Ordinary This and Thats

Let's Make a Deal

2011-08-11T14:58:00.000-04:00

I love a good bargain. Not that kind of bargain! I lack the ability to find a good deal in a store or at a garage sale. Much to my great frustration, I am not endowed with that kind of luck.

But I am a champion at the household chore bargain!

I come from a long line of bargainers. I learned it from my older sister, who learned it from our older brother, who perhaps learned it from our oldest brother though I can't confirm that, and he probably learned it from a medicine man in Minnesota. (They were all really good at cheating at board games as well but I, thankfully, have not inherited that.)

It went something like this:
Lanie (Older Sister): Hey will you go out and water the cows for me?
Me: No.
Lanie: If you go water them you can have my Huey Lewis and the News 45 record. (She knew I'd been drooling over that sweet 45 record.)
Me: Deal.

Here's another scenario:
Lanie: Hey if you wash the dishes for me tonight I'll vacuum for you tomorrow.
Me: No. I don't mind vacuuming. What else you got.
Lanie: I'll vacuum and do the dishes next time it's your turn.
Me: No, I want you to do the dishes the next two times it's my turn.
Lanie: Deal.

There are several keys to the bargain.

One must know how badly the other person wants the deal. If they want it enough you can really get some great trades. Conversely, if you initiate the deal, do not let them know how badly you want it unless you want to wind up doing the dishes the next 15 times it is their turn.
One must be willing to yield a little if initiating said deal.
One must always be storing away information about the other party in order to bring something enticing to the table the next time a deal is desired.
One must sometimes engage in bargains with the other party - even when not in the dealing mood - in order for reciprocation to occur.
One must know how to make the other party feel like they are getting the better end of the deal.

For Instance:
Me: If you run to the store for me I'll empty out the dishwasher.
Brian: I don't want to run to the store.
Me: You'll be back from the store and resting on the couch again before I'm done emptying this dishwasher. You are clearly the winner here.
Brian: Okay.

Now, to be fair to Brian, he is easy to take because he, evidently, did not grow up bargaining. It usually doesn't occur to him to wheel and deal with me when he wants something. And he never makes a counter offer!! He could totally counter offer, throw in extras, and come out a champ - some of the time at least. But most of the time it's really kind of pathetic. It's like he's taken the thrill of the game from me.

Slowly but surely, he's getting the hang of it. Just the other afternoon I was complaining about vacuuming and he asked if I wanted him to do it. Ummmm...OF COURSE! And then he said, bringing a tear of pride to my eye, "you have to do something for me then." I was ready to deal!

"Okay," I pressed on.

"You have to let me play Assassin's Creed (a video game)" he replied.

"DEAL!"

In my best Charlie Sheen voice spoken in my head I thought, "Duh, WINNING!" I didn't have to do anything! Except not complain about him playing a video game. Sweet, innocent Brian. You've so much to learn about bargaining power. I found plenty of ways to entertain myself for an evening. Plus I got to watch him vacuum.

And he looked dreamy.

Give Me a Head of Hair, Long Beautiful Hair

2011-08-09T20:28:00.000-04:00

I gave the old oil and vinegar hair care regimen a fair shake. I really did. And in all reality it wasn't bad. But that chapter, my friends, has come to a close.

I began this journey with my knitting friends who challenged me to try it for the period of Lent since I was interested in it anyway. All was going okay, but I never felt like my hair was getting conditioned very well. My hair didn't feel as silky, tangle free, and soft as I wanted. I kept waiting for the magical transformation in my hair - hair that had never felt healthier - that others had spoken of. It never really came. (Sort of like the elusive runner's high that I never once experienced in all my attempts at becoming a runner.)

The end of June is when I was finally able to see my knitting group again. I hadn't seen them since February! (Which is wrong and unhealthy.) They, in their delightful honest ways, told me that my hair looked fine except that it wasn't as shiny. I agreed.

I decided to try an experiment with the vinegar conditioner by throwing in a tablespoon of olive oil with my vinegar water mixture. I hopped in the shower, went through my normal routine, and when that conditioner met my hair I thought I heard angels singing. This, THIS, is what conditioned hair felt like. I rubbed it through my hair ends and rinsed it out, all the while reveling in the luxurious feel of my hair.

Ah, but what a cruel hoax it all turned out to be. A few moments later when I was blow drying my hair I realized that I had not in fact rinsed out the "conditioner" at all. Somehow, I had thought the vinegar would cut through the oil and allow it to rinse off. The oil sat on my hair like those poor bird-victims of the Exxon Valdez disaster. I thought maybe as I blow dried it the heat would help it to absorb into my hair. This did not happen.

I walked around with my oily cap of hair wanting to wash it so badly. And I mean wash it with shampoo. Not only did I feel the baking soda wash was not going to be any sort of match for this oily disaster head, but I was longing to feel the rich lather and sudsy softness of a shampoo - that complete squeaky clean feeling that comes with all that soapy goodness. But I had come so far! How could I just give up, revert back?

I decided I would shampoo and condition (and I mean manufactured conditioner here) JUST ONCE and then I would go back to what I was doing. Maybe try some other experiments with the conditioner.

In the shower I was nervous. Would I remember how to do this? How would my hair react? Well, it's like riding a bicycle, the squeezing of the bottles and the lathering of the head. And let me tell you how my hair reacted.

My. Hair. Loved. It.

I don't think my hair had ever felt so silky and supple and soft and gorgeous in my entire life. I don't think my baby hair felt as sweet as the hair on my head felt on that particular day. I was like a Pantene commercial, touching my hair, swishing my hair, smelling my hair, tossing my luxurious locks.

A part of me knew right then and there that it was over. We were going camping that weekend and I decided I didn't want to hassle with taking baking soda and vinegar and putting together my mixtures while camping. But I would go right back to it the next week I said.

When we got home we were getting ready to leave in a few days for another weekend. I decided there was no point in hassling with it right then either. I would get right back to it the next week.

But the next week came, and I marched slowly into the bathroom. I grasped my mustard and dressing bottles I'd been using for the hair care mixtures, and walked resignedly into the kitchen, where I placed them gently in the dishwasher. It was over. In the end, I'm simply too vain. Woe is me. I am too weak and too proud.

I have decided that what is better, for my hair at least, has little to do with what I'm washing it with but rather the frequency. My hair is so much healthier when I only wash it every third day. It was a good run. Now I know. And sweet mercy, you just ought to run your fingers through my hair sometime. I can't get over the difference.

I am an Old Person Whom Shall Henceforth Talk About Her Physical Ailments

2011-08-08T18:47:00.001-04:00

I've been a little tired lately. That is perhaps the greatest understatement ever made on my blog. (And I've been known to exaggerate upon occasion.) I have been grossly exhausted. To the point that I was getting ten or more hours of sleep a night, still taking naps, and when I was awake I felt like I was under water trying to move through my day. On top of that I felt like my heart was racing all the time - a constant bounding heartbeat.

So naturally, I thought I was going to die.

Then I slapped myself across my face, pulled myself together, and got focused. I did what any other sane person would do. I turned to Google for answers. One suggestion that came up was that I might be anemic (low on iron). Light bulb. I don't know why I didn't think of this. (It was probably the lack of red blood cells carrying oxygen to my brain.)

I've had trouble with iron ever since high school. The first time I ran into it was my junior or senior year. I had been highly fatigued for at least six months and I remember begging my mother to take me to the doctor to see what was wrong. She finally did. (Although, looking back, I admire her restraint because I can't imagine how snide I probably would have been. Oh, you're a teenager and you're tired are you? Don't say! I just can't imagine! Let me alert the media! A tired teenager!) Anyway, he immediately put me on iron. I was pretty much right as rain within a week.

The first year Brian and I were married a different doctor caught my low iron levels in a blood test and again, I went on iron. But I worry about having too much iron since it builds up in your system - so I always end up going off of it eventually. Evidently it'd been a little too long. So, I'm back on the sweet, sweet, iron. Within two days my heartbeat was back to normal (the rapid heartbeat is caused by not having enough red blood cells to carry oxygen so the heart has to work extra hard - sorry heart!) and my energy levels have been steadily improving. I've crawled out of the bed, off the couch, and out from under my blankies and I'm ready to meet the world again.

In related news: I have discovered Melatonin! Melatonin is a hormone that helps control circadian rhythms. It's a simple supplement that can be purchased in the vitamin section. I think we all know I have sleep issues. I have been taking it for a few weeks and it may all be in my head - but I'm going to sleep at normal times and waking up at normal times. I may be able to live my life like a normal person!! I never thought it could be possible. I think all along I've had a dysfunctional circadian rhythm. I don't know how long I'll take it, because I don't want to turn into that crazy supplement-taking-38-pills-a-day-lady. But right now, it feels nice to function like the rest of humanity.

So, my blood's all pumped up with iron and I'm sleeping normally. Who knows what's next!

A Thursday Kind of a Blog

2011-07-14T20:35:00.001-04:00

After two fantastic long weekends with first my family, and then Brian's, with hosting a dinner party mixed into the middle of it, I completely fell apart this week. Exhaustion took over and I wandered around like a zombie trying to function. Then yesterday I got my hair cut and that, evidently, was the last straw. When I got home I went to sleep. And I slept. A whole bunch.

But today is Thursday and, while not terribly interesting, here is what the day looked like:

I'm still waiting for Doreen the dove to hatch her babies. It should be happening any minute. She is completely faithful. She often gives me hateful looks while I'm watering my plants out front though.
I gave several piano lessons. They were delightful. My favorite conversation from the lessons went thusly: Me - How was your week? Student - Stressful. My sister just got home from Belgium and I forgot that she hates me.
My parents popped in while I was giving lessons and were kind enough to wait around while I finished up my lessons. Then they took me to the fair. They paid my entrance fee. They bought me lunch. Clearly, I am still seven years old. And they let me drag them through every single animal barn. I loved every second.
I came home and decided I needed to learn how to play the guitar. I have done many awkward things with my hands in my piano playing career but I have never done anything as awkward as trying to play a C chord on the guitar. And I have felt pain while playing the piano but at least the surface of the piano keys never feels like trying to make music on a cheese slicer. Those strings are a bit ouchy.
Currently, the dog is sleeping on the living room rug, Brian is sleeping on the couch "watching" a Cubs game, and I'm checking in with ya'll.
Tomorrow - a morning walk and some garage saling with a friend. Here's hoping your summer is finding you enjoying some easy living as well.

Birds Inc.

2011-06-27T15:49:00.001-04:00

I hate to tell you that the bird drama is continuing around here. But it is.

The saga of the birds has now moved to the front porch. Yesterday, whilst watering the hanging flower baskets on my front porch, I discovered a bird nest in one of them. "No wonder this basket's not looking too hot," I thought to myself. I looked in the nest: no eggs, no birds. I decided that the birds must have moved on. I removed the nest and discarded it in the alley where it was promptly smashed by passing cars.

This morning I awake to find a dove sitting in said hanging basket. I thought, "silly bird, you can't live here anymore. I took your nest. These are no longer suitable lodgings." When the dove was spooked by a passing car I peeked in the basket to see what damage was done, and behold, there was an egg. Now I know that egg was not there yesterday. This dove laid that egg this morning.

Now I'm filled with extreme remorse. Can you imagine what I've done?!?! I threw out this mama's nest! She worked tirelessly to get a cozy space ready to birth her babies, came back to the nest this morning in the midst of birthing pangs, only to discover that her work had been destroyed! And now, there was no time for her to even gather the resources to build a new one. The baby was coming and the inn had been torn down. I am a horrible monster.

And what do I do about my flowers that are in that basket? Do I just let her sit all over them and destroy them? Will I be able to water them? Will she and her babies be pooping on them? I read that the gestation period is about 14 days. How long will they be living there after they hatch? What if they don't hatch and I've sacrificed my plants for nothing? Are these residents permanent - will they be returning each year?

Clearly I cannot evict a mother and her babies. That would be cruel beyond belief. I guess I'll just be tip-toeing around the front porch for awhile awaiting the new arrivals - and for the magic of nature to unfold.

Last Lesson

2011-06-02T14:58:00.001-04:00

It was a beautiful day for our last piano lesson, Danae and I. The sun was shining, the windows open: it was as if the heavens were blessing this last meeting between the two of us.

Danae came to me as a young girl, she must have been in the fourth or fifth grade. I had taught her older sister some years before and I was aware that their mother had passed away from cancer recently. I wasn't sure what to expect. Would she be fragile and shy, would I need to handle her with kid gloves? But she came with enthusiasm for learning the piano and an outgoing, sweet, and funny personality. And we had so many good times together as I watched her develop into a wonderful pianist and a delightful young woman.

I knew today was coming. This wasn't one of those times where it hits me like a punch in the gut. She graduated from highschool this spring, and this is an inevitable ending - sad though it may be. But she gave me the beautiful gift of seeing this thing - piano lessons - through to the end. It wasn't always easy. There were plenty of weeks she struggled with practice or didn't make it to a lesson. We shared the disappointments of poor performances and slow progress at times. But we also marveled at her increasing ability, her love of music, and those times when her performances just shined. I loved how inquisitive she is, about music and life. We laughed A LOT in our lessons. She also gave me one of those moments that makes me so thrilled to be a piano teacher this spring: she played me a song she had composed. And it was enchanting - a sweet, beautiful piece of music.

But on this gorgeous June day, at Danae's last lesson, we also had the chance to sit and talk to each other - something that normally just can't happen in a half hour lesson. I wanted to encourage her to continue playing, and to know what she had planned next. And with the lesson done, we could sit and talk like two friends, without the barrier of the teacher student dynamic - another great gift to me. She doesn't know what is in store for her next. And in so many ways neither do I. I love teaching piano and I know I'm going to continue to do it. But I also have this feeling that there is something else too. I just don't know what. We both had a sense that we are waiting to see what God has in store for us - as if we are both sonatas waiting for the composer to finish the next movement.

Danae has probably taught me as much as I've taught her, as do most of my students. I can't wait to see where she goes in life. This was a good ending, both sad and happy. As she rose from the piano bench to leave we hugged. Then we hugged again. The two of us - unfinished compositions that we are.

For the Birds

2011-05-25T14:34:00.001-04:00

It's no secret that I am officially old. One hallmark of my advancing age is my daily bird-watching. That's right. I am obsessed with birds. It won't be long now until I'm taking bird watching trips, learning bird calls, purchasing bird books, and otherwise engaging in this geriatric past-time.

However, the birds have been angering me of late. Frankly, they're needy and rude - not taking into account my feelings or appreciating my efforts to make their lives better at all.

A few years ago I purchased a lovely hummingbird feeder to replace my cheeky plastic red one. The new one is really lovely. I purchased it at a bird store in Indianapolis. It's purple and has a lovely disk shape with elegant detailing and a perch for the birds to sit while they eat. I brought it home, threw out the old one and waited for the hummingbirds to come. I thought there would surely now be more hummingbirds than ever as word spread throughout bird land of the new and superior feeder that was hanging over by the little yellow house. I figured I might have to purchase a few more of them so that fights would not break out amongst these charming, yet territorial, feathered creatures. But they did not come. In fact, the ones that had been visiting ceased feeding at our house at all. Finally, last year I went and bought a $3 el-cheapo hummingbird feeder that was red and plastic and stupid looking just to see what happened. Within minutes the hummingbirds returned. All manner of hummingbirds descended on that grotesque red feeder. I am beside myself. I don't even know if I want them around if they're going to act like that.
Ah, the gold finches, with their sweet songs and enchanting head movements. They love my gold-finch-feeder. They really do. I filled that baby up at the beginning of spring and they immediately came and ate. And ate. And ate. They ate like crazy. Until the feeder was only a quarter full. And then they stopped. No more finches. I wondered what happened. I thought maybe they were all busy having their babies and would return in a few weeks. Or maybe a terrible bird tragedy had befallen them like those birds in the south last year. Were they dropping dead out of the sky? I worried about my little finches. I decided to fill the feeder again, even though there was clearly still plenty of food in it, just to see what happened. Again, within minutes they were back. All manner of gold finches, verily, every gold finch in the county it seemed was eating their fill. So, evidently they were all too good to eat the food at the bottom of the feeder? What? They want a full feeder or they won't eat? Who do these finches think they are? Shame on them.
This final example is really the last nail in the coffin for me. I had read that birds like to eat where there is a water source so they can drink and bathe and be generally content. So this weekend I finally purchased a bird bath. Just a silly cheapy one but I think it looks kinda cute. I thought it would be the final installment in my bird-paradise-back-yard, and I knew the birds would love me for it. But I also have these little candle holders on posts in my flower beds. The idea is that they can hold citronella candles but in reality all they do is collect rain water since we never put candles in them. They are a few feet away from my new bird swimming pool. And yesterday, I watched a bird reject the bird bath only to land on the edge of one of the candle/water holders. It took a drink, which was cute so I almost forgave it. And then. Then this bawdy little bird turned around, placed its little tail feathers in the water (which was still kind of cute) AND POOPED IN MY CANDLE HOLDER. I SAW THE POOP FLOAT DOWN THROUGH THE WATER. And then it flew away. I have now attached signs to each of the candle holders informing these foul fowl that these are NOT birdy bidets. Okay, I haven't actually done that but I am incensed, downright offended. These birds show no respect.

And that, good people, is why caring for the birds might be better left to the birds.

A Fishy Story

2011-04-29T14:13:00.003-04:00

A few weeks ago Brian was away for the weekend repairing a screen in Virginia and I, with a particular and shameful weakness for McDonald's Filet O'Fish meal, decided I should treat myself to this culinary delight. However, I made the mistake of talking to my sister on the phone and divulging to her my plans. She shamed me. She said that if it was a fish sandwich and fries I was desiring that I should simply make it myself, that it would be more delicious and nutritious. Since I had nothing better to do, and the guilt she had laid upon me was quite immense, I decided to give it a go.

The first step was purchasing the supplies. While I try to avoid pre-packaged foods, the ingredients list on the fish fillet box did not seem overly offensive.

I then had to bake my little patties of fishy goodness.

Whilst (I think that word should be used more. Don't you?) the fish was baking, I whipped out some delightfully tasty tartar sauce, if I do say so myself.

I lovingly placed my fries into a cozy little oil bath.

I then had to tear up a brown paper bag (since I haven't been purchasing paper towels, which would have been much easier in this situation) and spread out my happy fries and sprinkled them with sea salt.

Then I had to steam my buns, because a true Filet O'Fish connoisseur knows that the bun must be steamed for that soft cushiony delightful feeling.

And then it was time to assemble my meal. Just a tad classier than eating out of a paper bag in a parking lot.

So now you are probably wondering what the verdict was. (Or how bored I could have possibly been to not only cook this meal, but document the entire process.) Well...

I should have gone to McDonald's.

My first mistake was in listening to a woman (my sister) who earlier in the day had prepared six quiches and ten pounds of roasted potatoes for a meeting that would not take place for another week. She did not discover this gaffe until arriving at the EMPTY meeting location, food in tow. So, she doesn't even know what day it is and I'm listening to her give me advice about how to make food that is better than a trusted institution. (Okay, I know that McDonald's is absolutely horrible and I try not to eat there. It can't stop me from loving their delicious food though.)

So I gave it a shot. It didn't take long to prepare. I'm sure it was better for me. But my fries were too thick and they got soggy. And the sandwich lacked a certain je ne sais quoi. And somehow it just didn't have the delicious irresistability of that Number 9 meal that I adore.

It was probably the absence of plastic and crack-cocaine that is likely in those yummy fries and sumptuous fish sandwich. Still...

What Just Happened Here?

2011-04-27T14:47:00.001-04:00

After spending three months carefully researching prices and travel advice, poring over reviews, watching Rick Steve's "Best of Europe" episodes, and dutifully squirrelling money away for a trip to Ireland in September...last night we finally booked our trip to:

Prague and Budapest

?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?

I don't even know what happened.

I need to go pull myself together before I accidentally enroll in graduate school all "spur-of-the-moment" too.

Where Have I Been

2011-04-26T13:13:00.001-04:00

When I don't blog for a week or two I get completely overwhelmed with all the things I should have blogged about and wanted to blog about...and then my mind gets paralyzed and can't think of anything of any interest to anyone. So, it is in an attempt to get myself blogging again that I make this entry. It is in the spirit of one of my favorite bloggers, the yarnharlot, who often writes numbered lists of random happenings. Here goes:

We were thieved. A hoodlum broke into our garage and took our Garmin (GPS) and Brian's circular saw. I guess my dad's right. We live in the ghetto. But I'm sure that crack-head needed the money worse than we needed that circular saw or the somewhat untrustworthy navigational device.
I acquired the lamest sports injury in history. I took a long walk. And after that I couldn't walk for days. According to the internet, I probably had a bit of tendonitis. From walking. Are you kidding me?
I read a list of symptoms for goiter. I concluded that I did not in fact have goiter. I woke up the next morning with goiter. It's better now.
I have been crying excessively for the last two weeks. The last episode of "The Office" made me a wreck. My mom recited "The Road Less Traveled" at Easter dinner and I blubbered like a baby the entire time. I have turned into a sentimental sap. More so than before. It's probably a symptom of goiter.
I finished the "Harry Potter" book series. Ten years later than the rest of the world. But wow, were they ever good!
I had an exhilarating library experience. I requested that the library purchase about five books. And they did. And they held them for me so that I could read them first. The power may have gone to my head.
We spent a lovely weekend in Indy with Brian's parents in which we ate copious amounts of meat. Mmmmmmmm...
Our sweet 1995 Taurus has finally been repaired, i.e. it no longer has its "sweet purr" as I liked to refer to it. The purr had turned into a roar. You're welcome neighborhood. We have done our part to make this area a little less ghetto.
In February I took a bunch of items to area consignment shops. Last week I went and collected $45 dollars from them. I did not have to get up early, put out tables, put stupid price stickers on anything, and make small talk with strange neighbors. I will never have another garage sale as long as I live.
My brother-in-law claimed that if you put an orange in a sock and beat somebody with it, they'll be hurt badly but won't bruise. So guess what we did this weekend after purchasing oranges? He was wrong. I have a bruise on my arm from where I beat my own self with a sock-orange. Brian was the only one smart enough to not take part in this experiment.

In related news: I made it throught the Lent season without shampooing or conditioning my hair. There were some rough days. I over-baking-soda'd my hair one day and ended up with a grease bomb living on top of my head. Then I got some control but I was hating it. The top of my head was greasy and the tips of my hair were DRY and resembled a bristle broom. It was disaster.

I scoured the internet trying to figure out where I was going wrong. The helpful advice I found said: "Play around with the proportions and methods. You'll figure out what works for you." I don't want to play around! I just want someone to tell me what the three options are and spell out how to do them so I can end this torture!! One person said "don't use too much baking soda because it will end up making your hair more greasy." Another said, "If your hair is greasy you need to add some more baking soda." Thank you so much to the granola-eating-birkentstock-wearing-hippies who can't give me CLEAR INSTRUCTIONS ON HOW TO GET MY HAIR CLEAN.

I finally found what has worked for me, thanks to one kind person who made a comment on another blog with some clear instructions. I have a mixture of roughly two tablespoons of baking soda to one cup of water. I mix the baking soda with HOT water and shake it until dissolved. (The baking soda should have a slippery, not gritty feel.) I get my hair dripping wet, and then apply the mixture. Rub it in. Let it sit while I brush my teeth. (Yes, I brush my teeth in the shower...makes way more sense.) Then rinse it out really good. I then rinse the ends only of my hair with my vinegar mixture. (1 Tbs. Vinegar/1 C. Water) And then I rinse that out.

I think I'm going to stick with it for a while. I don't ever want to go through that adjustment period again. So I'll keep it going until a.) I'm wealthy and can afford really delightful organic hair products or b.) I'm too lazy to take it any longer.

With that, I leave you with a few pictures of what my hair looked like a few weeks into the project - and I wish you a happy spring!!!

First Poo-Free Washing

2011-03-10T18:22:00.002-05:00

Since I spent copious amounts of time on Fat Tuesday washing my hair, I did not wash it yesterday (the first day of Lent). So today was the first washing with baking soda and apple cider vinegar. And tomorrow I have a hair appointment. Thus, my Lenten exercise is going to start off with a bit of a hiccup because my hair dresser is going to wash my hair. I briefly considered taking in my bottle of baking soda mix to have her use, but I think she would look askance at that. In fact, I don't think I'll tell her of my plan because she will probably hair-dresser-divorce me.

The results of the first washing: it didn't feel like I washed my hair at all. I didn't like it. It just sort of felt like I was pouring water on my head. It doesn't feel as clean as normal, but, maybe I'll develop a new normal. I blow dried it and here's what I look like:

I guess it looks clean enough, but I'm not quite sure yet what I think.

Also, just for fun, here's a picture of a.) a throw pillow with a tiny head, or b.) my giant cat. I report, you decide.

What you can't tell from this shot is that her entire body is covering a floor vent and she is vampiring all the heat that is supposed to warm the guest room. I tried putting her on a diet but all that happened is that my other cat almost starved to death because she ate all his food. Oh Maggie, what will become of you?

Poo Free

2011-03-09T15:51:00.002-05:00

Happy Ash Wednesday! Every year I struggle to find something meaningful to give up for Lent. I really admire the idea behind giving something up - to draw closer to God - to examine the practices and material goods we have become dependent on in our daily living - even if it's not done for religious reasons. And so often I end up giving up on giving something up because it seems too difficult to find that perfect transformational experience.

A few weeks ago I was kicking around the idea of going shampoo and conditioner free. I had read several forums and blog posts about it and it sounds, well, at the least really interesting. (There is a great article on how to do this at simplemom.net.) Most of what I've read claims that your head will not become a grease pit, but that in fact you will have hair that is in the best condition ever. (Hmmm, I am sort of vain about said hair.) To sum it up, you wash your hair with baking soda and you condition it with apple cider vinegar. How cheap and easy can you get? And you aren't pouring horrible chemicals on your head and you help the environment? No brainer.

I brought it up to my knitting group (always full of wise counsel and up for good adventure) and they suggested I take the leap for Lent. That way, I am giving it a fair shake but have an ending date if it doesn't work out. I loved the idea immediately.

And then I got a little crazy. There is so much good information out there about the dangers of the chemicals we use in cleaning our homes and our bodies. Not only that, but there are really easy, cheap, and natural ingredients we can use as an alternative. I went to the library and pulled out books with recipes. I went to the health food store and went berserk. I stopped at the grocery store and bought all the vinegar and baking soda they had. (Just kidding...although I stocked up.) I've already started mixing up my own laundry detergent. Today I made fabric softener. Two days ago I started using the oil cleansing method on my face. (I'll admit, this one SCARES ME TO DEATH.)

But I can't help feel like all these things are still just token moves, just drops in the environmental bucket. And I need to find a balance. I don't know where to stop. For instance, yesterday I read a forum where women were exclaiming how wonderful reusable feminine hygiene products are and why don't all women use them and why would you want to kill mother earth by not using them and OMG when are you going to start using them? It had not really occurred to me that I should be seeking an alternative and now I feel just horrible. Am I literally going to have to go sit in a red tent every month now? Every time I hear about something new, I can't un-hear it, and then I feel I have a responsibility to respond. I can't eat my beloved Swiss Cake Rolls without feeling a tremendous amount of guilt because I just know that they are filled with things that are just HORRIBLE for me, not to mention the packaging. Oh my lands, THE PACKAGING!

I'm going to take a deep breath now.

All better.

But you see what I'm saying about this balance issue. I want to try to live responsibly - in regards to the environment, our health, and the old pocket-book - but I also want to enjoy the good things in life (i.e. Swiss Cake Rolls) and enjoy my time here on this planet.

At any rate, yesterday was Fat Tuesday and since it was my last day to shampoo, I lived it up. Hope you did the same. My hope is that if you are giving up something for Lent, it might be an enlightening experience.

Sticks and Stones...Warning: Feminist Rant to Follow

2011-03-07T12:48:00.005-05:00

“All right, ladies, let’s get to work. I called you a lady to humiliate you. It’s a motivational tactic we coaches use.” - Sponge Bob Square Pants

Something has been bothering me a lot in the last few years and it seems like I'm becoming more and more aware of it - and more sensitive about it. I am sick and tired of men cutting each other down by, in essence, calling someone a female. It occurs in a lot of different ways, and by using many different phrases. And I can barely stomach it anymore. Some examples of phrases I have recently heard, from one man to another man, (and they aren't pretty):

"Don't be a girl."

"Quit being a pussy!" (We all know this means "don't be a vagina" which at its very essence means, "don't be a woman.")

"Man up." (This one may not fit, but just sort of bothers me.)

"What are you? A woman?"

"Come on now, hike up your skirt and play."

"Who lit the fuse on your tampon string?"

There are a lot of other variations I hear that I shan't repeat here because of their vulgarity (as if the above were not vulgar enough). This drivel is unbelievable to me. Would we tell each other, or our children, not to be a black person, or a Jew, or a dirty Arab? I imagine a lot of people still do, but generally the circles I move in don't do that. But those same people (even those who are followers of Jesus) don't hesitate to throw out these little barbs of latent sexism when they wouldn't do the same regarding race. And these are good people, people I love and even admire. But what bothers me most is that these are men who have daughters, who are married to - and presumably love - a woman, who have mothers. Why is this okay?

I've heard people come back with: well, of course, a man shouldn't be something other than a man, shouldn't try to be something other than a man, and that's all these phrases allude to.

Nice try. We all know that this kind of language means that being a woman is "less than." This language means that women are weak, both emotionally and physically and that there are no qualities in women that should be emulated. It means being anything like a woman is something one should avoid at all costs, lest you be seen as weak, useless, expendable.

It is a futile battle that I fight to get the men around me to take this seriously. (And even most women.) They think I'm being such a typical "girl" about it, that I'm being way too sensitive, that there's no harm in this good-natured ribbing. (Even Brian thinks I'm off my rocker about this one. He tries not to speak this way simply because he doesn't want to hear me rant for five minutes, not because he actually embraces what I'm saying.) But this isn't good-natured ribbing. This type of talk settles into our psyche, becomes part of our culture and society, and shapes our expectations of what we can become. Look around you at how it doesn't even occur to most women to be offended at this talk! Is it because we view ourselves this way that we simply accept it?

We have finally reached a point in our society where it is okay to raise little girls more like boys. They can be good at sports, wear pants, get dirty, be good at math and science, and have strong wills. I would say, typical masculine qualities. But we are still not okay with little boys being raised in any way that resembles feminine qualities. I don't think that women and men share identical characteristics - and viva la difference - I don't want us to be the same. But when will we start to actually value the wonderful characteristics of females - or at the very least, not see them as the very worst?

Celebrating Love

2011-03-06T14:48:00.001-05:00

This post is a bit late considering that it began on February 14 and the subject matter is the oh-so-controversial topic of Valentine's Day.

You see, I began this post while Brian was at work on the great day of love, but the day took a bit of an unexpected turn. Here's the story.

Every year as Valentine's Day approaches, Brian and our friend Dan begin ranting and raving about how it's a made-up holiday created by the card companies to make men spend money. While it has been exploited by the card companies, it certainly wasn't created by them. And if it was - so what? Is there anything wrong with having one day a year that we recognize love and the great gift it is to us human beings - and not just romantic love, but love in general? What would life be without relationships that lend meaning to our existence and provide us with joy and nurturing? I think that holidays in general break the tedium of everyday life. Which is why I look forward to St. Patrick's Day with zeal and hit haunted houses every Halloween! We need these little spots of levity to keep our lives from growing dreary. So a day honoring love isn't such a bad thing in my opinion.

But whenever the topic is brought up Brian has this go-to phrase he likes to say. It goes something like this: "Why should I have to do something special for Lisa on Valentine's Day? I celebrate our love every day."

And every time he says it I think: Oh really? Pray tell, what is this daily celebration you speak of? What are these ceremonies and festivities that are taking place commemorating our great love each day? Because if you're partying it up over our love each day, I don't think you've invited me to the celebration.

Now, I know, I know, celebrating can be in the small things, blah, blah, blah. However, it might be more appropriate to say that he lives in a state of gratitude for our love each day. Expressing that love and gratitude in small ways. (Perhaps in the way he leaves his slippers on the dresser every night, or eats all the yummy food in the house? Just kidding! No, he really does those things but I know it's not out of love.) He's very good at expressing love and acting out in love in so many ways each day. It just sort of hurts my feelings when he acts like it's the hugest burden in the world to spend a day really celebrating it, like it's not worth whooping it up over our relationship for a day.

But I'm used to the attitude, I kind of get it, and I'm not sore about it and I don't harbor secret expectations. So this Valentine's Day I set about making a dinner of spaghetti and meatballs for our romantic supper. (Because I take all my romantic cues from "Lady and the Tramp.") And Brian was happy. (He loves spaghetti!) And we had a lovely dinner and I was feeling quite satisfied.

Then he goes and brings this out of the kitchen:

The prettiest, sweetest little Valentine's Day ring ever! (He knows I have a thing for rings - as in I crazy love them.) Maybe because it hasn't been automatic all of these years to receive a gift, this one felt really special. It was so out of the blue, such a pure surprise, that it brought so much more joy than if I had been expecting a Valentine's Day token or gift.

No, next year I won't be expecting that he has to get me a gift. If he does I'll be happy but if not, I'll still know that I'm loved. Maybe by our 25th Valentine's Day together we'll finally have this figured out...but if not, I'll always have 2011.

A Puzzling Adventure

2011-02-28T14:24:00.002-05:00

I always believed that I would be a great do-er of jigsaw puzzles. It started when I was just a wee child. I would work on my wooden puzzle that depicted a mother hippopotamus and her baby and involved, oh, maybe about seven pieces. I worked feverishly numerous times reuniting that mother hippo and her baby, putting them back in order as if their very lives depended on it. Then I graduated to the 25, and even 50 piece puzzles of furry kittens and sleepy puppies. I was good at them. Efficient. I delighted in them.

So I always imagined that one day I would join my mother at her grown-up puzzles depicting the English countryside that were comprised of 1,000 or more tiny pieces. However, when the time came for me to leave behind my childhood puzzles and join the world of adult jigsaw puzzles I found myself, well, disillusioned. We would lay the puzzle out, flip the pieces over dividing the border pieces from the rest of the riff-raff, and with great anticipation start putting the pieces together. But I found that sitting in front of seemingly millions of disconnected puzzle pieces that frankly, resembled nothing of the scene on the puzzle box when blown up to a larger size and chopped up like raw hamburger, was not relaxing or fun - but rather frustrating and futile. I did not enjoy it. I found it to be a giant waste of time that turned my brain to mush, made my neck hurt, and made we want to sweep the entire puzzle to the floor with a giant wave of my angry arm. I was, in short, a great disappointment to myself.

I gave up my puzzling ways. I would stare in wonderment at my mother and sister who worked tirelessly at assembling these puzzles that were a staple in our house during the winter. I envied them and their enjoyment. Sometimes I would give it a go again to see if maybe something in my brain had clicked and I would now find this a pleasant past-time. But nothing ever changed. I would work for what seemed like hours to find two pieces that fit together and exhausted from the exertion, I would declare myself done.

When I married Brian I discovered that he too was one of these odd breeds of people that enjoyed the process of piecing together a perfectly lovely picture that had been torn all to heck. (Who ever came up with this sick idea?) It is an endless source of amusement to me to see him drawn to puzzles that are laid out in people's homes. An intensity enters his eyes and he slavishly labors over the puzzle, almost unable to pull himself away from it. (One of the funniest things he's ever said to me was, "man, my back hurts from working on that puzzle." Seriously!?) His child-like joy at working that puzzle is amazing and endearing. I have to admit, he seems to be good at it.

We've tried laying out puzzles here in the past because I know he enjoys them. However, until recently our cats have always made that an even more frustrating and futile activity than what it already is. (As in, we would wake up in the morning to find puzzle pieces all over the floor.) But they are old, lazy, and fat and no longer express interest in...well, anything really. So we are once again in the safe zone. So this weekend, we purchased a puzzle at a thrift store and got to work.

And - low and behold, I enjoyed working on that puzzle all weekend. Is it that finally at the age of 33 I have enough patience and wisdom to find pleasure in the puzzle? Or am I just bored and stir-crazy enough from winter that any task, regardless of how horrible it is, will appeal to me? It also could be the fact that Brian and I made it a competitive sport. I wanted to be better at it than him. I became territorial. (Don't you dare work on that turquoise dinghy! That is mine! And don't even think about touching the barn either. I'm going to work on it!) I trash talked. (Yeah, I totally put together that sky border before you got your border pieces together. And mine was WAY harder.) I threw pieces into the area he was working on. I blocked his light with my head. I threw my elbow around. I declared him arrogant. At one point he said he might not be able to work on the puzzle with me anymore because I wasn't a good sport. Whatever Mister High-and-Mighty. Sheesh.

Basically, it was a good time. And I want to do it again. And I feel so grown up and proud of myself now that I enjoy puzzles. I feel like I have "arrived."

And I also feel fairly geriatric, because at the age of 33, our wild and crazy weekend entailed putting on our pajamas, turning on some classic rock, and working on a jigsaw puzzle. Well, call me old or lame if you will. It was still a thoroughly relaxing and lovely weekend.

That Thing I Do

2011-02-12T13:46:00.001-05:00

Every time I lose a piano student it feels like a punch in the gut. It hurts. I mourn and grieve. I question my teaching abilities. I wonder if there is more I could have done. I feel like a total loser.

I go through this even when I sense it coming (because I can often feel it heading down the pike). I experience the grief even when I know that the time is right for a student to quit and that it will be best for the student and myself. I even mourn a little when it is a student that I never really "clicked" with or one that never did any work (making lesson time torture for both of us more than likely).

So when, at the beginning of the week, I received a call from a mother of two students to inform me that they would be discontinuing lessons at the end of February (for reasons I totally understood), I found myself facing that familiar mixture of disappointment and regret again.

I rarely talk about piano lessons in this blog. Not because there isn't a wealth of material - because WOW! - there is a lot of good stuff there. Not only are my students hilarious, but I continually learn so much through them. But somehow it feels as though there is some unspoken teacher/student confidentiality vow that I have taken. I don't ever want a student to feel as though they are the butt of a joke or are being violated in any way. And I guess what happens at our lessons feels a bit private and maybe even a little sacred to me.

I have the privilege of meeting one-on-one with children and young adults once a week. And some of these students I see once a week for six or more years! We build a relationship, a trust that I take very seriously. Some students open up to me at the first lesson but some relationships I have to coax and nurture and build. I made a decision long ago that regardless of a student's performance at the piano, I was going to build a relationship with the person who comes to lessons each week.

Because each student is a person:

who is good at some things and not as good at others,
who has passions and hobbies - even if it's not piano,
who experiences angst and drama at school and occasionally gets their feelings hurt,
who has tests to study for and lines to memorize for the school play,
who has a beloved pet that just died,
who is excited about a sleepover or cousins coming to visit,
who has dreams of someday becoming something great.

How narrow it is to only view them through the lens of the piano. If I only viewed them through that lens I could potentially end up really disliking a student who is a delightful person. So I try. I try to get to know them all and value them for who they are. Sometimes I fail and I never quite make that connection. (And granted, I only have a few minutes a week which isn't super conducive to developing really deep feelings.) Sometimes I am just not the right teacher for a particular student. But I really hope that they can feel that I care. I think they do. I have even had a few students break down in tears when they told me they were going to quit. Which then makes me cry and really, it's a big mess.

Perhaps that is why it always hurts when it's time to say goodbye. Maybe if I took a more clinical approach, more professional even, I could separate myself from the heartache. I don't know if I want to. I don't know if I would enjoy what I do as much without the richness of those relationships.

And then, with perfect timing, a new student came to meet me at the end of this week. One that will leave me eventually as they all do - but one that I think I will love working with. I was reminded that there is a constant cycle to this job of mine, and the sting from earlier in the week lessened.

Oops, I Did it Again

2011-01-27T19:21:00.001-05:00

Well the Showalters are looking into refinancing the homestead. What with me having given up some significant wages in the last year, and the interest rates being low, it looks like a way to possibly save a few bucks a month. (What's that? I could get a job you say? Hmph.)

We lined up an appraisal for Monday morning at 11:00 a.m. Enough time for me to get my house, and myself, in tip-top shape for "the man" to come look at my home and judge the dickens out of it.

Sunday night we made jokes about how I was going to be home by myself for the appraisal and that maybe I should show a little skin, if you know what I mean (wink, wink), in order to get a better value on the house. Skin. Honestly. That's all we were talking about. An ankle, maybe an exposed knee. Get your minds out of the gutter people. Alright, maybe flashing a hoot had been talked about. But it was pure jest.

Or so I thought.

Because honestly, who shows up an hour and fifteen minutes early to an appraisal? When has a repair person, or the cable guy, or the plumber shown up early - ever? The answer is: they don't. If they give you a window they are always near the tail end of that window.

So I woke up on Monday morning and got my house cleaned, all in my pj's. Now all my pajamas are cozy, fleecy, utilitarian numbers. So I often stay in them until I really need to get out of them. Why get in clean clothes to clean the house and dirty them up? I think it's good stewardship. (Although I did have that awkward encounter with one of my piano students who popped by in the morning to reschedule her lesson last week.) So at 9:45, a generous amount of time before my 11:00 appointment, I went into my bedroom and started changing. One pair of jeans and a brassiere later came a knock on the door. I immediately hit the deck like a gun shot had gone off.

The problem is that several years ago we repainted our bedroom and hung up roman shades on the windows. We quickly discovered that they are SEE THROUGH from the outside of the house! It's ridiculous. So I really need to get some fabric to hang behind them. But the headboard of the bed covers the front window pretty good so unless you're standing on the porch, looking in to the front window, you really can't see much. So I haven't worried about it even though I probably should get it taken care of.

But who knows what the early appraiser saw. Did he decide to do a little checking around before knocking on my door? I can just hear him saying to his young son who was with him, "Son, this is why you don't call if you are going to show up early." In the end it was a frazzled and embarrassed woman who answered the front door, having exposed herself to the working man.

And no, it didn't seem to help the appraisal, which makes me feel all the dirtier. Guess he didn't like what he saw. Ugh.

Week Report

2011-01-12T15:21:00.001-05:00

Well, there's nothing much to report from here. It's been a pretty quiet week overall.

There was that one evening that Brian and I played euchre with friends and he went ape-crazy over a very well-played and strategic move that I made. He yelled at me for minutes. He pouted for hours. I gently urged him to apologize for his behavior for about two days:

Laying in bed saying, "are you sure there isn't anything you want to say to me?"
Kissing him goodbye as he heads to work fishing, "is that everything then? Does anything look a little different now that you've had a good night's sleep?"
Snuggling on the couch, whispering in his ear, "are you ready to admit you were wrong yet?"

But I got nothin'. He is stubbornly clinging to his deluded sense of euchre morals.

Then there was that one night that I went ape-crazy a few nights after the euchre incident. And I mean, I really lost my cool in an uncharacteristic way and said a load of stuff that was cruel and untrue. Geez Louise. After thirteen years of marriage you'd think we'd have this figured out. Clearly that is not the case.

I, however, apologized immediately. (You like my self-righteous superiority?)

But I was still a little sore at him for a day or two.

Then there was the evening that I decided to make venison chili that I simply couldn't enjoy. And then in the morning I threw up. HA! It could have been that I didn't eat much of the chili therefore I stuffed myself with odds and ends I found in the fridge and chances are one of those things had, shall we say, turned? But the chili put me in such a state of extreme hunger that I was forced to eat rotten food. I still blame it on the chili.

And I'm glad it's no longer in my belly.

I don't know what I'm going to do with the remaining ground venison and the venison steaks seeing as I don't like it and will therefore, likely not be cooking with it. Oh and poor Brian was SO excited about that meat. SO EXCITED! (A co-worker of his hunted Darrel the Christmas deer for us.) I don't want to be wasteful but...gross.

And then there's this:

This is a beautiful calendar that Brian's mother gave us for Christmas. And I hung it up with great joy when the new year hit. (I actually REALLY love the ritual of changing the calendars.)

But last week I looked more closely at it - and my mind when into a complete tailspin. Honestly, it turned to mush for moments as I grappled with the utter confusion the images brought on. Look more closely.

For the love of everything holy, who is the cruel person that decided this was a good idea? It looks so much like a regular calendar that I had been reading the days all wrong. For who knows how long? (Well, probably not that long considering it's only the 12th.) What if I've made crazy plans for 27th thinking it's a Saturday? There is potential for mayhem here. Now that I'm on to it's little tricks though, I'll be on my guard. But not cool, calendar maker. Not cool. (But Linda, I do love the calendar. I'm just saying, perhaps a warning would have been in order.)

Blah, Blah, Blah, New Years Resolutions, Blah, Blah

2011-01-04T14:59:00.001-05:00

Oh 2011, how you loom brightly before me with your endless possibilities and promises of new/good things. I have so many things that I resolve to do in this year that my head is swimming. I was going to stick to just one thing and then I decided that lacked enough ambition for 2011 to respect.

On new year's eve I decided I wanted to start a new tradition, inspired largely by the burning of Zozobra that I witnessed in New Mexico. I found the burning of my "glooms" to be so cathartic that I wanted a little more of that in my life. So I sent Brian outside with a challenge: to create fire using several pieces of soggy wood and a few newspapers. He did not disappoint. An hour later he had a blaze going worthy of burning the most wicked of glooms. We wrote our woes down on slips of paper and cast them into the fire. Gloom! You shall haunt us no more!

Resolutions: (Laces her fingers together, cracks her knuckles, rubs her hands together, prepares to type.)

As per my earlier entry, stop obsessing over what others think of me. I have decided that when I find myself in the throes of obsession I will inform Brian who has been instructed to then slap me across the face and tell me to get a hold of myself, thereby creating a link between obsession and physical pain that should cure this bad habit.
Earn more money for our household, i.e. pull my own weight around here.
Stop obsessing over money and self-worth.
Drink more water for the love of Pete.
Read more books.
Stop feeling guilt over reading books.
Knit myself a garment that actually looks good on me.
Stop being a vampire bat and actually have a regular sleep schedule.
Move to Europe.
Be content in Indiana.
Become a travel agent.
Win the mega millions and be independently wealthy and move to Barbados.
Find out what I want to be when I grow up.
Embrace a simpler life - without feeling guilt that I am not living up to my potential.
Stop accumulating so much STUFF! Stop buying stuff and wanting stuff...
Right after I get my new pair of boots.
Be kinder to Brian, avoiding references to his large head (both figuratively and literally) and the gray hairs on it.
Blog more. I totally blew it last year. I was going to try to beat my 2009 number and failed.
Be healthier - including the need to quit singing songs about how much I love butter.
Find the solution to world peace.

Okay, some of these are more dreams than resolutions. But I don't care what you think. (There. See. That wasn't so hard.) HAPPY NEW YEAR EVERYONE!!

Living the Pura Vida

2010-12-19T20:59:00.001-05:00

Again I am faced with the challenge of summing up an incredible, and full, week of vacation in a way that doesn't bore you to tears and yet captures the essence of our experiences. Costa Rica was wild, amazing, beautiful, and adventurous. Our group of six had an amazing time. This entry will be long. I can feel it already and I warn you of it now. Here goes nothing.

The Players:

Felicia Baker

An American woman of loose morals who professes her love to strangers on the beach.

Heather Birky

An American woman of loose morals who kept trying to sell herself on the street corner.

Dan Buell

An American man who wrangles Costa Rican wild life and enjoys singing Lady Gaga in the shower.

Colin Shafer

An American man who enjoys long walks on the beach - without telling his companions where he's going.

Brian Showalter

An American man who holds on to his rafting oar in any circumstances.

Lisa Showalter

An American woman of loose morals who clearly looks like a pot-head as she was offered a toke from a hippie joint.

Day 1: (a.k.a. The Never Ending Day, Take 1)

The trip begins at 12:00 AM on Sunday as we head to Chicago for our early flight to Costa Rica. Many of us did not sleep due to excitement, even though we knew this would haunt us later. Our flights go off without a hitch (except that Felicia's luggage is lost), we pick up our car, pack in like sardines and begin our 138 mile, five-hour car ride to Manzanillo, Costa Rica. Exhausted and travel-weary, we had no idea what was in store for us.

Manzanillo is literally at the end of the road on the Caribbean side of Costa Rica. To the south of town is a wildlife refuge and then it's Panama. Brian had to adjust to Costa Rican driving (and all of us had to adjust to riding with his adjustments), which involved:

barely dodging bikers with no reflectors and pedestrians loitering on the streets dressed in dark colors who seemed to dart out in to the black night without warning
passing slow moving vehicles in no-passing zones
maneuvering roads that seemed to be more pot hole than road
being sent airborne - time seemed to stand still as everyone soared through the air at one point, hitting their heads on various vehicle parts.
the Garmin singing "bing-bing" to warn us of dangerous bridges - bridges that are only one lane and sometimes impossible to see if anyone is coming from the other direction.

We finally arrived at Cabinas Faya Lobi at 8:30 PM, unfolded ourselves from the vehicle, and began claiming rooms like we were on Big Brother. We also discovered that the Cabina is the "Cabina of No Secrets." The open roof allows us to have conversations with people while they shower. There would be no vaulting of any secrets during the week.

Day 2:

The idyllic beach day. The howler monkeys wake us up at 5:30 AM. Dan discovers a sloth in our front tree. Colin goes missing in the morning for a three hour walk down the beach. The rest of us check out the little town of Manzanillo in the daylight. (We spot Colin riding around on a bike later, safe and sound.) The afternoon is spent on the beach where a massive sand-ball fight goes down (which is a rather painful game) and Dan and Brian engage in an endless game of coconut ball. (This is a complex game involving a stick, coconuts, and the ability to dodge shards of exploding coconuts.) Felicia, luggage-less, with the typical loose morals of an American woman, ran down the beach with me topless. (She did have a towel wrapped around her.)

We enjoy a lovely dinner in town and then the gaming begins. Lively games of Catchphrase were enjoyed many a night in our cabina (boys against girls) along with the occasional bout of euchre, rummy, and others. We discover we have a fridge toad. Some try to evict it. Dan believes this is cruel and carries a urinating toad back to the fridge where it belongs.

It rained in the evening. We at rice and beans.

Day 3:

Our zip lining adventure began with a bumpy ride in a bus and then a bumpier ride in the back of a pick-up truck. Some of us were frightened, some of us were not. 23 zip lines, a LOT of uphill hiking, and one Tarzan swing, comprised our morning. I have come to the conclusion that all the guides on these adventure excursions feed off of our fear. They seem to be sort of sick individuals. I wish that I could say that we all kept our language clean for the video that was made, but extreme fear will lead to salty sailor talk. I loved it! In general I think we all enjoyed it to some extent and were glad we did it. However, I don't think everyone will be booking this on their next vacation. When we arrived home Felicia's luggage had arrived! No more topless beach jogging for her!

We discovered at lunch, after struggling with our Spanish all week, that Colin is apparently nearly fluent in Spanish and had been holding out on us. He defended himself saying, "well you guys seemed to be struggling along alright." Seriously?

In the evening we fed a leaf bug to our fridge toad (who we discovered had a wife under there with him).

It rained. We ate rice and beans.

Day 4:

We explored Puerto Viejo and did a little shopping. At lunch Colin discovered his wallet was missing. Here's where things get loopy. We immediately send Colin to search for it while we settle up the bill with the insufferable American ex-pat who owned the place. He thought he may have lost it at a bench we sat on earlier in the morning. The whole gang splits up. (Heather and I begin to worry about our teamwork for the next day's rafting adventure based on our disorganization.) Our group canvasses the little town on a mission for the wallet. I start worrying about how we're going to cancel his credit cards. Heather starts trying to sell herself on the street corner to raise money for the rest of Colin's vacation. Brian finds the wallet in our truck. (Okay, Heather was just trying to signal Dan down the street, but it didn't look good.) Meanwhile, Colin had discovered the wallet was in the truck and started looking for us. He went into a pharmacy and liquor store to see if we were in there. How much do I love that he thought that we would be so unconcerned with our traveling mate losing his wallet in a foreign country that we would just decide to buy some booze and take a load off while he searches.

That night we grilled in. Literally, we grilled in our living room.

It rained. We ate rice and beans.

Day 5:

Rafting the Pacuare River was on the agenda for this day. I had very little trouble zip lining but am terrified of white water rafting. I may be the only person on earth who has been white water rafting four times despite not really enjoying it. Oh but the scenery on this river was amazing, something right out of Jurassic Park. The Pacuare River is ranked as one of the top five in the world to raft. So yeah, pretty neat.

The river was very high from all the rain but we were tackling those rapids like pros, getting down in the boat when in danger, paddling forward and back when called upon. Just as I was coming to terms with rafting, even sort of enjoying myself, disaster struck. It was the last class IV rapid of the day, Dos Montanas, where it went down.

All I remember is paddling air because I was too high up to reach water. I fell down into the boat...and watched as one by one all my comrades fell into the raging rapid. It was horrifying watching Brian slip out of the boat. I thought the whole thing was going to flip. I braced myself...but miraculously we didn't flip. Bernie (our guide) and I remained in the boat. But there I was, watching all of my friends struggling against the rapids. I was pacing around in the raft wondering how to save them, counting heads, which was difficult because they kept bobbing down and coming up in different places, and watching them heading towards a sheer cliff wall. I kept waiting on instructions from Bernie as I watched the terror in the faces of my friends but he was giving me nothing. (Okay, a few faces showed only exertion, the other two - pure terror.) But in no time, everyone was rescued and put back in the boat. I figured they would all dislike rafting as much as me now. But no. They all seemed to come alive from it. Jerks.

We finished out the day successfully. I might as well tell you that somehow this whole story has been turned on me. While clearly, having stayed in the boat, I am the most skilled rafter in our group, some think otherwise. And in fact have come up with a ridiculous conspiracy theory which involves me and Bernie plotting to get Brian's life insurance money and my leg giving Brian a swift kick out of the boat. I'm sorry that they feel such shame that they have to fabricate stories.

Also, on the ride back to our cabina we were reading the Costa Rica guide book and discovered that many Costa Rican men believe that American women have loose morals. Hmmmm....

It rained. We ate rice and beans...three times.

Day 6:

In the morning the men headed off with a local fisherman to catch us some dinner. Us women tried to take in yoga but they didn't have a class going that morning so instead we ate pastries, chased a blue butterfly in our truck trying to get a picture of it, were offered marijuana and a jungle night-hike from hippies, and may or may not have married off Felicia to a Costa Rican life guard.

Heather, Felicia, and I went to Playa Cocles to watch the surfers. It was delightful...until Felicia decided to say "hola" to the life guard passing by. He immediately came up and crouched down beside us. Except, he didn't really speak English and we didn't really speak Spanish. Felicia tried her best. She really did. He wouldn't go away. It was getting awkward. She kept trying though. Eventually she said, "the only thing I really know how to say is 'te amo.'" But you know that all he heard was probably "te amo." So basically, she professed her love to Donny the lifeguard. And when it appeared he was not going anywhere (what with his new-found love and all) we made an excuse that we were hungry and skedaddled.

What awaited us upon our arrival back at the cabina was like a scene from the Jonestown Massacre. Three lifeless, and sick men were lying around in various locations like beached whales throughout the cabina. Evidently the ocean didn't so much agree with them. And it took A LONG time for those men to recover! But they had caught us some fish and secured a cook from the local restaurant (who had gone fishing with them) to come and cook the fish.

After our delicious supper the men went to a local poker game (that the owner of our cabina invited them to) at the home of a man who evidently has a $35,000 hit out on his family. It sounds like there were other notorious characters there along with illicit substances. I was glad they made it back home alive.

It rained. We ate rice and beans.

Day 7:

The howler monkeys awoke us at 5:00 AM only for us to discover that we had lost power. Heather feared that the jungle was working a hostile takeover of our property. When we woke up for real, we headed out to the Jaguar rescue center where all of Brian's wildest dreams came true.

How do I begin to tell you about a man and his love for monkeys? It would be impossible for me to describe. All you need to know about the Jaguar Rescue Center is that there is a room that houses baby howler monkeys, AND THEY LET YOU GO IN AND PLAY WITH THEM. It was unreal. They jumped on your head and pulled you hair and cuddled up in your arms and sat on your shoulder. It is nothing but pure joy. And for my dear husband, having his head groomed by a monkey was more joy than his body knew how to handle. He and Dan even snuck in for a second turn with the monkeys. We also were able to hold the sweetest baby sloth. I have fallen in love with the gentle sloth. And for a real treat, we were able to see a defecating sloth. (They only defecate once a week.)

We played around on the beach the rest of the afternoon. Over dinner that night at Malbec's Argentinian Steak House (which was by far the best of our vacation) we shared our favorite moment of the trip. For many of us it was rafting, for me it was time on the beach, while Brian - a bit chagrined - admitted it was the quality time he spent with the monkeys. He declared that our guest room would be turned into a monkey room upon our return from vacation.

I don't remember if it rained. Surely it did. However, we did not eat rice and beans on this day.

Day 8: (a.k.a. The Never Ending Day, Take II)

Always the hardest day, leaving paradise and heading back to the daily grind. We were up at 5:00 AM and because of snow and wind at home, flights were delayed and we didn't walk in our front door until 8:30 AM the next day. There were calamity and shenanigans the entire time - and then utter exhaustion.

As Brian and I headed up to Goshen for church this morning, we pondered how we could make a move to Costa Rica. We both long for a simpler life, one that just doesn't seem attainable here and one that seems impossible NOT to embody there, and we lack the courage to make it happen. We discussed selling all of our belongings. I still didn't think we'd have enough cash to get started. (And frankly I don't think the humidity of the rain forest is great for pianos so I doubt I'd find many piano students.) Brian suggested we turn in the family that has the $35,000 hit on them. If only we knew who to contact!

Pura Vida is a Costa Rican expression meaning "pure life." How lucky the six of us were to experience it - at least for those seven days.

Daily Dose of Pathetic

2010-12-15T14:07:00.001-05:00

So a few of you have wondered how our "second date" went, and I admit I have sadly neglected my dear blog. To fill you in, the "date" went off without a hitch. We had a great time. We laughed, we ate, it was a very enjoyable and civilized gathering. I don't think I made a fool of myself. And I imagine we will see these people again socially.

But through that experience, and then a week in Costa Rica with five other people, I have had an epiphany about myself. I care WAY too much about what other people think about me. (Not really a new revelation for me.) And I know that we all do it, but I'm realizing that I do it to the point of obsession. I find that I change a bit of who I am depending on the person I am with and who I think that person wants to be around. So, last week, around five other people, my mind almost exploded with the challenge of being who I thought each of those five distinct individuals wanted me to be. Poor Brian had to walk me through a mental break-down one night half way through the vacation. I literally ended up sitting on his knee crying. (There's a pathetic image that I bet none of you particularly wanted.) Don't get me wrong here, the vacation was amazing and everyone was fantastic (a trip report should be following soon). This was just one "off" evening for me and it triggered baggage that I realized needed dealing with.

As 2011 looms ever closer, I have decided that I need to "let go" for my new year's resolution. I really don't know how I'll do it. It's not like deciding to floss or exercise every day. Those things are concrete. But I may need to adopt a mantra for handling my unhealthy concerns - even though I'm afraid of becoming callous and mean. I just need to do my best, and if others don't like it it's their own problem to deal with. (Even typing that gives me hives and leaves me convinced I will end up friendless and alone.)

Perhaps I should stick with the experts and adopt the daily affirmation of the wise and timeless Stuart Smalley: "I'm good enough, I'm smart enough, and doggone it, people like me!"

Second Date

2010-11-03T18:34:00.001-04:00

I have said it before and I'll say it again. It is HARD to make friends! If you don't have several rug rats, a slew of co-workers, and you're not in college, how in the heavens are you supposed to make friends? I see why people become regulars at the local pub because I think basically I would have to hang out at a bar and try to "pick up" friends. I need to work on my pick up lines. "Is your dad a thief? Because someone stole the stars from the sky and put them in your eyes. WILL YOU BE MY FRIEND?"

So tonight I find myself in a situation that has my palms sweating and my mind in a whirlwind of doubt and self-loathing. Brian and I are going on a second date.

Several weeks ago we were invited to a birthday dinner at some friends house (who are Brian's co-workers...thank God he has co-workers) and they had invited another couple and a friend whom we had never met before. We had a fabulous time! I mean the conversation was flowing, the group was clicking, we were laughing, the stories were titillating. It was so much fun.

And then Brian called me from work and the couple we had met that evening invited us to their house for dinner along with Brian's co-workers. Now, I feel completely honored and a little flattered. I mean, they liked us. Enough to invite us to dinner at their home after meeting us only once.

Oh no, I just had a thought. Maybe they don't like us. Maybe they think we're suckers and they're inviting us over to try to coerce us into a pyramid scheme. I'm going to assume this is not going to happen. They didn't seem the type. One never knows though.

So, eliminating the above option, I'm back to assuming they enjoyed our company, which, after the initial rush of pleasure immediately made me panic. Second date, we have to perform. (Not put out or anything - that comes after the third date right? Oh gosh, what if they're into that kind of stuff and they're going to try to proposition us? I'm also going to assume this is not an option.) What if they deem that they're first impression of us was wrong, that we are NOT after all super cool, funny, or interesting but instead, we are real dullards? I mean, we have to be charming, witty, engaging, intelligent conversationalists, and try not to smell bad. (Did I put on deodorant?) It is so much PRESSURE! I don't know if I can do it. As of this writing, I can't think of a single darn thing to talk about. I haven't watched the news today. I can't ask who they voted for yesterday. I have done NOTHING interesting for days and weeks it seems. I am thoroughly expecting disaster.

Perhaps it is this kind of over-analysis that is the true reason I can't make friends. Here goes nothing...let's hope I don't make a dolt of myself.

Of Rice and Men

2010-10-26T13:04:00.002-04:00

Gosh this blog has turned into such domestic drivel. I really need to get out more. Or else I could just start pontificating about political ads or my supposed liberal religious agenda or some such nonsense. But for now?  This entry is about rice.

A few months ago I cleaned out my pantry and it's always a little shocking to discover things in the pantry that I don't remember buying. It's kind of fun to find that bonus box of rotini you had no idea was there or that extra jar of mayonnaise - but it also signals to me that I have probably overdone it in the grocery buying department. First world over-consumption and all.

So I decided to put the brakes on the grocery buying for a while and try to use up the things in my pantry. This requires an entirely different type of supper-time strategy. It's like trying to eat more seasonally. You have to craft a meal around ingredients you're staring at rather than deciding what sounds good to you and then pulling the items together. (You are saying to yourselves, "duh Lisa, it doesn't take a master chef to figure that gem of kitchen wisdom out.") But it's such an opposite creative process in my mind.  It's like pulling a McGuyver every meal.  Here is one wilted carrot, a piece of string, a can of cream of celery soup, a handful of Swiss cheese, and some peanut butter. Now - CREATE!

Frankly, I'm amazed at the variety of meals I've created with what I have on hand because when I first looked in that pantry I was all, "there is nothing in here to eat!" And I'm surprised at how much food I clearly had all along, considering how long it's been since I actually went "grocery shopping."

Now to be fair, I have a freezer full of beef and chicken thanks to my parents. And I have had a lot of fresh garden produce up to this point along with everything my mother and I canned. So I know that's a huge advantage right there. (And I really have tried to eat more seasonally this summer along with using things in my pantry - which has been fun.) I have another huge advantage right now in that I'm not working outside the home. So I have a lot of extra time and energy to think about how to put my suppers together, although I don't think my suppers are actually taking any more time to prepare than before.

Here is the list of staples I have been purchasing:
Coffee (for obvious reasons)
Milk (to go with my coffee)
Butter (because life's not worth living without it)
Onions (because nothing's worth eating without them)

I ran out of pasta and potatoes ages ago.  But what I do have is a large bag of rice. And dear sweet mother Mary, that rice WILL NOT END. We have had nothing but rice for weeks it seems. Chicken and rice, curry and rice, hamburger gravy over rice, rice pudding, rice soup, etc... And I feel like I have only put the tiniest dent in that jar of rice. Every day when Brian gets home for lunch I ask, "well guess what we'll be having for supper tonight?" I'm trying really hard to be thankful for this rice and its apparent longevity. But frankly, I am riced out.

*Update.  I started writing this entry on Saturday and Monday I broke down. I was laying in bed watching the Today show to wake up when an Olive Garden commercial came on - and I found myself completely overcome with desire for what I saw. I didn't have any lessons because of fall break and I had received a little money for a funeral I helped at on Sunday and I knew where that time and money was headed. I went to the grocery store, loaded up on supplies and made an Italian feast for supper. And maybe it was because of all the rice we have been eating, but Brian and I declared it the best meal I have ever prepared. I wish I could tell you that the meal did not involve using 2.5 sticks of butter. But it did. And it was delicious. So if the rice has accomplished giving Brian and I a better appreciation for food again, then it has been well worth it. And if you'd like a super tasty chicken piccata recipe, click on this link. Bon Appetit!

Slumber Party Friday Night

2010-10-22T16:09:00.001-04:00

Yay! It's slumber-party-Friday-night!

**This is a total aside. Why can't people seem to spell "yay" correctly? I see "yeah" (which is an informal way of saying "yes") and I see "yea" (which is an affirmative vote) when I know that what they are meaning to say is "yay."  Nobody seems familiar with "yay" (which is an exclamation of triumph or congratulations).

And now I'm going to have to watch my grammar and spelling like a hawk lest I be found guilty of some vocabulary faux pas which shall render me a hypocritical fool. (And I know starting a sentence with "and" is totally wrong and yet I love to do it because it's how I speak.)

Back to slumber-party-Friday-night. It's my favorite night of the week.  Brian and I developed this little tradition about a year ago, maybe even longer.  This is a development that came about after we purchased our totally awesome napping couch. One Friday night we were watching movies and we didn't want the fun to end but Brian, party-pooper that he is, informed me that he didn't think he could make it through another movie in its entirety without falling asleep.  So we decided we would start that movie anyway and just sleep on the couch so that we could drift off when the mood struck us without the drudgery of getting up and going to bed. I exclaimed, with the joy of a six-year-old, "It's like a SLUMBER PARTY!" And it was such fun that we now do it every Friday night.  We have named it, you guessed it, "Slumber-Party-Friday-Night" and I'm not the only one who calls it that. Brian came home from work today wanting to take a nap because he wanted to "be ready for Slumber-Party-Friday-Night."

It's like a little vacation from the week for us.  It signals that the next day is not one of forced responsibilities but a day that we will live on our own terms. We can get up when we want, we can do, or not do, whatever we choose - it's just totally delicious fun.

So tonight we will be snuggling under some cozy afghans, pulling up the ottoman so Reggie will have a place to sleep near us, turning on a scary movie (only because it's October - November 1st I go back to hating them), fighting over foot space, and then peacefully falling asleep with the sweet promise of a free day ahead of us. Ahhhhh. Sweet dreams everyone.

Pride Goeth Before A Load of Laundry

2010-10-19T16:17:00.001-04:00

Last week I finally ran out of laundry detergent. I had been planning for months to attempt making my own because I am SICK AND TIRED of spending so much money on laundry detergent (I do not like what it does to my grocery bill). And it sounded kind of fun in a productive "look what I can do" sort of way.

I got the recipe from the Grocery Cart Challenge lady. (Check it out here.) I gathered my supplies and whipped up my batch. I was so proud of what I had done.

Then I went to my parents' home for supper to celebrate my dad's birthday. And my mother just always has to one-up me. Here's how it went down. I informed them that I had made said laundry detergent and my mom asked how I did it. I proceeded to tell the family how I had grated up a bar of fels naptha soap, dissolved it in hot water, added washing soda and borax and stirred the whole thing together.

My brother said, "Oh, well Mom used to make laundry detergent." I had no memory of this so I asked her how she had done it - wanting to compare recipes and all - and she responded: "Oh, I kept all my kitchen grease, cooked it to remove impurities, combined that with lye, waited for it to harden and then ground it into a powder."

Huh, so she created soap and I basically just mixed some soaps together. I'm not feeling quite that excited about my detergent now; cheap lazy soap that it is. No blood, sweat, tears, and planning required for this load of bologna.

Someday I'll find a way to beat that woman at her game.

Today's "Living the Life of Riley" Moment is Brought to you by...

2010-10-19T15:11:00.002-04:00

Reggie the Dog

According to Wikipedia: "The expression, "Living the life of Riley" suggests an ideal contented life, possibly living on someone else's money, time or work. Rather than a negative freeloading or golddigging aspect, it instead implies that someone is kept or advantaged."

Huh, certainly seems fitting doesn't it? I'm so glad I made the bed for him today so that he would have somewhere comfortable to enjoy his afternoon nap.

Evils of Gambling

2010-10-17T22:15:00.001-04:00

So I'm not going to go gambling with Brian anymore because he is a HORRIBLE influence. First of all, he took me to a casino. So there you go. Bad influence. Secondly, he is a horrible gambler. I play penny slots and I have a method. I walk around. I let the machines speak to me. If they don't speak to me I don't play them. Sometimes I try a machine and two pulls into it I realize it must have been speaking to someone else. I pull my money out and I walk away. When I have won a dollar or two (it's penny slots remember) I pull my money out and walk away looking for a new whispering machine. And then, before I know it, I have gingerly turned my $20 into $34.57.

Brian sits down at a machine and tries to manhandle it into giving him money. He doesn't care about what the machine may or may not be saying to him (typical man) because he's got some words for that machine! He sits there and pushes that button over and over willing it to take him to the sought after bonus round where he thinks the real money will be made. And if the machine doesn't take him there immediately he thinks he's in too deep (you know, $2.50 or so) to just get up and walk away and therefore must keep playing on said machine until he wins and recoups his money. Oh he has a sickness. And that is how Brian aggressively turns his $20 into $8.33. I remind him often that I am clearly a better gambler than he is. He disagrees. But the money doesn't lie.

And then I don't know what happened. He got in my head. He manhandled my brain like he manhandles those machines, except I wasn't as strong as those machines. One minute I tell him we should cash out, take our $15 profit and go get some lunch. 20 minutes later we walked out empty handed. NADA. So, I'm not going to go gambling with Brian anymore.

Not So Welcome

2010-09-29T15:18:00.001-04:00

One of the fun outings I had this summer was attending Stitches Midwest, just outside of Chicago with members of my knitting group. I referred to this event with friends and family as a "yarn convention" because it seemed easier for them to understand. There were classes on various techniques available to take, but basically, we were there to shop. And shop I did. I was overwhelmed by all the yarn that surrounded me. Beautiful yarn. Lucious yarn. Soft yarn. Yarn that was hand dyed, yarn that was hand spun, yarn that was calling my name gently with its siren song. And then there were all the knitting accessories: things to store your needles in, buttons, pattern holders, lint rollers, yarn stashers. I wandered around like a country bumpkin who is spending her first day in the big city - wide eyed and a little lost - but knowing that her world will never be the same.

But enough about yarn. Because the real story here is about the fabulous weekend spent with my delightful yarn sisters in a lovely home in Hinsdale, Illinois, a suburb of Chicago. Originally we were going to stay in the hotel attached to the convention center but then we were offered the home of Linda's son. The family was out of town and they said we could stay. And the home was absolutely lovely...and in a neighborhood I would never be welcome to live in. It made the weekend absolutely fantastic! We sat around and talked and LAUGHED and just enjoyed ourselves immensely as only a whacky bunch of knitters can do.

I drove up with Linda on Thursday, arriving before the rest of the group, meaning I could have first pick of the bedrooms. Now several weeks earlier Linda had mentioned that she had informed her youngest grandson, Neil, that her friends were going to be staying at their house and that someone would be sleeping in his bed. His reply: "I don't like anyone sleeping in my bed." Linda told him it would be fine.

So when we arrive Linda tells me to head upstairs and that I can choose from either Neil or Paul's (her oldest grandson) bedrooms. When I entered the first bedroom I immediately knew that it was Neil's. I laughed out loud, put my stuff in Paul's room and headed back downstairs. I told Linda, "I think I'll be staying in Paul's room. You should check out Neil's. I think he was serious about not wanting anyone to sleep in his bed."

This is what welcomed us:

A tiny army of soldiers was lined up pointing at the bed.

The bed was being guarded by Imperial Walkers and you can see that the bed was covered with difficult to move Lego armies.

Here is another shot of the perfect semicircle of soldiers aimed at the bed.

A hill of canons and snipers.

Clearly, Neil had put a great deal of thought and energy into "welcoming" the lucky knitter to his room. I can't imagine how long it must have taken him to line up all those little soldiers and to create this fortress of protection in his space! All in all, it's quite subtle wouldn't you say?

Bad Flashback

2010-09-23T13:38:00.002-04:00

Currently my timer is set for 30 minutes (for my tomatoes in their merry little water bath...yes the tomato canning goes on). My challenge: write, finish, and post this blog before that timer goes off.

Earlier this summer I decided, at Brian's behest, to bake a batch of monster cookies. I'm not really much of a monster cookie person, but I love to bake and I love it when others love to eat my baked goods. I was trying out a new-to-me recipe from my brother-in-law's grandmother that they touted as the best. After using all the items that can be found in one's kitchen and then going to extraordinary lengths to mix the massive amounts of batter, it was time to bake the crazy things.

The instructions had me using two timers. The cookies had to bake for 13 minutes and then upon leaving the oven they had to sit on the cookie sheet for an additional five minutes before removing them. So I constantly had a timer going for five minutes and one going for 13. I wanted to be productive during the baking because, as I said, there was so much batter I could have a made a king-sized bedspread out of it, and I knew that baking was going to be an all-afternoon affair.

It started innocently. I thought to myself, "Oh I bet I could get the bed made before the five-minute timer goes off." And I'd pad off and do it. And then I had another eight minutes and so I'd think "huh, I can get the litter boxes scooped before my second timer goes off." When that was done and I had five minutes remaining so I decided that I could probably water the plants out front before the timer went off.

And that is when the monster awoke within me. In those five and eight minute intervals I came up with dozens of tasks with which to challenge myself. I literally ran from one end of the house to the other. Sometimes I was running around outside. My heart would be palpitating wondering if I could possibly accomplish each task before that timer went off. I found that I was struck with panic at the thought of the timer beating me. I cleaned out bird feeders, started supper, cleaned the toilet, dusted things, I mean the list could go on and on.

At the end of that baking spree I was EXHAUSTED, but wow I had accomplished so much! I decided I should always set a timer. And then I started to have an uneasy feeling, remembering the panic the timer caused me to experience. And then the flashbacks began. Flashbacks to my childhood. I knew, just knew, that timers had been set for me as a youngster in order for me to accomplish things. I knew that my mother was the responsible party.

I thought perhaps it had been a fun game she had made up in order to motivate us. It couldn't possibly be that my saint mother had set timers up for us that we had to beat in order to, well, not be beat?

So I called my mother and asked her if she had set timers for my sister and I when we were little. She said yes. I quickly asked her if it was a fun game or something we had to do in order to avoid punishment. (As in, "You better get that room cleaned up before this timer goes off or else I'm going to......") She laughed on the phone, and her laughter had a sinister and dark edge to it, and she replied, "Oh no, it was for punishment. And it worked great. I don't know why but you kids were so terrified of that timer."

Mom, it's because I was six and I DIDN'T UNDERSTAND TIME! Nine minutes could be any length of time and I had no idea how long nine minutes felt! I barely knew how to count for the love of Pete! Oh cruel, cruel keeper of the time. I can just imagine her down in her "ivory kitchen" watching that timer: leisurely thumbing through a magazine and enjoying a soft drink, listening to our panic, our cries for mercy, as she plotted out which punishment she would dole out on her helpless children who just didn't understand how to tell time yet. Would it be sitting on a chair, receiving the wooden spoon, the fly-swatter, taking a bath, IT COULD BE ANYTHING!

I have the cold sweats right now knowing that my tomato timer could go off at any second and I might not have yet posted this blog. And then I will have failed. Please, parents, use caution when employing the use of the kitchen timer on your children. Must go now...

P.S. I made it within the allotted time. Whew. And you should also know that those monster cookies made a believer out of me. They were every bit as good as Karen and Matthew let on. If you'd like the recipe, let me know.

Mexico 2010

2010-09-03T13:52:00.003-04:00

I have been horrible about blogging this summer what with all the fun I've been having. So I am going to try to "catch up" a little over the next few days, starting with my annual vacation with friends that I took to Troncones, Mexico in June.

My friend Heather wrote on my Facebook page recently, "What no blog about our MX trip? Not up to par? You don't think people want to read about sweaty yoga, late night peril filled walks to the outdoor kitchen, hot soup on a humid day and Andrea's infamous ocean somersault? Guess I should have added a spoiler alert!" This about sums up the trip...but I'll fill in some of the blanks.

Day 1:

Heather and I found ourselves taking a little mini-vacation to Phoenix due to the fact that there had been a storm in Chicago the night before and the flight crew had to catch a few extra winks of sleep. There was nothing we could do but make the best of it. However, US Airways probably won't be getting much business from us in the future not because of the cancelled flight but because their customer service was ATROCIOUS.

However, the Embassy Suites near the airport made our little layover a pure delight with their lovely pool, manager's reception, free shuttle around town, awesome free breakfast, and colorful staff. Heather, of course, has an obsession with Indian Taco's and since we were in Arizona we felt we should be able to find one. Not only did the front desk staff look it up for us, find us a restaurant, and offer the hotel shuttle to take us there for free, but they thought the tacos looked good so they came with us to grab supper. The next morning a tiny little man made us delicious omelets and then we were off to Troncones!

Days 2-6:
After being verbally accosted by a flight attendant due to a seating fiasco (read, we won't be using US Airways again) we arrived in Troncones and were welcomed to our little bungalow at Casa Ki by our friend Andrea, whose flight arrived as scheduled the day before.

And commence the relaxation. Our non-air conditioned bungalow was directly on the beach looking out over the mighty Pacific. We sat on our porch and talked, and read, and talked, and napped, and talked, and listened to the waves. I don't know if I've ever had such a relaxed vacation. I did not open my make-up bag and never once touched my hair dryer. That, my friends, is way more relaxed than I've EVER been on vacation!

Here's the view from our bungalow. The gate is meant to keep wandering dogs, cows, pigs, from entering the property.

It doesn't really stop the local herd of wild dogs from entering at will though. They liked to come around in the late afternoon and we watched them jump right on over. There were other run-ins with wild life. It was the season for the crabs to come down from the mountain and lay their eggs on the beach. This meant in the evening when we walked the paths to our community kitchen for beverages or to use the wi-fi, one had to exercise caution. Heather and I nearly had our toes taken off by a large, clickety-clackety, red crab. And unfortunately, I took the life of a small hermit crab trying to reach the beach.

Here are Andrea and Heather who, oddly enough, both picked up "Mennonite in a Little Black Dress" to read on the vacation. Reconnecting to the old Menno roots I guess. It led to many interesting conversations though!

The Pacific was a little too mighty for us to enjoy a leisurely swim but we did find a few tide pools that we lazed around in quite a bit to cool off from the oppressive Mexican heat. Twice we were referred to as mermaids by passers by. I guess mermaids must hang out in tide pools?

I will say that the waves still got us a few times. Notice Heather clinging to a rock. And the aforementioned somersault was a result of a taking poor Andrea for a spin. Luckily no major injuries were reported.

Also mentioned above was sweaty yoga. We ventured down the beach twice to a lovely resort called Present Moments to take in some yoga on a platform overlooking the ocean. Morning yoga was a bit more rigorous, lasting two hours and involving immense amounts of sweat. It can be a little difficult to hold a pose when your legs and arms are slick with sweat. Afternoon yoga was more relaxed and included some two-person yoga poses which may have broken the mood just a bit since Heather and Andrea made me giggle.

Present Moments also hosted a movie night on the beach which we took in, watching "Blue Crush," a surfing movie. How appropriate. It was the only thing we watched all week, save some FIFA World Cup soccer games that were being aired at restaurants. Literally, work came to stand still when there was a game on. (Notice the taxi drivers at the airport glued to the soccer game on T.V.)

Mixed in to the sweaty yoga and the relaxation was a massage that we had on the patio outside our bungalow. Despite the fact that Heather was having a "modest day," we all enjoyed the massage utilizing hot cups to pull the toxins out of our systems. More about toxins later.

We also walked down hot dusty roads to eat at delicious local eateries in town - places with tin roofs and dirt floors but with super tasty authentic Mexican food. I knew that we were staying in a town geared towards surfers and a little off the beaten path, but WOW we were staying in a town where there were few snacks available (Heather nearly starved one day) and the local restaurants knew NO English. Thank goodness Heather knew enough Spanish to get us by. We ate guacamole every day but one. Heather and I enjoyed a delicious hot bowl of soup on the hottest day of the year. And we were able to partake of some elusive quesadillas from a lady who had a tragic story. Mmmmmm.....

We went kayaking one day. Kayaking is a whole lot of work and really, no fun at all. Andrea was not feeling so well that day so we tried to heal her with hot rocks. And Heather and I nearly had a run in with a large Mexican cow who was crossing the lagoon. In the end Alejandro, gave us a local coconut to drink to restore our fluids and then we were well enough to go back and continue our relaxation.

We saw some federalis storm through town. The locals didn't act nervous so we just kept eating our quesadillas. The picture isn't so great because Andrea was trying to do it on the sly. We didn't really want a direct run in after all.

I attempted to teach Heather to knit. Nothing like holding a bunch of yarn when you're all hot and sweaty and there's a bunch of sand blowing in your face.

And we laid around in hammocks pretty much everywhere we went including all the local restaurants.

Day 7 and beyond:

After a mad dash around the Mexico City airport where moments of panic were upon us so greatly that I'm still having nightmares, we arrived home safely. However, I brought back a little friend. A bug of some sort. I made it through the entire vacation with not so much as one digestive issue. Ah, but Montezuma shall have his revenge. Within minutes of getting home the bug hit. I named my little parasite Charlie and within a few days were on such familiar terms he let me call him Chuck. But that's all worked out now. So I shall leave you with a few more pictures of our lovely little home for the week.

Too Much Information

2010-09-01T19:55:00.001-04:00

You may think this is too much information and if you are frightened, stop reading at this point. However, the following sort of amused me. I will try to be as delicate as I can.

So today I canned tomatoes with my mom. After most of the tomatoes were in their jars and waiting for their merry little water bath, I asked my mom if I could have some ibuprofen. She said sure, and as I padded off to the bathroom to procure the tablets she asked, "Do you have a headache?" I replied "no."

When I returned to the kitchen she said, "You know the Amish say you should never can tomatoes when you are menstruating because your jars won't seal."

I sort of wish she would have mentioned that before I nearly sabotaged our entire batch of tomatoes.

For the record, the tomatoes sealed.

But we may not be out of the woods yet.

When I went to my knitting group (after canning) I mentioned what I had been doing that afternoon. I didn't, of course, mention the delicate matter mentioned above. Wouldn't you know, one of the women brought up this old wives' tale. How have I gone my whole life without being aware of this information?

I wondered to myself if it could be hormonal, perhaps a chemical that escapes through the pores. There had to be a scientific explanation for this sage wisdom. So I researched a little. Turns out that even though our jars sealed, we are still in danger of those tomatoes spoiling in the jar. AND, I shouldn't have even walked into the garden today because women who are in their oh-so-special "time of the month" are NOT to be around the crops - ESPECIALLY tomatoes or cucumbers! And heaven forbid you can the cucumbers during that time because it sounds like all kinds of bad things will happen.

But you can walk around the cabbage. It might even be good for the cabbage.

One theory I read is that women back in the day, often with many young children and a demanding husband, had to find ways to take a break. It's the old Red Tent idea. They claimed it would spoil the food, ruin the canning process, whatever, and then they were able to take a load off. I really hope this is the case rather than a fearful male population thinking that women are unclean.

At any rate, I apologize to my dear mother if we all end up with botulism.

The Big Reveal

2010-08-31T17:23:00.004-04:00

This summer I spent nine of the most tortuous days of my life painting. (Okay one of those days I took a break and went to the dunes.) I needed color in my house. And lots of it. It was time.

And then I washed my windows and that is also a job that is NO FUN. And now I'm wandering around like a lost soul without a project looming over me. Until I get the gumption up to paint my kitchen cabinets. But that, my friends, is a project for another season.

So, here is the reveal, complete with before and after pictures. Hope you enjoy! You better not prefer the before pictures.

At least don't tell me if you do.

The Sunroom in the Back of Our House Before:

The Sunroom After:

Guest Room Before:

Guest Room After:

The Color the Guest Room ALMOST Was:

(Though this picture does not capture the absolute GROSSNESS of the color I selected "spring fever", it gives you an idea. I compare this color to what I imagine the Easter Bunny's urine looks like after eating a bunch of that fake grass that gets stuffed in Easter Baskets. It was totally demoralizing to have to repaint the room...)

Piano Room/Office Before:

Piano Room/Office After:

Break for a Hummingbird Picture:

(Which Brian sat outside and quietly waited for a half hour to capture. Dork.)

Dining Room Before:

Dinging Room After:

Wasted Days and Sleepless Nights

2010-07-23T14:31:00.003-04:00

The thing has happened that I have been afraid of all summer: namely I have flip-flopped my days and nights. You see left to my own devices, without needing to be up at a certain time each morning, my sleep cycle will eventually creep into the pattern of a nocturnal animal. My internal clock evidently has the exact same genetic make-up as that of a vampire bat. This is very frustrating to me.

I come by it honestly. While a youngster I would be lying awake at night and I would hear my dad prowling through the house. He'd be up in the kitchen and then he'd be back down. Then he'd be up again. He probably had no clue that his daughter suffered this same affliction and was lying in her room sleepless. But I wasn't really allowed to prowl. Plus I think it would be awkward running into your dad in the kitchen at 2:00 in the morning. Me in my jammies, him in his not-jammies, being all, "hey, how's it going? Down here for a snack?" Followed by uncomfortable silence.

My mom came over yesterday and I was bemoaning the fact that I had been awake until 4:00 a.m. that morning. And she said, rather casually, "yeah, your dad and I don't really sleep." Awesome. It's going to get worse. They both have sleep troubles. So, I have that to look forward to. I guess I don't really stand a chance.

I try. I really do. I have developed a system you see, to help me get to sleep. It is simple really, and up until recently, very effective. I have it down to a science. My problem is that my brain will not wind down or shut off when I lay down so that I can go to sleep. And it isn't good activity going on in my brain. It is BAD activity. As in, the most unpleasant thoughts and memories assault me while I lie helpless to the attack.

Bad brain says:
You remember that time in 5th grade that you told those boys at the pond that you hoped they drowned? You were just joking but what if they thought you were serious! Why would you say something like that? Stupid, ugly, stupid thing to say. What an awkward kid you were...

And you're still awkward. That telephone conversation you had today was a real doozie. You sounded like an idiot. I bet the person you were talking to thought you were a dummy. And what if she misinterpreted that thing you said. I would have misinterpreted it. I bet she did too and is TERRIBLY offended. How will you ever make it right...

Like the time when you and Brian were dating and you mistakenly made him upset for just a second but then you got mad and pouted the rest of the evening. You are such a b***h. I think he probably remembers that and judges you constantly for it...

And think of all you need to get done tomorrow. You're lazy. Why aren't you more productive?

And on and on it goes. Reliving every bad memory, every stupid thing I've ever done or said from the time I was five years old to the present day. (So, um, that takes quite a bit of time.) Not to mention that I have to brood over the future, which always looks grim in my bad brain, for a while. And I just cannot get out of my head.

So the system I have for falling asleep, which I don't really like to tell people about because it's a bit embarrassing, is this: I turn on children's movies that I have seen multiple times. Sometimes I watch comedies that I have viewed numerous times but mostly it's children's movies. And I do not set a timer on the TV because then, good heavens, I have a deadline that I have to be asleep by and I DO NOT NEED THAT KIND OF PRESSURE! Kids movies provide a warm and comforting back-drop and are usually laced with good humor and cute noises which gently lull me to sleep. It has to be one I've seen because if it's a movie I haven't viewed before, I will want to stay up and see what happens. And listening to these silly movies shuts out the bad brain noises. Usually.

So I have seen, more times than you can shake a stick at, Ratatouille, Horton Hears a Who, The Incredibles, Monsters Inc., Kung Fu Panda, and my personal favorite falling asleep movie, Cars. There are others. I go through phases. Right now it's Kung Fu Panda. Crazy movie. Silly panda wanting to be the kung fu Dragon Warrior. What is he thinking? The method is so effective that often I'm asleep before Lightning McQueen has made it to Radiator Springs, or Po (the panda) begins his kung fu training.

But alas, this week my methods have been unsuccessful. On Wednesday night I watched three movies before falling asleep. (Seriously, Nights in Rodanthe is the most horribly depressing movie. Why even bother making such a dreadful feature?) Even when I turned on Kung Fu Panda my brain wouldn't shut down. I had to keep telling myself to listen to the movie. Last night, or this morning, I was awake when Brian's alarms went off. (Granted the alarm sounds at about 4:30 a.m., it's not like it's 8:00 in the morning...that would be ridiculous. Although give me a week and, at the rate I'm going, that might be the time I'm going to sleep.)

So, the goal this weekend: get a grip, and try to achieve a sleep schedule that doesn't resemble that of the undead.

Hopefully I will not have to resort to heavy doping.

Blues Fest 2010

2010-06-16T14:17:00.001-04:00

This year's Blues Fest was a great bunch of fun as always with all the old traditions and a few new twists sprinkled in. All the necessities were there: Al's pizza, bubbles, crazy hippie hoola hoopers, jugglers, frisbees, rain (but we had an AWESOME system for dealing with it), yummy snacks, free stuff, cops, and of course amazing music. My favorite line heard this year: "I want to make love to a crocodile." Really? Lanie and I thought that sounded ummmm...uncomfortable.

As far as new twists go, most notably was our most fantastic and awesome sighting of the World Naked Bicycle Ride!!!! They ride to "celebrate freedom from oil and the beauty of people." And they were DELIGHTFUL! Lanie and Kevin had spotted them some years earlier so knew the deal. So when we got stopped at a light to let the HUGE crowed of nudie-toots pass we happily yelled out our support and wishes for peace. They responded most vigorously and kindly. I wish I could say the kids were asleep and that it left no impression on them...but it was definitely a hot topic the next day. It's the human body, what's to be ashamed of in that? Although Melanie (my niece) did not enjoy the way the men "showed off."

Also this year we introduced the "official reprimand" to our Blues Fest circle. The rule is you are not to leave the circle unless you have informed someone of where you are going. (This rule was instituted because of the children...however it goes for all.) This led to some official reprimands being spread around. And then it turns out there are many things one can be reprimanded for. Handing out the reprimands is awfully amusing. The power may have gone to our heads.

And this year, Brian had his birthday on the last day of the fest. So (and this is Brian's and my thing) on your birthday those around you must do whatever you request. He's just not as good at abusing that power as I am though, although he tried. He said we couldn't reprimand him on his birthday. He did receive a warning though.

Finally, a new twist that was added was the violent illness that hit me hours after arriving home. I would like to blame the sickness on the port-o-lets but I think something was already beginning before we even arrived in Chicago on Friday evening. (Brian also had a version - although his did not leave him with a bruised forehead from the rim of the toilet as mine did.) Luckily we staved it off until after all the fun was had. All things considered, the weekend was a huge success!

Thanks Kevin and Lanie for hosting us and always making it such a great time!!!

Happy Birthday Brian!

2010-06-11T12:04:00.001-04:00

When Brian and I were in premarital counseling one of our assignments was to write down 15 reasons why we love the other person. The idea being that people get married because they "love" the other person but that love is seldom defined. When you have to write down 15 reasons why you love someone you have to delve a little deeper and really examine your relationship - you get past all the "he's so hot" kinds of responses.

So here Brian and I are 13 years later. I don't even have those original papers. I wish I did but they're probably in a file somewhere with our old pastor or have been destroyed. Sigh. So I thought as a tribute to Brian (for his birthday) I would come up with a new list. A list of things I love about Brian that I didn't know about before we got married, that I couldn't have known about. And while they may seem small or trite, if you read into them a little...you'll understand why they're huge to me.

Everytime I cook supper he says, "thanks for supper."
He cries when he tries to sing certain hymns or songs.
He knows that I love McDonald's filet-o-fish, he doesn't judge me for it, and he always, without question, orders it just the way I like it: no cheese, extra tartar sauce.
He always runs to the store for me to pick up grocery items I need for whatever I'm making. And he usually doesn't fuss.
He leaves the radio playing in the car whenever he runs into the store and I stay there.
He ALWAYS helps me clean and cook and get ready for company or big events like the piano recital I hold for my students without question.
He has supported me in all my major career decisions since we've been married: from going to back to college to beginning a ministry position, to resigning that position. He doesn't question, he just supports.
He aims one of the air conditioning vents in the car on the back seat when Reggie rides with us.
He still gives me a kiss and tells me he loves me every morning...even though much of the time I'm too asleep to be aware of it.
He enjoys being in the kitchen with me while we cook up a feast.
He still laughs at all my hijinks.
He never gets mad about or questions how I spend our money.
He makes our vacations as much of a priority as I do and trusts my planning. And I rarely have to touch a piece of luggage while on vacation...nor do I ever have to pack the car.
He loves to nap every bit as much as I do.
After thirteen years together, he still loves to be at home with me and values quality time.

I could probalby come up with another 15. But what I'm trying to say is: basically, he's really easy to live with and he's really easy to love. I'm one lucky gal.

Happy Birthday Brian! I love you!

A Little Life

2010-06-11T11:34:00.001-04:00

You may be wondering what I'm doing with my time now that I'm not going to work every day. Basically, I've turned very domestic. I tidy the house. I mow the lawn. I read. I knit. I go to roller derby practice. (Okay, the last one's not so domestic.) When Brian comes home for lunch, I give him a play-by-play recount of the activity at the bird feeders...and then we spend some time cussing about the fact that no humming birds have yet used our feeder. When did I turn 83? To borrow a word that my mother-in-law used recently, I'm in danger of becoming a hermit. I LOVE being at home! So far, I'm not in the least bit bored. It may happen. And if it does I will begin volunteering at the local animal shelter. And then I will probably end up with a house full of reject animals...and I won't be bored anymore!

In other news, we attended a couple of really lovely graduation open houses recently and there is one thing I look forward to at open houses. CAKE. I love cake. White cake with buttercream frosting. And those open houses give me the fix I need until the next time I run into cake, perhaps at a wedding or birthday celebration. (I can't buy it for myself because then I have to admit that I have an addiction.) We celebrated Brian's and my birthday at my mom and dad's house this weekend. She made pie. I love pie...but I wanted cake. But it was no big deal because we were headed to an open house afterward. We arrived, my mouth salivating thinking of the tasty treat that would soon assail my tastebuds. I walked up to the snack table. NO CAKE. No big deal. There would be another open house a few days later. We arrived...to find an ice-cream machine and NO CAKE! I ask you, what is the point of ice cream without cake? What has this world come to when one can in good conscience throw a party and NOT HAVE CAKE? This is not a world I want to live in. I did not have ice cream. I didn't have the heart to. Epic failure northern Indiana. Epic failure. If this is the new trend I shall boycott all birthdays, weddings, baby showers, and open houses until things are put right again.

I also thought you might enjoy the following conversation between Brian and myself. Just a little random fun.

Brian: Smell my thumb.
Lisa: (Recoiling in horror...because who does that unless said finger smells awful?) NO!
Brian: Smell my thumb!
Lisa: Get it away from me!
Brian: Just do it!
Lisa: NO! Just tell me what it smells like.
Brian: Just smell it.
Lisa: Uh-uh.
Brian: It smells good.
Lisa: (Finally smells stupid thumb.) It does smell good. Why does it smell so good?
Brian: Because I scratched my armpit.

Hope you all have a good weekend!!!

Gratitude Realized

2010-05-19T23:21:00.001-04:00

How do I begin to tell you about my decision to resign a position I once loved and felt called to? Where do I start? Whatever I say here will seem so...so inadequate. But I almost feel that I need to try to put into writing some sort of summary of the journey I have been through in the last year for my own closure.

On March 14, I informed my congregation of my resignation as Minister of Worship and Music at North Main St. Mennonite Church (and also as church secretary) with the intention of finding a new church home. A painful and profoundly difficult day. And here it is May 19 and I am staring my last Sunday as Minister of Worship and Music square in the face. This Sunday will be the last time, in this role, that I stand on the platform and lead a hymn I love and look out at the faces of the congregation as they sing along heartily. It will be the last time that I will play the piano for prelude and offertory and accompany the praise team - as a minister. It will be the last Sunday that I enjoy worship, clothed in the role that I have learned to live in and embrace.

And it really hurts.

I don't think I'm ready to write about the process that led to this decision. At some point I will need to. It feels too raw at this time. But I can say, happily, that my feelings toward this congregation have taken a drastic turn from what they were at the moment of my resignation. While I am still secure in the knowledge that North Main is not a good fit for Brian and myself in the long run, my feelings of frustration, anger, disillusionment, and maybe even disgust, have all but been forgotten. I now feel gratitude, love, regret, and affection. I know that I will be able to walk away and things will have ended as well as they possibly could have. And that's what I have desired all along - that this break would be as positive for all parties as it could be.

At the beginning of April I attended a Mennonite Women in Conversation Retreat in Laurelville, PA that was AMAZING! (The keynote speaker was the super-awesome Megan Ramer.) The theme of the weekend was gratitude, always a topic that resonates for me. And I realized in that weekend that I had not allowed myself to grieve the loss of my position. Perhaps because I was the one to make the decision, and because of that I felt guilty. What right did I have to grieve? I'm the one who is hurting our congregation, people I love. But I needed to accept the fact that I am allowed to feel sad, even if the decision was mine. I also allowed myself to feel the fear of not knowing what is next for me. What will I be now that this position that gave me so much identity is over? And how will Brian and I survive without my income? As I allowed myself to be present in these feelings, the floodgates of emotion just opened up. That weekend allowed me to move towards healing, even as I journey through this mourning process.

A question in one of our sessions that weekend was how do we live in gratitude during times seasons in our lives where things to be grateful for are not apparent, where things are difficult? And I made a decision to move through this stage in life with gratitude - whatever that means, however I can find it.

So, I am grateful to have had this experience and opportunity. I am grateful for the friends and family who have walked through this with me, lending me an ear or a shoulder to lean on. I am grateful for a "sabbatical" this summer as I try to figure out where I am being led. I am grateful for a husband who assures me that things will work themselves out. I'm grateful for the adventure of whatever is next. I am grateful for a congregation who is sending Brian and I with an outpouring of love.

Last Sunday the church had a carry-in dinner and short program for Brian and myself as a farewell. I was given a gift of a beautiful salad bowl (made by a man in our congregation) and tongs. And in that bowl people placed blessings for Brian and I. I have not read the blessings. I am holding on to them. And this summer I will pull them out - one at a time - when I feel I need one, and I will savor them. In the end I am left with a bowl full of blessings.

And I am so grateful.

Everyone's a Little Bit Racist

2010-05-05T00:08:00.001-04:00

I pride myself on my cultural sensitivity. I try really hard to avoid perpetuating stereotypes, I try to keep an open mind, to avoid judgements, blah, blah, blah. This is not because I am such an advanced human being who, by my own superiority, received this enlightenment. No, I have to credit this to two things: 1) my mom who, actually is a superior human being and never let a lick of discrimination pass between her lips, and 2) attending Bethany Christian High School and Goshen College where cultural sensitivity is all but BEAT into your system. I remember gettting worn out by it in school, resisting it, feeling like they were just being overly sensitive. And then, I don't know when exactly, it became a part of my living and breathing, it just clicked. I understood why it was so important. I credit them and thank them for that important influence in my life. I do remember one day making a decision that I would speak only in inclusive language and would always avoid and stand against discriminatory statements and jokes. It hasn't been easy but you can change your language with persistence and repetition. But by no means am I perfect at it. Not by a long shot. However, I figure trying is better than nothing.

We have some very close friends who, let's say, haven't quite had the background or revelations that I've had. How do you try to get someone to grasp quickly what took you a lifetime to come to terms with? Well you don't, and I have to reserve judgement about that as well. But they all know that they are not to make racist, sexist, or descriminatory comments or tell jokes of the same nature around me. Which doesn't really stop them...but they in no way question where I stand.

As an aside, my parents spend the winters now in Brownsville, Texas (on the border of Mexico) where my brother and his family live. So I was asking my mom if she's picking up any words or phrases, absorbing the culture if you will, while there. She told me that she had learned the word for "mountain" which is "montana." She then lamented that it doesn't work itself into conversation much.

So while hanging out with my friends the other night, I noticed that Terry was wearing a sweatshirt that said "Montana." Trying to be conversational I began telling him that I had just learned that "Montana" means "mountain." Except I botched it all up. I began explaining how my mom had gotten back from Brownsville and I asked her if she'd learned any Mexican words while there. IMMEDIATELY, our other friend Dan asked, "What did you say? Did you ask her if she'd learned any "Mexican" words? Because I believe the language they speak is Spanish."

There it was. I, the supposed great moral compass of the group, had committed a horrible cultural gaffe. I don't know what posessed me. I'm sure I was trying to combine the idea of picking up Mexican culture with learning the Spanish language and it just came out all wrong. Right? It had to be.

But, I'm sure that this group will not ever let me live this down. It will haunt me forever.

As another aside, Heather and I just finished our season of musicals the week before this conversation ocurred, seeing "Avenue Q." Which is hilarious and extremely adult. (i.e. If you would like to see explicit puppet sex, this is the show for you.) But it was chock full of scathing commentary on modern life. One song immediately came to mind after my scandalous exchange with friends. I would like to share it with you. Be warned, it's a little adult...and a little bit true.

A Simple Afternoon?

2010-05-04T21:51:00.001-04:00

The weeds outside my back door have been calling to me...more like they have been nagging at me like some old harpy. The truth of the matter is I don't mind heading outdoors and getting my hands dirty - that is until things have gotten out of control. Then I get so overwhelmed that I'm paralyzed from even beginning. To make matters worse our beautiful patio and sidewalk that Brian laid down two summers ago was completely overtaken by weeds, weeds that should not have been there. I insisted that plastic be laid down before the patio blocks were laid. Fat lot of good THAT did.

But my good cheer would not have a damper put on it by a few wayward weeds. I invited Reggie outdoors with me and put him on his chain so that he could enjoy the fresh air with me. In hind-sight, that may have been a mistake.

I'm merrily pulling weeds, listening to the radio. A man walks down our alley. As per usual, Reggie runs after him barking like a vicious degenerate. (He is on his chain though, so no harm befalls the innocent walker-by.) I apologize for my dog's rude behavior and go about my business.

As I'm pulling weeds I'm looking at our sidewalk thinking it just looks really, well, unkempt somehow. I can't quite put my finger on it. As I poke around a little I discover that the reason is that the grass is starting to grow over onto the sidewalk, the way it is wont to do. (Not that the stupid grass will grow where we plant it, but take over the sidewalk, sure.) I try to pull it like it's a weed but that's getting me nowhere really fast. So I come up with an idea to get out our flat-edged shovel and pummel the thing into the earth thereby creating a straight, clean edge.

I bring out the shovel. The SECOND I put that shovel in my hand and place my foot upon it Reggie goes absolutely ballistic! I don't know what that shovel in my hands looked like. Perhaps he thought the shovel was attacking me. Perhaps he though I was attacking the shovel. Whatever the case may be, he had a pure hatred and aggression towards the situation. First he wrapped me up in chain barking and growling at the shovel. I got off the shovel, gave him a stern word or two, unwrapped myself, and tried again. AGAIN, the second I got on that shovel hostility ensued and my beloved dog BIT MY LEG! He bit my leg and broke the skin. Alright, I didn't have blood streaming down my leg and it was just one puncture mark, not a whole mouth shaped wound. BUT HE BIT ME.

And I was ticked! So I took said shovel and gave Reggie a firm whack across the rump. Nothing crazy - although I must have looked crazy with my shovel and my yelling at him about being bad and all. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a neighbor working in her yard and thought I should probably pull it together. So there I am, yelling, wielding a shovel, and at that very moment a sheriff pulls up. The first thought that ran through my head was, "How in the world did he get here so fast? It just happened. When the neighbor called he must have been right here."

So he pulls up and says the obligatory, "hello ma'am" and all. I put down the shovel. Do I even need to say that I am total mess also? I was sweaty, dirty with soil from head to toe, and I probably had a crazy look in my eyes. Then he asks, "Did you see a man with a black shirt and jeans walk by here?" Shew! A narrow miss from winding up in the klink for animal cruelty.

I replied that I had, about 30 minutes previous. Then the sheriff wants to know if he appeared drunk. I said I didn't know, my dog had been barking and that was all I really paid attention to. He said he had a report of a drunk walking that way from another neighbor.

Really? Poor guy. If he was drunk he was keeping to himself pretty nicely, not causing any trouble. It was a beautiful Friday afternoon. So he hit the sauce a little early. Who cares? Anyway. There ended my run in with the law. Reggie and I gave each other the cold shoulder for about an hour.

The stupid shovel didn't even work. I edged the entire sidewalk with an old kitchen carving knife. If there is anything that is not fun AT ALL, that is it. This would be a superior punishment for children because it is THAT AWFUL...although you may not want to give misbehaving children a carving knife. Proceed with caution. But I have to say I am quite proud of the results. And though I'd like to say I will never do it again, spring has a way of making me forget how awful certain things are.

I will, however, not be using the flat-edged shovel near or around Reggie in the near future.

SUCCESS!

2010-04-26T17:20:00.001-04:00

I am happy to report that I finally found canned pumpkin!

Wednesday on my lunch break in Nappanee I headed to Martin's (their very fancy grocery store).

They DID NOT have pumpkin.

And when I told the lady at the cash register what I was going through...she absolutely did not care. She was polite, but she didn't care.

So I went to Rite Choice across the street. It's a discount grocery so they carry odd items and don't give you a bag. I walked to the pie filling section and needless to say there was no pumpkin to be found. I had to walk down a differnet aisle to leave the store...and there, sitting all by itself on a bottom shelf (cue the heavens opening up and the angels singing) WAS A CASE OF CANNED PUMPKIN!

It took all the willpower I posess not to grab that entire case and walk to the register. But I didn't. I very demurely picked up two large cans.

I wanted to tell the gentleman ringing up my purchase about my pumpkin story. After all, I wanted to share my joy with the world. But considering the disinterest of the previous cashier, I kept my victory to myself.

But the cupcakes...I shared the cupcakes. But I made a double batch, so mostly they're just for me.

The Great Pumpkin Crisis

2010-04-20T23:00:00.001-04:00

You know how sometimes you just get a hankering for something? And you just MUST HAVE that something. Nothing else will do. No substitutes will satisfy.

Well for me that something tonight was a pumpkin cupcake - a beautiful pumpkin cupcake slathered with mountains of cream cheese frosting.

It didn't begin this way, my obsession. No it began as just a notion. I needed to stop at the store on the way home from knitting at the church to pick up some milk. I had sort of been craving said cupcake so I told Brian that since I had to stop at the store I'd pick up some canned pumpkin. Nothing too serious at this point. I wouldn't have stopped at the store just for the canned pumpkin after all. But as I neared the store I began visualizing my cupcake, still warm from the oven and dripping with frosting, and I could almost taste it. I found that I was driving a little faster, hastening towards the object of my desire.

I stopped at the "little" Owens (grocery store by my house) to pick up my items. I went to the baking aisle, no canned pumpkin. Odd. I went to the "canned fruit" aisle. No pumpkin. Seriously? Back to the baking aisle, I must have just missed it. Nope. Back to canned fruits. Rinse and repeat about three times. Finally, irritated but not surprised (the "little" Owens is, well, smaller and therefore doesn't carry everything I need all the time) I decide it truly isn't there. I wonder to myself if it's seasonal...but I notice they have boat loads of canned cranberry sauce and gel and chutney, and seriouly if anything is seasonal that should be it! I briefly wait in line to ask the check-out clerk if they have it and I'm just not seeing it. But the line was too long so I decide to pay for my items at the U-scan and run to Marsh for the pumpkin. Already I had an unhealthy need for the pumpkin.

I go to Marsh, a large grocery store in town that I find sells a lot of interesting and oddball items along with the regular stuff. They'll have the pumpkin for sure. I find the pie fillings and NO CANNED PUMPKIN. I see the place it should be on the shelf, three rows of it with the price tags on the shelf telling me this is where it belonged. I stand in awed shock. How can this be? This is getting stupid ridiculous.

Determined not to be bested by canned pumpkin, and convinced that my cupcake is going to taste that much better, I decide to drive all the way across town to the "big" Owens. I frankly, think it is the best grocery store in town. They will not let me down. I phone Brian to tell him where I'm headed and warn him that if big Owens does not have the pumpkin someone is going to have to pay. I don't know who, but they'll pay big. I hit the baking aisle with confidence only to be greeted by a sign that reads, "We're sorry. We are currently out of canned pumpkin." ARE YOU KIDDING ME?

Is there some pumpkin crisis going on that I didn't know about? Was there a hurricane that hit a large pumpkin crop thus rendering this pumpkin shortage? Have the pumpkin crops of this world been struck by blight or pumpkin rot? Are the local schools studying the merits of the pumpkin and every child in Warsaw has simultaneously decided to make a school project out of canned pumpkin? Is it Korean Thanksgiving right now and the entire population of Koreans in the region is celebrating but have adopted the American tradition of pumpkin pie? I DON'T UNDERSTAND WHAT'S HAPPENING!

I looked at the boxes of cake mixes for a minute, thinking I could just bake something else and it would be just as good and I would forget I ever wanted a pumpkin cupcake. Right? But I just didn't have it in me. I called Brian on the way home and squeezed out in a pained voice, "it's not good - I can't talk about it," and hung up the phone. Oh the humanity!

So, in the end, I did not have a pumpkin cupcake. I was bested - defeated if you will. My mom and I talked today about planting a garden together (because I do not have fertile soil in which to sew seeds) and she said I should think about what I'd like to plant. I'll tell you Mom. I'll tell you right now that we need to dedicate a large portion of your yard to a pumpkin patch so that I never have to go through this devastation again. Noone should ever have to live without pumpkin. And I'd like to see to it that noone does.

Will It Ever End?

2010-04-19T21:58:00.001-04:00

And by "it" I mean, every awkward situation in the world I am left unprepared to deal with. Thursday night Brian and I watched "I Love You Man." Which, if you haven't seen it, is basically a story about a man who has no guy friends, decides he needs some, and then ensues a series of awkward exchanges in his attempt to procure friends that come so close to real life that I almost had to stop watching. There was one point where the main character is leaving a phone message for his potential "friend" that was so extremely painful for me to listen to because it was as if I WAS LISTENING TO MYSELF EVERY SINGLE TIME I'M ON THE PHONE.

The next day I head to the salon for my third haircut with the "hugger" who I have not had the heart to hair-cheat on.  It's better for me to keep getting haircuts that I'm not super stoked about than to have a potentially uncomfortable confrontation with this lovely young woman. I tell her that I want a shorter cut this time, meaning a shorter bob.  She did not give me a bob, what she gave me is more like a Barry. Whatever, the hair will grow out. But I'm going to have to face this situation at some point.  Or, I'll just keep settling in order to be nice. It'll probably be the latter.

As I stood at the counter waiting to pay, the pretty woman at the counter (and frankly I find the fashionable and lovely women at the counter intimidating) who is settling my bill asks, "you live at 413 W. Fort Wayne?" I think she is simply confirming my address. She then proclaims, "I live at 418!" Here is the number one awkward moment of the week that followed.

First of all, my mind is whirling, quickly trying to do postal math to try to figure out where this woman lives. I have no idea. I know she must live close by but I really have no concept of where.  So I say:

Me: "I live in the yellow house."
Mysterious Neighbor (MN): "I live in the yellow house."
Me: "Which one of us lives in the yellow house?"
MN: "Did you just move in?"
Me: "No. Did you just move in?"
MN: "Yes, in November."
Me: "Do we live across the street from each other?"
MN: "We live diagonal from each other. Are you the piano teacher who lives next to Karen?"
Me: (Feeling like a heel because she knows all about me and I know nothing about her) "Yes. How many kids do you have?" (Immediately feeling foolish because kids are baby goats and I should have said children.)
MN: "Three."

The conversation continues. She's lovely. It ends with her saying that I should come over sometime if I see her outside and we'll have a glass of iced tea. She was just being nice. She thinks I'm an imbecile. I sort of think so too. I'm beginning to think that salon is completely bad news and I should probably just seek a new one.

Whip It Good

2010-04-19T21:36:00.001-04:00

I am 32 years old. I am staring a dream right smack dab in the face. And now that I have the opportunity to make this dream come true...I'm pretty sure I'm going to chicken out.

Since being introduced to roller derby I have been fascinated by it. Who of us hasn't been? Fearless women flaunting both their femininity and their fierce strength shamelessly. Granted, the roller derby I was exposed to had all the integrity of WWF wrestling. But still, something about it seemed raw and exciting.

Then "Whip It" hit the theaters (a movie about a young woman who joins a roller derby team). I heard an interview with some of the actors on NPR and just had to go see it. I dragged Brian. I laughed, I cried, I was enchanted. I wanted to be a roller derby queen. I started telling everyone I knew how awesome it would be. I quized them on what my roller derby name should be.

Then, a month ago one of my knitting friends forwards me an email. Warsaw is trying to start a roller derby team! WHAT!?!?!? She had not known of my secret dream. One of her friends is the captain. She gives me the scoop. She invites me to an informational meeting. I decide, what the heck, why not at least check it out.

So last Wednesday I attended an informational meeting of the Lake City Derby Dolls. I thoroughly believed that attending that meeting would be the end of my roller derby run, that I wouldn't actually consider carrying it any further. But, I left that meeting PUMPED. The first things the captain said were, "The women's flat track roller derby league is a non-profit organization, any proceeds go to designated charities, many of them for women. And, when I first heard about this I thought, I'm not really athletic, I'm kind of a wuss, and I haven't been on skates for ages. But I discovered I can do it. And basically this is a really fun way of getting great exercise, helping out some great causes, and meeting a lot of great women." AWESOME! She basically addressed everyone of my misgivings.

Saturday night I attended a bout (roller derby game) in Fort Wayne to see what it's all about. It wasn't violent. No elbows were being thrown. There seemed to be good cameraderie between the women on opposing teams. It looked so much less intimidating then I had imagined. To be sure, I was swimming in a sea of fish net stockings. And the names! The names were fantastic. Turbo Trixi, Chyna Syndrome, Dolly Pardon My Knocks, Bang Bang Ladesh, Alotta Attitude...and a couple that maybe weren't so appropriate.

So now, I'm faced with the decision to try it out or not. Did I just talk a good game? When opportunity came knocking on my door did I turn out the lights and pretend I wasn't home? I am kind of a wuss. BUT, I love a good bruise. One could say I'm proud of them in fact. And let's face it - I'm 32 years old. I'm not getting any younger. Will this be one of those moments that when I'm 73 I'll look back and think, "Why didn't I just try it?" Will I look back with regret at those chances in life that I let fear keep me from taking? So, I think I'll go to a practice. Even if I never play in a bout, I can say I went for it.

And now, two questions remain:
1. Where do I get fishnets?
2. What should my roller derby name be?

I feel like I'd like to give a nod to my anabaptist roots. Perhaps, Menno Militia or Patty Pass-a-fist...I'm open to suggestions.

Update on Life

2010-04-05T21:52:00.002-04:00

The Olympics are WAY done and still I have not gotten back into the swing of blogging. But I'm going to blame my blog-laziness on them. Stupid Olympics.

BUT, here is a picture of my Olympic hat. (Never mind how scary Brian may look...he is attempting to look happy for me.) You may have seen this hat on the US Olympians in the opening ceremonies as well as on certain athletes while standing around in the snow. Me and my knitting friends spotted the hat immediately and decided we MUST learn how to knit it. Thankfully, our local yarn store owner went to town creating a chart and voila! the hat is mine. It involved me tying yarn to my kitchen mixer and attempting to create twisted cord for the tassles, which I must say worked swimmingly. However, the yarn shop owner rejected them (claiming they were too tight) and made me twist tassles by hand in her store. How humiliating. And my moose are dimply. I am not happy about that. I'll just have to make another one so that Brian and I can match. :)

In March we hosted a mystery supper for our church youth group. If you have never been to one you must. They are tons of fun. Or maybe you should host one but if you do, you may want to hire extra help. Here is the menu just to give you an idea of what it entails.

Welcome to our Mystery Dinner. Dinner will consist of three courses. For each course please select 6 items from the menu below. Place the numbers that correspond to the items you've selected, in the spaces next to the letters below. No duplicates allowed! You will be served only those items selected for each course.

Among the items you are to select are such items as your utensils, beverages, and your napkin. You must make all of your course selections before the meal begins and turn this form into your maitre de.

We hope you enjoy your meal (if you can figure out what you are ordering). Good luck!

MYSTERY MENU

1. The fourth item required to summon Captain Planet

2. Racial Harmony

3. Poultry’s Sin

4. A tricky Situation

5. The Cat’s Meow

6. Prison Enemy

7. Immature Biscuit

8. Early Hodgepodge

9. Warm Snuggles

10. Dangerous to Cut

11. Particle Maintenance

12. Yellow Surfboard

13. Fork

14. Sleepy relative

15. Forest river

16. Tot’s Money Maker

17. Ebony’s Embrace

18. Beatles Favorite Crop

And here is what we served (not in the order of the menu above):

Deviled egg, cheese, pickle, napkin, lasagna, tossed salad, garlic bread, lemonade, fork, spoon, toothpick, knife, brownie cheesecake, cream of broccoli soup, hershey kiss, and strawberries.

Brian and I were so in control leading up to this event. We went to the store on Tuesday evening and then spent the whole night prepping our food. We were in such good shape that when we got home on Wednesday evening we sort of paced around for awhile waiting to put the food in the oven or to assemble things. We became totally arrogant with our advanced preparation thinking it was going to be a breeze. And then the 12 people present turned in their menus and HOLY COW! I felt like we began a sprint that did not end for 1.5 hours. We totally underestimated how much work it would be to assemble everyone's plates. And people were hungry and grumbly and Brian and I were frantically trying to decode menus and put plates together. We also underestimated how many plates we would need. Brian was washing dishes as we went. I cannot describe the chaos that went on in that kitchen on that night. You would weep and scream if you knew the horrors. (Notice the blanket hanging over the kitchen doorway so the horrors could not be witnessed.) But I think it was successful...I think the youth had fun but frankly I simply didn't have time to check in on that.

This is an "after" picture. I don't know if you can see how dazed and shell-shocked I am from the experience. Also notice that I am sitting on the floor. When I mentioned sitting on the couch to rest my weary bones there were immediately 11 teenagers on the couch. The kids were awesome though. I would do it again in a heartbeat.

I went to another wonderful show at the Morris with my theater going friend Heather. We saw "Rain" a Beatles tribute show. It was like going to the best sing along imaginable. Nothing but fun. And the show was done in a clever way so that you could sort of imagine what it would have been like to see the Beatles in each stage of their run together. (i.e. the Ed Sullivan set, the Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band era and look, etc.) However, there were several people in the audience taking pictures on phones and other cameras and Heather and I were like, ummm, you do realize that's not really the Beatles up there right?

On the way back to Heather's house we realized how very animated we can get in our conversations when Heather glanced to her left at a stoplight and saw a young man hanging out his window mimicking our gesticulations. Our conversation had been about the Olympics. We are both very passionate, what can I say?

That about brings us up to the present. This past weekend was Easter and what a great weekend it turned out to be. My parents returned home from Texas on Wednesday night. My sister and her family came to spend the weekend with us which is always so much fun. Our good friends Dan and Felicia and Colin came and had a bonfire with us Saturday night. Dan and Felicia came to church on Sunday and joined my family for dinner and it was just such a fun and awesome weekend! Made so much better by Kevin's neverending stream of joke telling all weekend. Therefore, I end this blog with my favorite Kevin joke of the weekend.

Two peanuts were walking down the street.
And one was a-salted.

The Student Becomes the Teacher

2010-03-18T15:10:00.001-04:00

A lesson learned on St. Patrick's Day:

Do not purchase tempting St. Patty's Day cupcakes and cookies, promise your first-grade piano student that he can have one at the end of his piano lesson, and then expect that he will focus on anything other than his future cupcake during his piano lesson.

This normally stellar and cooperative student suddenly became so weak with starvation that he could not perform very simple tasks.

Me: "Would you like to play another rhythm game?" (Normally a big hit.)
Student: "Not today"

Me: "Let's play through this song again and see if we can get it perfect."
Student: "I would, but I'm just so hungry."

Me: "Are you ready for flashcards?" (Normally met with enthusiasm.)
Student: *Heavy Sigh* "Do we have to?"

*Note to student...the lesson will last a half hour no matter what activities we use to fill up this time slot.

Me: "Okay, we're all done!"
Student: (Bolting from the piano) "Thank goodness, I'm starving."

He's absolutely adorable. And a wonderful piano student! I was just highly amused that he taught this experienced piano teacher (who thought she had piano students completely figured out) that she still has a thing or two to learn about child pyschology.

Not a New Post

2010-02-27T23:46:00.001-05:00

I cannot blog right now. I have 60 hours of Olympic coverage to catch up on. All the glory, the drama, the tears (that I have been shedding), the ice-dancing, the victory and dissapointment, the suspense. I love every second. (Except for the luge...I got a little tired of the luge.) I'll be back after closing ceremonies.

Winner Winner Chicken Dinner!

2010-02-23T14:31:00.001-05:00

Friday Brian and I went grocery shopping. We didn't intend to. We had two things on our list: creamer and toothpaste. 200 dollars later, we exited the store. We only took in one shopping bag with us. (The bag boy asked if it had been our intention to fit everything into that one bag. Smart*&@.) But it was SO LONG overdue. We'd been scraping by on stale crackers and moldy cheese. (Maybe it wasn't quite that dire.) But we were tending towards eating out way too much again because there just wasn't much in the house to work with. So we stocked up in order to nip it in the bud.

I came up with this plan of eating chicken wings and watching the Olympics for our Friday night entertainment. And of course, I didn't want to buy pre-made chicken wings (virtually the same as eating out plus all the bogus preservatives and fillers). I resolved to make my own. And I did. And they tasted AMAZING! I fried them myself. I made my own Buffalo wing sauce AND I made my own ranch dressing. I turned all Betty Crocker and crap.

Saturday morning Brian and I got up and the conversation that ensued went something like this.

Brian: "Do you remember those AWESOME wings you made last night? They were so delicious."

Lisa: Blushing with pride but trying to be humble "Well I did fry them in peanut oil. Peanut oil makes everything delicious."

Brian: "It didn't hurt that we covered them in butter then."

Lisa: "Ooh. There was a whole stick of butter in that sauce wasn't there? So we fried the chicken in peanut oil and then covered them in butter?!?!?!?!"

Brian: "And then we dipped them in a cup of mayonnaise." The ranch dressing contained much mayo.

Then there was an exchange of horrified looks followed by crazed laughter.

Brian: "I guess we better go work out today, huh?"

So we probably would have been better off going to McDonald's and eating three Big Mac's with extra special sauce.

But those wings tasted MIGHTY fine!

Christmas 2009

2010-02-10T11:44:00.003-05:00

So I'm a little late with my Christmas reporting. But I'm finally going through pictures and sorting my life back out and figured I might as well share these lovely family pictures with you. At least I think they're lovely because they are of my families that I love so dearly.

All I can say is, WOW, what a difference this Christmas season was from the last one! It makes a huge difference to be feeling well mentally and to have the emotional energy to pour into having family fun. I enjoyed the two weeks around the holidays immensely this year and laughed my tail off. (Laughter tends to be the gauge I use to decide whether or not something is a success.)

The first part of the holidays were spent down in Indy with the Showalter clan where there was a steady stream of food entering our mouths for four days straight. I kept my mouth open and just let the food roll in. My mother-in-law would not let us open presents on Christmas eve BUT she did allow us to open stockings (yes, we are all six years old - or maybe it's just me) which was delightful and did stretch the festivities out a little longer. All in all it was a lovely, and relatively quiet four days spent bonding with family.

Then the Christmas festivities began with my loud, manic, crazy family. Thus began the talk-as-loud-as-you-can-and-over-somone-if-necessary-if-you-want-to-be-heard marathon. (Some of the weaker in-laws are rendered virtually mute for the weekend.) And our gathering would not be complete without a game of bingo for cash prizes that gets everyone in the Christmas spirit.

But one of my favorite moments of the holidays came when my family was gathered at my house for "Christmas Part II" on a Tuesday evening for a Skyline Chili feast. (Yes, there were 16 people packed in my tiny house but they were all really good sports about it.) I decided that we needed to get a family picture. Which makes everyone sort of roll their eyes but they tend to humor me. (I am the baby of the family after all. I know how to work it.) So I'm trying to convince them to get in the spirit of things and I keep saying, "Who knows when we'll all be together like this again, or if we ever will" with a slightly sad and wistful voice. A touch dramatic, I admit, but it had been three years since we'd all been gathered under one roof. (Things are harder now that one family now lives in Texas and one in Chicago.) So all the adults are sitting at our dining room table while I plead my case. And my mom (always the optimist) says "Who knows, maybe next year there will be more in the family. Someone might get married or have a baby." Ah yes, a much more positive spin than my "someone might die before we get together again" approach. At that precise moment the oldest grandchild, Courtney who is 19 and living on her own now, walks up to the table and says: "I have an announcement to make."

And a collective GASP goes up from the table of adults. We all hold our breath as one.

Courtney, sensing our panic, quickly blurts out, "I just wanted to thank you all for my Christmas gifts." (She had been unable to be present for "Christmas Part I.")

And a collective SIGH of relief went out from table, strong enough to rustle all the curtains in my house. *Note to Courtney, "I have an announcement to make," is usually reserved for major life-altering events. You might want to use that one more judiciously in the future!

So the picture was taken. But I really wanted to torture everyone by doing what I dub "The Mennonite Family Picture Series." (I'm sure it is used by many other faiths and cultures but I associate it with my Mennonite families.) You may know now exactly what I'm talking about. The series goes like this:

picture of entire extended family

picture of just grandkids

picture of grandkids with grandparents

picture of grandparents with just their children (no spouses)

picture of grandparents with their children and spouses

picture of just the children - no spouses

picture of just the children with spouses

picture of each family unit

Did I miss any?

But I didn't torture them that way. And when I look at these pictures and think back to my Christmas 2009 memories just one warm word defines how I feel: Love. I am so very lucky.

Wee Wee Wee All the Way Home

2010-02-09T18:00:00.006-05:00

Yesterday I had the honor of pig sitting six little piglets. Our friends Dan and Felicia have a delightful, and might I add HILARIOUS, farmstead full of a menagerie of animals. But life on the farm is rough and Dan has had to learn the heartbreak of losing beloved animal friends. But this little miracle of life helps make it seem worth it. The piglets are a week old and are being bottle fed right now. So, that's right: I got up at 5:30 in the morning and bottle fed hungry little, slurpy piglets. And I didn't complain. And Brian almost broke down in tears at the wonder of it all (er, me getting up peacefully...not at the miracle of life.)

Feeding them is a little tricky because it's hard to remember which ones you have removed from the tub and fed already. So I would put the ones I'd fed into the clear bin next to the tub. Except that a few of them could jump out...which made things a little trickier. But never fear, because as you can see, my co-pig sitter, Reggie, was on hand to assist. He worried over them. Licked them. Put his head in the bin like a mother hen to check on them when they made noise. But the biggest help he provided was by herding them when they escaped during feeding time. I knew that this instinct of his (evidenced by his violent attempts to herd the vacuum sweeper) would come in handy one day. I would find Reggie in the corner by the basement stairs and realize Oh! There must be a piglet over there. One more reason to love this most amazing of dogs.

I guess I can check off the "bottle feed a piglet" on my list of things I should do before I die list. :) I'm just a simple gal really.

Mary Oliver

2010-02-06T13:54:00.003-05:00

Is there some reason I never knew that the poet Mary Oliver existed?

Last night after attending an absolutely delightful yoga class with my friend Heather (led by Jamie Robinson) our yogi read us a Mary Oliver poem as we relaxed at the end of class. It was so gentle and moving as we lay there, after having twisted our bodies like pretzels for an hour, to be caressed by this inspiring poem. He read it twice so we could soak up the words. And then, he rang a singing bowl. And frankly, I could not have loved him any more than I did at that point. (You may not know that I have a singing bowl given to me by my mother-in-law. A bowl that I love deeply and has been carted around to all sorts of places because it soothes my soul. And it's sort of a party hit.)

The poem connected with me in a way that poetry hasn't for some time - maybe because I haven't spent time reading much poetry and fostering my love for it. And frankly I think most of us need more poetry in our lives. So today I took some time reading her poetry online - and was completely entranced. I have visions of printing these poems out and wallpapering my house with them. They are that good.

I share with you the poem that inspired me last night:

Mornings at Blackwater

For years, every morning, I drank
from Blackwater Pond.
It was flavored with oak leaves and also, no doubt,
the feet of ducks.

And it always assuaged me
from the dry bowl of the very far past.

What I want to say is
that the past is the past,
and the present is what your life is,
and you are capable
of choosing what that will be,
darling citizen.

So come to the pond,
or the river of your imagination,
or the harbor of your longing,

and put your lips to the world.
And live
your life.

-Mary Oliver

Brian's Point of View

2010-02-05T12:33:00.004-05:00

I just find this sort of amusing.

Brian went to San Diego a few weeks ago for work. I was very jealous because I've heard it's absolutely lovely there. He was staying right by the ocean and was working on a screen for an international film festival. (Whatever, fancy-pants.)

So he called me one night and I was all questions and curiosity about what it was like out there. But Brian isn't really known for being overly observant or capable of wonderfully descriptive word paintings. (Honestly, he can be on the phone with someone for an hour and when I ask, "what'd you guys talk about?" he responds, "um, nothing really." Really?!? Because it took an hour and that's a long time to not say anything. This has made me into a phone stalker. I follow him around while he's on the phone - because he's a phone wanderer - seeing as it's the only way I'll be able to glean any information on what went down in the conversation. As much as I hate the phone, I still want to know what happens on it.) So here we were on the phone and Brian doesn't have a single thing to say about his surroundings. So I decided to make it easy for him. I made a request: "Describe to me in four words the area that you are in." He didn't tell me to get lost, or quit being stupid (which I love, because he doesn't try to argue with my quirkiness). He went completely silent as he pondered. And then he said:

"There's a lot of Adobe."
(Yes, technically five words.)

Really? That's the best you could come up with? So I made fun of him for a while. (Wouldn't you?) Honestly I don't know what I was expecting. Something profound maybe about the untamed beauty of the ocean or the beach. Perhaps something about the landscape or the street culture. I guess I just wasn't expecting to hear about the local construction materials. But I suppose that's just how Brian takes in the world. Funny man.

And One More Awkward, Horrifying, Situation...

2010-02-04T20:19:00.004-05:00

My new year's resolution of blogging more regularly has not gotten off to a very good start. So my Valentine's resolution will be to blog more. I may need a St. Patrick's day resolution as well...and an Easter...maybe Memorial Day...I'll keep trying. (I really do enjoy this!)

But since I'm here I'll tell you about my latest unpleasant/annoying life situation that really isn't that big of a deal but just another example of why I find life to be a series of awkward and uncomfortable scenarios being played out. It involves my hair. Again.

For nine years I faithfully went to Jason Davidson for all my hair styling needs. Before him I just sort of bounced around from stylist to stylist, never ready to commit to any, never finding that je ne sais quoi. So I'd go to someone a few times and then avoid that salon like the plague so I wouldn't have to see their face when the betrayal they felt registered on it as they realized I was getting my hair styled by someone else. I don't know if this is how it feels to them but it's how I imagine it must feel. But then I found Jason, or rather my sister-in-law did, recommended him to me, and the rest is history. So several years ago when he moved to Toledo I thought it would be all over. But he continued to come back to Warsaw every weekend to cut hair. And then a few years ago when he told me he had enrolled in college to become an accountant, I knew our glorious days together were numbered. But I was figuring I had until May of this year. So I was shocked and horrified and not at all emotionally prepared, when he told me casually in November that "this would be our last appointment together." We did a little stroll down memory lane and quickly did the math and I couldn't believe it when he said that he had been styling my hair for NINE YEARS!!! That is longer than many marriages. It's more than twice as long as I was in high school and that just makes me feel old. (I don't know why. I guess it seems unrealistic that I could have been out of high school long enough for that length of a hair-cutting relationship.) So, I bid him a fare-well and left, feeling a bit dazed and a whole lot of being in denial.

I had eight weeks before I needed to embark on the journey that I so dreaded: the journey to find a new stylist.

And it's not that I'm really that worried about my hair although I fully admit to being a bit vain about my hair. (Look, I'll never be a leggy, slender, beauty. But I can have a good hair cut dang it!) My hair will grow out from a bad cut. It's that whole rotten process that goes along with it. Meeting a new stylist, judging their abilities and my haircut, deciding if they pass muster, and then trying to avoid them if they don't. And I hate having to make small talk for 45 minutes to an hour. Oh, how I hate that. I don't know if they expect me to keep the chatter going or if they prefer I shut up. Do they really care about what I'm making for dinner? Do I really care about what shows they enjoy watching? I feel like I never really received the full instructions for this song and dance and I just don't know all the rules. Jason and I had enough history that it was pleasant and I think he knew I was comfortable with long periods of silence. But yet we seemed to click conversationally. Oh Jason, why did you have to leave me?

So my hair got pretty shaggy and my bangs were unbearable. I have to say that I love rocking the bang look. Okay, now I'm going to digress terribly.

When I decided to go with my new style, specifically bringing back the bangs I never imagined the reaction I would receive. I have never received so much immediate and strong reaction to any haircut I've ever gotten. And I've gotten A LOT of styles over the years. Some of the reactions:

You look like a geisha/You look like a China girl (that one's totally not PC but I heard it)
You look like Amelie (a crazy French movie)
You dyed your hair didn't you? (Uh, no)
You look like a flapper girl from the 1920's
Wow I love it, it looks so retro!
Etc...

But my favorite reaction by far was Brian's. We both got home in the early afternoon. He said nothing but shot me questioning glances all day. Approximately eight hours later he casually asked, "Did you do something different with your hair?" Priceless.
Back to the present moment. My hair was shaggy bad. I had not had the heart to call any place and make an appointment. I got desperate and walked in to a salon that I was planning to call anyway to see if they would take a walk-in. And the salon is beautiful! And I told the lady at the desk that my hair-stylist of nine years had abandoned me and I was frightened. Yeah. I said it. I wanted them to know that I was serious about my hair and my stylists and that I was interviewing them and they could have a loyal customer if things went well. Jessica would be cutting my hair and I looked in the book of stylists while I waited and discovered she was a junior stylist - i.e. inexperienced. So Jessica cut my hair and she was lovely and nice. Although she tried to push product (which I had forgotten that salons did because Jason just didn't do that). And my haircut was actually quite nice. But a.) Jessica has only been cutting hair nine months, b.) I don't know if we have that much in common, and c.) after barely cutting off a whisper of bangs and asking me if she had cut off enough and me going, "uh, no," she declared that she had never cut anyone's bangs that short before. WHAAAA!?!?!? My bangs aren't crazy short. I'm not asking anyone to take my bangs up to my hairline. What do you mean that these are the shortest bangs you've ever cut? And then she refused to cut them in a blunt line the way Jason did. She tapered them and then tried to give me a reason why she thought this was best and I was all "whatever, they're fine." But, she had been aware that I had been with a stylist for nine year (the lady at the front desk evidently took me seriously) so I assured her at the end that she had done a great job. And she had. I wasn't lying. For my first experience post-Jason I walked away happy. But I still wanted to explore more options.
Then she walked me to the front desk and there it was. The question I had feared. She asked, "so do you want to go ahead and schedule your next appointment?" Now she did a great job and all but I'm not ready to COMMIT just yet. But I'm also a big wimp. So I said, "sure." (My plan was to schedule and then call later and cancel.) But here's the kicker. She told me then that she was glad to meet me, AND SHE HUGGED ME. She hugged me and now it's like we're gosh-darn family. She felt like she had succeeded. And it's not that she didn't. I just need to play the field a little before I settle down. But she hugged me and I don't know what to do. Because I really loved the salon but how do I go in there and "interview" other stylists with the huggy-feely lady looking at me? It will feel like killing a puppy.
A decision will have to be made. Soon. And I don't feel equipped to handle it. And that is my current annoying life situation. Aren't you glad I blogged again?

Ri. Dic. U. Lous.

2010-01-07T17:05:00.003-05:00

Okay so it's been snowing like...like it's January in northern Indiana I guess. Fine. I accept it in January. But that doesn't mean I have to like it. In fact I hate it. I hate winter. Fine. It looks pretty out. And I can admire it if I don't have to leave the house. But unfortunately, I do.

I am a panicked, white-knuckled, winter driver. I despise every second of it. I am constantly convinced that I will die before I arrive home. I just turn on a CD and sing along to take my mind off of the impending doom that I am sure awaits me at the start of every new mile. So today, I canceled lessons while at the church and headed home to Warsaw.

Where did I have my car incident? You may imagine that it was on State Road 19 where I had to drive around multiple buggies who were out in this weather just to make road conditions that much more hazardous for the rest of us. Wrong. Or perhaps it occurred on 800, a road that is frequently traveled but is treated like an isolated road in the Yukon territory that leads nowhere for all the plows and salt trucks that go down it. Nope. Perhaps it was in town where there are dangerous median strips made of sticky snow down the middle that just want to pull your car into oncoming traffic when you're trying to turn. Wrong again. No, the incident occurred outside my own garage door. I attempted to make the turn into the garage when my car immediately got stuck. Completely stuck. I could go in reverse - barely - but I could not move forward. I kept hopping out to see what massive bank of snow I must be stuck in. But there didn't appear to be anything there but freshly plowed pavement. I kept rocking the car from reverse to forward. Then I got angry and tried to will it forward by angrily punching the accelerator. The only result: a foul smell. I got out the shovel and shoveled a little bit of nothing. The minutes ticked by and it just got more and more ridiculous. There didn't appear to be anything there to keep my car from moving forward. Finally I just reversed her down the alley, got her moving forward, and parked her in front of the house. Frankly I think she's just real ticked at me for taking her out in this crap. So, If Brian wants the car in the garage he'll have to deal with it himself.

Stupid winter.

What the fit?

2010-01-04T11:17:00.004-05:00

This morning I did something I never dreamed in a million years that I would do.

I joined a gym.

Now before you go thinking this is some sort of new year's resolution band wagon I'm jumping on, please know that I was supposed to sign up at the beginning of December and simply used my powers of procrastination to make my timing look unseemly. And the gym I'm joining is called "The Health and Wellness Center," and is part of our hospital campus/complex. I like the idea of being healthy and well - doesn't everyone? So, there I was this morning at 8:00 being asked to do push-ups (How many can I do lady? The answer is 0.), being hooked up to heart monitors and being walked on a treadmill like a lab-rat, having pulses sent through my body to see how fat I am (yeah, plenty-much), and being asked to display my flexibility (I think I pulled something).

This journey began with my friend Felicia and I deciding to train for a 5-K. It ended with the weather turning bitterly cold, too cold to run outside, but deciding we didn't want to quit exercising altogether. So one day last fall we made a date to tour every fitness venue in town. Turns out, that is a lot of fun. The thought of finding a place to get fit is quite a bit more enjoyable than the actual "getting fit" part. So our first stop was Curves. That actually felt a little like we were being sold a time-share (if you've never been through that high-pressure experience I recommend AVOIDING IT!) except without the smarmy sales people. I guess it just felt a little gimmicky. But Felicia and I sat down for a health assessment - together - and let's just say there are no secrets between us now.

Part of that assessment was having our body fat index measured along with measurements of our hips, thighs, and other various body parts. Numbers were crunched, the results placed on a chart and the results were revealed. Basically, on a scale of 1 to instant death, we were both hovering near one month to live. We were told that we are both "technically obese." Surprise, surprise. Frankly I don't think it takes that much to hit that mark, and I'd been told it before so there was no shock there. So we left there, more grateful than ever for each moment we're not dropping dead.

We headed to the Health and Wellness Center and demanded a tour. It was more to our liking, a little more serious, a little more comprehensive. The nice woman who led us around then told us about some of the other offerings that the center had available. One was a weight control class. We were interested and wanted to hear more. She then, almost in a whisper, told us that the class is for people who are "technically obese, so we're dealing with some of the largest people in town here." Felicia and I exchanged a glance. Not fifteen minutes before this we had both been told we are "technically obese." We did not need further interpretation to understand what that was saying about us.

So as we toured the YMCA, complete with the scary weight room full of sweaty men, and then a fancy fitness studio that we felt under-dressed for, we found ourselves exclaiming things like, "Oops, I tripped. I guess that's what happens when you're some of the largest people in town" or "I'm surprised I can roll out this car what with being some of the largest people in town." That is part of the reason I love to work out with Felicia, that ability to laugh it off. So we laughed and toured and gathered information and coupons.

And then we went to lunch. (We'd worked up an appetite walking up and down all those stairs in these fitness places.)

So here we are, ready to start a new year, a healthier year. Let's hope this, unlike all the potato chips I so dearly love, will stick to my hips instead.

Au Claire De La Lune

2009-12-10T23:01:00.011-05:00

I am writing this particular entry in order to try to exercise the demons that have taken hold of me in the month of December. Here's what's happened:

For the last several years I've heard (and I imagine that you would have to live under a rock to not have heard) of the Twilight craze that had hit the teenage girl scene. I bemusedly listened to accounts of young girls going nutty waiting for the first movie to premiere, imagining it was much in the same vein as the New Kids on the Block hysteria that I experienced as a young teen. And then I heard a report on NPR about how the craze had swept more than just teenage girls, but women of all ages. And I thought, "hmmm...maybe these books would be fun to read, sort of like the Harry Potter books."

I put it out my head more or less, deciding I would not get involved in this, obviously, silly and superficial Twilight madness. Then people I knew and even liked started telling me how good the books were. I began surveying the teenage girls at my church to see if they had read them, and if they could give me the 411. They definitely were fans but none of them actually owned copies of the books so that I could borrow them. (Freeloading teenagers...borrowing them from cousins and whatnot.) I casually checked our library for them and the waiting list was 15 people long. Eh, not worth it. I'd just keep checking around every now and again to see if I could borrow them. And the happy reports from friends my age, and older, who had read the books just seemed to be multiplying.

So, a few weeks ago I took a long-overdue trip to the library to leisurely wander the shelves of books (a pleasure that never gets old for me). I decided to see if the first book of the Twilight series was there on some off chance that I might luck out. The computer told me that two copies were available. I'd have to enter the "young adult" section to find them, a section I had yet to experience. I tried to very casually head in that direction, feeling slightly embarrassed at what I was about to do. The books weren't there. I went back to the computer and searched again. Two available copies. I went back to the young adult section. Nothing. I glanced at the librarians at the reference desk. I had never asked for assistance from a librarian before. But it was the young adult section, maybe I didn't know how to properly locate a book in that realm. But I was NOT going to ask a librarian to help me find Twilight of all things. How shameful, acting like a teenager, giving into the status quo. But I did want to read it and the computer told me it should be there. I decided to bite the bullet and ask. I sheepishly asked the librarian for assistance. She didn't see them on the shelves and suggested that they might be in the back waiting to be re-shelved. She went into the back and came right back carrying a copy of Twilight. I felt compelled to make some explanation to her about why I wanted to read the book and express my chagrin. But she, in a conspiratorial tone, assured me that all of the librarians had started reading them and then had just gobbled up the series. Whew! This kind woman made me feel like she did not judge me for wanting to read this book.

Others would judge me. And you may be one of them now. But you can go ahead and judge me. I defy you to read these books and not be completely taken in. Even if you don't like them, I don't care. I would declare my love for these books from a mountain top.

I returned home from my library visit and decided to read the first few chapters of Twilight and see what all the hype was about. Six hours later I finally put the book down and went and got supper with Brian. It was definitely a great read...certainly geared for teen girls but entertaining none the less.

I was able to avoid picking it up again for a few days but took it with me to Brian's parents' house over Thanksgiving weekend...where I stayed up until 2:00 in the morning one night and finished it. Definitely a satisfying read. I looked forward to reading the next books, not knowing how long I'd have to wait in line at the library or who I could borrow them from, but not feeling panicked about it. Then one of my knitting friends, Rhonda, brought me books two and three (in a four book series).

And that's when it began. The feverish, fiery obsession with the romance of Bella and Edward took over my life and I haven't been the same since. I began reading the second book in bed on a Saturday morning at about 1:00 a.m. I read for a few hours. The beginning of the second book is devastating. Long gone were the thoughts about these books being somewhat juvenile. I was completely caught up in the world of Bella and Edward. I read the entire book in less than 24 hours. (Just to put it in perspective, each book, while not thick, strenuous, reading, is between 560 and 630 pages in length.) I needed to get some work done on Saturday and I had to ask Brian to hide the books so that I couldn't give into my selfish desires to do nothing but sit and read. I did all my work with the motivation that when I finished, the glorious world of vampire, human, werewolf, romance and adventure was waiting for me to return. When my work was done I ran to the living room and happily demanded that Brian reveal to me the location of my obsession.

Before getting up for church on Sunday morning, I laid in bed thinking about Bella and Edward. I thought of them while I showered and continued to ponder them as I dried my hair. On the way to church every song that came on the radio reminded me of them...and I shared this with a now concerned husband. Sunday at church, all I could think about was Bella and Edward. (Brian requested prayer for me because he was worried about this seeming devotion to this fantasy world.) I talked to every teenage girl anywhere near me about the drama that was unfolding. I FORFEITED MY SUNDAY AFTERNOON NAP WILLINGLY TO BEGIN READING THE THIRD BOOK! I don't know if that means anything to all of you but I live my life for that Sunday afternoon nap. Brian and I intentionally don't make plans on Sunday afternoon if we can help it because our nap is sacred. When we bought a new couch last January we told the sales person that we were looking for a good napping couch and we used that criteria to select our new couch. Our friends know not to call us before 7:00 p.m. on Sundays because we won't answer the phone. We are almost religious in the observance of this family ritual. And I read my glorious book all through that holy nap time. I woke up on Monday morning and just surrendered. I knew I was useless until the book was finished. I sat and finished the book before cleaning my house and getting ready for piano lessons. But Bella and Edward were all I could think about all day. And now I was done with the third book. Where would I find the fourth? I watched the movie trailers online to pass the time and see if they could give me any new insight into the books.

I used to be a voracious reader. I was that geeky kid who tried to hide her leisure reading behind a text book during class. I never was without a book. And when I was reading a particularly good book I would always go into a bit of mourning when I read it too fast and the story was over. But as I entered adulthood it became more difficult to find books that gave me this same intense pleasure. When I did find one I would shut out the rest of the world (no cooking, cleaning, working, sleeping, or talking to Brian) until the book was over. And then I would mourn and feel empty...and decide it wasn't worth doing it again. And so months would go by without me ever picking up a book. Horrifying! And so the fact that these books had me hooked like this made me feel like I had been starving on a desert island somewhere and my appetite, with my first taste of food in ages, was now insatiable! But still, I would not act like a loony about these books. I would wait patiently for the fourth book.
We had a friend over to watch football the following Monday night. I decided that they might not mind if I was reading during football. I checked online at home to see if the library had the fourth book. TWO AVAILABLE COPIES!! I admitted to them where I was going. Colin judged me ("not you too Lisa!") and Brian rolled his eyes but my infatuation would not let their disapproval deter me. I headed to the library only to find...they were not on the shelves. No sweat. I knew what I needed to do, this wasn't my first rodeo. I talked to the librarian. She walked over to make sure I wasn't an idiot that hadn't seen them sitting on the shelves. My mind is shrieking "just go into the back and see if it's on a cart waiting to be re-shelved!" I can't stand this little dance. She heads into the back but comes back unsuccessful. She's trying to placate me giving me some silly story about how somebody must have already pulled it off the shelf and probably has it with them walking around. (I considered for one moment stalking all the other library-goers to see what they were holding but decided I wouldn't know what do in a confrontation since I haven't actually signed up for my martial arts class yet.) She put my name on a waiting list.
So I went down to the circulation desk. I eyeballed their full carts of books waiting to be re-shelved. I knew my book had to be on one of those carts. I asked the librarian calmly about the book. She wanted me to go back upstairs to talk to the reference desk. I explained evenly that I'd already been there, and asked if there was any chance it was down here. I tried to keep any hints of desperation out of my voice. But I got more panic stricken as it became clear that the nice lady behind the desk did not understand the urgency I was feeling. Clearly no one knew how important it was to me to have this book, I hadn't known until precisely that moment. I thought about demanding that she move out of my way so I could check the darn carts myself...but I kept a cool head.

Crestfallen, I headed back to my car intending to return home but found myself driving towards CVS wondering if there was any chance that I might be able to find the paperback there. They had the first two books (of course, because there are movies attached to them) but not the second two. No dice. I briefly considered driving to Wal-Mart and ending my long boycott to see if they had them. My weakness filled me with great shame. I would not do that. AND THEN! I had an idea. My iPod touch has a Kindle application. I didn't really want to read an entire book on an iPod, would it be the same without the satisfying weight of the book in my hand? However, it would give me closure. I felt certain that if I could just finish the fourth book I could end this madness and get back to living my life. So I downloaded it...and the judging looks came fast and furious from Colin and Brian as they watched football and I read my book on my tiny iPod screen.

They ordered pizza. I hadn't eaten all day but I wasn't even hungry. I ate two small pieces giving the crusts to Reggie and putting the third piece back in the box. I stayed up until 5:00 in the morning reading. Every time I blinked it felt like sandpaper rubbing on my glassy eyeballs. I walked to the kitchen (iPod in hand) to get a glass of water and caught a look at myself in the mirror above the sink. My eyes were bloodshot from all the reading I'd been doing. I just looked away and kept on going. Brian caught me reading as he was getting up for work. (I've been up knitting or reading that late before but I always try to be in bed pretending to be asleep by the time his alarms go off so he doesn't see how pathetic I am.) But this time it didn't matter to me. I did go to sleep and woke up four hours later and rushed to work. I knew I'd probably have to take a nap that afternoon because I would be exhausted. But when I got home from work I simply snatched up the iPod and picked up where I'd left off. I had no desire for sleep.

I made it through piano lessons and The Biggest Loser finale with friends (it was actually really good for me to get out) and went home and picked up my book. I was definitely tired at this point and sad that the books would be ending. I decided to leave a few chapters for the next day. I laid down in bed. Who was I kidding? I got back up and finished the book. GLORIOUS! The saga was over. The books were done. I had the whole post-book glow when I woke up the next morning, still not quite in touch with reality, more living in the dream world of these books.

And then...word that there was a book on the author's website that was incomplete. The first book written from Edward's perspective instead of Bella's, leaked by a disloyal source which resulted in the author discontinuing her work on it and posting what she did have complete to her website? Could this be true? My heart raced with the hope of material to quench my thirst for more insight into the story of Bella and Edward. I got to work and made the mistake of turning my computer on...and going directly to Stephenie Meyer's website. IT WAS THERE!!! Only 264 pages though. It wouldn't satisfy me but it would be something at least. I just wanted a quick taste to see what Edward's perspective was like. Hmmm...didn't get much done at work that day. I left work for some lunch but realized on the way that I wasn't hungry. So I drove around awhile listening to Ingrid Michaelson because every song of hers reminded me of Bella and Edward. And then I went back to work.

I almost didn't go to my knitting group that Wednesday evening so that I could go home and continue reading. (And I LOVE my knitting group.) I decided that was selfish and silly, and that I should probably visit with real people. I went and it was the best time ever, and it was thrilling to be able to talk about the Twilight books with other people who love the series. So I returned home. Brian, who had been without a wife for a few days now, knew enough to realize that we would not be really communicating much until I finished the on-line book. He was very patient. I finished it that evening. At midnight it occurred to me that I hadn't eaten that day so I scrounged up a few chips and nibbled a little bit.
I've tried to figure out what the allure is for me, why these books have captured me hook, line, and sinker. I couldn't understand. I know full and well that the feminist in me should probably be enraged by these books, ashamed and horrified. I ran an Internet search at one point to find some sort of Twilight detail out and several sights popped up accusing Edward of being an abusive boyfriend and the word misogyny popped up...and my mind screamed "LOOK AWAY! LOOK AWAY! YOU DON'T WANT TO KNOW! DON'T LET THE *&#@ FEMINISTS RUIN IT FOR YOU THE WAY THEY RUIN EVERYTHING!" (Please understand that I, a proud and outspoken feminist, was ready to turn on my people.) So the feminist in me should hate these books, but the woman in me is just week in the knees for them.
And then, at work a day later (of course while pondering the books), I had a flash of understanding, a moment of clarity if you will. I put 2 and 2 together with my physical responses to the books: I wasn't sleeping, I had no appetite, I daydreamed about the books, every song made me think of them, I had to force myself to be around other people...I WAS IN LOVE!!!! These books gave me the same feelings that I had falling in love AGES ago! Stephenie Meyer used some sort of Mormon voodoo and slapped me in the face with a love potion! After feeling unsettled for a moment, I realized I loved her for this, for her genius in being able to, through words, recreate one of the most lovely feelings known to humankind.
And for the record, Team Jacob, you are silly, silly, disloyal people.
Also, after reading all the books I simply couldn't stop. I immediately read through all of them again, something I haven't done since high school. Brian judged me heavily. But, he also, in one of the most unselfish and thoughtful acts I've witnessed, bought me the entire series for Christmas. And that's why he's my Edward.

Adventures in Italia

2009-09-16T22:55:00.030-04:00

I don't want to bore anyone with a huge long list of amazing sights and litanies of churches and sarcophagi and inventories of art work that Brian and I saw in Italy. Although I could. And all of it was awesome. Instead, I will try to sum up our once-in-a-lifetime vacation with some of my favorite memories, impressions, and high-lights. I hope you enjoy.

Day 1: Burglary

This day doesn't count. It was all travel and excited anticipation. Swiss Air was a lovely airline. Brian would steal an airplane blanket that would serve me well on many train-rides to come. Also, my ankles would disappear on the plane ride, not to be seen again for another two days.

Day 2: Open the Door, Let Us In

Arrival in Rome! We were given the first of three hotel room keys we would receive that weighed approximately 12 pounds. And it was fringed. We learned that the Italians do not want you to lose your room key. And that if a stranger knocks on your door, the room key can be used as a weapon to bludgeon the perpetrator with. Also, they do not actually want you to leave the hotel with the room key, instead you turn it in to the front desk upon exiting. Strange. But, when in Rome...

Day 3: All things Pagan, a.k.a. Caesar's Shuffle

We explored the Colosseum, Roman Forum, Palatine Hill, the Pantheon, and took a fabulous night-time walk through Rome after dark. Several things are discovered on this day.

First of all, Rome's public fountains are the best thing since sliced bread. There are little fountains everywhere for drinking out of or filling one's water bottle. (And I know your saying, "duh, they're called drinking fountains." But they're not. Please refer to the picture.) I don't know that we ever passed one without filling the bottle, whether or not there was room in it for more water. I wish these fountains were everywhere. (So does Brian - who refused to fill our water bottle in our hotel room but instead waited until we were outside each morning and walked - out of the way - to the fountain to fill it.)
PDA (Public displays of affection) are not optional in Italy. If you are with someone in a piazza, romantically linked or not, you are required to make out with them.
Brian is unable to identify certain bathroom equipment. Our room had both a toilet and a bidet. On this particular day Brian came out of the bathroom and declared that he didn't think the bidet was that at all, but rather an extra sink of some sort. I, incredulous, said that if I walked in there and saw him washing his face in that "extra sink" that we were going to have problems.

Day 4: All Things Christian - How the Pope Stole Our Money

In the morning we visited some catacombs which were creepy and cool. Literally, it was the first time we were comfortable temperature-wise since being in Italy. (We had several encounters with the hotel staff trying to figure out how to use our air-conditioning, which we eventually gave up on.) Our tour guide was dressed in: a sweater, a vest, a scarf, and a hat. She also had the most delightful and stereotypical Italian accent.

In the afternoon we visited Vatican City with a tour group, led by Raul the sometimes boring, always informative, liar. (That might be harsh but you'll see why I call him that.) I discover the worst job imaginable. The Sistine Chapel is supposed to be silent. No one is silent. So the Vatican employees have to run around shushing people...and yelling at them not to take pictures. And no one will shut up or stop taking pictures. I would think it would be more frustrating than teaching wayward kindergartners all day long.

The Vatican tried to confiscate our bag, with all our money and public transit tickets in it. Here's the "Angels and Demons" adventure that we were led on: We are told by Vatican security upon entering that we must check our bag. When we walk to the bag check desk we ask what's wrong with our bag. We are told that we would need to talk with the clerk's colleague. He has no explanation, although I'm convinced it's because our bag contains olives and the Vatican security wants to eat them. We are led on a very nice tour of the Vatican. At the end of the tour (4:30) Raul tells us that we should go collect our bag, the Vatican closes at 5:00 and it will take at least 15 minutes to get back to the entrance and the doors will probably be locked. He claims that we can knock on the door to reclaim our bag. Brian heads back to claim our bag and returns in about five minutes seeming concerned. He ran into Vatican police that told him that we can NOT get back into the Vatican, our bag has been moved and that we should reclaim it in another area. As the minutes tick by, we search for this "other" area. No one is concerned about our problem, and I begin to panic. It's the VATICAN. You don't just go tapping on doors asking to be let in for your pathetic bag. Dang it Raul! (They probably had sniffed out that we're Anabaptist heretics.) We finally find a Vatican official who is sympathetic, although somewhat derisive, of our problem/blunder. He makes Italian phone calls, and I can tell that the person on the other end is not feeling very patient or accommodating. We are led through back passages of the Vatican, handed off to another official after a heated Italian discussion, where it is clear to me that number 2 is not comfortable with this breach in protocol. We are guided through more back passages and told to find the bookstore by the exit. After regaining admittance (through the back door) of the Sistine Chapel by yet another Vatican official, we begin our search for the bookstore by the exit. DO YOU KNOW HOW MANY BOOKSTORES AND EXIT SIGNS THERE ARE IN THAT PLACE??? We are told there is a curving staircase we must go down by another Vatican employee. We go through never-ending Vatican corridors and museum rooms, the Vatican Post Office (where people are happily writing notes on postcards to be sent), through wonderful souvenir shops with cheerful shoppers, down stairs, into the basement, by the restrooms - searching for this elusive curved staircase...all the while I am having sincere panic about ever finding our bag. I can't imagine what we'll do if we can't get our bag with our money and transit tickets. We would have to curl up to sleep in a corner of the Vatican, waiting until morning where we would seek out the Pope and beg him to have mercy on us, mere sinners desiring our commoner's bag. Eventually, we are reunited with our bag and I do not think the clerk had ever seen anyone that was so very, very overjoyed to see their luggage. My olives were intact.

Day 5: Pompeii - Or "Every one's a Thief"

We take to the train station with a rough idea of how to get to Pompeii and the information from our Rick Steve's guide that every person we encounter in the train stations on the way there will likely be a pickpocket or thief. We eyeball a little old lady and exchange knowing glances with each other - clearly a thief. A couple making out - definitely creating a diversion in order for their "colleague" to steal our belongings. We suspect everyone - there is no discrimination in our suspicion.

We safely arrive in Pompeii. I had discovered earlier in the week that Brian is a guide-book-hog. He so thoroughly enjoyed leading us on the self-guided tours in our Rick Steve's book that he had virtually banned me from handling the books at all. Every time I asked to look at the book he gave me a suspicious, mistrustful look and instructed me not to read a word of the tour, grabbing the book from my hands the moment I was finished with it. However in Pompeii, he had great difficulty in keeping us on the tour route, getting us hopelessly off course. I tell him to enjoy the adventure of just exploring. He tries but I can tell that he is not truly comfortable until we are back on the Rick Steve's route. It was a great, adventurous day.

Our last night in Rome we visit Trevi Fountain for the fourth time and enjoy another helping of gelato. Ah Trevi, how we hope that throwing that penny into your waters will, like the legend states, ensure we visit your fair city again some day. We loved Rome.

Day 6: Venice - "When the going gets rough, shop with somebody tough."

We say goodbye to Rome and our hotel with intimidating staff. (They are very polite and nice, but stern men, who I felt could turn on me at any moment and declare me an idiot American.) I am looking forward to our train ride to Venice. I can't wait to enjoy the scenery and see what the countryside looks like. However, I discover that the gentle rocking of the train puts me to sleep like a baby. I slept the entirety of every single train ride we took.

Venice is GORGEOUS and delightful. Every corner you turn is a photo opportunity. And this is the day I begin shopping...and once that faucet has been turned on it's a little difficult to stem the flow. I declare a love of Murano glass and from that point forward am drawn to it like a moth to flame. Brian is traumatized in a linen store. Two middle-aged Japanese women are interested in purchasing a lace blouse but are not convinced it will fit. While I'm looking at lace, Brian witnesses one of the women strip off her top in order to try on the blouse. When she is ready to change back into her clothing she asks me to shove Brian into a corner. I comply. Poor Brian.

Day 7: Venice - One Magical Day

At breakfast, sitting outside on the canal surrounded by beauty, all Brian talks about is a group of men loading scaffolding into a boat. He marvels at how much they can fit into the boat, how they throw things on the boat without missing and hitting the water, how it takes one man to just hold the rope, etc. Silly man.
We share a glorious day in Venice and in the evening we pay the cover charge to sit at one of the restaurants in St. Mark's square to listen to the dueling orchestras. The people who don't want to pay to sit, stand just beyond the seating and do, what we dub, the "freeloader shuffle." We watch the freeloaders go back and forth between the two wonderful ensembles as they take turns playing, and scorn them. (Just kidding.) I force Brian to try an olive, and after taking a bite he reverts to three year old behavior, making faces and declaring he will throw up. It's a magical evening.
Day 8: Florence - and Our Encounter with Claustrophobia

We take another, blissfully sleepy, train-ride. This time to Florence, our final destination. We had been lucky that our hotel rooms had been large by European standards up until this point. This hotel would provide us with a glorified closet and the tiniest elevator/lift I have ever been in. After checking in, with the delightful front desk staff, we entered the lift with our luggage. We shoved in, my face plastered against the wall, Brian's body barely allowing the door to close. One had to hold the elevator button the entire way to the desired floor or the lift would stop. I had moments of panic in that tortuously slow lift that had no oxygen being provided to it. But we made it and took to the streets to explore.

We head to the Accademia where Michelangelo's David is housed. I take some illegal pictures of him and plead ignorance when I get yelled at. (It was worth it.) Another discovery made in Italy is that no art is placed where it was originally intended to be. In Pompeii we would look at a statue and the guide book would say, "this is a replica, the original is in the Naples Archaeological Museum." After awhile it became oh so predictable, and Brian and I became somewhat jaded.

Day 9: Florence - Scarf Obsession

Florence is full of outdoor markets with stalls FULL of beautiful scarves. I couldn't stop buying them, I brought home seven total. (Another discovery, if you ask someone a question in Italian you should probably be prepared for them to answer in Italian. i.e. I was proud that I knew how to ask how much scarves cost, but was totally unprepared when Italian numbers were shot back at me.) I had a few last souvenirs I felt I had to have before leaving Italia. One of these must-haves was yarn. We found a lovely stall owner who we bought a hat from. On a lark, I decided to ask if he could direct me to a yarn shop, much to Brian's chagrin. He said, "oh, that's easy." And before you knew it, I had Italian yarn to bring home with me! (Cue Brian rolling his eyes.)
We began the day by hiking up 463 horrible and exhausting stairs to enjoy a truly beautiful morning vista of Florence. I wasn't even allowed to stop to catch my breath because there were signs everywhere instructing us to keep moving. Also there were signs telling us not to write on the walls but I informed Brian that if I was going to die from this grueling climb I was going to sit down and write on the wall, "Here Lisa died. She was a brave but wimpy woman." Almost to the top we encounter a woman taking a rest off to the side. The sight of something wet and the smell of something sour made Brian yell out, "Did someone throw up?" Clearly someone had. We both exclaimed over this unwelcome treat for our senses...and then we realized that the poor woman taking a load off in the corner was undoubtedly the puker and we felt very bad. It's no wonder she threw up what with all that climbing and being told by the signs she could not stop to rest. Or maybe she just had vertigo. Either way it must have been miserable and embarrassing for her. And the worker cleaning it up on the way down was a tad pathetic with his running from the puke and gagging. Men seem to have weak constitutions where unpleasant smells are concerned.

We enjoyed the rest of the sights the city had to offer and then decided to take in a Rick Steve's recommended restaurant for our last supper in Italia. We gussied up and took to the streets trying to find it. We found the street, which looked totally deserted and like we might be mugged by a gang of Italian hoodlums or taken by the Mafia, and were about to give up when we saw the storefront. It looked small and unremarkable, but when you walked inside the door it opened into an amazing local Italian restaurant with all the ambiance and colorful personalities you might expect in a local neighborhood haunt. (Such a contrast with all the places on the piazzas with outside seating geared towards tourists.) We ate the largest steak I've ever seen and thoroughly enjoyed every moment of the experience.

Day 10 - Arrivederci

Our flight home wasn't until the afternoon so we woke up and took one last walk through the morning streets of Italy. We took nothing with us, no camera or video camera, no guide book, no bag. We just walked the streets together and soaked in one last helping of the country we'd come to love. (Imagine one lone tear trickling down my face at the memory.) Oh Italia. It's amore.

Day-Time Emmy

2009-09-16T22:24:00.004-04:00

One of the jobs that I currently hold is that of church secretary for North Main St. Mennonite Church in Nappanee. One of the joys that accompanies that job is working with a worn-out, antiquated, barely-limping-along, copy machine. It makes me say bad words and behave violently. I've learned to nurse it along and get it to do, mostly, what it needs to do. But lately we are on bad terms more than we get along. I've given it the cold shoulder for two days and it's behaving sullenly.

The church is aware of the situation and a decision had been made to purchase a new copy machine from our office equipment company, a small company in Warsaw that I've had connections with for years. The company is unapologetically Christian, not in an obnoxious in-your-face way, but in a matter of fact way - and I must say that their ethics and business practices have never been anything short of exemplary. A year ago a new, very jolly and slightly scatter-brained salesman, Chuck, was assigned to work up our quote and handle the sale of the new machine.

Fast forward a year. Our church has fallen on some hard times. No new copy machine has been purchased and it doesn't look like it's going to happen anytime in the near future (barring some sort of horrible accident that might befall the machine with one axe and one angry woman when no one is looking). Chuck keeps checking in. He desires a sale, I desire a copy machine, but the obstacles keeping us apart are simply insurmountable.

So today he popped into the church office. He tried to make us an offer we couldn't refuse. I apologetically explained our situation. He understood. It's the same story everywhere. The economy is in the tank in Elkhart County and everyone is waiting to make pricey expenditures like copy machines. As he got up to leave he admitted that in a month he would probably no longer be with the company. He can't make ends meet when there is no commission coming in. There was a bit of an awkwardness as we joked around and tried to figure out how to part ways, realizing it would be our final goodbye. I was saying things like, "Well good luck Chuck, hope to see you around." And as he turned to go he began to speak and said, "Well, I guess if nothing else I'll see you..." Now I expected him to say, "I guess I'll see you around," or "maybe I'll run into you in Warsaw" or "maybe we'll work together again someday under different circumstances." But no, instead he said, "Well, I guess if nothing else I'll see you at the Pearly Gates. And I'll be asking you if you ever got that new copy machine."

How day-time Emmy dramatic! I had such a great laugh. Oh Chuck, you gave me my favorite conversation of the day. Best of luck to you.

No Pain No Gain

2009-09-01T13:36:00.003-04:00

I've decided to train for a 5-K again, which is crazy and not really any fun. But I figure I should make some sort of attempt at healthfulness and this is cheap. Also, I have a great running companion, Felicia, and I would not be doing this without her.

I did this two years ago with some friends in Nappanee and ran the 5-K at the Michiana Mennonite Relief Sale. It was the year I turned 30 and it was a major accomplishment for me. It was amazing!

And then I stopped running. A fact that I could just kick myself over and over for. (I couldn't keep driving 30 minutes one-way to run with friends and goodness knows I don't have the will-power to do it on my own.)

But now I'm running again. And as much as I'm not a morning person (I get up and go run early) I sort of look forward to it. As I trained in Nappanee and now running with Felicia, I have come to cherish these early morning runs with friends. You share a goal with others, you chat (when you can breathe), you check in with each other several times a week...not to mention, the bonus of feeling healthier. While I hate the running - I like all it brings.

This morning though was especially taxing. We hit a new routine this week, run 3 minutes, walk 90 seconds, run 5 minutes, walk 2.5 minutes, and repeat. Holy Pete, it was HARD. I felt shell-shocked for 45 minutes after we were done. As we were running our final 5-minute section Felicia wheezed out, "Getting in shape is hard. No wonder people eat cheeseburgers and sit on the couch all day. It's so much easier." I couldn't agree more. This is crap. Why, if we're supposed to exercise, does it have to SUCK SO MUCH? But I suppose we'll just keep plugging away...and won't have to feel so guilty next time we eat that delicious cheeseburger.

Paved with Good Intentions

2009-08-31T21:10:00.003-04:00

So the experiment is on hold. Rush Limbaugh is on vacation this week. He announced this information on Friday by saying that the president is on vacation next week as well. And since Obama is clearly a pansy for needing a vacation after already having had a week of vacation, Rush thinks he might as well take one too. I was all ready to do some side-by-side comparisons. But it looks like it will have to wait until after Italy...

This Really Stinks!

2009-08-31T08:47:00.004-04:00

Last night Brian and I let Reggie out around 9:30. We sat on the back steps peacefully watching him do his "business" and let him sniff around a little. All of sudden he takes off down the alley growling.

This is not unusual. You would think, by Reggie's actions, that the cats in our neighborhood are the greatest threat to safety and peace that our community has ever seen. Honestly. And he lives with two cats! But we would rather he not go chasing a cat around the block so we usually act pretty fast, yelling at him, "Come on Reggie, let's go in. REGGIE. GET OVER HERE!" And he responds fairly well and happily zips back into the house.

So this was the routine we followed last night when he ran into the alley growling. But as Brian and I went to follow Reggie into the house Brian said, "What's that smell?" It seems to me that "what's that smell" is never referring to the smell of baking bread or freshly picked flowers. Usually the reference is to something foul. And then the smell wafted to my nostrils. SKUNK.

And then the realization hit us. Our eyes met. I watched the horror sweep across his eyes...the same horror that was probably mirrored in my own eyes. It was no cat that Reggie chased down the alley. It was a skunk. Our little dog was in the house and we needed to find out if he had escaped the skunk's spray.

Upon walking into our house the scent that assailed our nostrils was more potent and vile than I had thought possible. We bent over to smell Reggie. We did not need to bend very far to be certain that he the smell torpedo had hit it's target.

I had heard horror stories of other dog owners whose dogs had been a little too curious with a small striped animal. I always worried that this could happen to us. We did not panic. There was no time for that though we would have liked to. We needed to move fast. We became an efficient crisis-management team. I shouted out commands.

I yelled at Brian to move the dog outside while I went to the Internet for instructions on handling this crisis. (I found an article walking me through the crisis step-by-step. I didn't read several articles to see what they said. I went with the first one. It seemed reliable.)
I began running bath water, opened windows, and plugged in an air freshener.
I then stripped down to little more than a pair of rubber gloves and told Brian to bring the dog in and deposit him in the tub.
I handed Brian the computer and told him to mix up the recipe for skunk-removal wash. (It involved hydrogen peroxide, baking soda, and dish soap.)
We screamed about how horrid the house smelled, disbelieving how the 60 seconds Reggie had spent in the house had tainted our happy home beyond all reason.
I secured the area that had been sprayed on the dog and began washing it vigorously...all the while telling Reggie how bad he is.
Brian brings the mixture and we wash the aforementioned area with that as well.
Brian then removed the dog from the tub and dried him.
Reggie then did his happy I-just-had-a-bath dance and began running through the house totally unscathed.

We, in the mean time, are left with a house that smells like a mixture of burnt plastic and organic foulness. Every 20 minutes or so we would break down and start screaming about how bad it smells in this house! I made popcorn to try to cover the smell. Even that didn't work. Brian seems to have an especially weak constitution where the smell is concerned. When we finally head to bed Brian admits that he feels queasy. I ask if he's gonna throw up because I'm ready to boot him out of the bed. I can't handle cleaning up another disaster. Luckily he made it through the night.
Alas, when I awoke Brian had plugged in the little potpourri pot again, and the smell of skunk is clearly still present. And even though it's freezing in here (which is stupid because it's still August) the windows shall remain open until the stank too has passed.

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Last Lesson

For the Birds

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Where Have I Been

First Poo-Free Washing

Poo Free

Sticks and Stones...*Warning: Feminist Rant to Follow*

Celebrating Love

A Puzzling Adventure

That Thing I Do

Oops, I Did it Again

Week Report

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Second Date

Of Rice and Men

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Today's "Living the Life of Riley" Moment is Brought to you by...

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Mexico 2010

Too Much Information

The Big Reveal

Wasted Days and Sleepless Nights

Blues Fest 2010

Happy Birthday Brian!

A Little Life

Gratitude Realized

Everyone's a Little Bit Racist

A Simple Afternoon?

SUCCESS!

The Great Pumpkin Crisis

Will It Ever End?

Whip It Good

Update on Life

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Christmas 2009

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Mary Oliver

Brian's Point of View

And One More Awkward, Horrifying, Situation...

Ri. Dic. U. Lous.

What the fit?

Au Claire De La Lune

Adventures in Italia

Day-Time Emmy

No Pain No Gain

Paved with Good Intentions

This Really Stinks!

Sticks and Stones...Warning: Feminist Rant to Follow