Unanswered Prayers

I remember a friend of mine telling me that there are blessings in unanswered prayers - that is, prayers answered contrary to what we want at the time. It is amazing how often that is true. The job I begged for didn't come to fruition, but in its place I got more than I could have ever dreamed of. The guy I once thought I wanted turned out to be a loser, and instead, I now have an amazing husband. On the other hand, the apartment I wanted has turned out to be quite a challenge. But, really, that is not even what matters. The point is to content whatever one's lot in life - to be grateful for the blessings as well as the challenges. It is the single most difficult struggle of my life. I was listening to a song this morning on my ride to work... the lyrics are so beautifully put, I knew I had to post them. So here they are:

Daily bread, give us daily bread
Bless our bodies, keep our children fed
Fill our cups, then fill them up again tonight
Wrap us up and warm us through
Tucked away beneath our sturdy roofs
Let us slumber safe from danger's view this time
Or maybe not, not today
Maybe You'll provide in other ways
And if that's the case...
We'll give thanks to You with gratitude
A lesson learned to hunger after You
That a starry sky offers a better view
If no roof is overhead
And if we never taste that bread
~ Gratitude, Nicole Nordeman

Landlady (pt 2)

Ok, so I finally met the landlady yesterday. She doesn't seem quite as much of a horror show as I had imagined. Actually, she was rather nice. It made me feel bad about giving her such a mean nickname. I shall henceforth refer to her as "landlady."

As a follow-up story to the last one, the much argued about bon fire took place in her own backyard. If she can't keep drugs and alcohol consumption from occuring on her own property, I doubt that she can control anything her children do. It's really quite sad.

The Landlady (pt 1)

I've not been very consistent in my blogging for a while now, and would like to remedy that in 2013. Part of the problem was a lack in subject matter. My focus was on my coming marriage and all that goes along with that. Most of you do not want to read about that. Inspiration arrived in an unlikely way. CJ has been living in an apartment with a horror of a landlady above him. Well, I now live in that same apartment. I could get mad, or just hate my living situation, but I thought better of it, and decided instead to write about the drama that goes on upstairs. Some of it is actually amusing. This will serve as the first of a series I plan to write.

Let me begin by laying out the cast of characters. First, there's the landlady herself. We'll call her Helga Beast. She is loud. Her regular conversational voice is loud, but she rarely uses that. She much prefers to yell... at everyone... for everything. When her kids aren't home, she talks on the phone (still yelling, most of the time). She can go from hysterical laughing to all-out crying in 2.7 seconds, and does so often. If it weren't so freaky, it would be impressive. Sometimes she sings along to the radio. Basically, the lady never shuts up.

Second is the son - a man of maybe 25 years with a couple of degrees, who seems to live home and works as a waiter at a nearby restaurant. We'll call him Lazy Pants. He's fairly quiet for the most part, except when he gets into fights with his Mom. Then he's a disrespectful brat (not that she commands respect in ANY way).

Lastly, and most obnoxiously, is the daughter. I suppose Punk will do as her pseudonym. She is probably around 19 years old, but she is such a spoiled child, one would assume she is MUCH younger. She fights with her Mom non-stop. Seriously. NON-STOP. If they are both home, we know it because they are at each other's throats. If I had a child like that. I'd disown her, or at least kick her out and send her to live with her father (a threat I hear often from Helga Beast). Once again, though, I blame the Mother. She has no idea how to get her kids under control and apparently never has.

Now that you have an idea of the players, let me relay a short story from last night - New Year's Eve.

Punk: [insert whining voice] I'm going to the bon fire.
H B: Nothing good happens at bon fires. All the kids will be drinking and smoking pot.
Punk: [indiscernible screaming and yelling]
H B: No. I don't want you going to the bon fire
Punk: [more screaming and whining]
H B: Well, you know that bon fires attract cops and you will get in trouble if you have pot or alcohol.
Punk: [intense screaming and fake crying]
[lots of screaming, laughing/crying, and yelling from Punk's friends]
Front door opens, Punk and her friends leave (presumably, to the bon fire).