It is strange to me that people think B is Chinese. They are actually surprised to find out that he isn’t. Half? No. They must have heard him speaking it and know that he has hundreds of KungFu movies and television series’. But people have specifically told us that he looks Chinese. A good friend of ours and an old roommate of B’s told me that in our wedding picture it looks like I’m marrying an 18-year-old Chinese guy. He happens to have been neither Chinese nor 18 when we got married. This bodes well for any future children. Perhaps they have a shot at black hair, cute faces, and lots of brains.
It is not debated that B speaks Chinese flawlessly and that L has no idea what she’s doing. Even so, B is always praising my Chinese skills, which is probably just positive reinforcement and not honesty. However, once, a long, long, long time ago, when I was visiting him in Atlanta, he showed me that he had started learning German through Rosetta Stone (which he had access to through the military). He set up his special microphone to his computer and was repeating words and phrases. With each utterance, the computer had a little dial (like a gas gage) that would show how good his pronunciation/intonation had been. The gage needle would land somewhere in the red (bad), yellow (better), or green (good) zones of the dial. B was working away, the needle usually barely budged. At one point I let out a small chuckle, to which B retorted, “Let’s see you pronounce Chinese.” Of course, I didn’t know a single word in Chinese at the time. So, B loaded it up and I sat down at the microphone. The computer spoke and I repeated it very poorly, I’m sure. But the dial went straight to green. Apparently I had done very well on that one. “Do another.” Green again. And again and again. Finally, B pulled me away from the computer and gave it a go himself. It was red. Poor pronunciation. And again and again. It really would have been sad if it hadn’t been so funny. I don’t think B used Rosetta Stone again after that night. I like to say that I performed well because I’m a linguist; that’s why they pay me the big bucks. (Yeah right. That’s why I’m unemployed.) It’s more likely that the system, however good it is reported to be, still can’t match voices as well as it should, particularly male to female voices. Just a theory. But just like B’s “looks” don’t make him Chinese, evidence to the contrary of the truth doesn’t mean that B’s Chinese stinks and mine is impeccable.
I decided that B and I would have a tradition of pursuing something [new &] different together every year. Last year was my year and we took square dancing lessons for reasons I outlined in a previous post. Brett has been thinking about what he would choose for his year since dance lesson #1. I helped him with the early stages of research. His first idea was KungFu lessons. Good one. I’m about as excited about doing martial arts as he is about dancing, so I pointed out that although I had picked dancing, I had gone to great lengths and pains to pick the type of dancing that would be the least disagreeable to him. Therefore, because I can’t bear the thought of learning the skill of beating people to death and because I’m certain I would die if someone actually “sparred” with me (not from the blows but from the trauma), I suggested that he carefully consider which type of martial art to pursue. KungFu is much more than I can handle—this isn’t about enjoyment. Karate is probably as much fighting as I could do—maybe. No matter what, it would be a stretch and that should be good. But B thought Karate was too showy, too much about showmanship and performance and not enough about KILLING! (Uh…YEAH.) I also suggested Tai Chi. This isn’t even fighting at all, but we’d learn some KungFu forms. We looked into this one but it was expensive. So, B decided to pursue Chinese language lessons for the two of us. We looked at lots of different schools. The trouble is that we are on slightly different levels. So, in the end, we decided to secure a private instructor to tutor each of us individually for 45 minutes, brave soul. This fun begins tomorrow night.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Victory
For my birthday over a year ago, a sister-in-law gave me a “gift-certificate” for a manicure or pedicure. I can count the number of pedicures I’ve had on one hand (on a one-fingered hand) and I don’t need any hands or fingers to count the number of manicures I’ve had. That’s right, I have NEVER had a manicure. The scarcity of pedicures has no real reason behind it, but the total lack of manicures is a result of my lack of fingernails (it is my understanding that fingernails are a necessary and integral part of a manicure). My two biggest weaknesses are chips and salsa (craving them, eating them, being unable to STOP eating them) and tearing off my fingernails. I tear my nails off constantly, and I always have. This behavior is not necessarily stress or boredom-induced. I will pick at my nails anytime, with determination or unconsciously, until I have something to rip off. This, of course, leads to very short uneven nails and lots of hangnails. I’ve always felt bad about this. It makes no sense. Why would I feel compelled to rip my nails off? Is this self-mutilation? In any case, it’s embarrassing. I appear weak in the area of fingernail care and grooming, or maybe I am weak in another area and it “shows” in my nails. Sort of like in Ayn Rand’s Atlas Shrugged, when Henry can tell that a certain rich, powerful woman is really being pushed to her stress/business limit because he catches a brief glimpse of a safety pin. Although she acted completely normal, at ease, and in control, and looked put together at first glance, the flash of a safety pin symbolized her disheveled-ness. Under normal conditions, if she were wearing a safety pin, it would not have been seen. Fingernails are an even bigger (or rather, more exposed) indication as there are 10 of them and there IS no way to hide them. They are always on show, waving around for everyone to see and scrutinize. Here’s another example of how telling fingernails are: On my mission, the only people who wanted to talk to us were foreigners or crazy—or both. B has since given me the “tip” that if you are unsure whether some normal-looking person is going to be a crazy, or if you start to suspect they’re not all there while you’re talking, glance at their FINGERNAILS to get a clue. If their fingernails are fine (clean and well-kept) maybe they’re ok. But if their fingernails are bad, maybe they will end up being crazy. Great. That’s me. (But B still married me; apparently he likes crazy.)
So, I’ve always wanted to kick the habit. But I just CAN’T. I’ve tried over and over and over. It took everything I had to lay off the fingernails for 3 weeks prior to my wedding, knowing that there might be hand shots in the photos. In the end my nails were normal length (not long) and they were painted by a friend with beige-y pink and cream. It was perfect. They looked great and did not draw attention to themselves. I looked “groomed.” What a sad thing it would have been to be in the pretty wedding dress and to have my ripped up normal nails. What a po-SER. On the other hand, to go all out with ridiculous long fake and fake looking nails would have been just as big a farce, since that’s not like me at all. Well, I hoped after the wedding (like I always hope) that I could resist the urge to pick at and rip off my nails, but I couldn’t. So, four and a half months later, I decided (at B’s insistence—he knows my nail weakness bothers me and that it is beyond my natural ability to do anything about it) to use the gift card for the manicure. (Upon receiving it, I immediately knew the manicure was OUT and thought, thank goodness for the “OR pedicure” clause—I’d have been in trouble! But, B was right.) Why not use this as incentive? Well, after a 14-month-long battle, I have emerged victorious—and well-groomed to boot! I received the prize manicure yesterday. I tried to act like I knew what I was doing, and between my inexperience and the employee’s broken English, it was an adventure. Please read the following two exciting exchanges:
Nail Girl: [something unrecognizable]
Me: What?
Nail Girl: Do you want to keep length?
KEEP THE LENGTH!??! I have LENGTH! Length that I could elect to have filed off!
Nail Girl: [after seeing the color I have picked, says something unrecognizable]
Me: What?
Nail Girl: You no want French?
Me: Do you think that would look good? I mean, are my nails long enough?
Nail Girl: [laughs] Your nails are very long!
MY NAILS ARE VERY LONG!
Now, I don’t need to have long nails; it’s never been my goal. Actually, I only wanted them long to take full advantage of the manicure. These beauties are DANGEROUS. So, after this nail job is over, I would like to have normal nails. I have no unrealistic expectations though. I am 99.99999% certain to go back to my old ways. (You really have no idea HOW HARD I’ve tried to kick this my whole life.) As to the timing of the manicure, we have no fancy events coming up; in fact, we are going white water rafting on Saturday, so the pretty nails won’t last long. But for today, my nails look AMAZING.
So, I’ve always wanted to kick the habit. But I just CAN’T. I’ve tried over and over and over. It took everything I had to lay off the fingernails for 3 weeks prior to my wedding, knowing that there might be hand shots in the photos. In the end my nails were normal length (not long) and they were painted by a friend with beige-y pink and cream. It was perfect. They looked great and did not draw attention to themselves. I looked “groomed.” What a sad thing it would have been to be in the pretty wedding dress and to have my ripped up normal nails. What a po-SER. On the other hand, to go all out with ridiculous long fake and fake looking nails would have been just as big a farce, since that’s not like me at all. Well, I hoped after the wedding (like I always hope) that I could resist the urge to pick at and rip off my nails, but I couldn’t. So, four and a half months later, I decided (at B’s insistence—he knows my nail weakness bothers me and that it is beyond my natural ability to do anything about it) to use the gift card for the manicure. (Upon receiving it, I immediately knew the manicure was OUT and thought, thank goodness for the “OR pedicure” clause—I’d have been in trouble! But, B was right.) Why not use this as incentive? Well, after a 14-month-long battle, I have emerged victorious—and well-groomed to boot! I received the prize manicure yesterday. I tried to act like I knew what I was doing, and between my inexperience and the employee’s broken English, it was an adventure. Please read the following two exciting exchanges:
Nail Girl: [something unrecognizable]
Me: What?
Nail Girl: Do you want to keep length?
KEEP THE LENGTH!??! I have LENGTH! Length that I could elect to have filed off!
Nail Girl: [after seeing the color I have picked, says something unrecognizable]
Me: What?
Nail Girl: You no want French?
Me: Do you think that would look good? I mean, are my nails long enough?
Nail Girl: [laughs] Your nails are very long!
MY NAILS ARE VERY LONG!
Now, I don’t need to have long nails; it’s never been my goal. Actually, I only wanted them long to take full advantage of the manicure. These beauties are DANGEROUS. So, after this nail job is over, I would like to have normal nails. I have no unrealistic expectations though. I am 99.99999% certain to go back to my old ways. (You really have no idea HOW HARD I’ve tried to kick this my whole life.) As to the timing of the manicure, we have no fancy events coming up; in fact, we are going white water rafting on Saturday, so the pretty nails won’t last long. But for today, my nails look AMAZING.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
The Curse of the Broken Collarbone
Once upon a time, an extraordinary little girl was doing an ordinary thing. She was taking ballet lessons. She loved taking ballet lessons for the simple reason that she loved wearing, running, and just looking at herself in a leotard with tights! There was a pink leotard that was often paired with white tights dotted with little pink hearts. What joy! But the lavender leotard with the thin white stripes (paired with white tights) was her favorite. It even had a little belt (after all, this story is set in the 80s). Like most 6-year-olds, the participants in the class showed no real grace or technique, but they had mastered the skill of frolicking in the shape of a circle and this feat warranted a recital!
The recital had everything typically found at recitals: music, dancing, applause, audience members, and some guy sitting right up in front with his leg sticking out as he recorded the poetry in motion. Alas, the extraordinary little girl got too close to this man, tripped over his leg, and disrupted the entire number with her subsequent wailing. Her mother dragged her off to the restroom and tried to console her by repeating the comforting words, “Stop crying. You’re just embarrassed. Stop crying.” The girl considered these words. “Am I just embarrassed? Embarrassed REALLY hurts.” The girl believed she had broken her arm. After a motherly examination of the arm, she was pronounced whole and implored to STOP CRYING. The next day she was still hurting and had identified the source of the pain to be nearer the shoulder. The mother alerted the household veterinarian (think X-ray capabilities) who diagnosed a broken collarbone. This was the extraordinary girl’s ticket to see a people doctor who anticlimactically confirmed the diagnosis and said there wasn’t really anything to be done (should have stuck with the vet). So, for a time, ballet lessons were put on hold…and the hold went on and on and on and no one ever spoke of the girl’s ballet career (and how she was going to get there without lessons) until finally she realized herself that the curse of the broken collarbone had robbed her of her life's work. Two decades after the fateful incident, that extraordinary girl decided to BREAK the curse of the broken collarbone by attempting to restart her training, so she signed up for a ballet class as a grad student with a more sophisticated black leotard and pink tights.
About this time she was asked to babysit seven children under the age of seven. Why not? With a year’s stint as “nanny” under her belt (nothing had ever happened to THOSE children) she was overqualified. These seven children were located in an enchanted backyard which was home to a host of forbidden activities. The backyard was a hill. There were concrete retaining walls which dropped 10 feet to a trampoline, there were large, steep stone steps leading to the grassy slope on which sat an awesome swingset/fort and several trees for climbing. There was a toybox that the 2 year old liked to shut herself inside of. So, basically, it was the funnest magical backyard ever, but there were SEVEN kids. While most were jumping on the trampoline, one was locking herself in the toybox, and one was unaccounted for, the extraordinary girl was up on the grassy knoll, helping a four-year-old climb a tree that looked like a horse. Perfect for riding. The child was familiar with this horse and only needed a boost, but the extraordinary girl stayed by her side, hoping she would soon have had enough horse riding and would come down nearer the others. Somehow, while the extraordinary girl was RIGHT THERE and looking anxiously over the activities of the other children, the horse rider fell three-and-a-half feet out of the tree onto the ground. The child screamed, and screamed, and screamed. She would NOT calm down. It was ridiculous. Of all the children, this was certainly the most weepy and dramatic—and therefore the LAST child a sitter wants to have something happen to (I mean, wasn’t this the child she had chosen to remain next to in order to prevent ANYTHING from happening?). The child was carried to a bench where she was told repeatedly to calm down and stop crying. Nothing would make her stop. Since her condition seemed to be fixed, the extraordinary girl turned her attention to the other children, checking back every few minutes. Soon a bump was detected in the region of the child’s collarbone. Then the bump became a lump. “This cannot be happening!” Well, it did happen. The child wound up in the emergency room with a broken collarbone (which they could do nothing for—why do we even go?). For weeks and months and probably to this day the child mentioned the incident whenever she saw the extraordinary girl: “you were at my grandma’s house when I broke my collarbone.”
So, I thought this whole thing was a terrible, eerie coincidence. My sister asked me when I told her what happened, “Why was she in the tree?” Answer: “Because I put her there.” Incriminating. In any case, I felt much better about the whole situation when my sister reported that the most commonly broken bone is the collarbone. And, if you don’t believe her, you can check “The Bathroom Reader.” Who knew? It’s true that I have met people who have broken collarbones playing football and soccer, in car accidents and by being hit by a car. Apparently falling out of trees will do it; cyclists call it “the” cycling injury. I remain the only person to my knowledge who has broken it while doing ballet.
The recital had everything typically found at recitals: music, dancing, applause, audience members, and some guy sitting right up in front with his leg sticking out as he recorded the poetry in motion. Alas, the extraordinary little girl got too close to this man, tripped over his leg, and disrupted the entire number with her subsequent wailing. Her mother dragged her off to the restroom and tried to console her by repeating the comforting words, “Stop crying. You’re just embarrassed. Stop crying.” The girl considered these words. “Am I just embarrassed? Embarrassed REALLY hurts.” The girl believed she had broken her arm. After a motherly examination of the arm, she was pronounced whole and implored to STOP CRYING. The next day she was still hurting and had identified the source of the pain to be nearer the shoulder. The mother alerted the household veterinarian (think X-ray capabilities) who diagnosed a broken collarbone. This was the extraordinary girl’s ticket to see a people doctor who anticlimactically confirmed the diagnosis and said there wasn’t really anything to be done (should have stuck with the vet). So, for a time, ballet lessons were put on hold…and the hold went on and on and on and no one ever spoke of the girl’s ballet career (and how she was going to get there without lessons) until finally she realized herself that the curse of the broken collarbone had robbed her of her life's work. Two decades after the fateful incident, that extraordinary girl decided to BREAK the curse of the broken collarbone by attempting to restart her training, so she signed up for a ballet class as a grad student with a more sophisticated black leotard and pink tights.
About this time she was asked to babysit seven children under the age of seven. Why not? With a year’s stint as “nanny” under her belt (nothing had ever happened to THOSE children) she was overqualified. These seven children were located in an enchanted backyard which was home to a host of forbidden activities. The backyard was a hill. There were concrete retaining walls which dropped 10 feet to a trampoline, there were large, steep stone steps leading to the grassy slope on which sat an awesome swingset/fort and several trees for climbing. There was a toybox that the 2 year old liked to shut herself inside of. So, basically, it was the funnest magical backyard ever, but there were SEVEN kids. While most were jumping on the trampoline, one was locking herself in the toybox, and one was unaccounted for, the extraordinary girl was up on the grassy knoll, helping a four-year-old climb a tree that looked like a horse. Perfect for riding. The child was familiar with this horse and only needed a boost, but the extraordinary girl stayed by her side, hoping she would soon have had enough horse riding and would come down nearer the others. Somehow, while the extraordinary girl was RIGHT THERE and looking anxiously over the activities of the other children, the horse rider fell three-and-a-half feet out of the tree onto the ground. The child screamed, and screamed, and screamed. She would NOT calm down. It was ridiculous. Of all the children, this was certainly the most weepy and dramatic—and therefore the LAST child a sitter wants to have something happen to (I mean, wasn’t this the child she had chosen to remain next to in order to prevent ANYTHING from happening?). The child was carried to a bench where she was told repeatedly to calm down and stop crying. Nothing would make her stop. Since her condition seemed to be fixed, the extraordinary girl turned her attention to the other children, checking back every few minutes. Soon a bump was detected in the region of the child’s collarbone. Then the bump became a lump. “This cannot be happening!” Well, it did happen. The child wound up in the emergency room with a broken collarbone (which they could do nothing for—why do we even go?). For weeks and months and probably to this day the child mentioned the incident whenever she saw the extraordinary girl: “you were at my grandma’s house when I broke my collarbone.”
So, I thought this whole thing was a terrible, eerie coincidence. My sister asked me when I told her what happened, “Why was she in the tree?” Answer: “Because I put her there.” Incriminating. In any case, I felt much better about the whole situation when my sister reported that the most commonly broken bone is the collarbone. And, if you don’t believe her, you can check “The Bathroom Reader.” Who knew? It’s true that I have met people who have broken collarbones playing football and soccer, in car accidents and by being hit by a car. Apparently falling out of trees will do it; cyclists call it “the” cycling injury. I remain the only person to my knowledge who has broken it while doing ballet.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Cirque du Soleil, my official endorsement of
It’s like dreaming when you’re awake. Things that aren’t possible in the real world (the waking world) are possible in Cirque du Soleil and happen all the time and without warning. Plus, strange unrelated things occur all around (and sometimes in the middle of) whatever appears to be the moment’s main act. These other things are totally weird and not like “side performances” at all. It’s like a bench floating through the air with people sitting on it like they’re on a train and knitting…
Apparently Cirque du Soleil tours around the country on occasion. I can’t recommend those shows or the resident shows in Las Vegas, but “La Nouba” (the show that stays in Orlando) is an experience I can’t recommend enough! Of all the performances of every kind that I have seen, this ranks in the top five (and for the record, I can only think of one other that would be among the top five). These people are really professionals. The show is so polished, while still being completely live and completely amazing. If you are ever in Orlando, it should be your number one priority. Sure, there are about 50 theme parks to choose from, but you would be doing yourself a huge disservice if you missed out on seeing La Nouba. So, cut your Disney tickets down to two days instead of three, go without food, sleep in your car, do whatever it takes to come up with the cash for a La Nouba ticket. You will NOT regret it. What you will regret is how poorly you’ve treated your body, how little you’ve capitalized on its potential. Look what it COULD do! Things that I have never aspired to before have become things I regret I did not pursue. Like trick bike riding, for one. Man, I wish I could do that. Tight rope walking. Gymnastics! (For me, the Olympics have never provided inspiration/motivation like this.) If only I had worked out. If only I had trained. What a sad lump I am. I should have done more. This must be where lots of divers, gymnasts, and dancers “end up.” I always wonder what happens to athletes/performers who reach their competitive peak before age 24. Cirque du Soleil?! Only, for me, this is the goal. After winning the Olympic gold in diving, I’d have the following interview:
Bob Costas: How does it feel to win your first gold medal?
L: Oh, it feels so great! See, I’ve been working toward being a member of the La Nouba cast of Cirque du Soleil my whole life, and now I’m one step closer to that goal! It’s incredible!
No longer will I see gymnastics as a waste of thousands of dollars on a skill that can only be used while in teenage-hood and, for a very select few, in college. It can be a career track (for an even more select few, I realize). Sure, traveling around the country probably wouldn’t be that great, nor would living in Las Vegas, but living in Orlando might be like a regular life for these talented folk! We may be moving to Orlando next summer. How I hope my neighbors will be part of Cirque du Soleil!
Apparently Cirque du Soleil tours around the country on occasion. I can’t recommend those shows or the resident shows in Las Vegas, but “La Nouba” (the show that stays in Orlando) is an experience I can’t recommend enough! Of all the performances of every kind that I have seen, this ranks in the top five (and for the record, I can only think of one other that would be among the top five). These people are really professionals. The show is so polished, while still being completely live and completely amazing. If you are ever in Orlando, it should be your number one priority. Sure, there are about 50 theme parks to choose from, but you would be doing yourself a huge disservice if you missed out on seeing La Nouba. So, cut your Disney tickets down to two days instead of three, go without food, sleep in your car, do whatever it takes to come up with the cash for a La Nouba ticket. You will NOT regret it. What you will regret is how poorly you’ve treated your body, how little you’ve capitalized on its potential. Look what it COULD do! Things that I have never aspired to before have become things I regret I did not pursue. Like trick bike riding, for one. Man, I wish I could do that. Tight rope walking. Gymnastics! (For me, the Olympics have never provided inspiration/motivation like this.) If only I had worked out. If only I had trained. What a sad lump I am. I should have done more. This must be where lots of divers, gymnasts, and dancers “end up.” I always wonder what happens to athletes/performers who reach their competitive peak before age 24. Cirque du Soleil?! Only, for me, this is the goal. After winning the Olympic gold in diving, I’d have the following interview:
Bob Costas: How does it feel to win your first gold medal?
L: Oh, it feels so great! See, I’ve been working toward being a member of the La Nouba cast of Cirque du Soleil my whole life, and now I’m one step closer to that goal! It’s incredible!
No longer will I see gymnastics as a waste of thousands of dollars on a skill that can only be used while in teenage-hood and, for a very select few, in college. It can be a career track (for an even more select few, I realize). Sure, traveling around the country probably wouldn’t be that great, nor would living in Las Vegas, but living in Orlando might be like a regular life for these talented folk! We may be moving to Orlando next summer. How I hope my neighbors will be part of Cirque du Soleil!
Monday, August 18, 2008
R's Raucous Bachelor Party
Our dear friend R was recently married to his true love S. We love R. B and R were roommates here in GA while we were engaged, and the three of us saw a lot of each other, first me visiting them, then R visiting us. When we got married, we only moved a mile or so away, so we still saw each other. About three or four months after we got married, R called to ask if he could come over “on Friday.” Of course. He could always come over whenever. Then he asked if he could “bring a girl.” Our R? We were ecstatic—had R found love? We were excited—who would this amazing girl be! We were reserved—after all, this is R; is anyone good enough? Then he asked me to make dinner. Ha! Certainly. Well, they came, we met, we loved her too, we thought it was a match made in heaven, and they broke up a couple months later. R finished his masters degree at that time and moved to CA; S went to IN to work on her masters degree. In the end though, however great S is, we like R more and if he says it’s not going to work, we stand by him. Fast forward to this August (a year later) and try to imagine our supreeze when R calls to say he is coming to Atlanta to get married. Who could it be? Yes, it's S (who is from here). When R moved away we never expected we would have the chance to attend his wedding. It’s so awesome when stuff that you don’t think can ever happen (for example, us attending R's eventual wedding) ends up surprising you. The big event was scheduled for a Saturday and we were on the roster for everything—family luncheon, wedding, reception. We were honored.
So, R arrives in Atlanta sometime during the week of the wedding (maybe Tuesday?). Thursday morning, B and I are having breakfast when the subject of R’s bachelor party comes up. After all, R came to B’s—co-hosted it really, since it was at the appartment where they were living. Hmmm…with R flying in from out of town, had any of his old friends thought to throw him a bachelor party? Probably not. At that point, B decides he should throw him one, that is, if R has time that evening or the evening after (wedding eve). Now, I agree with the general idea (that R is deserving of a bachelor party and that B would be a good one to host such an event), but at such short notice I worry that no one will be able to come…including the groom. So I suggest a feasibility study—call the groom and 4 “key” friends. If they can make it, the party is on and e-vites should be sent to everyone who might possibly come. Thursday afternoon I receive such an e-vite:
An egregious error has taken place in that R is coming to town to get married and his old roommates have failed to plan a bachelor's party. R, the one guy who would single handedly plan and execute all of our bachelor's parties even if they were all on his birthday. This mistake is hereby being rectified as YOU are invited to his bachelor's party Friday, August 1, at the Tuley's residence. Party time is from 10:15 PM until 11:30 PM. Refreshments will be provided, please notify me of any dietary requests (i.e. if you're doctor only lets you eat chocolate ice cream instead of the gallons of vanilla already purchased).
Of course, I wasn’t actually invited. My e-vite was notification that a bachelor party would be held at my house the next night. Unfortunately, the feasibility study was not conducted before the e-vites went out and the key friends were all out of town. So the crowd was very small. Seven people came including the groom, his brother, and two childhood friends who had flown in for the occasion. I served as a party consultant, purchasing lots of chips, salsa, and onion dip to go with the ice cream that was already in our freezer and planning the one “activity.” The party ended sometime around 12:30-1:00 AM (although we got a call from the groom after he left saying he was in our parking lot with a dead battery. So we gave him a jump start and went to bed closer to 2 AM). The whole thing turned out to have been a complete success.
Exhibit A: B and I were greeted by R’s whole family the next day with comments like, “We hear you guys know how to throw a party.” “My husband told me all about it. Thank you so much for doing that.” “I hear R loved it.”
Exhibit B: The groom said at the party that he finally felt like he was actually going to his own wedding. All this time it felt like he was just attending someone else’s wedding. Finally it hit him at the bachelors party that HE was getting married in the morning.
Exhibit C: After realizing he was actually going to his own wedding, he still went through with it.
So, R arrives in Atlanta sometime during the week of the wedding (maybe Tuesday?). Thursday morning, B and I are having breakfast when the subject of R’s bachelor party comes up. After all, R came to B’s—co-hosted it really, since it was at the appartment where they were living. Hmmm…with R flying in from out of town, had any of his old friends thought to throw him a bachelor party? Probably not. At that point, B decides he should throw him one, that is, if R has time that evening or the evening after (wedding eve). Now, I agree with the general idea (that R is deserving of a bachelor party and that B would be a good one to host such an event), but at such short notice I worry that no one will be able to come…including the groom. So I suggest a feasibility study—call the groom and 4 “key” friends. If they can make it, the party is on and e-vites should be sent to everyone who might possibly come. Thursday afternoon I receive such an e-vite:
An egregious error has taken place in that R is coming to town to get married and his old roommates have failed to plan a bachelor's party. R, the one guy who would single handedly plan and execute all of our bachelor's parties even if they were all on his birthday. This mistake is hereby being rectified as YOU are invited to his bachelor's party Friday, August 1, at the Tuley's residence. Party time is from 10:15 PM until 11:30 PM. Refreshments will be provided, please notify me of any dietary requests (i.e. if you're doctor only lets you eat chocolate ice cream instead of the gallons of vanilla already purchased).
Of course, I wasn’t actually invited. My e-vite was notification that a bachelor party would be held at my house the next night. Unfortunately, the feasibility study was not conducted before the e-vites went out and the key friends were all out of town. So the crowd was very small. Seven people came including the groom, his brother, and two childhood friends who had flown in for the occasion. I served as a party consultant, purchasing lots of chips, salsa, and onion dip to go with the ice cream that was already in our freezer and planning the one “activity.” The party ended sometime around 12:30-1:00 AM (although we got a call from the groom after he left saying he was in our parking lot with a dead battery. So we gave him a jump start and went to bed closer to 2 AM). The whole thing turned out to have been a complete success.
Exhibit A: B and I were greeted by R’s whole family the next day with comments like, “We hear you guys know how to throw a party.” “My husband told me all about it. Thank you so much for doing that.” “I hear R loved it.”
Exhibit B: The groom said at the party that he finally felt like he was actually going to his own wedding. All this time it felt like he was just attending someone else’s wedding. Finally it hit him at the bachelors party that HE was getting married in the morning.
Exhibit C: After realizing he was actually going to his own wedding, he still went through with it.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
"burning all the shoes off everyone"
The Kennedy Space Center was a great way to spend a day. It’s a huge place and there were lots of things to do. Security had to kick us out an hour after they closed. Here are some photos and some things I learned:
http://picasaweb.google.com/lyndseyandbrett/Orlando
1. When the shuttle is launched, the flames would kill a person standing within 400 feet of the launch pad.
2. The sound would kill a person standing within 800 feet of the launch pad.
3. They say the alligators would kill you within 3 miles [ha ha ha]. I wanted to see an alligator while we were being bussed from launch pad to launch pad etc. The space center is on a large island (very large), and because it's Florida, there’s tons of shallow standing water. I stared out the window each time we were on a bus. Finally, I DID see one! He was big and only halfway covered with water, which made it a good view of him. There were tons of birds around him. I tried to get B to look in time but we had already zoomed by.
4. When you’re on the moon, there’s no atmosphere and so there is no depth perception. This makes things a little dangerous. One time, the astronauts on the moon were told (by the earth) that they should be standing on the edge of a huge canyon (think Grand Canyon), but the astronauts couldn’t even tell! Sure, mountains in the distance on earth are kind of hazy and purple, but I never thought the effect was noticeable over smaller distances—like everyday distances. I guess we do depend on this.
5. If you've been to Earth, you know that here we can tell how big something is by sizing it up against other things near it, like cars, trees, people, etc. This could help the astronauts judge distances—by context. But, there are no people, houses, trees, etc. by which to gage the size of things (like rocks). So, if they see a rock, they don’t know if it’s right next to them or if it’s far far away, and if, when they get there, it will be gigantic. So it’s not just getting on the moon that’s dangerous. Walking around is risky too. It makes me want to add a new verse to my favorite Sesame Street song: DANGER! (I love this song so much...)
6. When the spaceship is being prepared for a launch, it is connected to its three rocket-things in a big hangar. At this point it looks just like it does on the launch pad; it’s even pointed straight up towards the sky. They move the ready-to-launch pointed-toward-the-sky rocket-spaceship (it’s huge and heavy) on a massive roll-y platform all the way from the hanger to the launch pad. Of course, those rockets are full of fuel and the shuttle costs billions of dollars, so you really don't want the thing to tip over as you move it to the launchpad. So the roll-y platform moves at speeds under 1mph. The trip (<1mile) takes hours and burns over four hundred gallons of gas—one gallon every 35 feet.
7. I never knew that the big white spaceship (called an orbiter) is basically hollow. Do they fill it with astronauts? No, stuff—like satellites. They open up the roof and suit up in a space suit to go let the satellite into space. I was a little disappointed. I had pictured people floating around in their socks throughout every inch of that big ship. There are far fewer inches than I had hoped. No wonder the videos/photos always look so cramped. If they weren’t carrying enormous satellites, they could get comfortable.
8. In the seconds before liftoff they shoot tons of sparks under the rockets. At the same time they are squirting tons of water at the base of the platform. Both of these have scientific reasons, but I think they are mostly for mood-setting. Sparks flying? That’s fun! Then during ignition, the tons of water become tons of steam billowing in the air. Cool effect NASA! Also, when it ignites, clampy things holding the rocket to the platform break and retract. This causes the whole rocket/spaceship to tip forward. Then it starts to tip back to vertical. When it reaches vertical, it lifts off. That’s fun too. I know from experience because we went on the liftoff simulation ride. The tipping part was my favorite.
9. I already knew that astronauts, however cool and smart they are, are crazy. However, I sort of felt that they were all the same crazy. Now I know that the craziness of the astronauts of my lifetime does not compare to the craziness of the first bunches of astronauts. They were really nuts.
10. The landing machine that put the first people on the moon had the computer memory of a pocket calculator. That’s what they say, but I don’t believe it. That’s when I realized all this space stuff is just made up. I won’t be fooled anymore! Just kidding about “all” this space stuff. But the pocket calculator needs some clarification. Do they mean a TI something calculator? Those can be put in a pocket. I just can't believe that it was run by the pocket calculator they flashed on the screen during the presentation. That was just for effect too. [Too much, NASA; too much.] In any case, the computing capabilities were WAY too small, because the machine overshot its landing and was heading down to land in rocky territory where landing would have been death (take off too, on the off chance that they survived a landing). Also, there was an error code the computer was sending out that no one (on earth) recognized (not about the missed or rocky landing). See, mission control hadn't memorized this code, thinking it was too unlikely. So, Neil took the flying controls off autopilot to try to find a safe place to land because at this point they were so close to the surface that they would not be able to abort the mission and head out into space (I guess they would have kicked up too much rocky debris), so they WOULD die if they didn't land. The trouble was he only had a minute to find a good landing place or else they would have burned up all the fuel they had for the trip down and they would not make it back to the spaceship from the safe landing spot. So they HAD to find somewhere good to land in seconds or they would have been stuck there.
http://picasaweb.google.com/lyndseyandbrett/Orlando
1. When the shuttle is launched, the flames would kill a person standing within 400 feet of the launch pad.
2. The sound would kill a person standing within 800 feet of the launch pad.
3. They say the alligators would kill you within 3 miles [ha ha ha]. I wanted to see an alligator while we were being bussed from launch pad to launch pad etc. The space center is on a large island (very large), and because it's Florida, there’s tons of shallow standing water. I stared out the window each time we were on a bus. Finally, I DID see one! He was big and only halfway covered with water, which made it a good view of him. There were tons of birds around him. I tried to get B to look in time but we had already zoomed by.
4. When you’re on the moon, there’s no atmosphere and so there is no depth perception. This makes things a little dangerous. One time, the astronauts on the moon were told (by the earth) that they should be standing on the edge of a huge canyon (think Grand Canyon), but the astronauts couldn’t even tell! Sure, mountains in the distance on earth are kind of hazy and purple, but I never thought the effect was noticeable over smaller distances—like everyday distances. I guess we do depend on this.
5. If you've been to Earth, you know that here we can tell how big something is by sizing it up against other things near it, like cars, trees, people, etc. This could help the astronauts judge distances—by context. But, there are no people, houses, trees, etc. by which to gage the size of things (like rocks). So, if they see a rock, they don’t know if it’s right next to them or if it’s far far away, and if, when they get there, it will be gigantic. So it’s not just getting on the moon that’s dangerous. Walking around is risky too. It makes me want to add a new verse to my favorite Sesame Street song: DANGER! (I love this song so much...)
6. When the spaceship is being prepared for a launch, it is connected to its three rocket-things in a big hangar. At this point it looks just like it does on the launch pad; it’s even pointed straight up towards the sky. They move the ready-to-launch pointed-toward-the-sky rocket-spaceship (it’s huge and heavy) on a massive roll-y platform all the way from the hanger to the launch pad. Of course, those rockets are full of fuel and the shuttle costs billions of dollars, so you really don't want the thing to tip over as you move it to the launchpad. So the roll-y platform moves at speeds under 1mph. The trip (<1mile) takes hours and burns over four hundred gallons of gas—one gallon every 35 feet.
7. I never knew that the big white spaceship (called an orbiter) is basically hollow. Do they fill it with astronauts? No, stuff—like satellites. They open up the roof and suit up in a space suit to go let the satellite into space. I was a little disappointed. I had pictured people floating around in their socks throughout every inch of that big ship. There are far fewer inches than I had hoped. No wonder the videos/photos always look so cramped. If they weren’t carrying enormous satellites, they could get comfortable.
8. In the seconds before liftoff they shoot tons of sparks under the rockets. At the same time they are squirting tons of water at the base of the platform. Both of these have scientific reasons, but I think they are mostly for mood-setting. Sparks flying? That’s fun! Then during ignition, the tons of water become tons of steam billowing in the air. Cool effect NASA! Also, when it ignites, clampy things holding the rocket to the platform break and retract. This causes the whole rocket/spaceship to tip forward. Then it starts to tip back to vertical. When it reaches vertical, it lifts off. That’s fun too. I know from experience because we went on the liftoff simulation ride. The tipping part was my favorite.
9. I already knew that astronauts, however cool and smart they are, are crazy. However, I sort of felt that they were all the same crazy. Now I know that the craziness of the astronauts of my lifetime does not compare to the craziness of the first bunches of astronauts. They were really nuts.
10. The landing machine that put the first people on the moon had the computer memory of a pocket calculator. That’s what they say, but I don’t believe it. That’s when I realized all this space stuff is just made up. I won’t be fooled anymore! Just kidding about “all” this space stuff. But the pocket calculator needs some clarification. Do they mean a TI something calculator? Those can be put in a pocket. I just can't believe that it was run by the pocket calculator they flashed on the screen during the presentation. That was just for effect too. [Too much, NASA; too much.] In any case, the computing capabilities were WAY too small, because the machine overshot its landing and was heading down to land in rocky territory where landing would have been death (take off too, on the off chance that they survived a landing). Also, there was an error code the computer was sending out that no one (on earth) recognized (not about the missed or rocky landing). See, mission control hadn't memorized this code, thinking it was too unlikely. So, Neil took the flying controls off autopilot to try to find a safe place to land because at this point they were so close to the surface that they would not be able to abort the mission and head out into space (I guess they would have kicked up too much rocky debris), so they WOULD die if they didn't land. The trouble was he only had a minute to find a good landing place or else they would have burned up all the fuel they had for the trip down and they would not make it back to the spaceship from the safe landing spot. So they HAD to find somewhere good to land in seconds or they would have been stuck there.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
The anti-Cyril
A friend of mine offered to let me use a Delta “Buddy Pass” for my one-way ticket to Orlando. Being a big risk taker, I accepted the offer. After all, it might save me $62. Of course, I knew it would likely cost me $80 to $300 and 12 to 28 hours, but it was worth a shot. As most people know, Delta employees, families, and friends may fly for the cost of taxes on any Delta flight—anywhere—as long as it has seats available. Of course, they will try to sell these seats until the breezeway starts pulling away from the plane. At that point names will be called off the “standby list,” including the names of Delta employees, families, and friends, as well as people who missed their last flight, want to get on an earlier flight, have a friend on this flight, or any other reason. Names are called [yelled], people yell back, people yell at those people, running and shoving ensue, and finally, the lucky ones who’ve made it through the tunnel attempt to leap across the widening divide. And then, all is quiet back in the terminal for another hour and fifteen minutes, until this scene repeats itself. The scene itself is over in just a few seconds, so during those few seconds you must be paying attention and be poised to run or you’ll miss your opportunity (on the off-chance that the opportunity ever even happens for you). I had signed up for a certain flight, meaning I had put my name on the top of the list of “standbys” a couple weeks in advance, which means nothing. I had a late afternoon mid-week flight. There were 34 seats left, and there would be five more Orlando-bound flights throughout the evening. My plan was to HOPE to get on the first flight (as the later flights would likely be more booked) and to just camp out all evening till I did get on. If nothing worked, I’d head to the greyhound station in the middle of the night and spend the next 14 hours on a bus. Of course, my name was at the top of the standby list only on the day I signed up. Each day more people signed up “ahead” of me (seniority) and more legitimate seats were sold, so that by the day of departure, each of the six flights was oversold and had 20(+) standby passengers. I have explained all of this so that you will know why I was where I was and what I was doing when the strangest thing of 2008 happened to me. That is, the strangest thing thus far…
I had arranged to leave work early. I caught the subway to the airport. The mental states of some of my co-passengers were occupying some of my thoughts. I made it to the airport and through security. I was on the airport train heading to the terminals when a guy asks me if this train is going to a certain terminal. His voice sounds EXACTLY like our friend Cyril—which means he is French. But, not only does he sound the same as Cyril, he looks just like him too. It’s uncanny. When I look up at him to say, “yes, this train goes to your terminal,” I’m so surprised by his appearance that I almost wonder whether instead of looking just like Cyril, it really IS Cyril. But I know it isn’t, because if it were Cyril, I wouldn’t have thought “he looks like Cyril,” I would have thought “Hey! It’s Cyril!” Also, had he been Cyril, he would have recognized me, and this guy clearly didn’t. All the same, I was fighting back the urge to say, “Hey Cyril, don’t you recognize me? It's me!” But I knew it wasn’t him. It was so eerie and amusing that I felt compelled to watch him the whole time he was on the train. He was traveling with a dark-haired guy. He was wearing jeans of a type Cyril doesn’t wear. He had a backpack on that was so overstuffed he couldn’t put one large ToyStoryII piggy bank inside and had to carry it. In any case, the things I observed were not things that this Cyril imposter has in common with Cyril. But boy they do look and speak the same. It was so odd that I wondered if some of the effects of the drugs my fellow subway riders had used were affecting me. We get to his terminal first. He leaves. When the train gets to mine, I decide to find something to eat. After all, there are about 90 minutes before my first attempt at an Orlando flight, and I will never be 90 minutes away from a potential departure for the rest of the night. While waiting in line at McDonalds, someone starts talking to me. I look over at the person who just walked up next to me and see CYRIL. REAL CYRIL. I just stare and I probably looked sick. This can’t be happening. These drugs are CRAZY. I sort of go deaf as I wonder whether he really could have been the guy in the train who looked similar to him? One guy I instatnly knew wasn't Cyril but looked like him, the other I instatnly knew was Cyril but couldn't be...right? I look at his clothes. Totally different, normal Cyril clothes. His bag: a nice rolly suitcase instead of an overstuffed backpack. No other dark-haired guy hanging around. No hideous plastic ToyStoryII piggy bank in sight. At this point Cyril is really wondering why I haven’t said anything and why I appear not to recognize him. He may be wondering why he was so sure I was who he thought I was. Perhaps he’s beginning to think he’s got the wrong person. No, not Cyril. He knows he’s right and I hear him say, “Do you recognize me? [do I? I recognize him everywhere, apparently…] It’s…” “Cyril,” we both say. I try to recover and act normal for the next 15 minutes as I chat with him, although I know it doesn’t make up for behaving like I’ve just seen a ghost. Can I say, “Oh, Cyril, you won't belive what just happened! I was JUST thinking about you because a guy who looks and sounds like you got on the train and he was so much like you that I wondered if he was you, but he wasn't, and now here you are. It's quite shoking!”? I probably shouldn't say this, so we get all caught up first...then I tell him. Cyril doesn’t care though. He’s the nicest guy. Plus, he’s heading home to France to visit his girlfriend, who, news to me, is now his fiancée. We made plans to attend the Atlanta Symphony this fall (and spring!). I settled in at my gate, content that even if I didn’t make any of the flights and ended up hanging out at the greyhound in the middle of the night and riding a greyhound all the next day, the Cyril “experience” was worth it. What a trip!
I had arranged to leave work early. I caught the subway to the airport. The mental states of some of my co-passengers were occupying some of my thoughts. I made it to the airport and through security. I was on the airport train heading to the terminals when a guy asks me if this train is going to a certain terminal. His voice sounds EXACTLY like our friend Cyril—which means he is French. But, not only does he sound the same as Cyril, he looks just like him too. It’s uncanny. When I look up at him to say, “yes, this train goes to your terminal,” I’m so surprised by his appearance that I almost wonder whether instead of looking just like Cyril, it really IS Cyril. But I know it isn’t, because if it were Cyril, I wouldn’t have thought “he looks like Cyril,” I would have thought “Hey! It’s Cyril!” Also, had he been Cyril, he would have recognized me, and this guy clearly didn’t. All the same, I was fighting back the urge to say, “Hey Cyril, don’t you recognize me? It's me!” But I knew it wasn’t him. It was so eerie and amusing that I felt compelled to watch him the whole time he was on the train. He was traveling with a dark-haired guy. He was wearing jeans of a type Cyril doesn’t wear. He had a backpack on that was so overstuffed he couldn’t put one large ToyStoryII piggy bank inside and had to carry it. In any case, the things I observed were not things that this Cyril imposter has in common with Cyril. But boy they do look and speak the same. It was so odd that I wondered if some of the effects of the drugs my fellow subway riders had used were affecting me. We get to his terminal first. He leaves. When the train gets to mine, I decide to find something to eat. After all, there are about 90 minutes before my first attempt at an Orlando flight, and I will never be 90 minutes away from a potential departure for the rest of the night. While waiting in line at McDonalds, someone starts talking to me. I look over at the person who just walked up next to me and see CYRIL. REAL CYRIL. I just stare and I probably looked sick. This can’t be happening. These drugs are CRAZY. I sort of go deaf as I wonder whether he really could have been the guy in the train who looked similar to him? One guy I instatnly knew wasn't Cyril but looked like him, the other I instatnly knew was Cyril but couldn't be...right? I look at his clothes. Totally different, normal Cyril clothes. His bag: a nice rolly suitcase instead of an overstuffed backpack. No other dark-haired guy hanging around. No hideous plastic ToyStoryII piggy bank in sight. At this point Cyril is really wondering why I haven’t said anything and why I appear not to recognize him. He may be wondering why he was so sure I was who he thought I was. Perhaps he’s beginning to think he’s got the wrong person. No, not Cyril. He knows he’s right and I hear him say, “Do you recognize me? [do I? I recognize him everywhere, apparently…] It’s…” “Cyril,” we both say. I try to recover and act normal for the next 15 minutes as I chat with him, although I know it doesn’t make up for behaving like I’ve just seen a ghost. Can I say, “Oh, Cyril, you won't belive what just happened! I was JUST thinking about you because a guy who looks and sounds like you got on the train and he was so much like you that I wondered if he was you, but he wasn't, and now here you are. It's quite shoking!”? I probably shouldn't say this, so we get all caught up first...then I tell him. Cyril doesn’t care though. He’s the nicest guy. Plus, he’s heading home to France to visit his girlfriend, who, news to me, is now his fiancée. We made plans to attend the Atlanta Symphony this fall (and spring!). I settled in at my gate, content that even if I didn’t make any of the flights and ended up hanging out at the greyhound in the middle of the night and riding a greyhound all the next day, the Cyril “experience” was worth it. What a trip!
Thursday, August 7, 2008
2008 Penny-A-Page Reading List
[I guess I had better get this over with. I could have had it! Only, my editing side job made me an offer I couldn't refuse. (Yes, that's right folks, more than 25 cents an hour!)]
Lyndsey:
(Unless otherwise noted, all books are by CS Lewis.)
200 The Magician’s Nephew (*)
187 The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe (*)
222 The Horse and His Boy (**)
186 Prince Caspian (*)
246 The Voyage of the Dawn Treader (****)
241 The Silver Chair (*)
209 The Last Battle (*)
329 The Geography of Bliss by Weiner (***)
32 The Curious Case of Benjamin Button by Fitzgerald (***)
317 Notes from a Small Island by Bryson (0)
2169 TOTAL
Brett:
365 Last of the Breed by L’Amour
399 Life Expectancy by Koontz
417 The Broker by Grisham
238 All the Names by Saramago
365 The Shadow of the Hegemon by Card
1784 TOTAL
Lyndsey:
(Unless otherwise noted, all books are by CS Lewis.)
200 The Magician’s Nephew (*)
187 The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe (*)
222 The Horse and His Boy (**)
186 Prince Caspian (*)
246 The Voyage of the Dawn Treader (****)
241 The Silver Chair (*)
209 The Last Battle (*)
329 The Geography of Bliss by Weiner (***)
32 The Curious Case of Benjamin Button by Fitzgerald (***)
317 Notes from a Small Island by Bryson (0)
2169 TOTAL
Brett:
365 Last of the Breed by L’Amour
399 Life Expectancy by Koontz
417 The Broker by Grisham
238 All the Names by Saramago
365 The Shadow of the Hegemon by Card
1784 TOTAL
A Golden Ticket
[The last three weeks have offered little time for blogging. How’s that? Well, we’ve been on vacation, moving, and celebrating (everything from the end of the internship to the end of Penny-A-Page to birthdays to weddings to funerals to job offers). But, it is true that I HAVE attended work for much of the last three weeks and, therefore, should have had time to blog daily. Alas no. My side job as a freelance editor (which by nature follows a feast/famine cycle) picked up at the same time all these other events started, and I almost haven’t had enough time at my first job to do my second job! The nerve!]
I was so excited to find the perfect guitar book for B’s V-day present this year! He had concluded, after searching the internet “extensively,” that a certain type of songs put into arrangements by a certain artist did not exist, and ordered himself a “next-best-thing.” Luckily, I have considerably more time to search the internet and I managed to find the exact thing he wanted. He was thrilled! He couldn’t believe his luck. How did you find this? Once he was convinced that the book in his hand was real and was not going to vanish like hologram, I simply explained that I had contacted the artist and commissioned him to put this book together. Then he gave me my gift. I was even more thrilled than he had been. Also, I was shocked that he had come up with something so creative and perfect! Out of his backpack he pulled four circles/trianges/logs of “stinky cheeses” and two boxes of “fancy crackers.” A gift that screams Happy Valentines Day, verily. He had decided this was a good gift because I like feta cheese and he thinks it’s gross and stinky (like so many things I love: onions, garlic, rotten milk…). Well, I never buy any “stinky cheeses” besides feta, because they are so expensive, so this gift was so much fun! What a treat! I really loved it and I kept mentioning what a great gift it was for weeks. Brett was probably as surprised and pleased with my reaction to his gift as I was with the gift itself. So, he gave me the same thing for my birthday last week. Ha! Once again, his voice announces “STINKY CHEESES” as I open the…fridge. See, my real present is something I convinced him to agree to: upgraded tickets to a performance in September (we had decided to buy tickets, but I wanted to splurge and couldn’t justify it to myself, so I asked him to make the difference between the tickets my birthday present). On top of that, we had just returned from 4 days of playing in Orlando the night before my birthday, so that stuff could be counted as birthday celebration too (although we would have done them with or without a birthday), so the actual birthday would have gone entirely unnoticed if not for the stinky cheeses, and he couldn’t have that. After all, as my youngest brother informed me a couple years ago, this would be my golden birthday. Although I was all of 25 at that time, I had not yet learned about golden birthdays. D, in his 15 years, had managed to learn that your golden birthday is the one when you turn the same number of years as the day of the month on which your birthday falls. This is frustrating to some who, like D, have had their golden birthdays pass them by without their knowledge. D’s golden birthday was also his first birthday—doesn’t that count for something, I ask? E was 3 and T was 7, so I alone would be aware of my golden birthday as it was happening. All I can say, D, is I wish you could have been there!
I was so excited to find the perfect guitar book for B’s V-day present this year! He had concluded, after searching the internet “extensively,” that a certain type of songs put into arrangements by a certain artist did not exist, and ordered himself a “next-best-thing.” Luckily, I have considerably more time to search the internet and I managed to find the exact thing he wanted. He was thrilled! He couldn’t believe his luck. How did you find this? Once he was convinced that the book in his hand was real and was not going to vanish like hologram, I simply explained that I had contacted the artist and commissioned him to put this book together. Then he gave me my gift. I was even more thrilled than he had been. Also, I was shocked that he had come up with something so creative and perfect! Out of his backpack he pulled four circles/trianges/logs of “stinky cheeses” and two boxes of “fancy crackers.” A gift that screams Happy Valentines Day, verily. He had decided this was a good gift because I like feta cheese and he thinks it’s gross and stinky (like so many things I love: onions, garlic, rotten milk…). Well, I never buy any “stinky cheeses” besides feta, because they are so expensive, so this gift was so much fun! What a treat! I really loved it and I kept mentioning what a great gift it was for weeks. Brett was probably as surprised and pleased with my reaction to his gift as I was with the gift itself. So, he gave me the same thing for my birthday last week. Ha! Once again, his voice announces “STINKY CHEESES” as I open the…fridge. See, my real present is something I convinced him to agree to: upgraded tickets to a performance in September (we had decided to buy tickets, but I wanted to splurge and couldn’t justify it to myself, so I asked him to make the difference between the tickets my birthday present). On top of that, we had just returned from 4 days of playing in Orlando the night before my birthday, so that stuff could be counted as birthday celebration too (although we would have done them with or without a birthday), so the actual birthday would have gone entirely unnoticed if not for the stinky cheeses, and he couldn’t have that. After all, as my youngest brother informed me a couple years ago, this would be my golden birthday. Although I was all of 25 at that time, I had not yet learned about golden birthdays. D, in his 15 years, had managed to learn that your golden birthday is the one when you turn the same number of years as the day of the month on which your birthday falls. This is frustrating to some who, like D, have had their golden birthdays pass them by without their knowledge. D’s golden birthday was also his first birthday—doesn’t that count for something, I ask? E was 3 and T was 7, so I alone would be aware of my golden birthday as it was happening. All I can say, D, is I wish you could have been there!
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