Author: jenzug

Finally, a Teen Book Series for the Rest of Us


When I was a teenager I smoked, I shoplifted, I double pierced my ear with a needle and an ice cube, and I kissed boys in the bushes at church camp.

These are the kinds of characters and antics I find in the Diary of a Teenage Girl series by Melody Carlson. This is not simply the Christian version of the Sweet Valley High series with its drama and quest for popularity, but these are honest stories of real people who wrestle with everyday things like car privileges, school bullies, body image, and boys.

These are girls who struggle to interpret how life as a believer fits into the mine field that is high school. How do you respond when your friends drink alcohol at the fall Harvest Dance? When you find yourself caught in the middle of two friends who like the same boy? When you say things that hurt other people?

These gals question, they fail, but they seek God for answers, and they figure out what to do.

Take Chloe, for instance. Chloe is morose and alternative. She dresses darkly and sports body piercings. She is artistic, writes lyrics and music, and hopes to one day start a band. At school she is a loner, and is bullied by other girls because she is different.

Chloe wrestles with her relationship with her parents, whom she sees as distant and disconnected from her, and she wrestles with what she believes spiritually. One friend is a Christian; another studies Wicca. Chloe thoughtfully weighs the options.

I am particularly impressed that Carlson even addresses gospel and culture issues within the teenage world. For instance, Chloe feels constant pressure from her parents and certain friends to change the way she dresses once she becomes a Christian, yet she feels convicted to remain true to who she is. One friend criticizes her song lyrics for not being enough about God because they don’t say “one single word about God” in them.

“God is too in them!” Chloe insists. “God is all over them, inside and out, and between the lines and – well – everywhere!”

Because these stories are written in diary form they move quickly and contain lots of drama. But Carlson does not disrespect the teenage girl:
she gives each character thoughtfulness, and conviction, and the ability to reason through challenging circumstances.

This is what impacted me the most about Carlson’s books, seeing these teenage girls think critically about the issues that everyday life puts before them. Another Diary character, Kim, studies Buddhism before accepting Christ, and grasps the basic tenants enough to know it doesn’t seem to make sense. Chloe is confronted by a pastor who imposes legalistic doctrine on her, and she is able to wade through scripture and prayer and determine the pastor is following man’s law, not God’s. I was not this way as a young girl, but followed the coolest thing and believed what others believed.

For this reason, the Diary of a Teenage Girl books are well worth reading for both teens and adults. Teens will find compelling stories about girls just like them, and will not be frustrated by a watered down plot line because Carlson does not shy away from controversial issues. Adults will appreciate the insight into the teenage world and find tools for teaching the girls in their lives how to navigate through life as a Christian.

Just yesterday my mom picked up the first Caitlin book, opened it to the middle, and began reading. Two hours later she chuckled at how she was unable to put the book down. She described what had her captivated: “This girl’s father was unfaithful to her mother, and now he wants to move back home again to make amends.” My mom was impressed that Carlson holds no punches – these are the everyday realities of most teenagers today.

Learn more about these books at the Diary website. I already have a list of girls who are getting these for Christmas.

Post Secret

For a couple years back in the mid-nineties I lived in a small town an hour north of New York City. It was one of those towns on Highway 9 along the Hudson River that you pass through on your way to Poughkeepsie. There was a gas station and a post office, but no traffic lights, stop signs, or grocery stores, so you may not even realize you’ve passed through it until you hit Cold Springs further up the road. It’s just a blip on the map.

The most beautiful blip I’ve ever seen.

I have very fond memories of my time in New York even though I associate that time of my life with great sadness and confusion, with loneliness and contemplation, with longing and desperation.

New York is where I lost myself, but in the losing I found the joy of solitude.

While living there I drove a 1987 white Camero with T-tops. The car belonged to my boyfriend who was in rehab at the time.

That’s whole other story.

The car kicked ass, which was a dream for a girl who liked burning it up on the highway. I was a paradox driving it, though, as at the time I was going through a hippy Birkenstock prairie skirt kind of phase – something more in line with a Volkswagen.

One dark night I was on my way home from church with Jars of Clay rattling my windows from the inside, when my tape deck began to act up. It did that thing most car tape decks do eventually, where they flip from one side to the other at random times, sometimes going back and forth continually.

Flip… flip… flip… flip…

Jars of Clay had been my soundtrack that year. I obsessed over it. So when my tape deck interrupted the aura of my solitude I smashed the stereo with my fists until I felt pain and release.

Looking back, I see that my rage came from a place of idolatry. I was my own god and wanted everything to bend to my will. I couldn’t make the stereo work, I couldn’t stop it from flipping, and it wasn’t for lack of trying. My efforts to control my universe were the definition of Insanity – pushing the same button over and over and over and over expecting the stupid thing to work.

The insanity of my efforts blew me apart and I raged against the stereo, still trying to bend it to my will – only this time through intimidation.

I made a connection this week.

I saw Ruthie as my little car stereo, flipping at will in defiance against me. I saw myself raging against her, intimidating her to bend to my will. My rage, again, was coming from a place of idolatry, rather than from a heart that leads her to God.

I have entered into Recovery. I have stepped into a circle of women like me who are mastered by their own undoing. Together we find hope that God has the power to change us, that we can over come that which has mastered us.

This has been my secret, and now I tell the world: My name is Jen Zug, and I am controlled by my rage.

It’s time like these that make me wish I had a cell phone because I would have SO CALLED THE COPS on this guy!

So I’m driving down Rainier Avenue in South Seattle, minding my own business, when the dump truck on my right meanders into my lane because his load is too wide for his own damn lane.

As I’m watching him get closer to me I realize he doesn’t seem to mind that I’m in the way, so I veer slightly to the left as a reaction INTO ONCOMING TRAFFIC at which point I scream, slam on my brakes, and swerve back into my lane behind the Ass Truck.

The stupid freaking truck continues to drive in the right lane, swerving into the left lane at will without so much as a signal or hesitation.

At the next red light I pull up on his left and roll down my passenger side window (isn’t it funny how we still say “I rolled down my window” as if anybody cool still has window cranks?), shake my finger at him and yell, “YOU CAN’T JUST MOVE INTO MY LANE LIKE THAT – “

At which point he waves me off like a fly before I even get to the swearing part and proceeds through the intersection when the light turns green.

In the words of Mercer Mayer, I was so mad!

Amped Up

I’m feeling a little crazed these days and it’s largely my own fault.

I scheduled four out of the last five days to start WAY TOO EARLY. This morning I had to leave the house with my two children by 8:30am. Yesterday a maintenance guy was at my door at 8am, and Saturday and Sunday we were out the door by 8:30 and 9:30 respectively. The next two days are the same.

WHAT WAS I THINKING?

I can take the occasional early morning, but this has been exhausting. Rushing tends to make me anxious and distracted, and I do silly things like search my purse for lip gloss while driving down the highway listening to a Pemco commercial about rewarding safe drivers, at which point the coffee mug in my cup holder tips over and dumps hot coffee into my seat which burns my ass and stains my pants.

Rushing this much every morning makes me crash all afternoon while the kids nap, because I’m way to burned out to think anymore, so I end up surfing the internet or staring at the wall or something.

And there’s just way too much to do for that to happen on a regular basis.

This afternoon I took a few minutes to sit in the rocking chair and snuggle with Thomas. I tried to relax as we locked eyes, and as he sucked his thumb his lids grew heavy and he fell asleep in my arms. It was precious. I wanted to cry.

But yet, as I sit here in my quiet house my heart is still racing and I still feel the tight-chested anxiousness I’ve been feeling all week. And my head hurts for all the information swimming around in it, which also makes me a very distracted driver.

I can’t turn it off.

So if it seems like my posts have been distracted and shallow lately, now you know why.

Blah. Blah. Blah.

That’s all I feel like saying tonight.

I’m tired, and I’ve been busy, and I can’t think of anything meaningful to say. My mind is filled with lists and budgets and appointments and plans to the point of squeezing out any contemplation or humor. Through this dry spell I’ve continued fiddling with the sidebar so at least I’m doing something with my website as a point of discipline if nothing else.

Last night I watched the last 20 Minutes of The Karate Kid on cable. I also have a Silly Songs with Larry tune running through my head. I ate six bowls of cereal today, and I finally cleaned all the clutter out of one corner of my basement that I’ve been meaning to get to.

And now I’m falling asleep.

How’s that for wasted space?

The Evolution of my Assumptions

We have two rooms in our house that we rent out because we are crazy people who like to display our imperfect humanity like monkeys at the zoo.

These rooms are not in a separate dwelling, but situated in the main part of our home. We share a bathroom, we share a kitchen, and Ruthie distributes an equal amount of love to all. Whoever chooses to enter this crazy domain is warned in advance that they will, eventually, become a part of this family.

Even if it’s through kicking and screaming.

In the past we’ve had female renters. But as it worked out, the current occupants are two single guys. One just moved in this weekend.

Knowing that single guys often cut corners in such areas as food preparation and personal hygiene, I mentioned to our newest renter that he could use our bath towels if he didn’t have any of his own.

Much to my surprise and glee, he says to me, “I have my own towels, but I’ll just use yours to keep the color scheme of your bathroom consistent.”

Who knew The Male could be so observant?

The Timer

This is the kind of post that will get me a whole lotta love. Not that I would strategically post nice things about Bryan in order to get something nice in return (because that would not be prudent), but the most significant lesson I’ve learned this month is that affirmation and thankfulness softens the jagged edges of a marriage.

This is also one of those posts that says, You Were Right, without actually having to say it. Out loud. To his face.

If I apologize to Bryan on the internet does it count?

I just finished a laundry cycle of Bryan’s work shirts, which I was able to pull out of the drier while hot and hang them up without ironing.

This is a big deal and worthy of prime real estate on my blog because I fought him long and hard over the timer he bought me so this could happen.

My drier doesn’t have a buzzer, so most of the time I forget about my clothes until hours later when they’re wrinkled and cold. Bryan bought me the timer to remind me when the clothes are dry, a gesture I was not excited about to say the very least.

I’m not sure why I was such a bitch about the timer. Maybe just because it was his idea, and we were fighting a lot at the time, and I was depressed, and it made me feel like I wasn’t Getting It Done.

At any rate, I love the timer.

There, I said it.

Shut up.

Loop Hole

Because I’ve tried to turn off the TV and do more writing and reading I’ve been a little out of the loop regarding current events. Apparently the Boeing machinists strike has ended, Peter Jennings died, and Northwest Airlines has gone bankrupt.

These days I rely on the gossip magazines at the gym to keep me informed of all the Hollywood drama, but often their copies are outdated. I’m still reading about Brad and Jen’s divorce.

Today, however, I happened across a current US magazine while on the treadmill and learned that Ben Affleck and Jennifer Garner were married and expecting a baby, like, yesterday.

WHAT THE — ??

Last I heard there were rumors of their relationship. Now I suddenly see pictures of her out to HERE with child and he’s packing up his poker table to baby proof the house.

I should have come up for air long ago. Is there anything else I should know about?

This Is What Lazy Parenting Gets Me

You know it’s going to be a bad day when you enter your child’s room first thing in the morning and are greeted by the stench of the Overnight Poop. You know what I’m talking about: the poop that is thinned by the acidic pee that accumulated over a twelve hour night which then seeps into the blankets, the sheets, and onto the pillow your child is sitting upon when she greets you with a cheery, “Morning mom, I POOPED!”

I didn’t help the situation when I allowed Ruthie to drink two full sippy cups of water around ten o’clock last night when she woke up and came into my bed for a snuggle. I pretty much flushed out her system and we had our very own septic flood because of it.

At the time it was happening, when I was listening to her guzzle the water down as if she’d sealed her mouth over the nozzle of an open fire hydrant, I thought How ingenious of her to adapt to her environment by storing up water like a desert camel because her mother fails to hydrate her all day long.

I also thought she smelled like poop, but as I dozed in and out of sleep I decided I was too tired for her to be poopy since her diapers were all the way downstairs and she was OBVIOUSLY comfortable keeping her daddy’s side of the bed warm until he got home so she must not really be poopy or she would have said something.

And then we both fell asleep.

So after paragraph #1 happened my morning derailed and I juggled breakfast and laundry and nursing and laundry and showering and laundry all before 10:00 because we had to be out the door for Ruthie’s first dentist appointment.

As I was grabbing children and shoes and heading to the stroller for our walk to the dentist I realized I was about to pass out from not eating my own breakfast so I channeled my inner Napoleon Dynamite and stuffed a handful of Wheat Thins into the side pocket of my cargo pants.

This was how my day started.

Year of the Crystal

I always feel a bit reminiscent on my birthday because it also marks the anniversary of my arrival in Seattle, of the day I left home forever, of the day I met my lifelong friends. I spent my eighteenth birthday on an airplane, terrified and excited about my new adventure.

Inevitably I think back to the first time I met my new family. I was wearing a plaid skirt and I probably looked like I was twelve years old. Alecia had a perm. The names on the door across from mine were Sarah and Larah, and before I met those girls and realized one was a Philippina and one was ghostly white, I thought they might be twins. Kristin tried to convince everyone that her hair was naturally blond. My roommate was Genevieve, a sophomore. She was bold and confident and popular, and seemed invincible to me.

In 1996 I was living in New York, and on my birthday my friends, led by Sarah, sent me a memory book they made of our friendship to date. In it, they recapped the first few birthdays we spent together:

I remember how you used to sit and sulk on your birthday because no one paid attention to it (it being the first day of school and all). Let’s have a revue of the last five big B-days:

#1: We completely overlooked it because, heck, we hardly knew you.
#2: We forced you out of bed and dragged you to Red Robin where you paid for your own meal.
#3: We can’t remember what happened this year (1992), we think Jeff took you out, but we are not sure.
#4: This year we had a party at the girls’ house. You wore a green sweater. That’s the extent of my memory.
#5: This year was the big hooplah. This year made up for the other years. The 70s party was the event of the season and Chris’ suit was the envy of all.

And now we are celebrating birthday number six. Do you feel old yet? Don’t expect me to keep track after this year.

Tonight I will see my friends, and we will drink, and we will toast to our friendship of fifteen years, and we will likely choke at the realization that we are old enough to have known each other for so long.

I’m not usually one to feel like I’m old. Having children doesn’t make me feel old, driving a minivan doesn’t make me feel old, even gaining a few pounds doesn’t make me feel old.

What makes me feel old is when college students call me ma’am, when they say to me that U2 must be really important to my generation, and when I start a story with the words, “Fifteen years ago, when I was in college…”

But I guess maybe if I really thought about it, I feel old in the way wine ages. Wine tastes better with age, its flavor is reminiscent of its beginnings, and the oak barrel infuses its spice and vanilla aroma. Exposure to oxygen changes the wine.

Everything that touches wine – from the grape, to the barrel, to the type of glass we pour it into, to the air we breath – it all influences its outcome, its flavor, its impact on who comes in contact with it. We reject distasteful wine and we savor beautiful wine.

I feel beautiful in my age because of all that has touched me. Thank you.

Birthday Eve

Tomorrow is my birthday.

Since I can never remember how old I am I had to actually count out the years to remind myself. I’ll be 34, by the way, which is a relief since I first thought I was going to be 35. Gotta hang on to every year I can.

I’ve been a complete dork about my birthday this year. A few months back Bryan emailed me from work in a craze of all caps saying something about a concert he wanted to go to for a band I’ve never heard of. I said, Sure, Why not, since he is usually successful in connecting me with great music and movies.

Somewhere along the line, though, I developed a really pissy attitude about the whole thing – mostly because it just happened to fall on my birthday. I started to feel bitter about the fact I was spending my birthday listening to music I’d never heard before preceded by dinner with another couple I’d only met once. Small talk was not my choice for a good time.

What I REALLY wanted to do was gather my peeps around me, put on some lipstick, and find somewhere that serves pink drinks in sexy glasses.

So I quietly seethed about it in silence for several weeks until I finally had the nerve to bring it up with Bryan.

I tried to be delicate: “Would it hurt your feelings if I wasn’t really into the show in September?”

I instantly knew he was hurt – partly due to my lack of enthusiasm, and partly due to his own baggage from a past life. We talked it through, he gave me his reasons for wanting me to go, and I knew it was important to him that I go, so I decided to go.

In an ironic turn of events, late last week Bryan’s friend emailed him saying he wouldn’t be bringing his wife, so Bryan told me I was off the hook, I didn’t have to go either.

You’d think I would have instantly taken out an ad in the Seattle Times for all the complaining I had done: PARTY GIRL BUYS OUT THE PINK DOOR FOR BIRTHDAY BASH – ALL ARE INVITED.

But there was no fanfare, no screeching, no panic shopping for the perfect going-out attire. I said nothing, I planned nothing, and I simply continued feeling sorry for myself.

Isn’t that COMPLETELY REDICULOUS???

In retrospect, I think it came down to the simple issue of my selfishness. I think I just wanted to get my way, and as I continued seething about how I wasn’t getting my way the bitterness grew stronger. Never mind that I could have listened to the music ahead of time to learn the new band, and never mind that I could have planned a ladies night out on a different night. No, I had to be a bitch about Bryan wanting to see a show on a night he had no control over scheduling.

Oh well, all is not lost. Bryan and I are still speaking to each other, and I may get a drink or two in after all.

Happy Birthday to me.