense sometimes.

life is never boring

(ftr, this isn’t the first time she’s done this. She’s done it at work. she’s done it while I was DEEP CLEANING HER HOUSE. she’s done it at church. determined woman, that. ;)

psyched out kitty feels me. he must have a busy day as well.

Well anyway, at some point in the night a, uh, let’s call it a blemish (it’s embarassing to blog that I have a pimple, for some reason) formed on my chin. Or, more accurately, under my chin. A REALLY weird place for a blemish. And this is one of those under-the-skin, really tender to the touch kinds.

And I’m SUPER sleepy.

So in my sleepy state, I feel it.

And I am TOTALLY FOR ABSOLUTELY POSITIVE that it’s a spider bite

and i’m going to die.

(also, note: DO NOT GOOGLE IMAGE SEARCH SPIDER BITES. DONT DO IT!!)

In fact, then I do get to sleep. Where I dream that I have spider bites all over my face and some of them have holes so big that they look like peircings and even in the dream I was like “Why did the spider bite me so many times?! and in a pattern?”

Anyway i woke up and ran to the bathroom because I had to make sure my face wasn’t riddled with spider bite holes.

yeesh.

here, have a unicorn.

this has nothing to do with anything, but it's better than spider bites

The Dancer’s response: “You have AWFUL dreams.”

yeah, but a pretty nice reality. :)

Because my name is Maritza, but I go by Ritz, it’s something really special when people call me by my given name. Yeah, we’ve established that. Well back in high school, when I dated a giant goofy white boy who played guitar (BIG SURPRISE) he couldn’t quite say Maritza, but still wanted to be special. So when he wrote me notes, (hello, high school, what else was there to do, learn?!) he adrressed them to “MYritza.” Adorbs. Thought I was gonna marry that man. Glad I didn’t, but still adorbs.

Oh-kay! But this one is REALLY cute.

So, Mrs Z (mother of the squeezies) came and visited this weekend. When she was leaving, the older squeezy had trouble letting her go. Something to the tune of:

“Where are you going?”

“To see my friend.”

“What’s your friend’s name?”

(They usually call me Tia, so she hopes this will fly) “Ritz.”

“MY RITZ?!”

“Yes, sweetie.”
“I WANT TO GO!!!!!”

::weeping and gnashing of teeth::

“Sweetie, you just can’t come this time.”

“Okay, but at least tell her I love her!”

MELT MY TIA HEART!! You bet I AM her Ritz! I love those little squeezies. It’s good they know I’m theirs. :)

This is satire, y’all. It’s an attempt at a funny way to bring to light an issue I feel like would be much more difficult to discuss if I took it seriously- that being all of the things that the world tells me make me a more marketable human being, can be very differently construed in other circles.

I’m reading this book called How to Be Single ::edit, it was kinda smutty. i’ve learned my lessons that some books are going to have sex scenes, even comedies:: by Liz Tucillo and I’m only 80 pages in but already I’m in love. You know, cause love is like that. But as much as I can appreciate the points she’s making, I’ve got to insert one perspective she’s missing: How to Be Single when you’re a Christian running in a circle of young, restless, and reformed.

So let me tell you, in case you’re in a relationship, unintelligibly oblivious, or a dude:

Being a mid twenties single woman at church does not JUST mean that you don’t have a romantic significant other.  It means you’re dangerous.

 And you know what’s even more dangerous than a single woman in today’s rising young, restless, and reformed culture?

And educated, mildly-attractive single woman.

That kind of woman is like the triple threat of singles. Except instead of Paula Abdul complimenting her and the crowd going wild, the interesting things she says or does, if not with hidden eyes and hushed tones in a room full of women only, makes the point again, “That girl needs to learn her place.”

Girls like that are to be watched out for.

If a girl is married or wears potato sacks for clothing or goes deaf and dumb when a man walks in the room, she’s fine.

But if you’re single, like clothes, and can keep up (or ::gasp:: START) a conversation — WHOA NELLY, What are you thinking who wayward Jezebel?! (All the single ladies, can I get an A-Men?!).  Why don’t you go get some established headship, like a father or a husband, I mean, you can just whip one of those up, can’t you? Cause you’re clearly already bringing down the world with your wanton ways of smiling and wearing jeans that fit, you might as well just buck all standards and trends. And while you’re at it, I can see in your eyeballs that you are either suprememly interested in stealing someone’s man, or else your bimbette brain just can’t process that you are the cause of the demise of America’s youth. You, and your platform heels. And the Kardashians. And that show with the over tanned over gymed people.

I know the rest of the world tells you you’re in a great place. And you think you’re just enjoying yourself and being good company. But you’re not. You’re distracting people and you need to go serve with the children, who won’t notice you because we’ll make you use the sack-of-shame, otherwise known as the standard ministry t-shirt. There you may run free with your peers, the smiling, skirted, ringless droves. The single ladies.

But don’t talk to dads when they pick up the kids. Ho.

;)

special thx to Stuff Christians Like, Don Miller, and Jesus Needs New PR for giving ruffled believers an avenue to address stuff like this. P.s. readers – Y’all got any tongue-and-cheek you want to share? Open invite for a little snark. (not a lot, bebegirl, just a little bit).

I have 22 pages of text. Of like, what should be about 350, a number I’m pulling from nowhere.

It’s a story i’ve thought about for years, since I got back from the job in Zambia I thought I’d have forever.

It’s about how hard it would be to find God here on earth, if all you ever knew about him was from knowing him in heaven.

There is a musician. Of course. ;)

Anyway, I’m telling you to encourage you because one goal I am setting is to finish this dang thing by the end of the year (so, i have 11 months and some change). But i keep stopping because I just think, “It’s all be done before.”

I told my friend Anna, an actual writer, that I was afraid to be cliche. She freed me from that fear.

“Everything’s cliche,” she said, “It’s just about whether or not it’s good.”

I can’t promise it will be good, but at least i know i don’t have to try to be original. :)

Go, do something hard and scary and a little bit stupid. Like write a novel.

love you.

-r

food shouldn't be neon. but they're so cute!

Anyway, when I say “I have my peeps,” i realize that it’s silly and PROBS, no one in even 5 years will even understand or they will think, “This chick is three brick short of a barrel,” and I’ll say, “You’re right, I don’t always properly use idioms.” :) And smile because, when I blog, I try to write exactly as I think. And that is a funny if somewhat (always?) confusing way.

So. I have my peeps.

the interweb is RIFE with peep gangsta jokes.

And what I mean about that is I am feeling SO appreciative for the people in my life. I originally started to write a post about how working out and eating better is going, and I realized that some people might be concerned because, as I’ve openly talked about, for many years I struggled with disordered eating and distorted self-image. And sometimes changes and goals related to “health” can be a masked dive back into murky waters for people who have had these struggles. So i thought, “Oh dang, I’ll have to specify that this is not a cry for help.”

But I didn’t want to indicate that I no longer cry out for help.

Let me tell you, pplfriends, healing from certain issues and periods of success over struggles doesn’t make me perfect: it makes me aware of and better able to fight those struggles and issues.

So it is NOT that I “dont cry out for help” and definitely NOT that I don’t need to.

It’s that now, I know how.

Cause…. I have my peeps.

lolcats. can't stop, won't stop.

I know who to call or text or email and when, and I do.

When I’m tempted to not eat.

When I’m tempted to believe the lies of the enemy.

When I don’t want to obey the Lord.

When I don’t want to do things my own way, to get the results I want.

WHEN  I am hurt, confused, depressed, out of sorts, unsure, lonely, or scared. I cry out for help.

And WHEN I don’t have the strength on my own to cry out to the Healer, I call my peeps, who intercede on my behalf.

When I can’t walk to calvary, they carry me.

When I can’t turn my eyes to the heavens, they lift up my head.

When I won’t acknowledge my sin for what it is, they graciously hold it up in front of my face.

artistic/self expression is NOT inherently a cry for help. but i still think it's funny.

So while I WON’T (God willing) ever do it via social media (because in my opinion it’s not an effective avenue for true healing with struggles like that, but rather a great place to dialogue once I’ve gotten things a little more stable), I absolutely DO cry out for help.

And I have my peeps. And they answer my cries.

I have been a BRAT about the cold for so long. And truly, I think I am just geared for warm. I can take the over 100′s of summer like a champ and never, ever complain. But the cold makes me sick. How some people get heat stroke and vomit and feel weak? That’s how I get with the cold. (And, FTR, by cold i mean anything under 70 degrees, probably.)

But this autumn I decided I wanted to not hate the cold or the winter. I wanted to appreciate every season because all the seasons are a gift. And I prayed and still pray for the strength to basically suck it up and appreciate (not hate with a burning passion) the cold. Plus I wear a lot of layers and do more laundry etc etc but I want to not complain about all that either because like I said, EVERY SEASON IS A GIFT and even this is for my good. So rather than fight it, I’m trying to enjoy it.

Anyway, by God’s sweet grace and blessings, I’m okay with how cold it is today.

Are there any things you’ve just been against that maybe you need to make friends with? Any circumstances you’re fighting that you need to make peace with? Any complaining you need to stop?



I’m really excited about it. Like, crazed muppet face excited.

(Just for you, belle)

But, she DOES read this blog so, please leave comments about how much you love her. Thatsisall

le dagnabbit, now I should clarify, cause I already had one person confirm that they were thinking it:

That post was NOT about the Dancer.

But she did get engaged last night. Her dude did a whammy of a good job. Also she’s got hecka-bling on that finger.

via the sweet gift of http://www.phillipglickman.com/ 's surprise event photography.

See? photographic evidence. Also I didn’t mean for my fingers to be yellow OR to look like I have an extra finger. (check it. for srsly, right?)

So: I have no opinion on what kind of proposal is the “right” kind (although I still really want to hear y’alls opinions). But Dancer & Dude’s was amazing.