Praise Report Confessional, Part Liz

Jaimie's my hero, so that makes it okay that I'm ripping off her title.

So here's my God story, for the edification of the saints. For those who don't know, my brother left a month ago to live in Brazil for a semester as part of an exchange program. Mom and Dad planned to fly down on the week of his birthday to visit him. Not long after West left, they started the process of getting their visas so they'd have plenty of lead time.

Meanwhile, God and I are dealing with some trust issues. The whole house-building process has been wearing on me big time and I just haven't been "hearing" anything pretty much since it began. I'm spending most of my time waffling between "What did I do wrong?" and "Why are You being such a jerk?" Right?

I know these seem unrelated, but bear with me.

Mom and Dad sent off their visa applications, and a week or so later they came back. Denied. Why? Because the price had gone up. Okay, wacky thing about Brazilian visas (and others, I'm sure). Technically, they're free. However, that's total bullshit, and not just because you're REQUIRED to send in your application Next-Day Air (with a return envelope, ALSO Next-Day Air). They have this thing called a reciprocal policy, or something like that, which basically means they charge Americans whatever America charges Brazilians for a visa. The return letter from the Brazilian consulate explained that the US had raised its visa rate, therefore the same rate was being applied to their visas and the application needed to be resubmitted with the new fee. Here's the punchline, you guys: The effective date of the rate increase? Was the day the denial letter came. Meaning, of course, that their visa applications had been denied on these grounds the day BEFORE the effective date.

So they submit their applications again. A week or so later, they come back again denied. This time, it has something to do with the photos, although they never found out exactly what. At this point, there is barely enough time to submit a third round of applications, so Mom and Dad go to the best passport photo guy in town and get their pictures redone. Then straight on to the post office to get everything sent off that day. This was followed by four days of raw nerves and occasional nausea trying not to think about what would happen if the visas were denied again, or just didn't come in time.

Now we've arrived at last Saturday. I had a gig to play that night (Lutheran VD Dance! Yeow!), and earlier Chris and I went to Anniston to take a look at some building materials. I only mention this because bad things always happen when we go to Anniston. ALWAYS. Ask Laura.

I woke up with a headache that morning, which is typical for Saturday, but as we were leaving Anniston it started to blossom into a full-on business-end migraine. Awesome. Just past Jacksonville, I get a call from Mom.

"The worst thing that could've possibly happened, has happened. Our passports came back. Mine is stamped, and Dad's isn't."

She went on to say that there was no denial letter with any sort of explanation. It must've just been a mistake. But it was the weekend, and Monday was President's Day (why, by the way, does the Brazilian consulate observe President's Day?). Their flight left on Wednesday. That left Tuesday, the only business day the consulate would be open, and they'd made it very clear in past phone conversations that they only accept meetings by appointment.

So even if they could show up at the consulate on Tuesday morning unannounced and get Dad's passport stamped, which was seeming unlikely, there was absolutely nothing they could do about it for the next three days except sit around and dwell on the situation. It all seemed so cruel.

None of this was helping my headache either, and by the time we got home, I was doing the migraine dance, where I pace for a while, then sit down for five seconds, then pace some more, then lie down on one side, then the other, then more pacing. Every time I change position, it distracts my body from feeling pain for a good two seconds. Normally, I'd take enough Tylenol PM to knock out an elephant and sleep it off, but I had to be at that dance, so, not an option. The closer it got to gig-time, the worse I felt. At one point, Chris handed me an orange-flavored Goody powder and as I tried to psych myself up to down it (because at this point I was feeling nauseous and didn't want to swallow anything), I just started bawling. If you're a person who gets headaches, you know that this is the worst thing you can do. Nothing will amplify the pain you're feeling more quickly or more effectively than crying. It was completely involuntary. Chris had no idea what to do with me.

At this point, I should say that about a week before, I'd had a pleasant thought about the whole house situation. We have an interest-only construction loan that rolls over into a true mortgage when the house is done. Every month, we make the interest payment on the money we've used to date, which means that every month that payment gets higher. Chris and I have been squirreling away money in various places so that we'd have the padding to make these payments when they got high, what with the work I'd be missing to oversee the construction. The payment for this last month was kinda scary, and I did the math and realized my paycheck wouldn't cover it. I thought we might have to dip into the emergency fund, which I was hoping we wouldn't ever actually have to do. Then I remembered I had this gig on Saturday and that would give me just enough. It's like God was telling me, "See? I'm paying attention."

So now, here it is, Saturday night, and I have a debilitating headache that I'm starting to think is going to keep me from making it to the gig. Completely aside from the fact that this puts the rest of the band in an awkward situation, I'm starting to feel betrayed, like this reassuring realization I had a week ago was just some fluffy bunny thought I invented to make myself feel better.

I had Chris call Jimmy H. to tell him what was going on in case I couldn't make it, and Jimmy said he'd actually woken up with a migraine that morning and had some pills with him in case it flared back up. Maybe I could try one and see if it helped. So I made myself go and prayed that Jimmy's magic pill would work.

I found Jimmy first thing and took one of his pills. The band graciously played three instrumentals to start, I suspect to give me some time. By the time I got up, the headache was manageable, and by the end of the first set it was gone. This is going to sound silly, because I know I didn't have cancer or leprosy or anything, but on the drive home I kept looking at the trees and the stars and the buildings and thinking about how beautiful everything was. I was just so happy to feel normal again.

Somewhere in the course this giddy stupor, I realized that I really ought to apologize. God didn't come down from heaven and take away my migraine, but He had my back. So I said I was sorry and that didn't feel like enough. It's not often that I feel compelled to use the word "repent." It's a great word, don't get me wrong, but aside from the moth-balled religious connotations it conjures through no fault of its own, it always carried a heavy weight for me. When you repent, you're not just saying you're sorry. You're saying you've changed. That thing you did? That's not you anymore. Not that you'll never do it again, or even that you'll never again arrive at this place you've left, but that you're able to see things differently now. It's very seldom I'm that confident. But it seemed right, so I said it.

Right after I repented of my lack of trust, God told me to let Mom and Dad know that their visa situation was going to work out. So I called Mom and she put me on speakerphone and I told them both the whole story. Cool things happened on Sunday, too, but I don't know that story first-hand. Suffice it to say that Mom and Dad didn't have to spend the whole long weekend in dread of the worst-case scenario.

Sometime over the weekend, Dad faxed the consulate a letter explaining the situation, along with copies of his application, etc. He was there when the doors opened Tuesday morning, and I got a call from Mom at around 8:30 saying he got the stamp. They'd looked at the fax and were expecting him. Also, they do, in fact, have someone who deals with walk-ins. I guess they give the appointment-only spiel to discourage it unless you're desparate enough to come anyway. They are so mean. Anyway, he was in and out in 15 minutes.

They left the next day and Mom called me from the Atlanta airport to say they just had the best layover ever.

"The best layover ever? Um..."

"Our terminal was right across from this awesome pub that had the BEST beers. It was right next door to the bathroom and two doors down from the smoking section!"

So see? God's cool like that.

Home on the range

Wanna see what I've been workin' on for the past, oh, going on six months?

Ta-da! It's a well house! Not really, no. But see that pile of dirt behind the well house? And that tiny Port-A-Potty in the distance? Wave, Port-A-Potty. Yeah well, that's the humble beginnings of Chez Woodlayson, circa late August.

The dirt came from...

...this great big hole in the ground, the previously referenced Party Hole. Seen here in mid-September, looking less like a hole and more like a bona fide basement.

We woke up one morning and there was some wood on top of our basement. The framing took a couple of weeks but in retrospect, it really does seem like it happened overnight. Although that may have something to do with the fact that after this stage was complete, the lion's share of the work fell into our capable hands and now it takes a week to stain a damn door.

Pictured is the open-air main floor before construction started on the second story, mid-October.

Ah, and here is Princess Peanut of the Serengeti, surveying the futile labors of mortal man from her lofty perch.

I got her to supervise for me a couple times, but it didn't work out. She kept calling the construction workers weak-minded earthlings and accusing them of smoking weed in the john.

Jump to November, and here it is with walls and a roof and everything.

Admittedly, I've gotten lax in my picture-taking duties lately, but I can say that now, in February, it looks much the same as it did in this picture. It has shingles now, and windows, not to mention the 2000+ feet of electrical wire and the plumbing pipe and the ducting and all that good stuff that's not very visually striking. That's what I tell myself anyway.

So, pretty soon I get to check "Design and build our own house" off my bucket list. Of course, this defers the "Live debt-free" item on said list indefinitely, but you can't have everything.

Great minds

So Chris and I are sitting in the den of my grandmother's house, where we're staying while the house is being built, and we're watching Saturday Night Live. They're doing the news segment, like they do. And they do this super funny story on the AIG bailout. My cell phone rings, and it's my grandmother, calling me from her bedroom.

Mommy Ann: Calling long distance.

Me: I'll accept the charges.

MA: Are you watching anything on TV right now?

Me: Well, sorta yeah. Why?

MA: Because you need to turn to Channel 13. Saturday Night Live is on and it's hilarious.

Is she the coolest or WHAT?

Text exchange

Me: You have a package.

Chris: You bet I do.

M: God delivered it, you signed for it.

C: Yep. Just my package.

M: Seriously, though, you have a package.

C: I know. You've seen it. I've got proof and everything.

M: Sigh.

Brush with Fame

So, yesterday, yeah? We're in downtown Atlanta -- my husband and I, my parents, West and Hannah -- and we're cussing our way through traffic trying to figure out where the Cobb Theater is, 'cause we're going to see Eddie Izzard perform there in a couple of hours. We take a turn that we think will get us there, and it's the wrong turn, of course (because in Atlanta, two wrongs don't make a right, but they are pre-requisite). We find ourselves in this swanky brick-paved parking complex for some nice hotel. And as we're looking for a place to turn around, West points out this guy standing off the road a ways on this grassy knoll with a soccer ball, putting his shirt on.

West: Wow, um, that guy kinda looks like Eddie Izzard.

Hannah: What guy?

W: That guy.

H: Whoa, yeah, he does kinda look like Eddie Izzard.

Liz: The guy with his shirt over his head? Somehow, he really does...even with his shirt over his head.

W, H, L (unison): We should turn around.

*This falls on deaf ears as Dad, who is driving, continues to concentrate on cussing through traffic, as well he should. We shortly turn into a lane that ends up being the exit for a parking deck, so we back all the way out of said lane with a car following us face-to-face, presumably exiting the parking deck. When the smoke clears, we're going the way we came. And Mystery Man is crossing the street beside us.*

Mom: He was wearing a yellow shirt like the landscaping crew up the hill. He's probably with them.

Chris: There he is. He's crossing the street.

L: Holy shit. It's him. It's him. Holy shit.

W: Stop. The car.

Okay, so some stuff went down before West and Hannah jumped out of the car to try and catch up with Mr. Izzard. But it mostly involved me learning things about myself, namely, that any illusions I might've had about staying cool in the face of fame are...inaccurate. At least we didn't react as badly as the car behind us -- also headed to the concert, also lost -- who were slowing down to ask the nice pedestrian crossing in front of them for directions, and upon realizing who he was, accidentally hit the gas instead of the brake. No wonder he hurried off.

So West and Hannah jump out and try to catch him to invite him to have dinner with us. Because that's what we do for celebrities here in the South. We run you over, chase you down on foot, and invite you for a Frisco Melt at the Steak 'N Shake. Unfortunately, he'd disappeared into the hotel before they could catch up to him. Who knows if that was really his hotel or if he just popped in to call 911.

House Blog

Looks like we finally have a ballpark for how much our revised house plan will cost to dry in: about $60,000, possibly less. If the old rule of thumb holds true, we should be able to get into it lock and key (look at me throwing out the mad insider lingo) for about twice that. That, my friends, would actually be...drumroll please...within our budget. I realize there are a LOT of variables in there. For instance, I'm sure that "dry-in x 2" rule assumes that you don't go overboard on any of your finishing, which we probably will on a couple of things, like the wood windows (I'm not a fan of the look of vinyl, or the fact that universally, the color options offered are white and almond. Except one company we looked at had a Desert Sand option. Fancy, no? No.). On the other hand, we're taking on a significant chunk of the work entirely on our own, which might balance us back out. Or not. I've never once heard that story about the couple that built their beautiful, perfect, exactly-the-way-they-wanted-it dream home under budget. Or within budget, come to think of it. So in my grounded, completely realistic appraisal, we will obviously be the first.

Proving my Love

I just gave my bird a shot. An injection. I don't think anything more need be said, but I'm going to anyway because I feel equal parts proud and kinda stupid, and I need to share that.

Casper has been sick. I will NOT go into the details here, because I'd have no way to undo the mental picture it would burn into your brain. I'll simply tell you that his illness has transformed us somehow into those crazy "animal people." The ones who take their pets to specialists in Birmingham and pay for invasive (read: expensive) surgery. He had to stay at the animal hospital (yes, animal hospital, not vet's office, nonononono...) for four days. On Thursday, the doctor called and said he thought it would help if we'd visit him. Visit. Him. In Birmingham.

So we did.

How can I explain this to you? I feel like my body chemistry has been altered in some way. I drove an hour-and-a-half to VISIT A BIRD. And then, and then, the very next day? West and I drove through a thunderstorm, tornado sirens wailing, to pick him up and bring him home. I mean, what the hell has happened to me? I don't even like him that much...unless you count that secretly I do.

I think it's that Casper's doctor had sort of a contagious attitude. I wish you could meet this man. I wish he were my doctor, despite the technicality that he's never practiced medicine on a human before. He would cure me with caring. When he told us we'd have to give Casper injections, he made me believe I could do it. I mean, I've never given anyone, or anything, a shot before. And to practice on something that you can't explain yourself to...you can't tell him to be still, you can't tell him you're not trying to kill him so he should reconsider clamping down on your thumb with the same razor beak he just used to crush an almond...it was just a little scary. But Dr. Atlas gave me confidence. And today, when I did it, I felt like I'd just climbed Mt. Everest. And then I kinda felt like an idiot for being so excited about it and for becoming such an animal-hugging freak. I've been sort of waffling between those emotions ever since.