The room was small, but three clocks dutifully marked each passing minute, minutes that didn't matter anymore, minutes that came too quickly, too slowly, too soon, too late. Every moment ought to hold promise. A moment is time enough for an apology, a hug, a goodbye, an I love you. As long as we have time, we have hope.

But sometimes time is extraneous, every second superfluous. For the woman whose hand I held, every tick was out of place, irrelevant, even. The timepieces--time itself--nothing now but an ambivalent anchor. And yet the clocks kept ticking, muted by the constant recycling cascade and intermittent p-fffft of the respirator.

When someone is near death, they breathe differently. The sound is like a rattling snore, but comes from the voice box, air passing back and forth as though the patient were breathing through a dissonant harmonica. The noise always unnerves the family. Is she in pain? Is she trying to talk? Is she aware?

I don't know. Maybe. Probably not.

What is she holding on for? We've all been in to see her. She needs to let go. What is she waiting for?

And this is the impossible question. What makes a person hold on to another minute when there is no hope? What might make me hold on? And do the minutes I have hold only empty promise? Do I cash in on the hope inherent in the time I have? What am I doing with the moments I've got?

this closet's been too cramped...

...I'm coming out.

I don't like reading the Bible. Can't recall the last time I voluntarily read it. I think it was August. This isn't an at-the-end-of-too-many-years-of-Bible-college-it-just-feels-like-a-textbook malaise...this is a chronic disorder I've given in to for as long as I can recall. At different points, I've begged for an interest in God's Word. I've promised to read some everyday, no excuses, if only he'd give me a hunger for it so that I would truly love it. Hasn't happened.

It's not that I don't like the Bible itself, though. I do. I've got chunks of it memorized (thank you 12+ years of Christian education) and I like those chunks. And it's not that I don't like studying it. I do. I'm hard-pressed to think of something I enjoy more than talking with friends about God, scripture, and ideas about both. As ridiculous as it sounds for a non-Bible lover to come to Bible college, this is the very reason I came: I love God, I truly want to learn more about him, and somehow, on some level, I think I hoped it would all come together for me and I'd learn to love just reading the Bible, too.

Hasn't happened. Then, the time's not up yet, either. Eight more weeks. I'll keep reading. Maybe I'll surprise myself. Maybe he'll surprise me.

While I don't usually bother to write them, I often tell stories with no point. Here is one.

My birthday rolled around again last weekend. (That sort of makes it sound like it comes around frequently. It doesn't.) Few people on this planet know of the near tragedy surrounding my original birthday. I almost didn't arrive. I mean, I arrived, but *I* in the sense you know me, nearly didn't.

My mom wanted to name me Judith.

I am not a Judith. Or a Judy. Maybe, maybe, I could be a Judie, but that's still a stretch. Seriously now, Judy Hurdle? It's horrible. I'm certain I would never have considered a career in radio for surely I would have hated saying my name aloud. Too, a career as a writer would have been out because readers would have assumed I was old. And nerdy.

What might my life look like, supposing a different moniker? A name wouldn't change much, I suppose. Regardless, after all, I'm still old and nerdy. But Judith means "praised" or "admired," and it's ancient Hebrew. That'd be just great--pride and legalism are two of my bigger spiritual struggles as is without being admired by others or thinking I'm one of God's chosen people. And would the other kids have made fun of me even more? Maybe instead of "Terri Turtle," I would have been "Moody Girdle."

I'm glad I was graced with Ceridwen instead. Although, I grew up under false pretenses with that name.

First, we don't pronounce it correctly. Once a man from London, seated next to me on a plane, said my full name and I think I was speechless for a full moment. Kerridwyn. The English pronounce it beautifully.

Second, and perhaps the more humorous (or humourous, if you will) of the pretenses is the meaning. Through a bizarre misunderstanding with a woman who is long since dead, precluding any possibility of ever straightening the story, my mother came to believe Ceridwen is the Welsh version of Catherine.

Welsh it is. Catherine it is not.

It means "goddess of poetry." Furthermore, the name is sometimes associated with neo-pagans today. Now, if there is anything on par with the evility of Ouija boards and seances in my mother's mind, it would be paganism.

Had she known, I'm pretty sure I'd be Judith.

Too much cake. Too much ice cream. Too many wrappers. Too many bows.

Like a little kid after a birthday party, I'm tired of watching others open gifts when I had none, and I'm tired of eating sweets when I didn't get to blow out the candles.

Like a little kid, I seem unable to reason. It's not that I have no gifts--just not these gifts. It's not that I don't like sweets, it's just that I feel full of them to the exclusion of the more substantial.

Like a little kid, I'm uncertain how to manage my confusion, my uncertainty, my desires. So I sulk. I stomp. I insult. I ignore. I demand. I cry.

Being selfish is agonizing, but then, so is surrendering.

I pick surrender.

tides

Pensive emotions and wistful memories seem to rise and fall like the sea. Most days I find the tide out, but occasionally the water level rises, and in those moments a few waves may crash in stormily, overlapping each other, gulping up the beach, coming closer and closer, lapping at my heart.

I'm with my sister, Jennifer, at Cost Plus World Market, an overpriced Pier One meets international 7-eleven, a store which conjures up in me a deep craving for beautiful material goods that would impede my faith and pocketbook.

I wander off by myself and out of the corner of my eye spot a very Chinese thermos. I become a bit wistful as I lift the lightweight bottle that is surely two feet high and as big around as a gallon of Edy's Grand. Before I even realize my memory is rolling shots of Changzhou, China like a home video, I hear the opening lines of my all-time favorite Beatles' song, a song so beloved I've always said I'll have it in my wedding.

There are places I'll remember, all my life...

The thermos conjures images of weather worn, world weary elders in shops, outside shops, hanging clothes, bicycling to and fro, selling wares--always, it seemed, with a big thermos not far away.

I turn, thinking the wave has subsided, only to look up and discover I've landed squarely in the Chinese dish aisle.

All these places have their moments, with lovers and friends I still can recall...

Chopsticks. Lots of chopsticks at this World Market. But not as many as at Hy-Mall. Suddenly I'm there, at Hy-Mall, around the corner from the bedding, across from the woks and the unexplainable, infinitesimal plastic bowls, in the chopstick section. Darlene is picking out souvenirs, packages of the decorated sticks spilling over her arms. Anna rolls her eyes at Benny's silly puns and sarcastic remarks as she shoots some back. Ellen is trying to catch up, but an older couple is inadvertantly blocking the aisle, distracted and enamored by her big blue eyes. They nudge each other and nod in our direction as they chatter on in tones and syllables that now sound familiarly unfamiliar to me.

Though I know I'll never lose affection for people and things that went before...

The World Market shelves are stacked with saucers and rice bowls. The shallow, square dipping dishes and the oddly shaped, awkward soup spoons remind me of elaborate dinners with people I can't forget. Hannah and Henry. Land and Yvonne. Neil and his mother. I think of Ellen, eating from my bowls, rescuing me from foods that tasted so different to me. I recall toasting, and future cola, and compromised omelets, and giant lazy susans.

In my life, I've loved you more.

At the other end of the aisle, I turn again, and am now surrounded by wine glasses and ice buckets. The song is over, and something in Spanish with a mariachi sound brings me back to the moment. And the tide is out once more.

I'm realizing these days that loneliness sometimes reflects not a deep emptiness longing for another to fill it, but rather a rich fulfillment and deep contentment longing to spill over in communion with another.

Even though it hurts, it feels alive to grieve something so beautiful as a good-bye.

~Jennifer, one of my lovely sisters

(crowded cries)

My emotions betray me when I read conversion stories like Anne Lamott's in Traveling Mercies. I'm not jealous, I'm...wistful, I think. She didn't find God; he found her. In the middle of her drug and alcohol induced fog, her feminist intellectualism, her strident disdain of all things Christianly, he used everything from a Bat Mitzvah to Kierkegaard to appearances in her room, and he found her.

I've never been chased like that. I know in my head that he loves me with an everlasting love, that he would pursue me if I ever tried to run. Maybe that's why I feel like this. Maybe it's simply because I never ran. I've always been one of the ninety-nine, the coin in the purse, the brother at home. Of course he wouldn't chase me--I'm right here with him.

But another part of me feels like he's never chased me because I'm in this great, big crowd. These people hem me in, lest I dream of running, and he can't chase me because they won't let him get close to me. I know he's there, at the edge of the crowd, but I'm pressed in so tightly I can't quite get to him. What I know and what I trust will have to be enough for now. I know he's there and I trust he hears me over this crowd. A crowd which seems to have everything solved. They've agreed not to ask any questions, and instead spend all their words on praises, constantly gushing that he's just so good.

But I can't do it.

I know he must be good, but for reasons I can't identify, I can't raise my voice with theirs. I hope he sees my frantic eyes. I hope I don't just blend in and am thus overlooked by him. I hope he hears my one discordant voice. It's soft, but imploringly hopeful: Please, I really want to know you.

laser beams and fireworks

I go through these blasted phases where I lament a lack of love, where I feel like I'm not particularly a God-lover because I'm not feeling particularly like a people-lover. The moments typically come when I'm spending lots of time with friends whose very essence is an oozing love for others. Maybe you know the type--they say hey to everyone they pass, if they can remember someone's name then they consider that person a good friend, and they'd willingly miss a meal or go without sleep for years (or at least a night) before telling someone "I'm sorry; I can't."

I'm not like that.

"No" is not the hardest word for me to say, and I rarely forget to care for myself. What with all the harsh scriptures about "dying to self and "laying down one's life for a friend," you can see how I put it all together and feel like a schmuck. How do my amazing, self-sacrificing friends do it, I wonder?

I've watched them carefully, and here's my conclusion: They are fireworks. They explode big. They bless many. They are vibrant lights. Their circles of influence are huge.

I, on the other hand, get overwhelmed by the masses. I may appear to love only a few, but I really love them deeply. The circle is small, but how could it be much bigger when I want to truly know them and allow them to truly know me? It's more of a laser beam. . .and if you're in the line, the love is intense, and it's not going to end any time soon.

Looking at it from this perspective has helped me realize I'm not as unloving as I thought. I no longer scold myself, because I've even seen some of my fireworks friends learn how to be a bit more focused. And I've learned from them, too, and am beginning to find ways to reach out a bit further.

sweet union

Some of the more precious memories in my life are of moments when I've been reunited with someone from whom I've been separated. A rib-crushing hug-turned-gleeful-circle-dance with a dear sister in the Shanghai airport. Walking into the bride's dressing room to see my best friend from highschool just before her wedding. Surprising my parents with an impromptu visit months before my first scheduled trip home my first year of college.

Being united for the first time is precious, as well. I recall the moment I gave up on living for myself, on running my own life, on having my own way--the moment I was united with Christ.

I eagerly anticipate, even long for, other unions and reunions: the next time I'll feel so safe in my father's embrace, the walk down a petal-strewn aisle to join the man I'll never leave, the first bundle of wonder and potential I'll someday cradle and coo to, the moment I'll give up my last breath and stand in the surest reality I've ever known.

they're certainly not voices in my head, but they're there, nonetheless

Lately, I've had the most bizarre thought processes. Characters have generated seemingly spontaneously based on things I've heard and people I've recently encountered. It's like they've somehow gotten into my head. I don't know them very well yet so they all seem a little static, but they are beginning to develop and I fear that when they have grown into full-fledged characters, they may begin harrassing me until I let them out.

Maybe I'll write a book someday. Someday far, far away from today.

i'll get right to that.

All around me, summer reading lists seem to be on the mind of everyone I encounter. Some are sharing what's on theirs, and others are mocking the futile vanity of said lists. Whatever. I started making mine in January, and for some months, it lived and grew inside my head, until finally, in a moment faintly resembling a step of commitment, I put pen to torn scrap of already-undone-list-covered scratch paper, and recorded this burgeoning mental memorandum.

The list divided itself easily into three categories: life-changing theology, mind-numbing, fluffy (yet well written) entertainment, and thought-provoking literature, which align themselves (though not respectively) with my current infatuation for wasting time, my hate affair with the classics, and my desire for a love affair with the Holy Spirit. And a miscellaneous, unnamed fringe category containing the Chicago Manual of Style, for my perennial syntax fixation.

Now for me, the books on my summer reading list will never really all be read. Not by me, at least. I put them there because I hope to read them. For every book I put on the list, I have dozens more that go to the Books I Want to Read Before I Die or Am Too Old to Be Influenced to Change. (Really, I have that list. It's the place I can go at any moment if I suddenly have time to read, but can't think of a book. Like, if I'm suddenly stricken mute and can't work anymore. Maybe I should rename the list Books I Think Sound Cool and the summer reading list, Books Marginally More Likely To Be Read.)

The point is, in an honest, real moment, I'll admit that I'm not actually going to be able to get to all the books that make it to the summer reading list. This year's list, for instance, includes some classic literature. I don't like reading classics. They make my head hurt, and they remind me of high school where we had to analyze the themes and whatnot, and I never saw the themes. All I saw were intricately structured sentences that tickled my brain and begged me to reread and mentally diagram them. In the end, I would always get the basic story line, but not enough to sit and analyze it.

So when, several months ago, in the safety of frigid, school-infested January, I added Fyodor Dostoevsky's The Brothers Karamazov, of which I can pronounce neither the author's name nor the title, to my summer reading list, it was mostly just to make myself feel. . .noble, I guess. I'm not certain I really intended to get my hands on a copy of the daunting dissertation and read it from start to finish.

That's all changed.

May curses and blessings from the heavens which so indiscriminately rain down both on us all fall on my dear Nebraskan kindred spirit who heard of, yea, was even the impetus behind the January insertion of, Dostoevsky on my List. She took a philosophy class last semester and apparently they examined this work in some detail. (Maybe it was even the sole text. I don't know.) So she heard that I want to read it. She decided she ought to re-read it. And then she crossed the line. She purchased a beautiful cloth bound, ribbon-markered copy of it, inscribed my name and a thoughtful platitude inside the cover, and mailed it to me, reading schedule enclosed.

There's no turning back now. I'm obligated. The truth is, I'm terribly grateful. A real friend inspires you to be better than you are and helps you not be mastered by your own demons. And so, knowing that I wish I loved literature and that I wish I were not too lazy to read it, my friend is gently helping me become the person I wish I already were. We'll see how it works, but I'm guessing I read the whole thing. Which makes me think. . . hmm. . .what if I could just get my professors to buy my textbooks and mail them to me. . .

the people we meet en route to the places we go

The other day I encountered a friend I don't see often (all right. I was actually hunting down my square casserole dish and favorite paring knife which had, mysteriously enough, wandered out of my care, and I was hell bent on pestering every person who could possibly know where to find them until I, well, found them. Lucky for her and me, this friend found them in her kitchen). We had a lovely little chat about loneliness.

Just the night before, I had uncharacteristically had the oddest aversion to being in my home, because no one else was there. Usually I relish moments where I have the house to myself, glad to hum nonsense diddies or gustily belt show tunes with no one to mock me. But this occasion was different. I felt a keen sense of loss since my roommate's recent departure, and the other housemates were gone for the weekend. The forlorn feeling was compounded by a foreboding feeling of distance from my dearest friend. We hadn't had any good talks for some time, and I was afraid that even if she had been home to share the evening, we might still have not exactly connected.

Completely unbeknownst to me, across town, the friend who it turned out was harboring the AWOL dish and knife, was feeling similar emotions. We both had felt like there was no one to call to go hang out with because surely by late on a Saturday evening, everyone would already be out doing stuff and we'd be intruding. It made me wonder, how often do we resist reaching out to others for fear that they wouldn't need or want what we could offer? Instead, we self-centeredly wallow in isolated loneliness. [Editor's note: that night did have a happy ending--both girls ended up finding friends with whom it was perfectly fine to jump into the evening-already-in-progress, they just realized that they never thought to call each other, both assuming the other was too popular to take note of the first, and they thereby made a pact to call the other should ever a similar scenario develop.]

In addition to loneliness, we also had a great talk about the friends we've chosen--and been chosen by--in the last few years. As I think back on who I was when I first came to college and set it against who I am today, the contrast is striking. I'm certainly not all grown up nor do I have things particularly figured out, but I have moved on a little further, I think. The ideas and attitudes I have now have been shaped in large part by the circle of friends with whom I share life. In discussing friends, we decided that if only even one variable had been different--if even just one friend had not been there, or a different one had been in one's place--we would be different girls. Perhaps vastly different.

It was good to ponder who's shaped us, and humbling to think that perhaps we've been the shapers some of the time.

I found Satan.

Student loans are the devil. I won't think about how much money all those cafeteria meals I didn't eat will end up costing me when I repay with years of interest accrued.

I had to call the customer service hotline because I had questions. I was taken aback by the number: 1-800-666. . . Coincidence? I think not.

experts say the most effective advertising reaches the consumers' needs, joining a conversation they're already having inside their minds

So, I want a digital camera. They're just cool. But, I'm picky, and I love my old school, circa 1965, all manual SLR, so it's a trade off. Do I want the convenience? Or do I want to be a snobby photography purist? Alas, the quandry. What I really want is a digital SLR, which, the last time I priced 'em, were only realistic for Bill Gates or thieves.

That's why I was so glad to see a TV commercial for a digital SLR. If they're doing a media blitz, then surely the product must be within the reach of the general public (not that I, in my college-induced impoverished state necessarily qualify as general public, but still). I watched the commercial eagerly, to see how this cameral might fit into my life. It featured a giant rhinoceros lumbering through a suburban neighborhood, ravaging neatly manicured lawns and shaking all the homes. Conveniently enough, though, one of the neighbors just happens to be across the street catching all this on his handy-dandy digital SLR.

Yup. I definitely gotta get me one of those--and soon, because you just never know. . .

miracles, schmiracles

Miracles are overrated. People who pray for them ought to seriously consider the possible ramifications. (I started to say they should be shot, but wholesale execution seems a bit harsh.) When I think of miracles, I think of headaches.

What would I do with a floating axe head? I need mine to grind. Water to wine? I can get myself kicked out of college without any help from the Almighty. All the water turned to blood? No thanks again, 'cause that's just plain sick. Raise someone from the dead? See, now, that would mess with my head. A creepy hand apparition writing on the wall? Wrong on so many levels. Miraculous conception? Seriously now, I've got enough on my plate without an unplanned pregnancy.

I think I'll pass on miracles. Maybe they're not all they're cracked up to be.

think you're a leader? look behind and see who or what is following.

New phenomenon at my house: Suddenly, I have (apparently) taken on some kind of big sister mystique. You know, the big sister is always the coolest, and the younger ones want to be just like her and go where she goes and have cool friends like she has.

It started with a spaghetti sauce jar. We thought we'd try out the upscale sauce that comes in a more square shaped decanter with measurement notches etched into the glass, similar to, but only three-quarters the size of, those old Mason quart jars your mom used to can the summer harvest of green beans and zucchini relish. As a teenager, I shunned soda (still do) and drank only water. My mom used to have cupboard full of jars like this, and I insisted on drinking my water out of them, because they're much more romantic than neon colored Tupperware tumblers. So, I cleaned up the jar when we finished our spaghetti sauce, and nostagically began using it as my drinking glass.

A few days later, I noticed my jar sitting on the counter at work. At least, it looked like my jar. But I was holding mine. . .so how could this be? It turns out one of my co-workers, who is also my dearest friend and one of my housemates (hitherto referred to as Homie, Bubbles, or Cream Puff) had admired my new water vessel and claimed one of her own.

Yesterday, I had a bottle of some weird herbal lotion with me at work. Cream Puff thought her hands felt a little dry. . .could she try some? I was happy to share, and glad that she liked my weird-consistency, oddish smelling herbal balm. My heart was furthered warmed today when she called asking me to bring it with me to work. . .she said, "Yesterday I got used to having soft, sexy hands. Today I feel like a lizard."

I'm fairly certain that she may post some sort of exculpation over on her blog, but don't let that vindicate her, because guess who got a blog first, partially inspiring her friend to hop on the blog bandwagon?

Seriously, if you fancy yourself a leader, just take a sec and see what kind of stuff may be trailing behind. . .

Why, indeed?

It's the middle of the night. Good little girls are snugly tucked in, fast asleep in their cozy beds at this unsanctified hour.

Oh, how I wish I were good.

Instead, I am Procrastinator of Procrastinators, Slacker of Slackers, the Alpha and Omega of putting things off. I waited until the last minute to retrieve an online exam due at midnight. Apparently, the administrator of the site is something of a deadline Nazi and at 11:30, the test was no where to be found. And, oh, how I looked. I'm now Aggravated with myself. I've had close to 178.74 hours to retrieve this exam, take it, and email it back to the professor. Why, oh why did I wait until it was too late?

Let this be a lesson. Never put off today what you could only safely put off the day before yesterday.


(Good news, though. I've found something to make me feel all better.)

wistful for the ephemeral

Ever find yourself homesick, yet uncertain for what you long?

I don't want my family, nor old friends. . .it's more of a longing for something I've not quite tasted. I've felt this feeling before, though I didn't realize I was feeling it today, until I began listening to Over the Rhine's melancholy melody, Mary's Waltz.

Is it a longing for heaven that leaves me not quite woeful, but not quite whole?

Got bike?

Today I headed to the filling station for the first time since coming back from China. The last time I filled up was more than five weeks ago, when the price was, as best I recall, 1.73. Then, I left the country for two weeks. I was slightly alarmed to discover that prices had shot up to 2.20 by the time I returned. (Thank goodness we didn't have a 27% increase on all other goods.) Strange. I had a full tank, though, so it really didn't affect me.

Until today.

My poor little VW Jetta with an oil leak and a propensity to eat, rather than utilize, fuel is suddenly an expensive little beast. I would complain, but heck...I'm glad I have a car. And at least my little Zippy's fill-up bill wasn't anywhere near the total at the next pump over. . .$60 for a full tank in a Hummer.

Untitled

The package read "Inside Out," and I discovered that's a bizarre version of one of my favorite guilty pleasures---The Reese's Peanut Butter Cup. (What is, perhaps, more bizarre is that I've never seen this version of the snack sold anywhere except for our on-campus bookstore. Furthermore, the bookstore has notoriously high prices--they actually sell all their products at the msr [which means I buy all my books online instead], except for the snacks. You'd think the on-campus bookstore would really jack up the snack prices, like the gas stations along toll roads do. But they don't--and that makes me happy, because when I need a snack, I need it immediately, and cheap enough that I can scrounge under my car seats for change enough to pay for the blessed hope in a wrapper.)

But I digress. Today, I felt compelled to try the Inside Out Reese's. My friend ate one cup and I the other. I decided it tastes like Easter. She agreed. Which led us to analyze the chocolates from the various holidays. Easter candy is just plain good. So is Valentine's Day candy (except for the cheap little boxes that fancy themselves on the level of gold foil wrapped imports). Halloween candy always seems on the verge of staleness. Christmas candy can go either way--if it's in a candy dish in the home of someone over 50, or of someone any age who wears Odor-Eater inserts, then consume at your own risk (I'd steer clear, myself).

Unfortunately, we're in between candy holidays right now.

No matter...until another one rolls around, I shall happily consume the good cheap stuff from the bookstore.

where wal-mart dots the landscape like starbucks in seattle

I'm embarrassed that the dates show up. I'd like to pretend I just created this blog yesterday. Imagine that along with me, would you?

So, I've been living in Missouri for about three and a half years now. I realize that few in the world would consider the culture here to be much different from my northcentral Ohio roots, but I assure you the differences are a reality.

For one thing, no one makes 90 degree turns here. They veer. Veering, by Ohio drivers' ed standards, is for forks in the road, not for turns.

In the same vein as veering is another southwest Missouri turning anomaly: the lack of turn signal usage. It's so easy, I'd always thought, to alert other drivers that you'll be making a turn/veer. This is especially important if, say, you'll be slowing down before the turn/veer or, say, you'll be coming to a complete stop in the middle of the road for absolutely no reason before making your turn/veer.

Food is different too. People here eat weird things. Like gravy. Before life here, I thought gravy was typically brown, thickened, savorily seasoned beef broth. Not so, I've discovered. The folks here consume a thick, white, hot paste and have the audacity to call it gravy.

All-U-Can-Eat buffets are considered fine dining.

One wouldn't expect a language barrier here, but I'm afraid it's true. I learned what I thought was standard, American English, but it's not exactly what they speak here. In most regions, the word "whenever" is used to imply a recurrent event or action [I become frustrated whenever I lose my keys. ], while "when" suggests a one-time event. Here, however, "when" is typically reserved for questions [When er ya goin varmit huntin? When is the kids comin home from school?], while the word "whenever" is broader [I got these new pots and pans whenever Steven and I got married. Grandma looked really peaceful whenever she died.].

I realize now that it was presumtuous of me to assume that just because "Missouri" ends with an "i," that it necessarily takes the long "e" sound. I've since learned that any word ending in "i" should end with "uh."

Growing up, we went to real cities like Columbus or Cincinnati for a nice dinner or more shopping options. Here, my town of 48,000 is the shopping, entertainment, culinary, and cultural epicenter for four states.

Along those same lines, within a 25 mile radius of where I presently sit, we have seven Wal-Mart super centers. I believe I failed to mention that in southwest Missouri, it's not just my city but rather Wal-Mart specifically that is considered the shopping, entertainment, culinary, and cultural epicenter.

(For my friends with cross cultural backgrounds and those living in another culture now, my sincerest apologies for cheapening your legitimate culture shock experiences.)