Amy Writes

A few of us have been wrestling a little bit lately with what it means to live in the grace of God. What does it mean to live fully covered by the Gospel? To embrace the freedom Christ secured for us on the cross? For me, last night, it meant big hair and hard rock. See, over the summer, I'd started to get a little self-conscious about my holiness. I was part of a study at church that consisted of mainly older, wiser, more conservative and traditional women. While I still felt largely like a voice of dissent - a raging postmodern compared to this crowd - there was a certain feeling starting to set in. An old nemesis. I can't believe I didn't recognize it, as we' spent so much time together in the past. Guilt. Guilt that I wasn't the teetotaling, perfect homemaking, gentle-speaking mother that I was being mentored to be in this class. I used my powers of wit and sarcasm to mask and suppress it, but with each chapter and interaction the guilt seeped deeper...wit...

But today, I saw a guy riding a cooler. Not this guy, but a guy. Riding a cooler. With a motor. He was riding a cooler with a motor, and handles and wheels and stuff. Best news of the day: You can have one too ! (photo: CC ninjapoodles, March 2007)

I used to be the family's designated pancake maker. It wasn't because I was really good at it, it was just because I was better than anyone else at it. My pancake superiority peaked at "not burning all of them." I had this itty bitty round skillet pan, arguably only large enough for one small grilled cheese sandwich (its original purchase purpose). Itty bitty round skillet pan was large enough, then, for two silver dollar pancakes at a time, poured precisely. Poured un-precisely, they united in one, "8" shaped, impossible to flip monster, or separated into two amoebas gripping the lip of the pan for dear life. Why did my pancake pan have a lip, anyway? My slotted turner (the proper name for a pancake flipper) was mangled from years of improper use. Its thin edge had been burnt away and the nylon was shredding, and we would often find little black bits of plastic flavoring our flapjacks. After a morning of pancaking, the house would smell like an IHOP for a c...

James Woods is brilliant. I have very little interest in his show. It's just another crime drama. In fact, before last night, I couldn't tell you definitively when Shark was on. However, when I see a preview, I feel compelled to watch it. I will stay up late. I will be disappointed if I realize I've missed it. Last night I figured out why: I love to watch James Woods work. He is mesmerizingly good at what he does. Trance-inducing. Lackey-inspiring. Have you seen him do his thing? So natural, so subtle. Perfect delivery. Incomparable timing. With the exception of watching a lot of media over the years, I have very few credentials that allow me to critique the acting chops of Mr. Woods. I don't know if his technique is good, or where he studied, or if he'd hold his own as King Lear. All I need to know is that when he's on screen, I can't take my eyes off him because I don't want to miss something brilliant. I'm really glad he's not in a theater som...