There are things we have to do in life that we love doing for no real reason. No one else recognizes these task as having any more inherent joy than the other million tasks we are capable of. But for some reason, certain mundane and trivial things are delightful to one person. But just as there are tasks we LOVE doing, there are also those we like/don’t mind, those we “just do” (hopefully without noticing too much), those we don’t like doing, and those we abhor and refuse to do.
One thing I LOVE doing is replacing the garbage bag. Sadly the preceding task is not one I love. When I was in college and I would see a roommate bundling up the trash and heading out the door, I would race to get the new bag (isn’t pulling them off the roll fun!?) and situate it in the garbage can (waving it through the air is fun too! Also, having a fresh empty trash can. It's all so wonderful!). My roommates probably thought that I was just being Helpful Heidi, pitching in with them for the sanitation of the whole group—doing them a favor for doing us a favor. Really though, I guess I was actually stealing their opportunity for this joy. I realized this one time when I was doing the not fun job of taking out the trash and came back in to find one of them doing my fun job of replacing the bag. It was to be my reward/consolation for taking out the trash, and here they were getting to do it instead of me! I told them that I had wanted to do it. Of course, they thought they were doing me a favor, so I explained that I just love doing it SO MUCH. After that, when anyone would take out the trash, they’d notify me so that I could put the new bag in. They’d holler out, and I’d come running upstairs. If you lived with me, you could possibly go your whole life without ever putting in a new garbage bag.
One thing I abhor is grating cheese. I just can’t do it. This might be hereditary. Whenever we would have any meal with grated cheese (tacos, enchiladas, shepherds’ pie, etc.) and I would ask what I could do to help, my mom would assign me to grate the cheese. What???? I hate grating cheese. I’ve always hated it. How could she ask me—again! She knows I hate it. I would explain, “Mom. We’re having TACOS. There must be 20 jobs to do—chop tomatoes, chop lettuce, open a can of refried beans, cook the meat, set the table, round up salsa/sour cream—any of which I’m willing to do. Why must you always say ‘Grate the cheese’? It’s me, Lyndsey. I’ve always hated this one, and there are so many other ways to help.” Maybe she hated it too... This could explain why it always was the first thing to come to mind when she was offered help, and it could explain why I hate it too. B is the cheese grater in the family now. He knows that’s his “part” in the meal. The rest of the planning, preparing, and table setting is up to me. But when I call him for his part, he quickly comes and does it—then goes back to what he was doing. He has participated in the dinner preparation and probably thinks he's getting off easy since it is just one thing and over so quickly.
I only mention these things because I am excited to have identified a new task I LOVE. I love refilling the staples in the stapler. I don’t love refilling anything else—soap dispenser, tape dispenser, TP roller, salt shaker, etc.—they are all things I “just do.” But the stapler—I love refilling that. I can’t really explain why except that part of it is my sheer amazement that I’ve used a whole row of staples. It seems like so many when you put them in. It feels like an accomplishment. Plus, the whole contraption is so…mechanical. Finally, you never really know when it’s going to happen, so it’s always a surprise! Sure, they leave that window so you can see if you’re almost out. But who monitors that thing? There ARE a lot of staples inside, so there’s no point checking after each staple. Besides, if you changed it then, the new complete row would not fit and you would have to break it up. All of these reasons are still not enough to explain why I really love reloading the stapler. It’s just one of those things I really like doing, for no justifiable reason.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Next Up...DAAAAAAVID NAAAAAAY!!!
I ordered our office’s season Braves tickets a year ago (four tickets to each game). Really, my only involvement was in securing these tickets, but it has meant that I am the “contact person” at my office and the Braves send me emails all the time letting me know about things that are going on for “season ticket holders.” That’s me. A season ticket holder. Once the tickets arrived, I sorted them and handed them over to the Marketing Department so that they could hand them out to clients, coworkers, etc. Since receiving the tickets last year I have been deleting the promotional stuff the Braves email and mail me…until I got an invitation to Season Ticket Holder Playday! Free ballpark food and free Braves hats! (Ok, so everything was free—just their way of saying “thank you” to us die hard Braves fans.) Tours of the locker room/physical therapy rooms, etc. Shag balls in the outfield and use the batting cages and bullpen under the field. Plus, one lucky person in each group could sign up to bat at home plate. What a fun day. I planned to go and take B. Plus, it was the weekend my parents visited, so they would have to come along too. I RSVP’d and signed the four of us up to “play” with my dad batting at 11:00am. And of course, I didn’t tell him! Here are some impressions from the day:
1. Once we got to the stadium (no, dad didn’t even know we were going to the stadium, just that I had a surprise) and saw people batting and playing catch in the outfield, I told my dad that he was going to bat. How did he take it? The way he takes everything. In other words, I have no idea if he was happy, sad, nervous, or anything else. He made his way to the dugout at the appropriate time and got all set with a batting helmet. I have a great picture of him walking from the dugout to home plate—head down, shoulders slumped—looking like he ALREADY struck out. (http://picasaweb.google.com/lyndseyandbrett/BravesPlayday#) But everything went great! He hit his first several pitches—good hits! Only missed a couple. “Yay, Dad!” I think he was pleased.
2. I joked with him about his dejected walk to home plate and he explained that he was really looking down because he had just stepped onto the grass. This is very believable as the grass on the field is the grass they will have in heaven. It is the most amazing grass I’ve ever walked on/touched. I can’t even describe how perfect the field is. The park employs 30 people to work on the grass. They rip it all out when the season is over (which is why we got to play on it all day—they’re just going to throw it away) and plant new grass in the spring. And, get this: they mow it TWICE a day! 3/4 of an inch. It really feels just like a carpet. So fun for the four of us to play catch in the outfield!
3. The tour of the locker room, kitchen, hang-out area, physical therapy wing was great because it allows you to better picture what it’s like being a professional baseball player. Sure, it’s just a kitchen [etc.], but now I know what’s underneath the stadium. I know when the players arrive and where they wait. I wonder if THEY knew that we would all walk through their locker room (which does not look like the traditional locker room (no LOCKERS, no tile floor, no benches, no showers). More like open wooden cubicles in a carpeted circle (so no one gets that big corner cubicle). The players don’t bother cleaning out their area at the end of the season, so their spaces were just as they left them—hanging jock straps and all.
4. For $25k you can sit in the padded recliner-esque chairs right behind home plate all season. The first two or three rows directly behind the plate (which happen to be much closer to the batter than the pitcher is). You can eat/drink in the fancy-schmancy lounge right underneath you. What do you eat? Anything you want. You name it—they cook it.
5. Mom, Dad, and B all tried their luck in the batting cages under the field. I sat out for my back’s sake. I was especially glad Mom gave it a whirl—and even stuck with it when the guy came out to hand pitch it (that darn machine IS too fast). At the conclusion of our batting, B said, “Well, we’ve established that your dad is the only one of us who can hit.” (Now, Mom and B did hit SOME, just not many or well.)
6. B tried one of the cages where you throw the ball as fast as you can, hoping to get 30mph. We saw a teenage kid throwing nearly 90mph. Pretty amazing. B surprised himself getting 50mph.
7. The weather was gorgeous and the park really is beautiful. It was so nice after a morning of baseball to sit in the sun eating hotdogs and drinking coke.
I really enjoy baseball. Truly, I can’t think of a better way to spend a beautiful day than at a ball game with a good friend. I don’t watch baseball on TV and I don’t follow any players or teams. But if I get the chance to attend a pro game (or a college game—I really love college games) I will enjoy myself. Although I had tickets to four Braves games this season (three courtesy of work) THREE of the games got rained out! I felt kind of bad because the staff at the playday were thanking us profusely for our support and for being such loyal fans, when really I don’t care about the Braves (I just like baseball). They were asking people Braves trivia (or even just to name their favorite player) for prizes, and we thought it was pretty funny because between the four of us we wouldn’t be able to name a single player on the team if we had been asked. In that way we kind of felt like imposters! Anyway, it was a fun day.
1. Once we got to the stadium (no, dad didn’t even know we were going to the stadium, just that I had a surprise) and saw people batting and playing catch in the outfield, I told my dad that he was going to bat. How did he take it? The way he takes everything. In other words, I have no idea if he was happy, sad, nervous, or anything else. He made his way to the dugout at the appropriate time and got all set with a batting helmet. I have a great picture of him walking from the dugout to home plate—head down, shoulders slumped—looking like he ALREADY struck out. (http://picasaweb.google.com/lyndseyandbrett/BravesPlayday#) But everything went great! He hit his first several pitches—good hits! Only missed a couple. “Yay, Dad!” I think he was pleased.
2. I joked with him about his dejected walk to home plate and he explained that he was really looking down because he had just stepped onto the grass. This is very believable as the grass on the field is the grass they will have in heaven. It is the most amazing grass I’ve ever walked on/touched. I can’t even describe how perfect the field is. The park employs 30 people to work on the grass. They rip it all out when the season is over (which is why we got to play on it all day—they’re just going to throw it away) and plant new grass in the spring. And, get this: they mow it TWICE a day! 3/4 of an inch. It really feels just like a carpet. So fun for the four of us to play catch in the outfield!
3. The tour of the locker room, kitchen, hang-out area, physical therapy wing was great because it allows you to better picture what it’s like being a professional baseball player. Sure, it’s just a kitchen [etc.], but now I know what’s underneath the stadium. I know when the players arrive and where they wait. I wonder if THEY knew that we would all walk through their locker room (which does not look like the traditional locker room (no LOCKERS, no tile floor, no benches, no showers). More like open wooden cubicles in a carpeted circle (so no one gets that big corner cubicle). The players don’t bother cleaning out their area at the end of the season, so their spaces were just as they left them—hanging jock straps and all.
4. For $25k you can sit in the padded recliner-esque chairs right behind home plate all season. The first two or three rows directly behind the plate (which happen to be much closer to the batter than the pitcher is). You can eat/drink in the fancy-schmancy lounge right underneath you. What do you eat? Anything you want. You name it—they cook it.
5. Mom, Dad, and B all tried their luck in the batting cages under the field. I sat out for my back’s sake. I was especially glad Mom gave it a whirl—and even stuck with it when the guy came out to hand pitch it (that darn machine IS too fast). At the conclusion of our batting, B said, “Well, we’ve established that your dad is the only one of us who can hit.” (Now, Mom and B did hit SOME, just not many or well.)
6. B tried one of the cages where you throw the ball as fast as you can, hoping to get 30mph. We saw a teenage kid throwing nearly 90mph. Pretty amazing. B surprised himself getting 50mph.
7. The weather was gorgeous and the park really is beautiful. It was so nice after a morning of baseball to sit in the sun eating hotdogs and drinking coke.
I really enjoy baseball. Truly, I can’t think of a better way to spend a beautiful day than at a ball game with a good friend. I don’t watch baseball on TV and I don’t follow any players or teams. But if I get the chance to attend a pro game (or a college game—I really love college games) I will enjoy myself. Although I had tickets to four Braves games this season (three courtesy of work) THREE of the games got rained out! I felt kind of bad because the staff at the playday were thanking us profusely for our support and for being such loyal fans, when really I don’t care about the Braves (I just like baseball). They were asking people Braves trivia (or even just to name their favorite player) for prizes, and we thought it was pretty funny because between the four of us we wouldn’t be able to name a single player on the team if we had been asked. In that way we kind of felt like imposters! Anyway, it was a fun day.
Monday, December 15, 2008
I will gladly share with you the grand prize.
Saturday night was our company’s holiday party. My second holiday party with this company [sigh]. They really do throw a nice party. Like last year, I made the place cards with everyone’s name and entrée choice, which I enjoy because it gives me a heads up on who’s coming (and what their spouses/dates are named). The evening begins with a cocktail hour, followed by a 5 course meal. Dress is semi-formal (some people wear tuxes, but not many). [I had not shopped for a dress for the event (although I did last year). I’m guessing I am the only person who began their search for the perfect holiday party outfit in the evening of the big night by saying, “Step One: Locate the Halloween box.”] There are dancing and casino games (with fake money) for several hours. Throughout the night there are raffle prizes given away, and at the end of the evening you cash in all your chips for more raffle tickets for the big prizes.
I don’t need an hour for cocktails, so this year we arrived at the end of the hour (everyone else is already there and crowded around the bar). I was DETERMINED to win something in the raffle this year and so we bee-lined to one of the Black Jack tables as soon as dinner ended. See, each person gets one raffle ticket upon arrival which is thrown in the spinny bird-cage thing. Everyone’s odds of winning the small prizes given away throughout most of the evening are the same. It’s at the end, when they close down the gaming tables and we cash in that the odds change dramatically. Each person is given $25,000 fake money at the beginning of the night and will receive one raffle ticket per $10,000 at the end of the night. B and I bet VERY low and we lose often, so it’s slow going. In fact, it was SO slow going that I even decided I had better DANCE when the DJ said everyone who danced to the next song would receive $10,000. Anything for more money. What a vice gambling is.
I really wanted to win something, ANYTHING (except the gourmet coffee maker). A $25 gift certificate to On the Border? A Wii? A flat-screen TV? All fine. We had increased our money by the end, but not enough to make our odds of winning a prize “good.” Thankfully, the HR lady who was in charge of the party slipped us a stack of $5,000s which allowed us to buy more than twice the number of tickets we had earned. Our odds were probably “good,” though not as good as some. I was so excited! I always want to win and I always think it’s going to be me. We did not win any restaurant certificates or any Visa $50/$100 gift cards. We did not win either of the GPS things or the George Forman grill. We did not win the coffee maker (whew!) or the iPod. But then, [glory!] we DID win! And what did we win? No, not the flat screen TV or the Wii. We won a two-night stay at the hotel next to the office! HA HA HA HA! See, my JOB is booking people at that hotel. The sales manager there and I are tight. We talk/email several times a week. Now I get to call and tell him I won the weekend get away…the weekend get-a-block-away. A vacation to my hometown. In fact, why a vacation? I may stay there at night and walk next door to work during the day. Apparently the person who won this prize last year never used it and it expired (it expires in March, so we have to book quick!). That will not happen to us.
We will be staying in one of the fancy suites (with living room, kitchen, bedroom, shower for 8, jetted tub). Plus, this hotel has a chef that makes hot breakfast (omelets and waffles) to your liking each morning and serves fresh cookies every night. And they have a couple limos and a couple SUVs in which they will drive you anywhere within a three mile radius (which means they could almost pick us up from home at the beginning of our sojourn and take us home at the end, as we live 4 miles from the hotel). We do plan to joyride in the limo—to dinner, to a movie theater, to the subway station. It’s a funny present, but it will be fun! I’m most excited about the tub; second most about the omelets. Everything else is a tie. That’s how to wow me: a hot tub or a hot breakfast. Love those things.
I don’t need an hour for cocktails, so this year we arrived at the end of the hour (everyone else is already there and crowded around the bar). I was DETERMINED to win something in the raffle this year and so we bee-lined to one of the Black Jack tables as soon as dinner ended. See, each person gets one raffle ticket upon arrival which is thrown in the spinny bird-cage thing. Everyone’s odds of winning the small prizes given away throughout most of the evening are the same. It’s at the end, when they close down the gaming tables and we cash in that the odds change dramatically. Each person is given $25,000 fake money at the beginning of the night and will receive one raffle ticket per $10,000 at the end of the night. B and I bet VERY low and we lose often, so it’s slow going. In fact, it was SO slow going that I even decided I had better DANCE when the DJ said everyone who danced to the next song would receive $10,000. Anything for more money. What a vice gambling is.
I really wanted to win something, ANYTHING (except the gourmet coffee maker). A $25 gift certificate to On the Border? A Wii? A flat-screen TV? All fine. We had increased our money by the end, but not enough to make our odds of winning a prize “good.” Thankfully, the HR lady who was in charge of the party slipped us a stack of $5,000s which allowed us to buy more than twice the number of tickets we had earned. Our odds were probably “good,” though not as good as some. I was so excited! I always want to win and I always think it’s going to be me. We did not win any restaurant certificates or any Visa $50/$100 gift cards. We did not win either of the GPS things or the George Forman grill. We did not win the coffee maker (whew!) or the iPod. But then, [glory!] we DID win! And what did we win? No, not the flat screen TV or the Wii. We won a two-night stay at the hotel next to the office! HA HA HA HA! See, my JOB is booking people at that hotel. The sales manager there and I are tight. We talk/email several times a week. Now I get to call and tell him I won the weekend get away…the weekend get-a-block-away. A vacation to my hometown. In fact, why a vacation? I may stay there at night and walk next door to work during the day. Apparently the person who won this prize last year never used it and it expired (it expires in March, so we have to book quick!). That will not happen to us.
We will be staying in one of the fancy suites (with living room, kitchen, bedroom, shower for 8, jetted tub). Plus, this hotel has a chef that makes hot breakfast (omelets and waffles) to your liking each morning and serves fresh cookies every night. And they have a couple limos and a couple SUVs in which they will drive you anywhere within a three mile radius (which means they could almost pick us up from home at the beginning of our sojourn and take us home at the end, as we live 4 miles from the hotel). We do plan to joyride in the limo—to dinner, to a movie theater, to the subway station. It’s a funny present, but it will be fun! I’m most excited about the tub; second most about the omelets. Everything else is a tie. That’s how to wow me: a hot tub or a hot breakfast. Love those things.
Friday, December 5, 2008
Welcome to Cooking!
Last Thanksgiving my sister came to visit. It was delightful and the food turned out fabulous, which no one had expected but everyone had hoped (and she and I had SLAVED for). I guess, we did know all the sides would turn out. It was just the turkey. We’d never made one. But, miraculously, it looked just like the pictures—better than lots of the pictures, actually. Nothing to be afraid of. Why do people cook turkeys so seldom, I wondered? So, I purchased another turkey and made it a few weeks later—it did not look good at all. I made some mistakes with the bag the second time around, so I guess we got lucky to have everything go perfectly with the first one. But now, after having a bad [looking] experience, I am better able to guarantee good turkeys in the future.
This year, we contemplated going to Cleveland or Washington DC for the holiday. But, we couldn’t really afford to fly, and a drive of 11-12 hours (either destination—NOT including Thanksgiving traffic craziness) was just too much. No one wanted to come visit us, so it looked like a quiet Thanksgiving for two, which was for the best, since B had LOTS of homework/studying to do and I just wanted to relax. Then one of our friends, who goes to school with B, invited us to his family’s Thanksgiving. Excellent. 40 people = more and better food than we would have had. Plus, it was in Atlanta, so we could go for the afternoon and then have the rest of the vacation to study/relax.
I planned to make my family’s traditional cranberry salad. I purchased enough ingredients for a double batch—just in case. However, since this is a side, and not one they were expecting, I figured a single batch would probably be enough. When I woke up Thanksgiving morning to begin making the salad (it takes two steps—four hours apart), B was on his run. A cookbook was suspiciously laid on the counter turned to a page showing tasty desserts. When B returned, he announced that he intended to make a certain LOVELY baked marble cheesecake. Oy! In two years B has never cooked something from a recipe. He does cook dinner on occasion: frozen soy burgers, quesadillas, soup in a can, or nachos—all of which I love and he cooks superbly. But he had never tried a dessert (not even cookies from refrigerated dough—why cook it?) or a recipe, so I was concerned. His signature dinners are all…improved. I didn’t think improv or experimentation would be successful here. But I was just excited that he was trying a recipe (think what doors this could open!) so I rounded up the things he needed. “What’s a springform pan? Do we have one?” Why, yes, yes we do. Here’s how it operates. “Oh, it says finely chopped walnuts—that’s ok, I’m sure the crust will be fine without them.” No worries, we HAVE finely chopped walnuts. “I need some chocolate. Do we have any chocolate chips?” We have Ghirardelli’s semi-sweet, milk, and white. Which would you like? Other than rounding up ingredients, I had absolutely no part in this project, but B worked on it all morning.
Finally, when it was in the oven, I pulled out my cranberry salad that had been chilling in the fridge so that I could make/add the final ingredients. B was worried. Will that be enough? There’s going to be lots of people. Of course, I had worried the same thing, but a few years ago I had made a double batch and had leftovers for weeks. Plus, this will be one of a dozen dishes—and this one is not the turkey or the potatoes. Still B’s concern worried me enough to cause me to throw the ingredients for the second batch together… Cranberry salad to feed the whole family.
Here’s how everything was received:
B’s cheesecake was complimented by all! It looked awesome coming out of the oven and even better when we took the springform pan off! His was the only dessert that hadn’t been purchased! Side note: It took him nearly the entire day to remember that it’s a “cheesecake.” He kept forgetting. “What’s the name of the thing I made? Cheese pie?” He plans to make it again over the next vacation. Of course, this time he has some experiments he’d like to perform. I change things in recipes all the time, but I don’t do it in a scientific manner—make several at once to try them against each other and against the “control”.
My cranberry salad is frozen in two containers in our freezer. Yes, a double batch was too much. Again. I think more would have been eaten if the family handn’t had their own beloved and similar salad. It was raspberry. Mine was better. But they were anticipating the raspberry one, so more of it was eaten. I should have made one.
Over the break we also rented a couple movies, one for B and one for me. I sat and worked on my new "project" (the one that has taken over my life since finishing Luigi's dresser) during B's movie. I sat and worked on my new project during my movie too. B watched them both. I guess he can't watch and work on things and I can't not. Oh yeah, and one more thing we did: We actually went to Walmart for its 5AM Black Friday opening. I've never done something like this before because I believe that the morning after Thanksgiving is for sleeping in and making waffles...and I hate busy crowds...and my Christmas shopping is usually done by June. Our alarm went off at 4:31, we drove over and got in line, the doors opened and we split up (the faster to find our one item), we grabbed it and checked out. We were back in bed 40 minutes later.
This year, we contemplated going to Cleveland or Washington DC for the holiday. But, we couldn’t really afford to fly, and a drive of 11-12 hours (either destination—NOT including Thanksgiving traffic craziness) was just too much. No one wanted to come visit us, so it looked like a quiet Thanksgiving for two, which was for the best, since B had LOTS of homework/studying to do and I just wanted to relax. Then one of our friends, who goes to school with B, invited us to his family’s Thanksgiving. Excellent. 40 people = more and better food than we would have had. Plus, it was in Atlanta, so we could go for the afternoon and then have the rest of the vacation to study/relax.
I planned to make my family’s traditional cranberry salad. I purchased enough ingredients for a double batch—just in case. However, since this is a side, and not one they were expecting, I figured a single batch would probably be enough. When I woke up Thanksgiving morning to begin making the salad (it takes two steps—four hours apart), B was on his run. A cookbook was suspiciously laid on the counter turned to a page showing tasty desserts. When B returned, he announced that he intended to make a certain LOVELY baked marble cheesecake. Oy! In two years B has never cooked something from a recipe. He does cook dinner on occasion: frozen soy burgers, quesadillas, soup in a can, or nachos—all of which I love and he cooks superbly. But he had never tried a dessert (not even cookies from refrigerated dough—why cook it?) or a recipe, so I was concerned. His signature dinners are all…improved. I didn’t think improv or experimentation would be successful here. But I was just excited that he was trying a recipe (think what doors this could open!) so I rounded up the things he needed. “What’s a springform pan? Do we have one?” Why, yes, yes we do. Here’s how it operates. “Oh, it says finely chopped walnuts—that’s ok, I’m sure the crust will be fine without them.” No worries, we HAVE finely chopped walnuts. “I need some chocolate. Do we have any chocolate chips?” We have Ghirardelli’s semi-sweet, milk, and white. Which would you like? Other than rounding up ingredients, I had absolutely no part in this project, but B worked on it all morning.
Finally, when it was in the oven, I pulled out my cranberry salad that had been chilling in the fridge so that I could make/add the final ingredients. B was worried. Will that be enough? There’s going to be lots of people. Of course, I had worried the same thing, but a few years ago I had made a double batch and had leftovers for weeks. Plus, this will be one of a dozen dishes—and this one is not the turkey or the potatoes. Still B’s concern worried me enough to cause me to throw the ingredients for the second batch together… Cranberry salad to feed the whole family.
Here’s how everything was received:
B’s cheesecake was complimented by all! It looked awesome coming out of the oven and even better when we took the springform pan off! His was the only dessert that hadn’t been purchased! Side note: It took him nearly the entire day to remember that it’s a “cheesecake.” He kept forgetting. “What’s the name of the thing I made? Cheese pie?” He plans to make it again over the next vacation. Of course, this time he has some experiments he’d like to perform. I change things in recipes all the time, but I don’t do it in a scientific manner—make several at once to try them against each other and against the “control”.
My cranberry salad is frozen in two containers in our freezer. Yes, a double batch was too much. Again. I think more would have been eaten if the family handn’t had their own beloved and similar salad. It was raspberry. Mine was better. But they were anticipating the raspberry one, so more of it was eaten. I should have made one.
Over the break we also rented a couple movies, one for B and one for me. I sat and worked on my new "project" (the one that has taken over my life since finishing Luigi's dresser) during B's movie. I sat and worked on my new project during my movie too. B watched them both. I guess he can't watch and work on things and I can't not. Oh yeah, and one more thing we did: We actually went to Walmart for its 5AM Black Friday opening. I've never done something like this before because I believe that the morning after Thanksgiving is for sleeping in and making waffles...and I hate busy crowds...and my Christmas shopping is usually done by June. Our alarm went off at 4:31, we drove over and got in line, the doors opened and we split up (the faster to find our one item), we grabbed it and checked out. We were back in bed 40 minutes later.
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
I would, would you?
The last weekend in August, we went rafting with some friends. Sure, it was fun, because rafting has always been, according to my experience. However, the river was decidedly less dangerous [seeming (?)] than the rivers “out west.” First of all, it was super shallow. True, there is a drought going on, but it didn’t look as though the water was any lower than normal, probably due to the fact that a dam lets out a constant amount. But really, the river is only a river because of its width. It is quite shallow—creek-like. Don’t let the photos fool you. They take those at the best places. http://picasaweb.google.com/lyndseyandbrett/Rafting#
Looking at the pictures today I am reminded of the days when my back would let me do anything. Those days will come again. I am simply in a bad spell, one which will last until I can go several successive weeks without injuring my back. And that is why I have begun saying “no” to activities I might otherwise do. I believe the pain started at the beginning of October. It began without an identifiable incident and simply got worse as the weeks went by. Every step was painful. Then, I was presented with a zip-line opportunity. Having lived so long in pain, I guess I decided “why not?” I mean, I’ve got to live—back pain or no back pain! And I zip-lined. That might have been ok if I had simply hung there. But no. I had to use the opportunity to do the splits (in every direction) and attempt to push my legs behind me like I was flying. I kicked my legs like I was Tinkerbell, lighting the nightly firework show at Disneyland. I knew before I got to the end that I had done something very wrong. I almost couldn’t walk to the car. That was the low point. I spent the evening lying on the air mattress icing my back while watching a movie. I did that for a few evenings. Did I mention my parents were visiting? (By the way, only Mom and I zip lined. Repeatedly. Each. I guess I get it from her.) I just kept thinking, “What was I thinking? I broke my back being Tinkerbell on a zip line?” But, I’m not surprised I did. As I consider the activity in hindsight, I only hear Lina Lamont singing “…and if the girl were I, would you? would you? And would you dare to say, ‘Let’s do the same as they,’ I would, would you?” [Man I love that song—no matter which of the three people sings it.]
Two good things came from the experience: 1. I stopped all activities that would hurt my back. Just days after the incident we had the opportunity to bat in the Braves’ batting cages and pitch in the bullpen, etc. (subject of a future post). I went, but I passed on the activities. Very sad. Also, I’ve been refusing to rock climb with Brett, and he finally realized that I’m going to be refusing for so long that he went with someone else, which I had been encouraging him to do. 2. The back miraculously improved by figurative leaps and bounds just days after the Tinkerbell incident. I do not credit the improvement to my avoidance of potentially injuring activities (although those certainly could have made things worse if I had participated) but rather to the incident itself. I believe it twisted things back into shape. Sure, it didn’t feel like it at the time, but I have no other way to explain why I hurt BAD for several weeks with no cause, during which time no amount of good behavior or rest or ice/heat/massage had the slightest improving effect. Days after the incident I felt better than I had before the incident. The last week or two I’ve only had occasional shooting pain during the day. It’s great! I totally feel like I’m on the mend. Just can’t shake it.
But I’m not about to jeopardize my good back—not yet. Just another month or two. I’m trying out a pilates class this coming Monday. If I like it, I’ll sign up in January. Core strength might prevent future back problems. I visited a doc (finally) as soon as things started looking up. He provided me with some new ideas as to causes for my troubles (nothing conclusive) but no real treatment or cure. Just time. Time is working, thank heavens. I was really hurting for a while. And even though they are totally unrelated, I like to attribute a trip to the doctor as the fix! It makes the $180 his 15 minutes cost seem explainable, though not justifyable.
It is now the end of the year and with that visit I have finally hit my deductible. At least that is what I think the insurance statements are communicating. It’s been a slow and expensive process getting there, even though the deductible itself is not very much at all. Although I believe I have as good of insurance as they make in this country, I have been very disappointed to see how they are able to tell me things don’t apply. Basic things.
It is now the end of the year and with that visit I have finally hit my deductible. At least that is what I think the insurance statements are communicating. It’s been a slow and expensive process getting there, even though the deductible itself is not very much at all. Although I believe I have as good of insurance as they make in this country, I have been very disappointed to see how they are able to tell me things don’t apply. Basic things.
In light of my “deductible reached” status, I am very tempted to schedule some sort of appointment this month, just to see what happens now. But I’m afraid to, after seeing the crazy bills that have come for completely regular appointments and procedures—ones that I have often cleared with the insurance BEFORE I go. So, they pay for my flu shot? Great. But not entirely for the additional two charges associated with poking my arm (once). Three charges, totally nearly $100 for the "covered" $36 shot... Ok...
In July I called the insurance company to find out if an OB/GYN was a specialist. Yes, I’ll admit it, if the OB/GYN was considered a “specialist,” I would have equated that with “astronomically expensive” and simply skipped this year's yearly exam. They asked me why I was going and I told them--just a routine thing people do to feel "healthy" about themselves and to avoid the guilt that comes when you don't do it. Great news! They informed me that my insurance covers yearly “well-woman-exams.” So, I never found out if the OB/GYN is technically a specialist, but it didn't matter anymore. This was even better, right? Not when I got the bill and found out that although they covered the doctor fee (after my co-pay, of course) they don’t cover any lab work. Huh? Women, why else go in for a yearly exam than to get a pap smear? That’s the whole point for going (and frankly, I don’t feel like it's so necessary that I would be willing to pay for the lab work myself—at least not yearly). I mean, really. It’s just a little frustrating when you have insurance that will give you a low deductible, claim to cover everything, has all sorts of nice sounding percentage breakdowns once the deductible is reached but ends up pushing so much of the ridiculous costs from the doctor onto you. You never know what all the doctor will think of charging you for, and you certainly never know which of those the insurance will feel like paying, so having insurance doesn’t make me feel like I should ever go to the doctor. I live in fear. It's such a crap shoot. I might get a bill for $400. Or $20. I have no idea. I guess neither does the insurance company, since they haven’t seen the doctor’s crazy drummed up charges.
Today is not the day I should be complaining though. I just went to the dentist for the third time in the last 18 months—for free. Totally free. No co-pays even—for any of the visits. Just walk in, hand them your insurance card, and you get their service. I almost WANTED a cavity today, since apparently they cover fillings 100% as well with no co-pays. No luck though. I never knew dental insurance existed. At least not in a real-world way. I thought it was just an “idea” that a few companies/people tried—but not anyone normal or anyone taken seriously. Like pet insurance. Maybe it will catch on, maybe it won’t. Well, it’s been the purest (as in least adulterated) benefit of this job.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
To the Human Brain
The largest demographic in my office is American males. This is followed by Japanese males. The American males are only kept alive through their dependence on football season. The funny thing is that although I’ve told them repeatedly that I don’t watch or follow football, they think I MUST have some interest in BYU’s team. So they ask me all the time how I think BYU will do in an upcoming game or to explain what happened in the last game. I remind them every time that I don’t know anything about BYU football. This is so foreign to them that they are completely unable to comprehend what “don’t know ANYTHING regarding football teams/seasons” means. These people are not BYU fans. They just happen to know about every game played and continue to think that at the very least I have an interest in the school I went to. How wrong they are. I have not yet explained to them (but I really should) that I NEVER went to a football game during my undergraduate career. Not one. I was quite proud of this. I was even more proud to extend my football boycott throughout my graduate school career. Sadly, a nice guy offered a ticket…it seemed in poor form to refuse because I didn’t want to mess up my clean football record. Of course, I also didn’t have any interest in that particular activity (freezing my rear off watching an inane and violent activity), but that is almost never valid. So, in my characteristically good form, I went to the game. It was everything I thought it would be—sleet and all—the guy even wore the special headphones (not everyone has good form) leaving me to simply endure the discomfort alone, thinking how sad it was I had ruined my record—one I was proud of—for this??? (There’s a young women lesson in there…should have stuck to my no football standard.) Lucky for me, B has no interest in football either! Hooray! I really can’t believe my good fortune, considering how consumed by it some people are. Unfortunately though, after hearing enough people tell him he’s got to go to one GT football game while here, he started to believe it. Without the slightest interest in the team, the sport, or sitting in the cold for hours, he secured tickets for us to GT’s game last Thursday night. Imagine my supreeze when he told me Wednesday night that I would have to subway downtown from work the next night to go to a FOOTBALL game. What? Why on earth? “We’ve got to go to ONE! Everybody says so.” Sure. Experience is the best teacher… I didn’t end up seeing anything that seemed special at this game, so as to warrant its MUST EXPERIENCE status. We left in the middle of the weak halftime show. GT was ahead (of the Miami Hurricanes). There had been a number of interceptions, which was nice. GT has the world’s loudest sound system, we think. From the top few rows of the stadium you can see lovely Atlanta at night (that’s when it looks best).
Really though, I don’t mind hearing the males at the office talk to each other for hours about football. I like it because it’s really quite phenomenal to see just how much the human brain can keep straight—who’s playing who, every game everyone has ever won or lost, scores, coaches, EVERYTHING. They will know EXACTLY what happened in all the games played over a weekend. Amazing.
Really though, I don’t mind hearing the males at the office talk to each other for hours about football. I like it because it’s really quite phenomenal to see just how much the human brain can keep straight—who’s playing who, every game everyone has ever won or lost, scores, coaches, EVERYTHING. They will know EXACTLY what happened in all the games played over a weekend. Amazing.
Friday, November 14, 2008
Penance for Gluttony
The strangest thing happened while my parents were here visiting. I ate so much I threw up—or I ate OUT so much I threw up. Either, and probably both. At least, that’s what I think happened. Is this even possible? On Mickey and the Beanstock they sing, "I'm gonna eat and eat and eat and eat and eat until I die." My family sings that too. Often.
My dad had two objectives for his visit to Atlanta (not listed in order of importance): 1. visit the Georgia Aquarium, and 2. eat out at as many restaurants as possible. I’m not even joking. Knowing this, when we picked them up at the airport, fresh off their red eye flight at 5:50 AM, we presented them with two breakfast restaurant options and explained that generally the food at one was very sugary and the food at the other was very greasy [pick your poison], to which my dad replied, “Let’s do both!” And that was his opinion for the rest of the trip. He wanted to go out for breakfast, lunch, and dinner at multiple restaurants…and then dessert at another restaurant right after. (As a little bit of explanation, my parents live in a tiny timber town and the only “restaurant” they have is a Dairy Queen. Needless to say, they never go out.) Narrowing the selection was beyond him. So we had to choose. Presenting lots of options to him got us nowhere because instead of picking his favorite, he would want to add them all to the itinerary. Every time we would drive by a different tasty-looking restaurant (this is a huge city with thousands of restaurants) my dad would suggest adding it to the schedule. B would laugh; my mom would quietly plead (“Deeeaarr….”). Only I protested. Finally, I was driven to forbid eating breakfast out. No way. No how. We needed more hours to detox. But, I’m getting ahead of myself. Although I was uncomfortable anyway with all the eating out, planned eating out, and impossible eating out, I did not decree the ban on eating breakfast out until after the end of the second day of the “fress-fest” (for those who speak German). I will not list all the things we ate during the 40 hours leading up to the incident. But in the afternoon on the day-of, we had ballpark fare (hotdog; more on the ballpark later), followed by an obscene amount of chips/guacamole/salsa/tacos/enchiladas, immediately followed by hot fudge sundae/apple pie with ice cream/malt shakes. In the middle of the night, when I woke up sick and threw up in the nearest garbage can, all I could think was that I had eaten too much. That’s what had done it. Of course, I’ve stuffed myself throughout my life and never had this happen. In fact, I didn’t know if such a thing was possible. But when I told my theory to my mom the next morning and to my sister the next day on the phone, they both believed me. In fact, they had stories of their own. My mom said overeating ended the same way it had for me several times during her first years of college. There she was, surrounded by LOTS of tasty food already made for her. She said it was the first time in her life she could really gorge herself on as much as she wanted to eat. She reports telling herself each time she woke up sick and puking from overeating that she had to “stop doing this.” My sister and I shared a room and I remember her always saying she liked to go to bed hungry and hated to have food in her stomach if she were about to fall asleep. I always thought she was crazy. I think I would have died if I had gone to bed hungry. I hated being hungry anytime of the day or night. She told me on the phone that it was because she would wake up feeling sick (although she never threw up). So although this sounds possible, and overeating is certainly what I attributed the incident to at the time it was occurring, a few things don’t add up. For example, any chance I get I seem to eat until I’m uncomfortably full (and then I wish I could eat more). I seriously doubt that I had really eaten more than EVER before in my life on that night. After all, I was the only one who had brought a “box” home from the Mexican place. Sometimes I DON’T bring home boxes, and I think I’m even worse at home eating as much as I want of my favorite things to cook. So, why that night? Although mom and T were on my side, my dad believed from the start that I had simply eaten something that didn’t agree with me. Brett appeared to side with him by throwing away my boxed leftovers—just in case. I banned eating breakfast out—just in case. I mostly got my way, however B was won over by my dad’s mellow dramatic sniffling one night (I’m not kidding). The next morning, while we all slept and he went for his daily run, he took a bag with him and picked up breakfast to go at an establishment my dad was devastated to miss. He woke us all up when he got back. You can imagine my dad’s reaction—and mine. Yes, he’s the “best son-in-law ever.” He’s also soft and incorrigible. I looked like such a tyrant. I’d like to say in my defense that breakfast at home consisted of turkey bacon, eggs, waffles, toast (three kinds of bread), hot chocolate (three kinds), cereal (six kinds), and milk (two kinds). Really! Is it such a hard knock life living with me?
My dad had two objectives for his visit to Atlanta (not listed in order of importance): 1. visit the Georgia Aquarium, and 2. eat out at as many restaurants as possible. I’m not even joking. Knowing this, when we picked them up at the airport, fresh off their red eye flight at 5:50 AM, we presented them with two breakfast restaurant options and explained that generally the food at one was very sugary and the food at the other was very greasy [pick your poison], to which my dad replied, “Let’s do both!” And that was his opinion for the rest of the trip. He wanted to go out for breakfast, lunch, and dinner at multiple restaurants…and then dessert at another restaurant right after. (As a little bit of explanation, my parents live in a tiny timber town and the only “restaurant” they have is a Dairy Queen. Needless to say, they never go out.) Narrowing the selection was beyond him. So we had to choose. Presenting lots of options to him got us nowhere because instead of picking his favorite, he would want to add them all to the itinerary. Every time we would drive by a different tasty-looking restaurant (this is a huge city with thousands of restaurants) my dad would suggest adding it to the schedule. B would laugh; my mom would quietly plead (“Deeeaarr….”). Only I protested. Finally, I was driven to forbid eating breakfast out. No way. No how. We needed more hours to detox. But, I’m getting ahead of myself. Although I was uncomfortable anyway with all the eating out, planned eating out, and impossible eating out, I did not decree the ban on eating breakfast out until after the end of the second day of the “fress-fest” (for those who speak German). I will not list all the things we ate during the 40 hours leading up to the incident. But in the afternoon on the day-of, we had ballpark fare (hotdog; more on the ballpark later), followed by an obscene amount of chips/guacamole/salsa/tacos/enchiladas, immediately followed by hot fudge sundae/apple pie with ice cream/malt shakes. In the middle of the night, when I woke up sick and threw up in the nearest garbage can, all I could think was that I had eaten too much. That’s what had done it. Of course, I’ve stuffed myself throughout my life and never had this happen. In fact, I didn’t know if such a thing was possible. But when I told my theory to my mom the next morning and to my sister the next day on the phone, they both believed me. In fact, they had stories of their own. My mom said overeating ended the same way it had for me several times during her first years of college. There she was, surrounded by LOTS of tasty food already made for her. She said it was the first time in her life she could really gorge herself on as much as she wanted to eat. She reports telling herself each time she woke up sick and puking from overeating that she had to “stop doing this.” My sister and I shared a room and I remember her always saying she liked to go to bed hungry and hated to have food in her stomach if she were about to fall asleep. I always thought she was crazy. I think I would have died if I had gone to bed hungry. I hated being hungry anytime of the day or night. She told me on the phone that it was because she would wake up feeling sick (although she never threw up). So although this sounds possible, and overeating is certainly what I attributed the incident to at the time it was occurring, a few things don’t add up. For example, any chance I get I seem to eat until I’m uncomfortably full (and then I wish I could eat more). I seriously doubt that I had really eaten more than EVER before in my life on that night. After all, I was the only one who had brought a “box” home from the Mexican place. Sometimes I DON’T bring home boxes, and I think I’m even worse at home eating as much as I want of my favorite things to cook. So, why that night? Although mom and T were on my side, my dad believed from the start that I had simply eaten something that didn’t agree with me. Brett appeared to side with him by throwing away my boxed leftovers—just in case. I banned eating breakfast out—just in case. I mostly got my way, however B was won over by my dad’s mellow dramatic sniffling one night (I’m not kidding). The next morning, while we all slept and he went for his daily run, he took a bag with him and picked up breakfast to go at an establishment my dad was devastated to miss. He woke us all up when he got back. You can imagine my dad’s reaction—and mine. Yes, he’s the “best son-in-law ever.” He’s also soft and incorrigible. I looked like such a tyrant. I’d like to say in my defense that breakfast at home consisted of turkey bacon, eggs, waffles, toast (three kinds of bread), hot chocolate (three kinds), cereal (six kinds), and milk (two kinds). Really! Is it such a hard knock life living with me?
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
The Raptor [part II]
We went to an air show a year ago. It was my first and I had a great time. In addition to seeing crazy people trying to kill themselves in stunt planes and watching lots of parachuters, there are also a ton of military planes—on the ground and in the air. At that show we got to see demonstrations of (among other planes) the F-16, the Chinook, and the B-2 bomber (which looks JUST like a UFO and caused me to question whether or not people really HAVE seen UFOs. It was just like what happened at the Space Center when they showed a few “funny” clips of “fake” [made in studios] walking on the moon footage to recognize [and mock] the belief that the whole thing is a hoax. I had never doubted and always wondered about the people who did—until I saw this fake footage. Suddenly I realized it COULD be a hoax. Not funny. Same with the UFO-looking B-2 bomber. I’m fine with the possibility of UFOs existing, UFOs having been “sighted,” even people having been abducted. But now, wait, are they really ALL crazy? It’s all right though, Mulder. I still believe—at least the UFO controversy). At the air show there are tons of planes on the ground for you to admire and/or climb in. So, you just put your chairs down somewhere in case you want to sit down eventually (it doesn’t matter where—everything is a good seat since it’s in the air and no one can really block the view), then you go off walking around checking out all the planes on the ground and eating nachos. Anytime you want to look up there’s something awesome flying around doing tricks. A fun day. This year, I heard about a different air show up at a nearby air force base which I was certain B had not heard about (he would have told me, and we would have been planning on it). I looked it up and saw that, among other demonstrations, we would get to see the F-22 “RAPTOR,” which is his dream plane to fly. Of course, it’s also his dream to fly an F-16 or F-15 or anything—but if given the choice of all of them, he’d pick the new fancy F-22. (Also at this show we watched demonstrations of the F-15 and a Navy Hornet—which was my favorite, after the F-22, of course). So, the night before the show I told B I had this wonderful surprise day/date planned for us! It was tons of fun (after the nearly three hours we spent standing in line. We had even shown up an hour and fifteen minutes early and still got in late. This event had much more security than the last one—once we got through the initial security line, we were bussed a few miles away, where we stood in another security line... But because we got there so early, we got to see the F-22 “practicing,” yes, even from far away.) The practice flying we watched in the morning was the coolest thing of the day. It was all over the place. We saw it fly at the show again, and they had one for us to look at on the ground (only they wouldn’t let us get close enough to touch it. If you want photos though, we’ve got those…for a price. B took photos of the thing from every side (close-up of the landing gear. You hear that, China?)). While reading the brochures being handed out about the F-22, I noticed that the name of the plane (F-22RAPTOR) has a birdhead graphically designed into the lettering. It looked eagle-like, and as I only knew of raptors as dinosaurs I was confused. This was no dino head. I checked this out with Webster when we got home. One of the definitions is “a usually small-to-medium-sized predatory dinosaur,” you know, like a velociraptor or a deinonychus. The other definition simply says “bird of prey.” Sure birds fly and I get that connection. This is more than a flying or even a fighting flying machine. This one is superior to all flying and fighting planes in the world AND uses stealth technology AND does ground attack, electronic warfare, and signals intelligence. It’s time for a new species, my friends. Birds just don’t cut it anymore. They should have gone with the small-to-medium-sized predatory dinosaurs. I really get that comparison. It just makes more sense. Think Jurassic Park [shudder].
Now I would like to take a minute to record Chapter 1 of the Belt Buckle Story. (Chapter Two can only be told by B, with the belt buckle present (but he wears it more than any of his other belts, so you have a good chance of getting to hear the story if you see him).) My favorite demonstration at our first air show was the F-16. So, I decided to get B an F-16 belt buckle for Christmas that year. Good idea, right? He likes planes; even I could tell that the F-16 was cool; a belt buckle of it would ensure a merry Christmas, certainly. The buckle is a very angular 6-inch-long airplane. It’s dangerous. You could poke/cut yourself with the tale, fins, wings, or nose. Boy, it’s cool-looking though! So, I was SURE he’d love it, which was important because I wasn’t so sure he’d love the bathrobe I bought him… I was grinning ear to ear as he unwrapped the box. He pulled it out, saw it, and instantly exclaimed, “Oh! An F-15!” F-15? My smile immediately disappeared into a look of confusion and disappointment. How could it be? There were no F-15 belt buckles being sold. And we had seen no F-15 fly. B saw my face fall and knew at once what I THOUGHT the plane was. “I mean, an F-16!” he exulted. But it was too late. I guess the Chinese buckle makers were looking at the wrong plane. Unlike Chapter 1 of the Belt Buckle Story (which is heartbreaking), Chapter 2 is awkward, embarrassing, AND knee-slappingly funny. I regret that I cannot tell it here.
Now I would like to take a minute to record Chapter 1 of the Belt Buckle Story. (Chapter Two can only be told by B, with the belt buckle present (but he wears it more than any of his other belts, so you have a good chance of getting to hear the story if you see him).) My favorite demonstration at our first air show was the F-16. So, I decided to get B an F-16 belt buckle for Christmas that year. Good idea, right? He likes planes; even I could tell that the F-16 was cool; a belt buckle of it would ensure a merry Christmas, certainly. The buckle is a very angular 6-inch-long airplane. It’s dangerous. You could poke/cut yourself with the tale, fins, wings, or nose. Boy, it’s cool-looking though! So, I was SURE he’d love it, which was important because I wasn’t so sure he’d love the bathrobe I bought him… I was grinning ear to ear as he unwrapped the box. He pulled it out, saw it, and instantly exclaimed, “Oh! An F-15!” F-15? My smile immediately disappeared into a look of confusion and disappointment. How could it be? There were no F-15 belt buckles being sold. And we had seen no F-15 fly. B saw my face fall and knew at once what I THOUGHT the plane was. “I mean, an F-16!” he exulted. But it was too late. I guess the Chinese buckle makers were looking at the wrong plane. Unlike Chapter 1 of the Belt Buckle Story (which is heartbreaking), Chapter 2 is awkward, embarrassing, AND knee-slappingly funny. I regret that I cannot tell it here.
I'm a Georgia voter!
Of course, I prefer the mail-in ballot method that Oregon uses for its elections to the craziness of physical polling places found in the rest of the states, but I was so excited to get to experience voting the usual way. I’ll admit, I was sort of dreading the day-of madness and originally toyed with the idea of voting early. But early voting in Atlanta requires “normal” waits of 4-5 hours and “not uncommon” waits of 7-8 hours. Bless the 1.5 million Atlantans who suffered through this. I decided to wait till the day of in hopes that the 5 million of us remaining would be accommodated more quickly by election day’s polling stations on every corner. Here are some things I observed:
1. You are assigned a polling place. That’s where you go.
2. Last night I was at the library (not my polling place) and peeked in the conference room where two old men were setting up their station. One sat at a table organizing papers. The other was looking at the chairs that had been set up and asked the first, “Should we put one more chair…HERE?” So cute.
3. You cannot campaign at polling places. You can’t put up signs within a certain distance of the polling place. Likewise, you cannot show up to vote wearing shirts/buttons for/against candidates. (This is the most inspired law I know of! How wonderful! You don’t have to worry about being harassed by every commissioner/court of appeals judge/presidential campaign there is as you stand in line for hours. You are safe. Unfortunately, the lady in front of us was shocked that there were no signs [for Obama, naturally] and no excited supporters pumping up the crowd. She made a call to an Obama “center” to report the oversight. Of course, being told of the legal restriction only elicits the usual [and sole] conclusion: racism. [Have these people no shame?] I feel like Homer Simpson when Marge says to him, “Homer, this is the worst thing you’ve ever done.” He replies, “You say that so often it has lost all meaning.” Seriously. The woman eventually hung up on the person she was talking to. Nice.)
4. We were voting at a school and I wondered where the children were. Apparently, because schools are used as polling places, Election Day is a day off of school in states OTHER than Oregon, which requires no polling places. Who knew?
5. Employers have to give employees two hours of paid time to vote. Hooray America again! My work starts at 8. Voting begins at 7. We arrived at our designated area at 6:40. There was a two hour wait; then I took B home and got ready for work. I arrived at work just before 10. Perfect!
6. The PTA sold coffee, baked goods, and Chick-fil-A sandwiches to us as we waited. Ingenious!
7. Although Georgia is not cold—even on November 4—I bundled up [somewhat] and brought a thermos of hot chocolate. Even so, the hours of exposure slowly chilled me from the fingers in. I was chilled through by the time we made it inside the gym. I was still cold when we got home.
8. I'm proudly wearing my "I'm a Georgia voter!" sticker. It's a big peach.
You may have known all these things, but if you had only participated in elections (presidential and otherwise) as a “resident” of the state that only offers mail-in ballots, you would have learned a lot today. It was exciting getting up early and lining up with tons of strangers. All different types of people. All of us getting to have a say and make a choice. Standing in line forever is not fun. But there we all were. It could make you tear up if you thought about it. I will miss that next time—and every time. I plan to be “out of town” every election from now on. As wonderful as the experience was this year and as grateful as I am to have had it (it didn’t disappoint), I prefer using one minute of my time—whichever minute I choose, no less—to cast my vote. Thank goodness all states have the “absentee” option.
1. You are assigned a polling place. That’s where you go.
2. Last night I was at the library (not my polling place) and peeked in the conference room where two old men were setting up their station. One sat at a table organizing papers. The other was looking at the chairs that had been set up and asked the first, “Should we put one more chair…HERE?” So cute.
3. You cannot campaign at polling places. You can’t put up signs within a certain distance of the polling place. Likewise, you cannot show up to vote wearing shirts/buttons for/against candidates. (This is the most inspired law I know of! How wonderful! You don’t have to worry about being harassed by every commissioner/court of appeals judge/presidential campaign there is as you stand in line for hours. You are safe. Unfortunately, the lady in front of us was shocked that there were no signs [for Obama, naturally] and no excited supporters pumping up the crowd. She made a call to an Obama “center” to report the oversight. Of course, being told of the legal restriction only elicits the usual [and sole] conclusion: racism. [Have these people no shame?] I feel like Homer Simpson when Marge says to him, “Homer, this is the worst thing you’ve ever done.” He replies, “You say that so often it has lost all meaning.” Seriously. The woman eventually hung up on the person she was talking to. Nice.)
4. We were voting at a school and I wondered where the children were. Apparently, because schools are used as polling places, Election Day is a day off of school in states OTHER than Oregon, which requires no polling places. Who knew?
5. Employers have to give employees two hours of paid time to vote. Hooray America again! My work starts at 8. Voting begins at 7. We arrived at our designated area at 6:40. There was a two hour wait; then I took B home and got ready for work. I arrived at work just before 10. Perfect!
6. The PTA sold coffee, baked goods, and Chick-fil-A sandwiches to us as we waited. Ingenious!
7. Although Georgia is not cold—even on November 4—I bundled up [somewhat] and brought a thermos of hot chocolate. Even so, the hours of exposure slowly chilled me from the fingers in. I was chilled through by the time we made it inside the gym. I was still cold when we got home.
8. I'm proudly wearing my "I'm a Georgia voter!" sticker. It's a big peach.
You may have known all these things, but if you had only participated in elections (presidential and otherwise) as a “resident” of the state that only offers mail-in ballots, you would have learned a lot today. It was exciting getting up early and lining up with tons of strangers. All different types of people. All of us getting to have a say and make a choice. Standing in line forever is not fun. But there we all were. It could make you tear up if you thought about it. I will miss that next time—and every time. I plan to be “out of town” every election from now on. As wonderful as the experience was this year and as grateful as I am to have had it (it didn’t disappoint), I prefer using one minute of my time—whichever minute I choose, no less—to cast my vote. Thank goodness all states have the “absentee” option.
Friday, October 17, 2008
It's pretty much just meat.
I don’t know what other people think about when they wake up in the night. When I wake up it’s only because I have to go to the bathroom, but I always futilely try to ignore it and fall back to sleep [for about 2 minutes]. It’s the bathroom thing that wakes me up, but it’s something else that prevents me from going back to sleep and motivates me to get up. It’s the thought of meat (or eggs or yogurt) going bad in the fridge. I don’t always have meat in the fridge, but if I do it’s what comes to mind suddenly when I wake up in the middle of the night.
“[gasp] That ground beef. How many days has it been? Is it still good? I don’t have time to cook it tomorrow….I should have frozen it when I brought it home…”
“When was the last time I bought eggs? It’s been more than two months at least. I should toss those.”
Last night it was, “The chicken!” Funny thing is, I had noticed the chicken each day this week. “I’ve got to cook that.” But we had made a whole week’s worth of enchiladas Sunday night and haven’t needed to cook since then. So, although I kept seeing the chicken as I opened the fridge multiple times each day, my uneasiness ceased once the fridge was shut. But in the middle of the night, it’s panic time. “I’ve GOT to do something.” So, I head to the kitchen, blind myself with the silly fridge light [do we really need that thing to be automatic? Trust me, I KNOW where the chicken is], toss in the entire offending item in the trash, or move it—package and all—to the freezer (for more careful consideration at a later time). Perhaps the chicken will not be useable, but maybe there’s a chance. And there’s more of a chance when it goes to the freezer in the middle of the night than the next day. Are you aware that your freezer is not lighted? Or is it? Mine isn’t and I’m always surprised at the complete darkness when I open it right after the blinding light of the fridge. What about all those midnight ice cream eaters? I’ve never had this problem, since I am comfortable binging on ice cream in broad daylight. I guess they do what I have to do in the middle of the night with the expiring meats: open the fridge to light the freezer. I think there SHOULD be freezer lights. But I’m not very scientific, so I tell myself that they don’t exist because they are impossible due to the extreme temperature, the humidity, or the properties of electricity. Does anyone know? Does anyone have a light in their freezer?
“[gasp] That ground beef. How many days has it been? Is it still good? I don’t have time to cook it tomorrow….I should have frozen it when I brought it home…”
“When was the last time I bought eggs? It’s been more than two months at least. I should toss those.”
Last night it was, “The chicken!” Funny thing is, I had noticed the chicken each day this week. “I’ve got to cook that.” But we had made a whole week’s worth of enchiladas Sunday night and haven’t needed to cook since then. So, although I kept seeing the chicken as I opened the fridge multiple times each day, my uneasiness ceased once the fridge was shut. But in the middle of the night, it’s panic time. “I’ve GOT to do something.” So, I head to the kitchen, blind myself with the silly fridge light [do we really need that thing to be automatic? Trust me, I KNOW where the chicken is], toss in the entire offending item in the trash, or move it—package and all—to the freezer (for more careful consideration at a later time). Perhaps the chicken will not be useable, but maybe there’s a chance. And there’s more of a chance when it goes to the freezer in the middle of the night than the next day. Are you aware that your freezer is not lighted? Or is it? Mine isn’t and I’m always surprised at the complete darkness when I open it right after the blinding light of the fridge. What about all those midnight ice cream eaters? I’ve never had this problem, since I am comfortable binging on ice cream in broad daylight. I guess they do what I have to do in the middle of the night with the expiring meats: open the fridge to light the freezer. I think there SHOULD be freezer lights. But I’m not very scientific, so I tell myself that they don’t exist because they are impossible due to the extreme temperature, the humidity, or the properties of electricity. Does anyone know? Does anyone have a light in their freezer?
We couldn't be happier.
Last week’s Wicked performance was great. Although I listen to the soundtrack a lot, Wicked is not my favorite book/musical/story. The show gets a hearty recommendation as it was very entertaining and the leads (which are really the only two people who matter and whom I judge when I say this) were awesome. I love seeing people who really are professionals—just like I love getting information from people who really know what they’re talking about, specialists, if you will. It just makes me feel like the world works well. After last month’s Les Mis disaster, one of our suspicions has been debunked, while another suspicion has formed. First, we thought that, perhaps, the “opening night” factor could take a little of the blame for the awful Les Mis performance—not that such an excuse should be acceptable by any means. Yet, we saw Wicked on its opening night and it was electrifying. Our new suspicion is that Les Mis just doesn’t attract top talent anymore. It’s not the hot ticket. Of course, I believe there is far more talent out there than can be properly displayed, so it’s not like there was no one “else.” But maybe the available talent passed Les Mis up in hopes of waiting for something better.
In other “arts” news, B attended his first symphony concert with me a couple weeks ago. Although he was DREADING it for months, he was happily surprised to find that “the symphony” isn’t “the opera.” B’s friend, Cyril (the subject of a previous post), knowing I was a violinist in years past, had been wanting us to go to the symphony with him for a year! We [Cyril and I] talked about it every time we saw each other. B was not willing to help with the arrangements, so finally I arranged it with Cyril myself.
B: “But why do I have to go? Can’t you just go with Cyril?”
I’m so sure. Cyril and I had even picked a concert that had a piece (a movement) B would recognize (Beethoven’s Fifth: duh-duh-duh-DUUUUHHH)! The concert was comprised of a Bach piece, a Brahams piano concerto, and finally Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony. So, basically, the concert would get better and better as it went. After the Bach piece, Cyril asked B how he was doing. B answered, “It was all counterpoint, but no points.” I whispered, “It will get better.” He replied threateningly, “It better.” The Brahams piece had much more to look at (the full orchestra this time and the pianist), but was very, very long. The pianist sat stone still for about 15 minutes while the orchestra played. Finally, he joined in. When he did, I could see B’s smiling face in my peripheral vision. He was greatly amused by the antics of the performer. The heavy breathing, the wild head shaking, the hand flourishes, the trembling piano lid that was threatening to fall… But, even that gets boring after a half hour. The pianist was amazing. I always feel a mite sorry for people that talented. When he and the conductor entered the hall I wondered what his childhood had been like. Or college. All his life, really. And what’s also sad is that the people in the orchestra probably each wanted to be him [professional soloists, rather than professional musicians] but didn’t make the cut. You would think their stories are even sadder, but I’m not so sure. After the intermission, we listened to the anticipated duh-duh-duh-DUUUUHHH, which Brett informed me after reading the entire program was laughed at by Beethoven’s orchestra when he first brought it in for them to try. (duh-duh-duh-DUUUUuuuhhhh ha ha ha ha!) The movements which followed didn’t stand out much; I was particularly surprised by how non-finale-like the fourth movement was. I was completely caught off guard when it ended. B survived the experience. I really wanted to take him to the next week’s concert (Tchaikovsky violin concerto) because I’m sure it would have been even better, but by the time the next Thursday rolled around, I was too tired (end of the week; plus, the previous night had been a late night seeing Wicked). Our next concert will be the Messiah in December.
In other “arts” news, B attended his first symphony concert with me a couple weeks ago. Although he was DREADING it for months, he was happily surprised to find that “the symphony” isn’t “the opera.” B’s friend, Cyril (the subject of a previous post), knowing I was a violinist in years past, had been wanting us to go to the symphony with him for a year! We [Cyril and I] talked about it every time we saw each other. B was not willing to help with the arrangements, so finally I arranged it with Cyril myself.
B: “But why do I have to go? Can’t you just go with Cyril?”
I’m so sure. Cyril and I had even picked a concert that had a piece (a movement) B would recognize (Beethoven’s Fifth: duh-duh-duh-DUUUUHHH)! The concert was comprised of a Bach piece, a Brahams piano concerto, and finally Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony. So, basically, the concert would get better and better as it went. After the Bach piece, Cyril asked B how he was doing. B answered, “It was all counterpoint, but no points.” I whispered, “It will get better.” He replied threateningly, “It better.” The Brahams piece had much more to look at (the full orchestra this time and the pianist), but was very, very long. The pianist sat stone still for about 15 minutes while the orchestra played. Finally, he joined in. When he did, I could see B’s smiling face in my peripheral vision. He was greatly amused by the antics of the performer. The heavy breathing, the wild head shaking, the hand flourishes, the trembling piano lid that was threatening to fall… But, even that gets boring after a half hour. The pianist was amazing. I always feel a mite sorry for people that talented. When he and the conductor entered the hall I wondered what his childhood had been like. Or college. All his life, really. And what’s also sad is that the people in the orchestra probably each wanted to be him [professional soloists, rather than professional musicians] but didn’t make the cut. You would think their stories are even sadder, but I’m not so sure. After the intermission, we listened to the anticipated duh-duh-duh-DUUUUHHH, which Brett informed me after reading the entire program was laughed at by Beethoven’s orchestra when he first brought it in for them to try. (duh-duh-duh-DUUUUuuuhhhh ha ha ha ha!) The movements which followed didn’t stand out much; I was particularly surprised by how non-finale-like the fourth movement was. I was completely caught off guard when it ended. B survived the experience. I really wanted to take him to the next week’s concert (Tchaikovsky violin concerto) because I’m sure it would have been even better, but by the time the next Thursday rolled around, I was too tired (end of the week; plus, the previous night had been a late night seeing Wicked). Our next concert will be the Messiah in December.
Thursday, October 16, 2008
I haven’t been very consistent in my blogging effort the last month. I haven’t been feeling that great—specifically, my tailbone has been acting up. I need a tailbone transplant. I suppose I could say I’m having low lower back problems, but it’s really so far down that I don’t really consider it my back anymore. Chiropractors would disagree. “It’s all related.” Poor posture or stress in your neck, shoulders, or upper back apparently translates to pain (shooting pain) in your tailbone and pelvis (where it fuses with the tailbone) with no symptoms in whatever area is actually causing the pain. So, anything may be the culprit. Crooked ears can potentially cause this. I have my doubts, and I am inclined to believe that I simply have a bum tailbone/pelvis connection. Although, I must admit that I do have one actual “bad habit” that a chiropractor would assign all the blame to. I sit in a crappy chair for eight hours a day. The crappy chair encourages crappy posture. Maybe, after more than a year of taking this sort of beating, my tailbone has gone completely on the fritz. My original chair was awful. I “upgraded” to a different discarded chair four months later. This new chair tortured me for nine months. It, like all chairs, is huge. I don’t think they make chairs for people my size. They make them for very large people. The seat is so big that I can’t scoot all the way back, which means my back receives no support. Plus, the seat slants from left to right. That CAN’T be good. But it was better than the previous chair, and I’m no good at asking for nice office products. Perhaps if I liked my job and had no plans of leaving I would feel more entitled to a decent chair. As it is, I see this as temporary—I don’t even “personalize” my space. I guess I should confess that for months and months every time I stood up out of my chair, I could tighten my rear and my tailbone would pop. In fact, I needed to do this sometimes in order to walk comfortably. After months of this, it mysteriously stopped, and then I was hit with all this pain. After being at my wits’ end, I decided (with B’s encouragement) to do something about my chair. My solution was to buy one of my own. B wanted me to ask my boss for a new one. As fate would have it, two new chairs rolled into the office the next day. “Who are those for?” I asked. One was for my boss, one was for a new guy. I immediately sent my boss an email asking, “What are you doing with your old chair?” I figured this would get the message across that I was wanting a different chair than the one I had, and it did. She said it didn’t roll well on carpet (no problem for me, I’m on marble tile) but I could have it if I wanted. She also said if I needed a new chair, they could look into getting one. I’ve adopted the old one. Of course, it’s huge (she’s a big lady—the reason they make all chairs this big) but the seat isn’t slanting to one side. I have been making a concerted effort to sit up straight as much as I can and to stand as much as I can. When I stand, I can’t type, and the blog suffers. I have also begun using this foot rest thing that had been pushed under my desk since I came (I’m telling you, I have done NOTHING to change this space [besides disinfect it] since I arrived). It says it helps to have your knees up like this, instead of dangling downward from the chair. The jury is still out on whether these methods will be enough to prevent a full tailbone transplant.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Sean Connery + Jean Valjean FOR-EV-ER
This cautionary tale is offered with the intent of preventing people from plunking down their money to see the current touring production of Les Miserables. If you are tempted to see Les Mis when it comes to you this year, please, RESIST! If you, like I, have been dreaming, praying even, for the day it would come to you again (the last tour was in 2003—the year the show closed on Broadway) know that this production will not give you what you expect (and deserve) and will only deepen your despair and longing, while adding to these a painful sense of betrayal.
Although we’ve seen the show a few times before, we prepped for the occasion by listening to the soundtrack for a couple weeks prior to the big night. The recording I had purchased (my favorite: 10-year anniversary concert recording, for those who care) was not the recording B had expected (original Broadway cast) and took some getting used to. He was hung up for a few days on Jean Valjean’s Sean Connery-like speech oddity and eventually renamed him “Sean Val-Jeannery.” The actor, Colm Wilkinson, happens to be from Ireland (that’s close to Connery’s native Scotland, right?) and also happens to be an amazing singer and an unsurpassable Valjean (although I feel he is matched by the venerable Ivan Rutherford).
I had read that the current production was “different” from the previous 23 years of Les Mis productions in several ways. First, no rotating stage. Woah. It’s hard to picture such a static, 2-dimensional presentation, but I was intrigued. I can try new things. Besides, I believe the show is greater than its architecture. Sets were supposed to be more sparse, and Victor Hugo’s own drawings were projected on the backdrop. He wrote the story, why not see how he drew his world? Finally, there were to be many more people on stage. Besides the 35-member touring cast, 18 locals would be used as extras to give it a more operatic (and more miserable) look. The theater is located a couple blocks from a massive homeless shelter where Brett and I cleaned beds one Saturday. Needless to say the addition of a few of these authentic “locals” might have really helped the ambiance of misery. With all these changes, even Cameron Mackintosh felt it worth his time to head on over to little Atlanta (from big Great Britain) to catch a show. If he liked what he saw, he would implement changes in the still-running [after 23 years] London West End Les Mis production. We saw the show the night it opened here. He saw it two nights later, and unless they got a new cast or all learned how to act overnight, I am confident that the West End production will continue spinning into the future in all its current (and past) glory.
How can I explain the shortcomings of this production?
Our local newspaper review of the production stated that “actors who look the part, sing in key, and ooze personality can make it work handsomely. That’s mostly the case in the current run.” By “mostly” the reviewer must mean two out of the three—look the part and sing in key. But my friends, my FRIEEEEENNNNDS, couldn’t I do those things? I can wear a costume and I can sing in key. It is true, I am not a singer of hair-raising star potential. But, were THEY? It is my belief that this show requires people who sing better than “in key” and, more importantly, who understand and can convey the message and the power of the story—perhaps that’s the “oozing personality” which was referred to by the reviewer and which was, unfortunately, completely lacking in the cast we saw (none of whom were understudies).
Yes, asside from Marius and Eponine, there was NO acting on that night. Not even the Thenardiers were trying. The entire cast genuinely looked as if they didn’t know what to do with themselves. It was like they didn’t even realize what they were singing. Sure, they had the words memorized, but their meaning had not been comprehended. During a dry-eyed intermission [IMAGINE! Experiencing an intermission dry-eyed right after “One Day More” has just been sung! Imagine watching/listening to One Day More and to the finale Will You Join in Our Crusade and wondering why you feel NOTHING, and why you had ever been touched by these numbers before] I mentioned to B after several confused minutes that I felt the acting just wasn’t there. His condemning response: “I feel like I’m watching a high school production.” I was dismayed as I watched the show continue. After all, just listening to it can sometimes make you tear up while fixing breakfast. How could the live performance be so poor, lifeless, and irrelevant?
Example:
Upon being released from 19 years in prison, Valjean sings:
I drink from a pool, how clean the taste,
Never forget the years, the waste!
Nor forgive them for what they’ve done,
They are the guilty, every one.
This is an incredibly important passage, because it highlights the change in Valjean around which the whole story revolves, culminating in Valjean’s eventual forgiveness and release of his former captor. We have to know and feel how bitter and hurt he is in the beginning in order to appreciate just how amazing and unlikely his transformation must be. Unfortunately, our Valjean did not play this to the audience. No communication; no connection between him/his experience and us. He was hunched over packing his bag. You can imagine that a couple hours later, when Valjean sings the following climactic lines, they passed with as little recognition and even less meaning, since his struggle had not been properly introduced from the start:
You are wrong and always have been wrong.
I’m a man, no worse than any man.
You are free, and there are no conditions,
No bargains or petitions.
There’s nothing that I blame you for.
You’ve done your duty, nothing more.
Nothing, though, can compare with the horror and disappointment of another missed opportunity. Imagine that after 19 years in prison you broke your parole and, under an alias, started a new life, becoming an honest, wealthy, and respected citizen. Now imagine that after 10 years of hard work building a new life, your old prison captor gets a tip that you aren’t really your alias, but rather the prisoner who’s been “on the run” for ten years. When he confronts you and suggests this, how would you react? This is not a hard question. You hate him already and you would be sweating bullets. It would be a VERY tense few moments. Instead, we saw an inexplicably “cool” Valjean channel a valley girl persona for the following exchange:
Javert:
A memory stirs, you make me think of a man,
from years ago, a man who broke his parole,
he disappeared…
[pause for what should be uncomfortable silence; during which OUR Valjean is acting like he doesn’t even care or hear, turning around, waving at townspeople]
Forgive me sir, I would not dare.
Valjean [SAYS [not sings] in rising valley-girl intonation with both arms stretched out to either side of him, like he has nothing to hide]:
Say what you must [dude]!
Don’t leave it there!
I gasped at the gaff and my hand covered my mouth. Searching for an explanation [is our Valjean Canadian? do they have different cultural/behavioral norms? Is he dyslexic?] I found an interview with him and Javert in the program in which he explains that he wants to be an “honest” Valjean. Huh? “Not that previous Valjeans haven’t been honest…” [awkward] He explained he wanted to be “spontaneous”—like he’s really living it. Sadly, whatever he was living that night was not what Jean Valjean lived. Unfortunately, he was not the only person who did not play his part. Fantine did nothing, though she did have a VERY lovely [but incredibly small] voice… Javert explained his performance in an interview by stating that he hoped to make his character less stiff—more of a real person. THAT didn’t happen. He was nobody. Not stiff, not even human. See-through. Like saran wrap. Just a singing lump—and he didn’t sing well enough that we didn’t miss the acting. I only read the first question/answer of each interview. I did not have the courage to read them in their entirety.
After being so disappointed by what we witnessed, I was anxious to read what the reviewer in the local paper would say. How do you write a scathing review? I still don’t know. Although he admitted a few shortcomings, he generally praised the production. I will assume, to his credit, that he has seen more theatrical productions than I have and that he has been trained in the art of critiquing. Furthermore, his name is Pierre. But, before you decide to temper my estimation by also allowing what this “professional” critic said, consider the following:
1. He believes that the strength of Les Mis is the music. Don’t confuse this with the lyrics, which in my estimation tell one of the greatest stories ever told. The lyrics, he laments, are “sentimental and plot-thin.” Only the melodies give the show its greatness.
2. Regarding the plot, he suggests that it as a story of unrequited love. Passionate love. Between two unattached single men. How else, he asks, can you explain Javert’s fanatical, illogical obsession?
3. The “best material” in the show is that given to the Thenardiers.
Au contraire, Pierre.
Will I join in their crusade? For the first time, non merci.
Although we’ve seen the show a few times before, we prepped for the occasion by listening to the soundtrack for a couple weeks prior to the big night. The recording I had purchased (my favorite: 10-year anniversary concert recording, for those who care) was not the recording B had expected (original Broadway cast) and took some getting used to. He was hung up for a few days on Jean Valjean’s Sean Connery-like speech oddity and eventually renamed him “Sean Val-Jeannery.” The actor, Colm Wilkinson, happens to be from Ireland (that’s close to Connery’s native Scotland, right?) and also happens to be an amazing singer and an unsurpassable Valjean (although I feel he is matched by the venerable Ivan Rutherford).
I had read that the current production was “different” from the previous 23 years of Les Mis productions in several ways. First, no rotating stage. Woah. It’s hard to picture such a static, 2-dimensional presentation, but I was intrigued. I can try new things. Besides, I believe the show is greater than its architecture. Sets were supposed to be more sparse, and Victor Hugo’s own drawings were projected on the backdrop. He wrote the story, why not see how he drew his world? Finally, there were to be many more people on stage. Besides the 35-member touring cast, 18 locals would be used as extras to give it a more operatic (and more miserable) look. The theater is located a couple blocks from a massive homeless shelter where Brett and I cleaned beds one Saturday. Needless to say the addition of a few of these authentic “locals” might have really helped the ambiance of misery. With all these changes, even Cameron Mackintosh felt it worth his time to head on over to little Atlanta (from big Great Britain) to catch a show. If he liked what he saw, he would implement changes in the still-running [after 23 years] London West End Les Mis production. We saw the show the night it opened here. He saw it two nights later, and unless they got a new cast or all learned how to act overnight, I am confident that the West End production will continue spinning into the future in all its current (and past) glory.
How can I explain the shortcomings of this production?
Our local newspaper review of the production stated that “actors who look the part, sing in key, and ooze personality can make it work handsomely. That’s mostly the case in the current run.” By “mostly” the reviewer must mean two out of the three—look the part and sing in key. But my friends, my FRIEEEEENNNNDS, couldn’t I do those things? I can wear a costume and I can sing in key. It is true, I am not a singer of hair-raising star potential. But, were THEY? It is my belief that this show requires people who sing better than “in key” and, more importantly, who understand and can convey the message and the power of the story—perhaps that’s the “oozing personality” which was referred to by the reviewer and which was, unfortunately, completely lacking in the cast we saw (none of whom were understudies).
Yes, asside from Marius and Eponine, there was NO acting on that night. Not even the Thenardiers were trying. The entire cast genuinely looked as if they didn’t know what to do with themselves. It was like they didn’t even realize what they were singing. Sure, they had the words memorized, but their meaning had not been comprehended. During a dry-eyed intermission [IMAGINE! Experiencing an intermission dry-eyed right after “One Day More” has just been sung! Imagine watching/listening to One Day More and to the finale Will You Join in Our Crusade and wondering why you feel NOTHING, and why you had ever been touched by these numbers before] I mentioned to B after several confused minutes that I felt the acting just wasn’t there. His condemning response: “I feel like I’m watching a high school production.” I was dismayed as I watched the show continue. After all, just listening to it can sometimes make you tear up while fixing breakfast. How could the live performance be so poor, lifeless, and irrelevant?
Example:
Upon being released from 19 years in prison, Valjean sings:
I drink from a pool, how clean the taste,
Never forget the years, the waste!
Nor forgive them for what they’ve done,
They are the guilty, every one.
This is an incredibly important passage, because it highlights the change in Valjean around which the whole story revolves, culminating in Valjean’s eventual forgiveness and release of his former captor. We have to know and feel how bitter and hurt he is in the beginning in order to appreciate just how amazing and unlikely his transformation must be. Unfortunately, our Valjean did not play this to the audience. No communication; no connection between him/his experience and us. He was hunched over packing his bag. You can imagine that a couple hours later, when Valjean sings the following climactic lines, they passed with as little recognition and even less meaning, since his struggle had not been properly introduced from the start:
You are wrong and always have been wrong.
I’m a man, no worse than any man.
You are free, and there are no conditions,
No bargains or petitions.
There’s nothing that I blame you for.
You’ve done your duty, nothing more.
Nothing, though, can compare with the horror and disappointment of another missed opportunity. Imagine that after 19 years in prison you broke your parole and, under an alias, started a new life, becoming an honest, wealthy, and respected citizen. Now imagine that after 10 years of hard work building a new life, your old prison captor gets a tip that you aren’t really your alias, but rather the prisoner who’s been “on the run” for ten years. When he confronts you and suggests this, how would you react? This is not a hard question. You hate him already and you would be sweating bullets. It would be a VERY tense few moments. Instead, we saw an inexplicably “cool” Valjean channel a valley girl persona for the following exchange:
Javert:
A memory stirs, you make me think of a man,
from years ago, a man who broke his parole,
he disappeared…
[pause for what should be uncomfortable silence; during which OUR Valjean is acting like he doesn’t even care or hear, turning around, waving at townspeople]
Forgive me sir, I would not dare.
Valjean [SAYS [not sings] in rising valley-girl intonation with both arms stretched out to either side of him, like he has nothing to hide]:
Say what you must [dude]!
Don’t leave it there!
I gasped at the gaff and my hand covered my mouth. Searching for an explanation [is our Valjean Canadian? do they have different cultural/behavioral norms? Is he dyslexic?] I found an interview with him and Javert in the program in which he explains that he wants to be an “honest” Valjean. Huh? “Not that previous Valjeans haven’t been honest…” [awkward] He explained he wanted to be “spontaneous”—like he’s really living it. Sadly, whatever he was living that night was not what Jean Valjean lived. Unfortunately, he was not the only person who did not play his part. Fantine did nothing, though she did have a VERY lovely [but incredibly small] voice… Javert explained his performance in an interview by stating that he hoped to make his character less stiff—more of a real person. THAT didn’t happen. He was nobody. Not stiff, not even human. See-through. Like saran wrap. Just a singing lump—and he didn’t sing well enough that we didn’t miss the acting. I only read the first question/answer of each interview. I did not have the courage to read them in their entirety.
After being so disappointed by what we witnessed, I was anxious to read what the reviewer in the local paper would say. How do you write a scathing review? I still don’t know. Although he admitted a few shortcomings, he generally praised the production. I will assume, to his credit, that he has seen more theatrical productions than I have and that he has been trained in the art of critiquing. Furthermore, his name is Pierre. But, before you decide to temper my estimation by also allowing what this “professional” critic said, consider the following:
1. He believes that the strength of Les Mis is the music. Don’t confuse this with the lyrics, which in my estimation tell one of the greatest stories ever told. The lyrics, he laments, are “sentimental and plot-thin.” Only the melodies give the show its greatness.
2. Regarding the plot, he suggests that it as a story of unrequited love. Passionate love. Between two unattached single men. How else, he asks, can you explain Javert’s fanatical, illogical obsession?
3. The “best material” in the show is that given to the Thenardiers.
Au contraire, Pierre.
Will I join in their crusade? For the first time, non merci.
Monday, October 6, 2008
On Prayer
The crisis ended last week. Not all gas stations have gas, but most do and there are no lines. The best part is that the price drops daily! I've been working on a critical review of the touring Les Mis production, which I hope to post soon. In the meantime, please be entertained by the following:
As many of you know, I am in charge of "singing time" with the children at church. It's super fun. Well, for those who aren't familiar with our church, one Sunday each year (usually around October; ours is two weeks away!) the children put on the Sunday worship service. In my opinion, it is the best Sunday of the year. The kids are so cute and unpredictable. I admit that I always pay much better attention when they are speaking/singing than I do for regular Sunday services! Most of the program is scripted--the smaller the child, the shorter the lines. The older kids are sometimes asked to prepare a short message about a certain topic, like, for example, prayer. Usually, parents help the kid prepare their remarks. One 8-year-old in our Primary wrote the following remarks all by herself [punctuation added by me]:
by Talia
My prayers help me a lot in some way. I don't know what way--but some way. I love to pray, but just before dinner I don't like long prayers. Prayers are a good thing for people. Like the talk my sister gave today, September 7th, Sunday, 2008. Her talk's good. She's going to say it--you're going to love it. Believe me, you will. Prayers are just, well, totally awesome. I love them. My sister loves them. My brother--he even closes his eyes and folds his arms. My mother too; also my father. Even though I didn't pray for that wonderful family, I got it too, because God loves me, and he probably prayed for me.
The end.
As many of you know, I am in charge of "singing time" with the children at church. It's super fun. Well, for those who aren't familiar with our church, one Sunday each year (usually around October; ours is two weeks away!) the children put on the Sunday worship service. In my opinion, it is the best Sunday of the year. The kids are so cute and unpredictable. I admit that I always pay much better attention when they are speaking/singing than I do for regular Sunday services! Most of the program is scripted--the smaller the child, the shorter the lines. The older kids are sometimes asked to prepare a short message about a certain topic, like, for example, prayer. Usually, parents help the kid prepare their remarks. One 8-year-old in our Primary wrote the following remarks all by herself [punctuation added by me]:
by Talia
My prayers help me a lot in some way. I don't know what way--but some way. I love to pray, but just before dinner I don't like long prayers. Prayers are a good thing for people. Like the talk my sister gave today, September 7th, Sunday, 2008. Her talk's good. She's going to say it--you're going to love it. Believe me, you will. Prayers are just, well, totally awesome. I love them. My sister loves them. My brother--he even closes his eyes and folds his arms. My mother too; also my father. Even though I didn't pray for that wonderful family, I got it too, because God loves me, and he probably prayed for me.
The end.
Friday, September 26, 2008
"We ran out of giss."
"About fiffteen minutes ago!"
The rumors are true. There is no gas in Atlanta. There is no gas for hours outside of Atlanta. In case you’ve wondered what it’s like when a city of 6 million runs out of gas, I’ll tell you. It’s pretty much the same as usual, only the gas stations are all closed (and in case you’ve wondered how a gas station indicates that they have no gas to sell, they signify this by pulling the prices from their reader boards). You can drive around town all day, and even out to the communities over an hour away where my coworkers live, but there will be no open gas stations. I was first alerted to the "crisis" by my sister-in-law in Utah. "Hear you're out of gas." Uhhh...that's news to me. In my defense, B was sick last week and passed it on to me, causing me to miss work on Monday and Tuesday. Apparently out-of-town towns started running out of gas this weekend (some stations closed, others with “only” regular—and only at one pump). This led to panic and runs on gas which, in addition to the fact that no gas is coming, has run the whole area dry. Since we didn't take any road trips over the weekend (because we were sick and already had fun plans here to suffer through) and don't have TV or internet at home, Wednesday, my first day back at work, was really the first day I could hear something about this. After she clued me in that something might be amiss (nothing SEEMED amiss) I checked out the local paper in the breakroom. In the "metro" section I found the article "Why We Ran Out of Gas." That same day I read about the potential crisis in Newsweek. It predicted we would be completely out of gas in about 9 days. They were one week too optimistic. But other than those two references, my daily internet surfing hasn't pulled up much national attention.
Somehow I keep expecting life—ok, specifically TRAFFIC—to be different without any available gas. Because there is no more gas, when people run out, they can’t get more. So, each day I drive to and from work and I look at the cars next to me and wonder who won’t be on the road tomorrow. SOMEBODY is on empty. I just KNOW they are. I believe that the roads will slowly clear and I’m looking forward to that. I’m hoping to be the last one driving! I will be like Will Smith in I am Legend. I’ll drive fast, using all the lanes in my 2003 Nissan Sentra! When I told my sister about my belief that my gas will last longer than anyone else’s, she suggested they should have some sort of game show/contest! Last one driving. Unfortunately, it appears that no gas is coming and when any gas DOES arrive, there will be MILLIONS of people on empty, which will suck it all dry in a matter of minutes. There’s also the panic problem. If gas arrived, people would fill EVERYTHING (all their vehicles, lawnmowers, and several gas cans). If they happened to see another station open later, they would top off. Crazy panicky hoarding. Because of this, the problem will take a while to work itself out, and who knows when the gas will begin arriving. As it is, we won’t be affected for at least another month. B bikes to school each day. I drive a 10-mile round trip. That commute, plus the 30-miles for church is only 80 miles per week. Grocery stores are two blocks away (walk), Braves game/airport/etc. we use the subway for, and we have two half-full cars to use! If the situation doesn’t improve in the next few days, I predict no one will be able to come to work by mid-week next week (except me) because they all commute ridiculous distances. No one wants to live in the city for obvious reasons, but it’s working well for this gas shortage. But, I admit that it is possible that there will still be no gas for the getting in a month; at that point, we will be affected. I’ll have to take the bus (if they are running) or walk 4.5 miles each way… I do wonder how busses and police cars etc. are getting gas. I also wonder how soon we will see this affect the food, since a truck may be able to get here from Kentucky or other locales with gas, but it won’t be able to get back out. Interesting things to think about, but so far there is no indication that anything is amiss—except for the blank reader boards on thousands of gas stations.
The rumors are true. There is no gas in Atlanta. There is no gas for hours outside of Atlanta. In case you’ve wondered what it’s like when a city of 6 million runs out of gas, I’ll tell you. It’s pretty much the same as usual, only the gas stations are all closed (and in case you’ve wondered how a gas station indicates that they have no gas to sell, they signify this by pulling the prices from their reader boards). You can drive around town all day, and even out to the communities over an hour away where my coworkers live, but there will be no open gas stations. I was first alerted to the "crisis" by my sister-in-law in Utah. "Hear you're out of gas." Uhhh...that's news to me. In my defense, B was sick last week and passed it on to me, causing me to miss work on Monday and Tuesday. Apparently out-of-town towns started running out of gas this weekend (some stations closed, others with “only” regular—and only at one pump). This led to panic and runs on gas which, in addition to the fact that no gas is coming, has run the whole area dry. Since we didn't take any road trips over the weekend (because we were sick and already had fun plans here to suffer through) and don't have TV or internet at home, Wednesday, my first day back at work, was really the first day I could hear something about this. After she clued me in that something might be amiss (nothing SEEMED amiss) I checked out the local paper in the breakroom. In the "metro" section I found the article "Why We Ran Out of Gas." That same day I read about the potential crisis in Newsweek. It predicted we would be completely out of gas in about 9 days. They were one week too optimistic. But other than those two references, my daily internet surfing hasn't pulled up much national attention.
Somehow I keep expecting life—ok, specifically TRAFFIC—to be different without any available gas. Because there is no more gas, when people run out, they can’t get more. So, each day I drive to and from work and I look at the cars next to me and wonder who won’t be on the road tomorrow. SOMEBODY is on empty. I just KNOW they are. I believe that the roads will slowly clear and I’m looking forward to that. I’m hoping to be the last one driving! I will be like Will Smith in I am Legend. I’ll drive fast, using all the lanes in my 2003 Nissan Sentra! When I told my sister about my belief that my gas will last longer than anyone else’s, she suggested they should have some sort of game show/contest! Last one driving. Unfortunately, it appears that no gas is coming and when any gas DOES arrive, there will be MILLIONS of people on empty, which will suck it all dry in a matter of minutes. There’s also the panic problem. If gas arrived, people would fill EVERYTHING (all their vehicles, lawnmowers, and several gas cans). If they happened to see another station open later, they would top off. Crazy panicky hoarding. Because of this, the problem will take a while to work itself out, and who knows when the gas will begin arriving. As it is, we won’t be affected for at least another month. B bikes to school each day. I drive a 10-mile round trip. That commute, plus the 30-miles for church is only 80 miles per week. Grocery stores are two blocks away (walk), Braves game/airport/etc. we use the subway for, and we have two half-full cars to use! If the situation doesn’t improve in the next few days, I predict no one will be able to come to work by mid-week next week (except me) because they all commute ridiculous distances. No one wants to live in the city for obvious reasons, but it’s working well for this gas shortage. But, I admit that it is possible that there will still be no gas for the getting in a month; at that point, we will be affected. I’ll have to take the bus (if they are running) or walk 4.5 miles each way… I do wonder how busses and police cars etc. are getting gas. I also wonder how soon we will see this affect the food, since a truck may be able to get here from Kentucky or other locales with gas, but it won’t be able to get back out. Interesting things to think about, but so far there is no indication that anything is amiss—except for the blank reader boards on thousands of gas stations.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
The Raptor
Those of you who know my sister might think it’s funny that I took this picture for her. I want her to post it on her blog because it would be funnier there, since she named the blog “tiffany-blue” after her lifelong dream to work for Tiffany’s. She has a picture of herself at Tiffany’s, pointing excitedly at the sign—it's on the blog; and if you ever chat with her online, the picture of “herself” is a picture of a Tiffany’s box. The good news is that I think our local Tiffany’s is hiring! But she may be too purist to post this photo, so I will do so here along with a fond memory of T.
T and I lived less than a block away from each other for three years at BYU. During that time she was acutely addicted to the TV show 24. No one was allowed to call or visit during the hour the show was on and would be severely reprimanded and turned out for forgetting this restriction. One afternoon T was in a panic because she had injured herself unknowingly during the previous night’s ritual 24 viewing. In order to watch the show without sacrificing her workout, she had started doing “calf raises” on her apartment stairs. Up, Down, Up, Down… Somehow she became entranced by what was happening on the TV, lost track of time, and never did recall just how long she had actually done them. All she knew is that she could now—a day later—hardly get around her apartment. “Just come down here; walking will be a good stretch for the sore muscles,” I told her. Half an hour later I called again, “Where are you?” “I’m still walking; it hurts SO bad; I can’t put my heels down!” The discomfort only worsened each day for the next week, her heels never touching the ground for the better part of the month. For days, then weeks she s-l-o-w-l-y tip-toed her way around and did her best not to let anything—even a mattress—touch the back of her legs. In addition to taking slow, tip-toed steps, she leaned her body forward slightly and tucked her arms in close in a “doubled-up in pain” manner as she laboriously transferred her weight from foot to foot. We liked to call her “the raptor” during this time. A week after the initial injury, I decided to find out just how many calf raises she had actually done. 100? 1,000? 5,000? She said she really had no idea. I went to my stairs and did 300 calf raises. The next morning I really didn’t feel anything. She was shocked by this. “So, I must have done more than 300?” Yep. LOTS more. It’s still a mystery just how many. My conservative guess is 10,000. A week and a half after the injury I actually convinced her to meet me at Target for some shopping. She agreed, reluctantly. When she called me to say that she had arrived and was walking in the store, I went to greet her and she looked almost normal! True, she still was the raptor, but her curious gait was not so noticeable behind the empty cart she was slowly pushing. Leaning forward as she slowly lollopped along, heels high, her shriveled arms were the perfect length to reach the pushing bar of the cart.
T and I lived less than a block away from each other for three years at BYU. During that time she was acutely addicted to the TV show 24. No one was allowed to call or visit during the hour the show was on and would be severely reprimanded and turned out for forgetting this restriction. One afternoon T was in a panic because she had injured herself unknowingly during the previous night’s ritual 24 viewing. In order to watch the show without sacrificing her workout, she had started doing “calf raises” on her apartment stairs. Up, Down, Up, Down… Somehow she became entranced by what was happening on the TV, lost track of time, and never did recall just how long she had actually done them. All she knew is that she could now—a day later—hardly get around her apartment. “Just come down here; walking will be a good stretch for the sore muscles,” I told her. Half an hour later I called again, “Where are you?” “I’m still walking; it hurts SO bad; I can’t put my heels down!” The discomfort only worsened each day for the next week, her heels never touching the ground for the better part of the month. For days, then weeks she s-l-o-w-l-y tip-toed her way around and did her best not to let anything—even a mattress—touch the back of her legs. In addition to taking slow, tip-toed steps, she leaned her body forward slightly and tucked her arms in close in a “doubled-up in pain” manner as she laboriously transferred her weight from foot to foot. We liked to call her “the raptor” during this time. A week after the initial injury, I decided to find out just how many calf raises she had actually done. 100? 1,000? 5,000? She said she really had no idea. I went to my stairs and did 300 calf raises. The next morning I really didn’t feel anything. She was shocked by this. “So, I must have done more than 300?” Yep. LOTS more. It’s still a mystery just how many. My conservative guess is 10,000. A week and a half after the injury I actually convinced her to meet me at Target for some shopping. She agreed, reluctantly. When she called me to say that she had arrived and was walking in the store, I went to greet her and she looked almost normal! True, she still was the raptor, but her curious gait was not so noticeable behind the empty cart she was slowly pushing. Leaning forward as she slowly lollopped along, heels high, her shriveled arms were the perfect length to reach the pushing bar of the cart.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
I joined. Have you?
I finally was able to get started on one of my life goals this weekend. This one has been a long time coming, and, unfortunately, will be a long time in its unlikely completion, but at least I’m on my way, which is farther than I’ve been able to get up till this moment. I am now registered in the bone marrow donor registry! This is no small thing. I have always wanted to be registered, with a life goal of donating bone marrow, but it hasn’t been the easiest thing for me to sign up—despite what they say. I’m a big fan of blood donation, organ donation, cord blood donation, and bone marrow donation. The problem is that even for the most common of these donations (blood), I don’t yet qualify. But someday I will qualify and I will have to make the time to go regularly. Although they won't let me donate blood just yet, they WOULD take bone marrow from me if I were a match for someone. So, I just need to get on the registry. But that’s the hard part because getting on the registry is as easy as signing up the next time you give blood, which is not so easy for me. Luckily, there is a hard way too! Just find a community, or church, or school that is sponsoring a big bone marrow donor registration in hopes of curing some specific person (or others) or in memory of someone who was not cured. Maybe these drives happen all the time, but I’ve only heard of one, and it was years ago and several states away from where I was living at the time. B has known of this seemingly unreachable goal of mine and last week passed along a flier advertising a sponsored bone marrow donor registration! We both signed up—me because I always wanted to, and him because he was there. I feel like I’m on my way! Now I’ll just wait by the phone. You should too. After all, I had to put down the names, addresses, and phone numbers of several of my readers (4, which is likely the majority) so that the bone marrow harvesters will be able to find me no matter where I go. [I realize that this post is just setting up the post I will make in three years detailing my supreme disappointment when the phone call comes…and it’s for B.] On a side note, they gave us these “I joined. Have you?” stickers. That evening we went to a big BBQ at our bishop’s house. He’s a heart surgeon and has a house/yard big enough to say, “everybody come over to my house for a pig roast. Bring your friends. You can park on my lawn” which by itself is kind of impressive (there were LOTS of people), but was large enough that we could play simultaneous soccer/football/volleyball games. Additionally there was the food, the pool, and 40 large tables with chairs. Anyway, there were lots of people we knew from our church and others we didn’t know who weren’t from our church, and I thought it was funny that B and I had “I joined. Have you?” stickers. Hey, this church of the roast pig isn't so bad! How do I join? My favorite part was having the bishop come out on the deck a couple stories above the law expanse and, using an electric megaphone, announce “There’s still 100lbs of pork.” [New life goal: someday use a megaphone on my property.] Apparently, a whole pig was “roasted” over a 20-hour period in some sort of pit that the bishop had someone build for this event. I never saw it and I don’t believe I ever ate any of it either. People had been singing the praises of the roast pig for weeks before the event. “You could toss a shoe in the pit the night before and it would taste good.” I don't think I got to try that pig [or shoe].
I wish I would have kept an actual hard copy list of life goals I’ve had and accomplished throughout the years. I still don’t have a list of the goals I’m working on, but the current and future goals are usually on my mind. Once I do them I will forget that they were things I wanted to do as they become instead “things I did.” Some of my current life goals include going on a pioneer trek. Not a fake one in GA with the church youth group. I want to walk through IA, or WY, or even OR (wouldn’t that be fun? Fording rivers like they really did on the “Oregon Trail” computer game?) somewhere that people in handcarts and covered wagons really went. I’ll wear a skirt too, and sing as I walk and walk and walk and walk…and…walk. I bet Grandma will want to come! Another life goal I have is to be involved with the Special Olympics someday. Once again, I don’t want to be involved as someone who shows up at the event just on the day of and cheers, but someone involved enough to attend meetings in the weeks prior to the events and has to be there early each day of the competition! I’ll stop now because the point of this entry is not to list all of my current life goals, rather it is to celebrate the near-completion of the bone marrow donation quest!
I wish I would have kept an actual hard copy list of life goals I’ve had and accomplished throughout the years. I still don’t have a list of the goals I’m working on, but the current and future goals are usually on my mind. Once I do them I will forget that they were things I wanted to do as they become instead “things I did.” Some of my current life goals include going on a pioneer trek. Not a fake one in GA with the church youth group. I want to walk through IA, or WY, or even OR (wouldn’t that be fun? Fording rivers like they really did on the “Oregon Trail” computer game?) somewhere that people in handcarts and covered wagons really went. I’ll wear a skirt too, and sing as I walk and walk and walk and walk…and…walk. I bet Grandma will want to come! Another life goal I have is to be involved with the Special Olympics someday. Once again, I don’t want to be involved as someone who shows up at the event just on the day of and cheers, but someone involved enough to attend meetings in the weeks prior to the events and has to be there early each day of the competition! I’ll stop now because the point of this entry is not to list all of my current life goals, rather it is to celebrate the near-completion of the bone marrow donation quest!
Friday, September 12, 2008
An Odyssey
A few weeks ago my hermit crab [ ] died. I’d like to write a little something about his 3-year-long life with me. He was a comfort and a joy to me from the beginning. He was originally given to my younger brother, who either grew tired of him after a couple months or felt that this crab (and his companion crab) was destined to be mine from the beginning. So, from whatever shores he was originally plucked, the crab was smuggled onto a UT-bound flight by my mother who cleverly hid him in a 35mm film canister along with other small non-living shells. The next year was spent in a rather hostile environment: dry air and extreme temperatures (a house in UT with little heat and no a/c). I have to admit that I always wondered if the crabs would make it another day. I placed the cage on a heating pad in winter, carried it downstairs in the summer, and continually sprayed them with water. Sadly, nine months after their arrival, over my 8-day Christmas vacation, one of the crabs died of what appeared to be thirst—at least, there was no water when I arrived home. The dead crab was spread eagle on the sand and our little survivor was racing around the cage in a crazed delirium. I always intended to get him a new friend, since, after all, hermit crabs like company—that’s what they tell you in the store anyway… But, realizing that hermit crab life was fragile, I held off, fearing that he too was about to kick the bucket and knowing that he had a BIG trip to make in the next few months which might do him in. A couple months later he spent a month in the care of my mother-in-law followed by a car trip from UT to GA. He survived several cage tippings (once in a car, once in a hotel, and occasionally falling off the back of our toilet). Once I asked B if he liked having a hermit crab and he replied, “I never even notice him except when I’m cleaning up the mess when his cage falls.” I noticed him all the time. Usually he was sleeping, often he was clawing at the sides of the cage, and sometimes he was hanging upside down from the roof. After his companion died, he enjoyed trading shells and successfully molted, as crabs are wont to do. He even had a short-lived nude phase. Two months before his death, I upgraded his sand to a fine, bright purple calcium sand. The cage never looked better. Perhaps it was just an unfortunate coincidence that he died shortly after the switch… In any case, I have no idea what to do with the rest of the 10-lb bad of sand. My only regret is not naming the little guy. I never could come up with the right name, and I did always suspect that the next big adventure would do him in. I think I will refer to him from now on as Ulysses.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
We live less than three blocks from a large hospital, one of many in this city (and not the one that gets to brag about being the #1 gunshot-wound-treating hospital in the US). I drive by it at least twice a day on my way to and from work and I shop at the pharmacy across the street from the entrance. In the immediate vicinity of the hospital there are always lots of people coming and going wearing scrubs of all colors. Some are wearing white dr./lab coats over them. Some have hair nets on, etc. I really like seeing these people as they head to the pharmacy or to grab something to eat at Chick-fil-A or Wendy’s. I especially enjoy seeing them walking to work or catching the bus or (best of all) driving down the road on a scooter. A person wearing scrubs and a helmet riding a scooter to work in the morning is a delightful sight.
I think I get excited about seeing these people because I rarely get a glimpse of them in their “natural” setting (doctor offices/hospitals). I used to love the hospital illustration page in “Busy Day, Busy People.” Another reason I think I like seeing them is because I’ve always liked “outfits”—uniforms. If there is a special outfit, I will want it and have more fun doing the activity because I’m wearing it. Swimming is more fun with the goggles and cap. Square dancing is more fun with the bolo tie and petticoat. You make a better dilly bar with a DQ shirt on. Something about a costume… Uniforms make any activity (except Disneyland as a guest) all the more official and important (plus, if you work in a uniform, CHOOSING what to wear on your off time is so fun!).
Still though, when I see these be-scrubbed folk, I like to think about them in the hospital setting. Recently however, I’ve realized that, fun as it is to catch glimpses of creatures from that other world I never visit (thankfully), I don’t like the fact that they just come and go everywhere and do anything in their scrubs, when they are about to walk back into what I imagine to be a clean/sterile environment. It occurred to me that I picture scrubs as adding to the cleanliness of the hospital. After all, aren’t scrubs boiled in Clorox nightly? Even if they are, I see people wearing them, sweating in them, riding the bus in them, hanging out in the same chick-fil-a that I hang out in and then heading back to the hospital, and I’m suddenly quite worried because the scrubs can no longer be considered clean. I’ve been fooled all this time. I thought the doctors and nurses were clean, but really to the patient it’s just like they are wearing regular clothes. I guess the reason they wear them is simply to keep themselves clean. They just toss the scrubs in the wash, or into a boiling pot of water, with no special care instructions. No trips to the dry cleaner. Certainly, keeping yourself clean from the patients is important (and could be accomplished equally well through any other clothing, all of which would act as a “barrier”), but it does not seem as important as keeping the patients clean from everything “out there.” Basically, the hospital staff could be showing up to work wearing jeans, t-shirts, pajamas (easy to do if you sleep in scrubs anyway), anything! And I think this is gross.
I think I get excited about seeing these people because I rarely get a glimpse of them in their “natural” setting (doctor offices/hospitals). I used to love the hospital illustration page in “Busy Day, Busy People.” Another reason I think I like seeing them is because I’ve always liked “outfits”—uniforms. If there is a special outfit, I will want it and have more fun doing the activity because I’m wearing it. Swimming is more fun with the goggles and cap. Square dancing is more fun with the bolo tie and petticoat. You make a better dilly bar with a DQ shirt on. Something about a costume… Uniforms make any activity (except Disneyland as a guest) all the more official and important (plus, if you work in a uniform, CHOOSING what to wear on your off time is so fun!).
Still though, when I see these be-scrubbed folk, I like to think about them in the hospital setting. Recently however, I’ve realized that, fun as it is to catch glimpses of creatures from that other world I never visit (thankfully), I don’t like the fact that they just come and go everywhere and do anything in their scrubs, when they are about to walk back into what I imagine to be a clean/sterile environment. It occurred to me that I picture scrubs as adding to the cleanliness of the hospital. After all, aren’t scrubs boiled in Clorox nightly? Even if they are, I see people wearing them, sweating in them, riding the bus in them, hanging out in the same chick-fil-a that I hang out in and then heading back to the hospital, and I’m suddenly quite worried because the scrubs can no longer be considered clean. I’ve been fooled all this time. I thought the doctors and nurses were clean, but really to the patient it’s just like they are wearing regular clothes. I guess the reason they wear them is simply to keep themselves clean. They just toss the scrubs in the wash, or into a boiling pot of water, with no special care instructions. No trips to the dry cleaner. Certainly, keeping yourself clean from the patients is important (and could be accomplished equally well through any other clothing, all of which would act as a “barrier”), but it does not seem as important as keeping the patients clean from everything “out there.” Basically, the hospital staff could be showing up to work wearing jeans, t-shirts, pajamas (easy to do if you sleep in scrubs anyway), anything! And I think this is gross.
Monday, September 8, 2008
To Infinity (then back to earth)
Because B can’t pursue one of his favorite hobbies right now (model airplane flying—his planes are in UT and we have no idea how to transport them. Shipping won’t work because they are too fragile; driving them won’t work because they are too big; flying them out [we drive the car and hang out the window with the controls and they fly 3000 miles] would be too slow) we decided to try something else fun: rockets. I had never launched rockets before, but it sounded easy enough. You order them from a catalogue along with a launch pad and motors. Then you put them together according to the instruction (add stickers/paint, if desired) and take them to a large open area for launching. The rocket will shoot several hundred feet into the air, break apart, and a parachute will come out of the body to slow its descent back to earth (preventing injury to spectators and rocket). Then you stick another motor in and launch them again! B sent me several rocket catalogues at work, but each rocket is pretty much the same as the next, or so I thought, until I saw the MEAN MACHINE. It’s over six feet tall! I told B that’s the one I wanted. Wouldn’t that be a cool sight to see something so big being shot into the sky? We also ordered a regular little rocket [so small you can't even see it in M's hand in the picture above], which would go almost twice as high (1500ft). We’ve had run-ins with a not-so-friendly neighborhood police officer, so I called the police department (from my office, of course—like, I would do something like that on my cell phone since we were going to shoot them off whether or not the police department said it was allowed) to make sure we were allowed to do this (or at least not prohibited) and they almost said it was ok. The only trouble was finding a clearing to shoot them off in. This is Atlanta and it’s a jungle down here, literally. I love it. You have no idea you are in the city. The huge trees and vines that grow everywhere don’t allow for any large open spaces so we decided our neighborhood dog park, though not ideal, would be the best launching site. The dog park is long and narrow, so if the rocket drifted north or south in its descent, we would be able to recover it—east or west we were certain to lose it to the trees. We decided to cut a big hole in the parachute of the small high-flying rocket to speed its descent so that it would not drift too far away. The Mean Machine was not going to fly as high, so we figured it would be ok. Witnesses to the launch include myself, B, our friend K (who was staying with us for a couple days on an extended layover from Paris to CA), M & M (M goes to GT with B in the Aerospace department; M is his wife), and about a dozen uncertain spectators with their dogs watching from a very safe distance. We had five motors so that, barring losing a rocket to the trees, each of us would be able to work the controls (that is, would be able to push the “LAUNCH” button) once. I was a little surprised that the cord running from the control to the rocket was nearly 20 feet long and that when I asked if I should hold the launch pad steady I was told that it would be “dangerous.” So, you can imagine how my jaw dropped when we shot the first rocket (the Mean Machine) and I saw the flames shooting out the bottom as it wizzed upward like a missile. It was SO fast. In about 1 second the 6 1/2 foot thing was hundreds of feet in the air and climbing. Would the parachute deploy? As soon as it launched (during that first second) I immediately thought “this was a bad idea; I can’t believe we’re doing this.” I guess I had pictured the rocket ascending at a slower rate. Well, the parachute did deploy and the rocket fell right into the tops of the trees. Yes, we lost the Mean Machine on its first launch. It’s still up there too. We’ve walked by to check on it twice. The trouble was that there was a wind we didn’t account for. We felt and saw nothing from our vantage point. But way up there, a wind was blowing westward. So, we compensated for that wind with the little rocket by shooting it at an angle into the eastern sky. This time it almost landed in the field. B & M spent half an hour trying to get it out of the tree it landed in and were ultimately successful (sort of). We couldn’t see them in the “jungle” but we could hear them talking and shaking/breaking things. They emerged completely wet. They looked like they'd been in the creek, but it was only sweat. But they had the little rocket! Well…most of it. They managed to get the rocket body, but the nose cone and parachute were lost causes. A rocket without a nose cone will probably have some “drag” problems (the body is basically a hollow paper towel roll) and will not fly as straight, and, well, you can guess what happens without a parachute. But they launched it anyway. We began this adventure nearly at dusk, and by this time it was getting downright dim outside. We saw the rocket go up, but we never saw it come down. It just…disappeared. Not exactly the rocket night we had planned, but still spectacular in its way. Worth $20/launch (because of our lost capital)? Only this time.
Friday, September 5, 2008
How to get out of your cell phone contract...
A. Without even trying!
B. With no early cancellation fee!
C. And make money doing it!
D. All of the above
The correct answer is “D. All of the above.”
I got a message a couple days ago from our cell phone company (which will remain nameless, because, after all, all cell phone companies really are the same) asking us to please consider taking our business somewhere else. They have even offered to waive the early cancellation fee and are helping to find a better company for our needs. Now, we had not considered switching and our contract still has 14 months left with our current company, but if we will agree to leave [soon], they will also sweeten our parting by paying our final month’s bill for us. Can anyone guess how we got the company to this point? (Answer coming soon!)
B. With no early cancellation fee!
C. And make money doing it!
D. All of the above
The correct answer is “D. All of the above.”
I got a message a couple days ago from our cell phone company (which will remain nameless, because, after all, all cell phone companies really are the same) asking us to please consider taking our business somewhere else. They have even offered to waive the early cancellation fee and are helping to find a better company for our needs. Now, we had not considered switching and our contract still has 14 months left with our current company, but if we will agree to leave [soon], they will also sweeten our parting by paying our final month’s bill for us. Can anyone guess how we got the company to this point? (Answer coming soon!)
A Side Story
While I was trying to think of a quote for the events described in yesterday's post, “the Lord giveth, the Lord taketh away; blessed be the name of the Lord” came to mind, and I decided to conclude the post with that sentiment. I thought it could be traced to the book of Job, but as I searched the Bible for “giveth” nothing came up in Job and none of the other “giveths” were like the scripture I was looking for. Maybe it's not scripture, I thought. So, I asked my coworker if such a phrase sounded familiar to her, and she said, “Isn’t that a song?” Sure…on the same album as “Dust in the Wind,” probably. Eventually, Grace Cathedral, an Episcopal Church in San Francisco, straightened things out. Apparently the Renaissance conjugation of “giveth” and “taketh” is common when this scripture is quoted. But really, it’s printed as “gave” and “hath taken.” No wonder I couldn’t find it. It’s Job 1:21. Anyway, the events described in the post below are not the only events that relate to it. At church, B has just received a new assignment. This is tragic for him because the assignment he has had through the last year and a half has been with the youth group—particularly the teenage boys. B loves this and is very good at it. I was assigned to help with the youth group for the first six months here, but then I was pulled out and given a new assignment. Although I was devastated at the time (A. I took the dismissal personally, and B. I liked being with the teenage girls), my new assignment is SO MUCH BETTER. I’ve been with the kids (ages 3 to 11) since January and I love it. I’m much better at this and I enjoy it much more. It’s just a good fit. The funny thing is that it’s something I had never considered doing before they asked me. I’m in charge of singing time. Yes, I teach children songs and motivate them to sing with gusto! We have a great time and it’s a LOT of work. I get to be creative and I love the fact that it’s all up to me. No one tells me how to do it. But back to B. He now has the job of teaching Sunday School which is his most feared and least favorite of all possible church assignments. He’s had to do this in other places he’s lived, so he knows what it’s like and hates it. It was obvious when he was being asked to do this that he was in despair, so the counselor offered to change the assignment to only teaching every other week. After all, as he said, “This is a popular assignment, so there won’t be any trouble finding a second teacher.” B about died. “Popular????? People are crazy!” I told him to take this as a huge compliment. Out of our massive congregation (there have been rumors of a possible split) with lots of great and smart and talented people, they asked HIM to be the Sunday School teacher (GD). That’s a huge compliment. They didn’t ask ME. They might think I’m crazy for all we know. But not him! Mazal Tov!
Thursday, September 4, 2008
Rich Girl, Poor Girl
My boss told me that she and the head boss needed to meet with me a few weeks ago. Of course, my first thought was that they were going to fire me, which they should, and, happily, I wasn’t upset at all at the prospect. Odds were, however, that they still felt my “position” is necessary—indispensible, even—but I still always hope that they will see reason and do the most efficient thing: fire me and disperse my meager duties among other employees. In the meantime, however, I get paid decently, have time for any hobbies/personal tasks, pursue my freelance editing, and enjoy paid holidays, vacations, and insurance. I’m not quitting. So, the fateful hour arrived, and I went to our meeting feeling excited! Would I have a job?!?! Would they fire me!?!? Newsweek magazine has a gradient scale on which they score pop-culture news from the previous week. It’s usually quite funny. The events fall somewhere on a scale that flows like this: Predictable—Shocking—Shockingly Predictable. It’s a funny scale, really, because it’s not in logical order (Shockingly Predictable—Predictable—Shocking would be more appropriate), but I think it just makes everything more fun, and it takes more time to think the meaning and relationships through, so I get to enjoy that page of Newsweek much longer than I would if the scale flowed logically. Please see the illustration below for my own ranking of the theoretical and actual outcomes of the meeting with the bosses:
[technical difficulties transporting the illustration to the blog]
I’ll spell it out in prose:
“I keep my job”—Predictable
“I lose my job”—closer to Shocking than to Predictable, but certainly not completely in Shocking territory or past it into Shockingly Predictable
“What really happened”—past Shocking, approaching Shockingly Predictable
Well, of course, they didn’t fire me. And, OF COURSE, they gave me a card with tons of money. Why? Well, because of all the new “assignments and responsibilities” that I have taken on recently “in a spirit of teamwork and cooperation.” One of my best friends here at KBD quit a few months ago, and two of her tasks fell to me. This has increased my weekly workload by 1 hour. I still average 6 hours of free time per day (not including the hour lunch). Since the company has a policy of only giving raises in January, they couldn’t “compensate” me for my increased workload, so they gave me a little bonus (I’m a shoe-in for a raise in January, though, what with that extra hour of work I do each week). It’s weird, funny, and should be…by now…oh so predictable. I realize that no matter what, I am probably losing spending power even when they give me bonuses and raises when compared with inflation, but thankfully we as a country are not experiencing the kind of spending-power-loss B and I experienced the following week when a GT accounting/registration error cost us $3,600. The good news is that they originally wanted $7,200 from us (the gas company economic model is catching on). With a lot of patient persistence B was able to get them to cut the erroneous charge in half, but the blackmail they put up at that time (“we are the ones who sign to say you get to graduate with one or two degrees”) left us with an unjustifiable $3,600 bill. Unfortunately, my windfall didn’t cover the bill, or half of it. Really, I don’t feel like it could even put a dent in it (although I’d be interested to hear how much money would constitute a “dent” in $3,600), and suddenly I’m certain my company’s ripping me off! How COULD their “appreciation” money compensate me for my time!? Sheesh, what a joke. Need more money. Need to find a better-paying job. Fortunately though, we certainly HAVE the $3,600. We’ve been saving forever towards a house someday, so we can certainly cover the expense. The thing is, even if you made 70K/year (which we don’t), you’d notice if someone took 4K away. I think even if you made 100K you would notice or consider how you spend $4K-chunks. But, what can you do? Just keep saving and say to yourself “The Lord gave, the Lord hath taken away…”
[technical difficulties transporting the illustration to the blog]
I’ll spell it out in prose:
“I keep my job”—Predictable
“I lose my job”—closer to Shocking than to Predictable, but certainly not completely in Shocking territory or past it into Shockingly Predictable
“What really happened”—past Shocking, approaching Shockingly Predictable
Well, of course, they didn’t fire me. And, OF COURSE, they gave me a card with tons of money. Why? Well, because of all the new “assignments and responsibilities” that I have taken on recently “in a spirit of teamwork and cooperation.” One of my best friends here at KBD quit a few months ago, and two of her tasks fell to me. This has increased my weekly workload by 1 hour. I still average 6 hours of free time per day (not including the hour lunch). Since the company has a policy of only giving raises in January, they couldn’t “compensate” me for my increased workload, so they gave me a little bonus (I’m a shoe-in for a raise in January, though, what with that extra hour of work I do each week). It’s weird, funny, and should be…by now…oh so predictable. I realize that no matter what, I am probably losing spending power even when they give me bonuses and raises when compared with inflation, but thankfully we as a country are not experiencing the kind of spending-power-loss B and I experienced the following week when a GT accounting/registration error cost us $3,600. The good news is that they originally wanted $7,200 from us (the gas company economic model is catching on). With a lot of patient persistence B was able to get them to cut the erroneous charge in half, but the blackmail they put up at that time (“we are the ones who sign to say you get to graduate with one or two degrees”) left us with an unjustifiable $3,600 bill. Unfortunately, my windfall didn’t cover the bill, or half of it. Really, I don’t feel like it could even put a dent in it (although I’d be interested to hear how much money would constitute a “dent” in $3,600), and suddenly I’m certain my company’s ripping me off! How COULD their “appreciation” money compensate me for my time!? Sheesh, what a joke. Need more money. Need to find a better-paying job. Fortunately though, we certainly HAVE the $3,600. We’ve been saving forever towards a house someday, so we can certainly cover the expense. The thing is, even if you made 70K/year (which we don’t), you’d notice if someone took 4K away. I think even if you made 100K you would notice or consider how you spend $4K-chunks. But, what can you do? Just keep saving and say to yourself “The Lord gave, the Lord hath taken away…”
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