Author: jenzug

Pink!

Pink Highlights

Ruthie turned eight last week, and our birthday present to her was a head full of pink highlights.

Real ones. As in, permanent.

Bryan was actually willing to go full on head o’ pink, but after I explained fading, roots, and upkeep, he was totally on board with peek-a-boo’s.

Purple People Heater!

I’ve never been one to live vicariously through my daughter, dressing her like a doll or mini me. But when it comes to her hair I’ve been slightly more … opinionated.

The problem is, I want her to always look like she’s three. It was such an adorable haircut, and even if I COULD find someone who can execute this style (which I can’t always), Ruthie’s not having it.

She wants long hair. And long bangs.

And who can blame her? She’s a true girly girl and inherited my gorgeous thick mane.

The Rinse!

So reluctantly, I’ve been letting her grow it out under one condition: she keeps it brushed. This kid hates me touching her hair, even if affectionately, and howls in pain at the mere sight of a brush.

So Miss Sensitive Scalp gets long hair as long as she keeps it up.

Done!

We’re pretty excited about the pink. I guess the nose pierce is a few years down the road?

Friday Link Love

Social Robots raise moral, ethical questions
Interesting story on NPR about people who are so distraught over human relationships they crave non-human companionship.

Fonts In Use – Black Swan posters
I wish I was better at font design, so I’ve been looking around for resources to help me learn. I came across these Black Swan posters on Fonts in Use and like them better than the typical movie poster.

Planting Dandelions: Field Notes From a Semi-Domesticated Life
A blogging friend of mine is due to release her memoir next month, and I can’t wait to read it. My copy just came in the mail this week – thanks Kyran!

Photo Apps Are Like Crack
With the addition of these two, I now have around six or eight photo apps I use regularly. I’m sure Jenny has infinitely more – she’s the only person I know who takes more self-portraits than me.

By the way, the best feature on the iPhone 4? FRONT FACING CAMERA. Yeah, I’m a big fan of myself.

The Seattle Nice Is Alive and Well In Portland.

The Birthday Boy

Last night Bryan and I stepped into the bar of a fancy schmancy steak house to dine with the common people, but happy hour was in full force, and all the tables were taken.

Directly in front of the entrance was a large round table suitable for about eight people, and the server asked if we minded taking one side of the table while the couple behind us took the other side.

Sure. No problem. We’re community kinda people.

The table was huge and the room was loud, so there wasn’t really any awkwardness re the couple we ignored across the table. But they were only there for drinks and appetizers, and left after about an hour.

Almost immediately, another couple pounced on the vacated spot across the table. Well, a couple and her mother. I attempted to smile and make eye contact with our new table mates, but to no avail.

And then I heard the daughter say, “I’m just trying to spread out a bit,” as she placed her jacket on the chair between us.

I can’t explain why this alarmed me since she could very well have just wanted the chair to hold all her stuff, but my Spidey senses were alert as I sensed a hostile takeover on the horizon.

Sure enough, another couple arrived – the gal sat next to me and her husband sat next to Bryan. We were now a full table, and still no one acknowledged we were there.

I was beginning to think we were slipping into an episode of Portlandia.

And then the most glorious thing happened – more guests arrived, hovering around the table, and one of the young men introduced himself and shook our hand.

Him: “Hi, I’m so-and so, and you are?”

Me: “Uh, Jennifer?”

Him: “Great to meet you – how do you know the birthday boy?”

Me: “Ah, so this is a birthday party then!”

Him: *confused face*

Mother across the table: “Oh they’re not with us, we’re just sharing their table. But you’re probably more polite than we’ve been.”

Me: “True story.”

Mother across the table: “Well, we were just trying to give them their privacy.”

(notice how she’s still not talking to me?!)

Me (to Bryan): “I think that privacy wall was breached the moment they added ten more chairs to the table.”

Bryan (to me): “We should just start telling them about Jesus. That always clears a table.”

Me: *maniacal laugh*

So there we sat, eating steak and onion rings in the middle of a birthday party that crashed our table.

And then the second most glorious thing happened: Bryan struck up a conversation about mobile web development with the guy next to him, and they went on and on about shit I didn’t understand.

I did not mind this distraction, though, because by that point our dessert had arrived and I was able to eat three bites of Bananas Foster for every one of Bryan’s.

I don’t know who this Foster is, but I sure like his bananas.

As we were paying the bill, Bryan said he was going to hug the birthday boy and wish him a happy birthday as we left.

I dared him.

I readied my camera.

But in the end, he opted for a wave and a head nod.

Regardless, I think this goes down as one of our best dinner memories EVAR.

All My Favorite People Are Broken

I don’t think I’ve ever felt more at home in a song. It communicates a sentiment I’ve carried with me my whole life – even when I didn’t understand it.

The more I grow in maturity, the more I appreciate the brokenness in the people around me. I have my favorite favorites. You know who you are.

Recently I had the opportunity to encourage a friend who was struggling & making poor decisions. I think she was afraid to talk to me about what she’d done, afraid I’d somehow reject or condemn her.

But I saw the relief on her face when I confessed that my Hidden sin was no different than her Right There Out In the Open sin, that we’re all broken and need Jesus, even those of us who look like we’ve got our shit together.

I’m fairly certain that when I get to heaven I’ll be swaying arm in arm with all of my favorite broken people, eating from the dessert table and quoting lines from Steel Magnolias.

—

All my favorite people are broken
Believe me, my heart should know
Some prayers are better left unspoken
I just want to hold you and let the rest go

All my friends are part saint and part sinner
We lean on each other, try to rise above
We are not afraid to admit we are all still beginners
We are all late bloomers when it comes to love

All my favorite people are broken
Believe me, my heart should know
Awful believers, skeptical dreamers, step forward
You can stay right here, you don’t have to go

Is each wound you’ve received just a burdensome gift
It gets so hard to lift yourself up off the ground
But the poet says we must praise a mutilated world
We’re all working the graveyard shift
You might as well sing along

Cause all my favorite people are broken
Believe me, my heart should know
As for your tender heart, this world’s going to rip it wide open,
It aint gonna be pretty, but you’re not alone

All my favorite people are broken
Believe me, my heart should know
Awful believers, skeptical dreamers, you’re welcome
Yeah, you’re safe right here, you don’t have to go

Cause all my favorite people are broken
Believe me, I should know
Some prayers are better left unspoken
I just want to hold you and let the rest go

What’s Wrong With Religious People?

Occasionally I get associated with being religious. Non-churchy people hear that I’m a churchy person and they say things like, “Oh, so you must be very religious,” or “I’ve never been that religious myself.”

I get their intended meaning. They don’t use the word religion the same way I do, they’re simply differentiating churchy from non-churchy. But hearing someone call me religious still makes me cringe.

To me, “religious” is something institutional, not relational. It’s filled with rules & expectations, not compassion or understanding; hard lines instead of soft edges.

I like Jesus, and Jesus is not religious. He’s relational.

The topic of religion came up at my church, recently, in a passage where all the religious leaders yelled at Jesus for healing someone on the Sabbath. On a day intended for rest from our work, Jesus, the God of the universe who created the sabbath, touched a crippled woman and she was healed.

I’m pretty sure if Louis C. K. were present he would have been all, THAT’S AMAZING! But the religious leaders were outraged. They scolded Jesus and told the people to come back on Thursday if they wanted to get healed.

There’s a lot of religious people in the world – both individuals and groups. When I hear religious people quoted in the media, it makes my teeth hurt. When I see religious comments and articles posted on facebook, I obsess over trying really hard to not obsess about it.

But when I heard my pastor talk about the religious Pharisees, I couldn’t help but see myself in the story.

I felt especially convicted that I’m a religious parent. I make up rules on the fly to suit my own needs, and change them up all the time depending on my mood; I pay more attention to their behavior than the condition of their character; and I’d love it ever so much if they could just know their place.

As a mother, I’m basically the gateway drug to Jesus. My children learn to follow Jesus by following me as I follow Him, so as far as they know, Jesus is in a really crappy mood all day until he gets some wine.

Below is a 20 minute excerpt from the sermon about religion. Or you could watch the 4 minute Louis C. K. clip. They pretty much say the same thing.

Friday Link Love

I’m bringing back Friday Link Love, a weekly collection of interesting and inspiring things I find around the web.

Family Moves to Pioneer Square
We’ve been exploring the idea of moving back into the Seattle core for many of the same reasons this family lists, though I can’t really relate to the price tag for a 2400 sq ft condo. Hope they got a deal!

Over the Rhine: The Long Surrender
“Some people write love songs about what happens in the beginning of a relationship,” Bergquist says. “We’ve sort of moved on to what happens during the bulk of that relationship — the work, the investment, the commitment, you know? And some of it doesn’t really sound all that sexy.”

Macklemore

Bryan discovered this local rapper via KEXP, and DAY-YAM. I love this song, Wings, in particular – it’s great story-telling.

We donated to his Kickstarter campaign to fund a Wings music video, and I think you should, too. It’s important to support good story-tellers. Check out his previous music video – it’s gorgeous.

when the tenacity pays off

Earlier this year Ruthie had an ongoing conflict with some kids on the school bus. She wanted to sit in the way back – in the last seat – but the older kids wouldn’t let her. If she claimed the back seat first, the older girls would kick her out.

Sometimes she got off the bus mad, sometimes she was crying. Several times the older kids had the nerve to sass me through the window as the bus pulled away.

“She called me a bitch!” one of them said through the window one day.

I smirked.

I know, I KNOW. Maybe I shouldn’t have smirked, but despite her inappropriate response, I was pleased my girl had moxie.

Every day after school I’d ask Ruthie where she sat, and she’d report what happened. I asked detailed questions about who said what. I learned names. I listened.

I wanted to know why sitting in the back seat was so important to Ruthie, and I learned it was important simply because she could. Kindergartners and first graders were supposed to sit toward the front, but now that Ruthie’s in the second grade she can sit where ever she wants.

And she wanted to sit in the back.

When I pressed, she held her ground. “I can sit where I want mama,” she would say sadly. “But they told me I can’t sit there.”

It broke my heart to see her so sad, but my knee jerk reaction was to sweep it away. I don’t like conflict, and it was tempting to blow it off and tell her to just move on. I wanted to tell her it wasn’t important, to do the “easy” thing and just quit trying.

But I couldn’t. I couldn’t bring myself to say she should back down. If she wanted to back down I would have supported it, but I felt it was something she needed to work out on her own.

I could see that Ruthie was identifying an injustice, wrestling with it, and struggling to stand up for what is right. So instead of encouraging disillusionment or apathy – my own default response – I attempted to teach Ruthie how to deal with conflict in the real world; how to choose what to fight for and how to prioritize her battles.

We talked about why people act like bullies, and we talked about the times when Ruthie herself was a bully, and we talked about the right way and wrong way to respond when someone is mean to her.

(For instance, using the word bitch is sometimes called for, sometimes foolish).

Eventually she decided to sit in the middle of the bus. She was very pleased about this because it was something she decided to do. She was choosing to ignore the other girls and sit somewhere else.

Honestly, I half expected someone to start throwing punches, and I wasn’t entirely convinced it would be the other girl. Regardless, I think Ruthie was finally able to grasp that she wasn’t an enemy of the other girls, but that they were using her to work out their own anger – something she and I know a little about.

pants on fire

I caught Ruthie in another lie today, that sneaky one.

The kids don’t have school today (when DO they have school these days?!), and she’s been snuggled up in my bed watching cartoons – the benefits of being an early-rising daughter of a non-morning person mom.

I walked in to sort some laundry and pick up a little, and after awhile she says to me in a suspiciously polite voice, “Mom, I really want some alone time now.”

I chuckled a little, and was all, really? The morning’s got you down?

But when I came around the other side of the bed I noticed one of her hands underneath the covers. Awkwardly. As mothers we all know this is a sure sign that not all is as it seems.

“What are you hiding?” I ask, not a hint of dysfunctional impatience in me.

Sheepishly, she presents a pasty white, void of any meaningful nutrients, hamburger bun. With a big bite missing.

Now, to catch you up to speed, my children would eat nothing but plain bread, cereal, and granola bars if left to their own devices. I’m constantly chirping about PROTEIN! YOU NEED PROTEIN! which they begrudgingly digest only when I’m watching.

What surprised me next was my reaction.

Contrary to my historical responses to Ruthie’s lying behavior, I simply laughed, called her a stinker, and told her to get that crumby bun out of my bed.

Then I made her a fried egg to chase it down.

In the moment when rage rises inside my chest, it feels like the only reasonable response.

I’VE BEEN WRONGED! YOU LIED TO ME! YOU ARE THREATENING MY SELF-WORTH AS A PERSON IN AUTHORITY! I AM A FAILURE BECAUSE OF YOU! AND I WILL YELL AT YOU TO MAKE SURE YOU FEEL REALLY REALLY BAD ABOUT THIS!

But how peaceful my heart and home are when I take a deep breath, choose my battles wisely, say YES to more things, laugh off the minor infractions, and leave my worth in the hands of Jesus.

Be the first to like this!

I just squealed like a (very geeky) 2 year old because I managed to download and install a Facebook Like button on my blog ALL BY MYSELF.

Do you see it up there at the top of my post? ISN’T IT AMAZING?

In its virgin state it says, “Be the first of your friends to like this.” And since I’m a very kind friend to myself, I did the honors of “liking” my own post on my own blog JUST BECAUSE.

And then when I went back to refresh the page it said, “Jen Zug and 2 others like this.”

TWO OTHERS!

Two people like me besides my mother and my husband!

I frantically clicked all around the page to try and figure out who these other people are that like me, but I could not ascertain this very important information.

So whoever you are that likes me: THANK YOU.

In related news, you can also TWEET my post if you’re hip like that. Oh yeah, check out that retweet button down there at the bottom – you know you wanna hit that.

It’s only a matter of time, now, before my page loads go from the high 70’s to, like, much higher than that.

*cough*

way back home

For more than ten years this song always seems to find me in my darkest hour.

Whether I am depressed, wallowing, full of rage, or drenched in the stench of my own selfishness, the Truth in these words sets my heart straight.

And it’s not just the words themselves, but the way in which I get to shout them out at the back end of the song – a full body submission to the true Owner of my heart.

I did this tonight in my kitchen. On repeat.

I’m struggling in particular with my selfishness these days. Sometimes I think I’d like to spend my days walking alone, writing the great memoir, drinking tequila, and listening to really loud music. I’d spend my nights similarly, only maybe without the walking & a little more tequila.

The fantasy never includes disobeying children, hard conversations with husbands, and poop-eating dogs.

I hear a lot of messages out in the wild. I hear that I deserve to be happy, that I need to do what’s right for myself, that I’m in control of my own destiny. These are very tempting messages for me because I think I would make a very good brooding & reclusive writer if I put my mind to it.

I also possess just enough sass and mystery to drive the men wild.

But when I find myself in this dark place where it’s me & Lisbeth Salander against the world, I am shaken by the fact that I am not the center of the universe, that it’s not my destiny to do what’s right for myself, and that happiness doesn’t come from getting whatever I want.

On the contrary, I am called to worship Him – to set aside everything I ever thought I wanted for myself and trust that He knows me better than I know myself.

Jesus calls me to unclench my fisted heart. In turn he fills it with joy no matter what circumstance I find myself in.

And so tonight I sang in my kitchen. I turned it up to eleven and I yelled into the window as I did the dishes:

take the first of my thought
take the first of my time
take the throne of my heart
crush all other gods
you alone sit on the throne

Ruthie finally came in and burst my little worship bubble and yelled at me that she couldn’t hear her movie on the Hallmark channel (there’s many things wrong with that, believe me). So I stepped back into the real world and practiced living according to my re-set heart.

I pray I never give into my fantasy. I pray the lies of that false happiness are destroyed. And I praise God for songwriters who point me back to His Truth.

Do you know Bob?

Every Thursday we host a small group of friends in our home. We eat dinner together and hash out the challenges of living a meaningful life.

Our friend Bob usually brings dessert because he shows up a little late, after he gets off work.

Bob is now Bob the Dessert Guy in the eyes of my children. Thomas actually believes that Bob’s home is lined with shelves of cakes and brownie bites.

He begs me all the time to take him to Bob’s house.

Last fall when we were in California, Grandma served up ice cream after dinner. There was discussion around the table re our favorite desserts, and Thomas said, “Do you know Bob?”

I had to dash into the kitchen, laughing uncontrollably as Thomas talked about Bob and his desserts as if everyone knew who Bob was. I mean, why wouldn’t you know who Bob was? Bob is the Dessert Guy!

But this is who Thomas is. He invites you into his experiences. He wants you to see what he’s seeing, to taste what he’s tasting. It’s never a complete experience until he can share it with you.

So Thomas knows Bob the Dessert Guy, and he thinks you should too. Wanna come over this Thursday?

not there yet

Tagged

There must be forgiveness here cuz everyone has their weaknesses…
–Cloud Cult, Purpose

If I cataloged everything Ruthie tagged with a marker or pencil, it would make the Ikea catalog look like a Sunday paper insert.

My friend pointed out that at least the graffiti was cute, but since nearly everything she tags involves a love note to me, it actually feels more stalker-ish than anything else.

This tag, along with a similar message she wrote on the wall above her pillow, was made just days after a very stern lecture from me for coloring all over a photo album given to me by one of my oldest friends.

It contained photos of my honeymoon.

And it wasn’t so much a stern lecture as it was a raging explosion of words that may or may not have been appropriate to use near a 7 year old.

I suck at grace.

But you, O Lord, are a God merciful and gracious, slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love and faithfulness. – David (Psalm 86:15)

In the midst of my rage, David reminds me what anger is supposed to look like. God is patient. It takes a lot to ruffle his feathers, and he certainly doesn’t react.

In comparison, I am quick to anger. It’s easier in the moment to just yell about all the ways I am offended so Ruthie can feel like a total jerk for what she did.

The anger satisfies me.

But what I desire most is to be satisfied by a Love that loves me despite what a jerk I am. If I find contentment in that place, then I won’t need to rage in defense of my own feelings and offenses.

I am loved, after all, despite [dot dot dot].

And if I am satisfied by a Love that loves me despite what a jerk I am, and if I find contentment in knowing I am loved despite [dot dot dot], then all of these stupid little things that set me off won’t even matter anymore.

The peace in my heart will bring peace to my home, and I’ll think to myself, “Wow, there must be forgiveness here, cuz everyone has their weaknesses…”

Including me. And that’s okay.

Not Everything Is Bloggable

I’m not really sure what I was thinking, signing up for this @postaday thing. While I like writing and feel compelled to do it, I don’t want it taking precedence over things like…I don’t know…sleep.

I also don’t want to fill my blog with a bunch of content that’s not really even blogworthy.

I often tell my kids they talk too much, and that what comes out of their mouths is foolishness. Yada yada yada is what I hear, but none of it means anything. Don’t open your mouth unless you have something to say of value, I tell them.

But they lack self control.

So to avoid sounding like an eight year old, I’ll make a deal with you.

(Well, I’ll make a deal with myself, actually, since I would write in this space even if you weren’t here to read it.)

The deal is, I promise to write more, but I won’t post if it’s not bloggable.