Big Finish!

Penny-A-Page is winding down for me but only in terms of days—not in terms of effort! Because I started my three months before the other participants, I am about to begin my “last-hurrah-big-push-for-the-finish.” However, I admit that I have reached a delusional state of desperation, knowing the wisest/safest way to proceed and choosing the opposite strategy. I can’t explain why I’m choosing the least likely route to my goal, but I’m happy to share the route and hopefully spread the giddy delusional excitement I feel! I took a good look at what I have accomplished and what my present effort might net me. I discovered that if I can finish all three books I’m currently reading, I will be 130 pages short of the $30 mark. Of course, I realize that 600 pages stand between me and being 130 pages short of $30, but it’s still so tantalizing. I’ve made a plan.
Step One: Finish all three books I’m reading.
Step Two is where I lose all reason. Of course, the smartest thing to do, should I actually get within 130 pages of $30, is to find an interesting 130-page book to read. In every sense, a “quick” read. If I finish the 130-page book, I should proceed by reading more short, interesting books, because, as we all know, you get NO credit for the number of pages you read from a book you did not finish. It’s like the “safe” amounts of money on Who Wants to Be a Millionaire—(I don’t know exactly what they are) once you reach $16,000, you are guaranteed $16,000, even if you don’t make it to the next guaranteed amount: $25,000; therefore, you die at $20,000, you only get $16,000, etc. So, my curious Step Two is to read a work of non-fiction. Bad choice, I know it! It also happens to be 916 pages long. Ha ha!
This has made me think of the time I rented that truck a couple months ago while my car was at the dealership. The rental guy attempted to get me to pay an additional $20 for extra insurance so that they would not “go after” my insurance company for little things—such as a mark left from a car door being opened too close to my vehicle in a parking lot. What a scam! I told him I did NOT want the special $20-worth of extra insurance, and he completely shocked me by replying, “Ah, you’re a risk taker.” Excuse me? I do NOT consider myself a risk taker generally—certainly not when it comes to driving. What did this mean? Was he already intent on “going after” my insurance because I was unwilling to pay the extra $20? Was the "risk" of having my insurance "gone after" bigger than I had judged it to be when I considered the likelihood of parking lot knicks? I was so confused, my eyes darting everywhere but at the salesperson as I recalculated. I was offended by his comment and felt so badgered and manipulated about what I thoroughly and increasingly felt was a scam that I stood my ground and would not consider paying. But now, judging from the way I hope to finish Penny-A-Page, I realize that, yes, I AM a risk taker. A BIG risk taker. Next time a rental guy takes me for one, I’ll remember Penny-A-Page, for one thing, and I will stare straight at the sales person unflinchingly [in the words of a civil war soldier] "with eyes that would stare the devil out of countenance."

It down't mattr if yoor blak or wite

I knew nothing of Chick-fil-A before moving to Atlanta. B, however, is a big fan. He would save his lunch money for weeks in order to buy a Chick-fil-A sandwich. He has us eat there every chance he gets. “I don’t know what I do for dinner tonight.” “Chick-fil-A!” Sadly, I remain a bit disappointed with the coveted sandwich. It’s nothing but a bun and some chicken. No sauce and no toppings other than two slices of pickles. The fries (which are normally my favorite food at any fast food restaurant) are waffle fries—also a disappointment. But we probably frequent Chick-fil-A more than any other fast food establishment and I find myself requesting it on occasion all because of the handspun milkshakes. Best milkshakes bar none. In November when T came to visit, B knew he had an opportunity to get a trip to Chick-fil-A out of the arrangement. After all, if I had never visited one growing up, she probably hadn’t either. His ardor for Chick-fil-A made an impression on T and prompted her to notify me Friday morning that it was “Cow Appreciashun Day”—dress up like a cow and get a free meal! “You guys should totally do it!” B was at home sleeping, but I knew I didn’t need to call and run it by him—he’d never turn down Chick-fil-A, free or otherwise. So, after studying pictures of cows on the Chick-fil-A website, I mentally made an inventory of our cow costume elements and costume-making materials, ceasing my research and reflection only after I was satisfied that I could produce something passable. We both have white pants, white shirts, and black shoes. We have some black fabric from my Phantom of the Opera costume which could be cut into all sorts of shapes and sizes to make “spots,” which, according to my observations, are not circles and often are not even round-ish. Black socks on hands for “hoofs” and bells (courtesy of nusery) would make a nice touch (though in the end we forgot to use both). B was predictably excited about this idea when I got home but balked at my traditional cow interpretation. He wanted to be a black cow with white spots. I said, “ARE cows black with white spots?” To which he replied, “The zebras have been arguing about this for years.” Whatever. He can be in charge of creating a costume he thinks will get him a free meal and feels [most] comfortable wearing. He put on black pants, shirt, shoes, and baseball cap (which I thought was a great touch). Then he proceeded to cut perfect circles of all sizes out of white paper. Clearly he had not ever noticed the shapes of cow spots. I thought he looked more like a clown than a cow, but maybe this is what cows look like in his mind. Once he was covered in dots (head to toe, literally), the effect was truly stunning. He looked great—not like a cow, but really very cool. He told me I looked “good”—and by good I’m sure I did not look “good” but rather “authentic.” We then walked two blocks down Atlanta’s main street to our nearest Chick-fil-A. They gave us our choice of meals without any hassle, though the assistant manager mentioned that he had never seen a cow (or cow appreciator) who looked like B. On seeing his pictures the next day, B remarked, a bit surprised, “I don’t look anything LIKE a cow!” The Chick-fil-A marketing department would have been proud though, not only because they got free advertising as we walked to and from the restaurant at Brett’s urging, but because he came up with his own parting slogan (which I figured he had read off one of their clever signs in the restaurant): "Past-u[re] later, you graze-y kids!" All in all it was a great occasion. We will celebrate again in 2009.

Luigi's Legacy

When we moved to Atlanta, we had little furniture. In the months before my arrival, B had acquired a bed (from a garage sale), a desk (from Craigslist), and a bookshelf (which was really supposed to be a bar and had been abandoned in B’s backyard; he dragged the rotting thing inside and dried it out). During my unemployed months, I scoured the Craigslist ads for Atlanta. There are hundreds, perhaps thousands, of posts daily in the furniture section alone. There are also thousands, perhaps millions, of people looking, so you have to be very quick. After a month of searching, I had the good fortune of being the second person to look at a table and set of chairs. They weren’t great, but they were cheap. I bought them. The next day I was quick enough to get to someone’s house in time to buy his VCR and DVD player ($15). Unlike the table seller, this person was a man, so I took B with me. Although the seller posted pictures of several “for sale items,” nothing besides the VCR and DVD player caught my eye in the ad. However, when we walked in and saw the couch, B loved it. I liked it better in real life than in the photo online. It was small (I am not a fan of the oversized furniture look), and although it was primarily a dark solid color, it had many tiny different colors throughout. B was clearly taken with the couch, so I played the part of the hard sale. “How much for the couch?” “$20?” Whoa! Evidently the seller had limited knowledge of the current going-rate for couches on Atlanta’s Craigslist. “We’ll take it!” The man then offered us his table and chairs, which B really liked. (“Um…Honey, we HAVE a table and chairs…since yesterday…”) How much? $80. We got it (and resold the table I bought within hours of posting it right back on Craigslist). Would you like a coffee table? Well, again, B would. How much? $15. Now the seller, who’s name happened to be Luigi, was getting excited. It looked like we would buy anything. He started offering things he had not posted online and clearly had not been planning to sell that day. He brought us in his room. Would you like this desk? We already had a desk—not that that fact prevented the purchase of a second table and set of chairs—but this desk happened to be the exact same desk model that B already bought off Craigslist (for a better price than Luigi purchased his [also on Craigslist]; they compared prices), so he was content to keep the one we had at home rather than acquire a second [identical] desk. And then, Luigi offered a piece of furniture I was not willing to refuse. Hidden in his closet, covered with clothes was a dresser! Low, wide, 7-drawers, painted unevenly in yellow, with color-crayon scribbled on the side of it! “How much?” I asked calmly, wishing "Please let it be only $50, I don’t want to pay more…but I will." “$20?” came the uncertain reply. “I’LL TAKE IT!” Luigi emptied his clothes from the drawers—half of which needed replacement runners. And thus “the dresser” came into our lives, along with our couch and table and chairs and VCR and DVD player and coffee table and tickets to the Braves game that afternoon, all delivered to us by Luigi himself for a grand total of $185, including delivery! Upon hearing our good fortune, T scolded, “You took advantage of Luigi!”
The purchase of the dresser was entirely my doing. B never liked it. He blamed it on the color. The color hadn’t bothered me at all because from the start I could see what the dresser could become! I had vision! Six months later it was time to start the reconstruction. I purchased an orbital sander for Thanksgiving and began months of sanding. Finding the correct runners took longer than anticipated as well. No chain stores carried the kind I needed, so I used my time at work to search the internet. B reviewed trigonometry with me so that I could figure out how to do some structural repairs. He was an excellent consultant and hard laborer, never forgetting that this was my project. I couldn’t (or wouldn’t) have finished this without him. So, Thanksgiving marked the beginning of the project. Sanding concluded in April, structural repairs were completed in May. Staining happened in June…and July. I stained the drawers one night. Lots of stain. So thick it took days to dry and was red and shiny. I didn’t like it. So, when B came home on the weekends, he sanded it all off! I told him what I had witnessed while staining. I had realized after the first five drawers, that I did not like the look, so I tried a different technique with the last two. All of the drawers needed to be re-sanded and re-stained, but this time I had a better idea of what I wanted and maybe how to get it. B attempted the re-stain on the dresser base and it turned out fabulously! We did the drawers, and I think it’s the most beautiful dresser ever! It’s NOT at all what I had in mind when I started, but I like what we ended up doing (getting?) even more! I describe it as “rustic.” It is not shiny, and I love how each drawer and each knob is unique! In my eyes it looks old and unique. The thing is, we don’t know what it really looks like, that is, to people who are not invested in it. It is very possible that the same thing we call “rustic” would prompt a visitor to remark, “Have you ever thought of re-staining this?”
If you are interested in this project, I am attaching photos of some of the stages. We have no good “before” picture. All I could do was throw in a photo of me opening Christmas presents back on December 16 (our American Christmas morning). The dresser is behind me. The top row of drawers can be seen in their uneven yellow brilliance; the middle drawers are missing (they were being sanded at the time); the bottom drawers have been sanded. It’s hard to know whether with flash or without is more true to life. I don’t think either one is an accurate representation. The picture at the top of this post is "with flash." The color around the outside of the dresser is probably the best representation I could get with my camera at night. But the center of the dresser is so washed out by the flash... You get the idea though. I estimate that the entire project cost $110 ($20 to Luigi, and then the rest at HD, Rockler’s, and ACE [truly, the helpful place]). The real money sucker was the new drawer runners; they were about half the total cost. (The cost of the sander is not included in the total project cost, because it was an “investment.”) Also, had I stained the drawers to my liking the first time around, we would have saved about $10. The total time commitment was seven months. I worked on the dresser every month, but not every week. It seemed like I was always working on it because various drawers were lined up in the living room and their contents has been on our floor for months. I recommend doing a project like this with a little more space and, more importantly, with a little outdoor space (like a garage or driveway or yard…or, in our case, an…alley?). I will certainly try this project again (I’d like to do our bed!), but the longer the project drew on, the better the bed began to look. No more sanding this year. I already have a new project that I can't wait to start! B laughs and rolls his eyes. He has already declared I'm on my own with this one. It will likely take years! The good news is that it will not take over the house! Look for an update in the far, far future!

http://picasaweb.google.com/lyndseyandbrett/Dresser

Viva

I've just learned how to put photo collections on my blog without forcing everyone to look at the pictures! Click on the link if you want to see photos of our Navidad in Mexico last year. I grabbed an assortment of photos--not all the photos we have and not necessarily the best ones! The captions simply state the name of the place, so that if a reader sees a place he or she MUST visit before death, the planning process will be easier!

http://picasaweb.google.com/lyndseyandbrett/Navidad2007

Ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-changes

A couple weeks ago, I pulled into the parking lot at work and saw that although I was not early, there were almost NO cars in the lot yet. I gleefully parked in the best parking spot I’ve scored in the nine months I’ve been working here. Then, the very next day, I found an even BETTER spot—the BEST spot of the lot, in fact—first row, dead center with the building’s front doors. The only people who could park closer would be parking in the “visitor” spaces. How exciting! It only took nine months for me to get a turn in the best spot in the lot! But in the days since I’ve wondered why it is that for nine months the best spot I could get was fairly constant and now I can occasionally get one row closer—the front row. I attributed the vacancy to people being on vacation or being lazy or having to deal with children on summer break slowing down the morning routine. Then, one day I went to lunch with a coworker. When we came back to the office she drove in a different way and proceeded to park UNDER the parking deck. Apparently there are two floors of parking underneath the deck that I park on. You’d think this would be noticeable, but it’s really not. Georgia has no hills to speak of, but the ground is constantly changing elevation by 1-40 feet. Add that to the all the trees and vines that cover everything and are 60 feet high—seriously, they are so thick they provide excellent screens everywhere you go and you can never see very far (or recognize where you are). When I walk out of my building I could swear I was in Costa Rica. It’s understandable that I didn’t know we had a deck that went two floors below the first floor of the building (but not underneath the building; we’re on a “hill”). People are parking downstairs because it’s so hot. I guess that makes more sense than that hundreds of people had just stopped reporting to work all at once. I’m parking up top though.

A REALLY Close Shave

Last weekend we were too busy to give B his haircut. Although he is no longer drilling and therefore no longer required to follow the military short hair rule (which he complied with by sporting a buzz cut for the last eight years), his new-found freedom has not prompted him to change his hairstyle. Not that I care; I certainly have no ideas for hairstyle changes for him OR for myself. Plus, I’m his hairstylist, so any changes he might dream up would be my responsibility to make a reality. So, we just keep on doing what we’ve been doing. Yesterday, about an hour before we needed to leave for the airport, B starts his haircut. The process goes like this: he buzzes his hair like crazy (just runs the clippers all over his head, totally zig-zaggy, providing brief glimpses of what he would look like with a Mohawk, with bangs, with patches of hair shorter than the rest. Only, he’s done this so much that he doesn’t really notice what he’s doing. Just runs the clippers all over his head as fast as he can—all crazy-like.) Then I come in and finish the job by doing it all over again, only I can actually see what I’m doing and I go a lot slower. Then I trim the edges and he takes a shower. The whole thing takes 30 minutes.
So, with an hour till his departure, we had plenty of time last night for the buzz. He went into the bathroom to begin the routine while I cleaned the kitchen. But when he started up the clippers, they were 10 times louder than normal. The two clipping plates weren’t lining up right. B called for a screwdriver. He proceeded to take the thing apart, clean it, realign the blades, and screw it back together. I was in the other room. I’d hear it turn on—no better. Then he’d work on it more, try it again for a few seconds…fix it again, try it out again…etc. But imagine my shock when I walked into the bathroom to rhetorically ask how it was coming and to provide sympathy, only to find that with each “repair” he had actually tried out the clippers ON HIS HAIR! It was like a freeze-frame of his normal, crazy, buzz-everywhere haircutting technique, which is usually over so fast you don’t get to take in exactly how ridiculous it looks as it’s happening. Now you could actually study his half-finished haircut—totally jagged-y, two-thirds of his hair two-thirds longer than the rest. I mentioned that this seemed a risky undertaking and that since he had begun the haircut and must certainly finish it now, perhaps he should just keep going when the clippers worked instead of risking turning them off, tinkering with them, and being left with half a haircut, should they cease clipping all together. When I asked, “If they stopped now, what would you do? Fly to Orlando and get it fixed tomorrow?” [Certainly the looks he would have gotten in the airport with this haircut would have been interesting, and I can't even imagine the humiliation...] he answered: “I’d shave it bald with a razor before I’d do that.” [silence] The seriousness of the situation had finally set in. The haircut underway, nothing could be done to prevent this possible crisis, so I had to simply leave the room and hope for the best. A bit later, he called out, “You prophesied correctly, they stopped cutting!” Time for damage control. As he tinkered with the clippers a bit more, I went for my phone to call the two people who live within a mile of us who MIGHT have clippers, in hopes of preventing any use of a razor (or rather, "in hopes of preventing crisis escalation"). At this point we are running out of time for this sort of emergency. In the end we did manage to get our clippers to operate on some level, although they are awfully loud and shaky and they pull the hair. The naked eye can see that they are terribly misaligned. Time for new clippers? Yes, I think so. Mr. Fix-It, however, does not. That’s fine. He picks his haircut and his hairstylist and his hairstylist’s equipment. As far as beauty is concerned, confidence is key! I applaud individuals who select beautifying measures that make them feel confident!

Happy, and I know it.

I attended a lecture at the Atlanta History Center a month ago—it’s a place I LOVE. They have many lectures there, but most cost something (even for us members (hee hee! Our membership is courtesy of our visit to the Center with Brett’s parents last Christmas, and we—or at least I—use it all the time! I’ve been five times in six months!)). This particular lecture, however, was free and sounded entertaining. The lecture series was set up to honor an old psychology professor from the area and the lecturer this time was an NPR correspondent plugging his new book, “The Geography of Bliss,” better described by its subtitle, “One Grump’s Search for the Happiest Places in the World.” The lecture itself was ok but thoroughly unnecessary if you have read the book, which I have (and I recommend it). The book is basically a log of the author's travel around the world to the statistically (and un-statistically) happy/least-happy countries on earth. He talks with the locals, cites studies, and quotes philosophers to determine the cause of each nation's abundance or lack of happiness. Although individuals differ in their respective happiness levels and their happiness predictors, there are certainly patterns or values that the members of a culture share. Happiness is not thinking, happiness is being somewhere else, happiness is failing in noble way are some of the interesing causes of happiness in different parts of the world. Happiness is probably an interesging topic to most people, certainly to me. (But on the topic of happiness, I must admit that the thing I’ve read which has made me most…happy…and which has reported on views that most resemble my own is an article in Newsweek entitled “Happiness: Enough Already” and I thoroughly recommend it, although it focuses on the merit of sadness and I'm not sure what that says about me...) I’m happy most of the time—a happy person, that’s me. I’m also discontent about something most of the time—usually nothing big or happiness-affecting. In fact, my level of happiness is something I am usually content with. I wonder whether people would guess on a scale of 1-10 that I fall well below the 8 where I’d rate myself. But who knows better than I do whether or not I’m happy? Solid 8. Have I ever been a 10? No. I don’t think I could be. And, perhaps significantly, I don’t even want to be. Almost no one is happy all the time and that's just fine. In fact, discontent fuels change, work, and eventually accomplishment.
It's interesting to think about how different everyone’s personalities are from each other and about what makes each of us happy. Here’s an example: Every afternoon, someone in our office goes downstairs to get the mail. Half of the time I volunteer; half of the time other people do it. We have two mail boxes, each with its own key. If by luck you match the correct key with the first box (which according to the laws of probability should occur half of the time) then you will know the correct key for the second box and the entire trip will require only two “tries”—both successful. If you guess wrong (which occurs the other half of the time) the entire trip will require three “tries.” I always wondered on the trip down the elevator whether I would get it right and was always disappointed when I didn’t. So, finally, one day I studied the nearly identical keys, and, when I tried to open the boxes, I memorized which key goes to which box! Now every time I check the mail I’m right! No more denied access! No wasted key turn! I am thrilled! Every day for the next week of mail checking I was happy as I rode the elevator. I couldn’t help but smile with my new confidence at selecting the correct key for the first mailbox! My joy from this new discovery was so great that I wanted to share it with others who were on their way to get the mail. “Guess what! I figured out which key goes with which box, so now you don’t have to guess anymore!” Imagine my su-preeze when one of my friends [coworkers] replied, “Don’t tell me! I don’t want to know. I like guessing and seeing if I’m right. It’s fun!” What in the world? I felt incredulous—a bit like Lars [Lars and the Real Girl] when he is told that hugs feel good; his response, “It does NOT feel good; It hurts!” Efficiency makes me happy. My happiness mantra: Efficiency, Resourcefulness, Creativity!

By Grabthar's Hammer...

At the end of last summer, B turned 30. Blessed with a summer birthday myself, I have no experience with—or expectation of—birthday parties on any scale and have always been quite content with a tasty dessert (usually rhubarb pie) and a small gift. However, I felt that a 30th birthday ought to receive a little more fanfare, and I knew the perfect thing: Six Flags Whitewater Atlanta!

Hang on tight, river rats. This runaway raft banks and swerves through 735 feet of tunnel, featuring "explosion curves" and 70-foot power dips…Ever saddle up a cyclone? That’s what it feels like riding Tornado, the six-story funnel of fear that thrills you as it spills you…Breakneck velocity is more fun in the dark. Keep saying that to yourself as you plunge through 400-foot shafts illuminated only by tiny pinholes…Every year is the Year of The Dragon at Six Flags White Water, as thrill-seekers brave Dragon Tail’s legendary 250-foot triple drop…Jump in a raft with five others and swerve down a chute the length of two football fields, before landing in the ultimate splashdown…Plummet nine nerve-numbing stories at harrowing high speed on The Cliffhanger, one of the tallest free-falls on earth...

And on and on! Over 40 rides, pools, and rivers! Happy 30th Birthday, indeed! I kept the “party plan” secret for weeks and watched the weather as it got closer to the big day. It was all a success, including the tasty dessert (B consulted all the cookbooks we have and selected the picture of “orange Chantilly”-something, which required me to hollow an orange and refill it later) and small gift (boxed set of Pinky & The Brain cartoons). A great occasion. One likely to be unsurpassed until…well…we won’t mention THAT occasion. At least, that’s what I thought, but then, along came…SPACE CAMP!

Yes, I want to go to adult Space Camp. But, I mean, who doesn’t? (That is, who besides my mom and T who say it sounds “terrifying”.) I use my free time at work to do “research” for our family, and one of the things I research is vacations and fun things to do with the money I'm paid for doing this research. We’ve been trying to decide what to do with our vacation time(s) this year, throwing around ideas of domestic travel, international travel, and no travel. With the dollar being worth less in some places and with airfare costing more (and more) why not do something local…like SPACE CAMP! Wouldn’t THIS be the greatest surprise in the world? Just think: If I am interested in SPACE CAMP!, B is…well…I can’t even imagine how he is, that is, how he WOULD be, if he knew...

SPACE CAMP! for adults happens only three weeks out of the year, each week trains a mere dozen (up to 16) campers. The weeks occur at the end of August and beginning of September, right during our birthday season! So, I called the people in Huntsville, Alabama and chatted with a camp counselor for 45 minutes getting every one of my questions answered. This is definitely for us. We and a dozen other adults would train (and live) together while wearing blue jumpsuits! Training includes but is not limited to riding in several contraptions designed to make you vomit, scuba diving, and climbing 30-foot poles and jumping off (you are attached to ropes). My favorite machine is the one that simulates being shot into the stratosphere! True, you are only shot 150 feet in the air, but it does that in less than 2.5 seconds (4Gs), followed by a 1-second freefall! You and your team complete 4 missions, one of them being an extended duration mission! There are two “tracks” for training: pilot and mission specialist. Remembering my recent motion sickness experience [see entry “For the Birds”] I asked the counselor whether the activities could be optional should one feel…queasy. I quickly explained that I don’t get car sick or motion sick [generally]. She asked, “How do you do with roller coasters?” How do I do? I have no idea how I do. I avoid them at all costs! So, I said I didn’t know and she replied, “Maybe ‘Mission Specialist’ is a good fit for you.” Hah!

The trouble with my suprise SPACE CAMP! adventure is that it costs a lot of money. It costs more than our 11-day vacation to Mexcio last year (including airfare). Slightly more than the $50 free spending limit some people advocate. But it would be so perfect! So, I run it by B. “I have an idea for our vacation/your birthday... I need to run it by you because you would need to take a week off school...and it will cost about $2000. I can't tell you what it is. All I can say is that you will love it and you will not need your passport; in fact, we won't even get on an airplane. What do you think?” Of course, he was VERY intrigued, but in the end he couldn’t commit to something he didn’t know, which I understood and was afraid would happen, but it was worth a shot. I was just hoping that he would give me permission to surprise him with the best surprise of his life, which he later agreed it would have been. I figured that if I could get him to say yes, I could do anything, including working out some way to get him into the doctor’s office for a physical without the doctor telling him what the form was actually for.

Honey, you wait in the hall.
[whisper] Dr., he needs this form filled out so he can attend SPACE CAMP! But it’s a surprise…

So, he knows now. He wishes that I would have just done it (although we both know that is NOT allowed). He says SPACE CAMP! was a dream of his as a kid and he would have been thrilled and not cared what it cost if I really had gone through with the plans without ever telling him anything. Whatever. We considered it for a week but in the end decided NOT to do it. It’s fine, since there are so many other things I would like to do too. Also, had we done SPACE CAMP!, his 30th birthday would have seemed insignificant.

You're kidding, right?

Living in Germany for a year under the guise of “nanny”, I experienced a good dose of immersion. Cultural immersion, language immersion, culinary immersion… After all, there were more of them (4, plus 90 million right outside the front door) than there were of me (1, plus…well, zero). I could probably write a daily entry even now (after forgetting almost everything) describing the experience of discovering differences between them and me and the unconscious process of getting used to these things to the degree that I eventually thought the people would fit right in at home—at least they would seem no odder than any other neighbor. Well, all right, they probably would…to…others.
One oddity was the bread and cheese phenomenon. We ate these every morning (except Sundays, when we had yogurt—the German equivalent of sugar cereals on Saturday mornings)—but that’s only half the story. We ate bread and cheese every night. 66.66% of all food I ate was bread and cheese. Try to picture that. Granted the bread and the cheese are very good, but it seems like eventually anyone would notice the frequency. Picture yourself sitting down to bread&cheese, bread&cheese, noodles, bread&cheese, bread&cheese, potatoes, bread&cheese, bread&cheese, fish sticks, bread&cheese, bread&cheese… Well, after a few months I distinctly remember sitting at dinner (although, aside from the time difference there’s no need to differentiate it from breakfast) watching everyone dig right in and start putting their cheese of choice on their bread of choice. Wait, haven’t I seen this before? Haven’t THEY? Oh yeah, this morning, and last night, and yesterday morning, and every morning and night before that. Once again, I’d like to praise the deliciousness of the bread and cheese available, but the entire scene was strikingly similar to Gary Larson’s “dog food, again!” cartoon. Is there a kid out there who ever says, “Aaaawwww! NOT bread and cheese AGAIN…” I bet there isn’t, which is amazing. This was “meal” and “meal” is only ever bread and cheese. As I looked from contented fact to contented face, I felt 66.66% like that non-existent kid; 33.33% puzzled and amused.
Amazingly, I had those same feelings recently at Macy’s. B’s wardrobe needed some work in preparation for his summer internship and I volunteered to help in the effort. All right, so I spearheaded the effort. What was needed? A couple pairs of shoes (black and brown), several pairs of pants, a TON of shirts, and a few ties. So, everything. We were quite successful in this endeavor and he will look great for a few years to come. The shopping got off to a slow start; in fact, it almost didn’t start at all. We met at our first store after I got off work. At my suggestion we agreed to meet in the shoe department. It’s an easy department to identify and a difficult one to hide in. He had already been looking for who knows how long by the time I arrived. I originally thought he hadn’t been looking long at all when I got there—after all, he had made no progress, no decisions. First, the black pair. Ok, that narrows the selection down to 70% of the department. Laces? Check, more narrowing. Degree of shine? Square/round toe? Little holes/big seams? And that’s it! We’re down to 6 identical pairs—all equally uncomfortable. And then, we wait. What were we waiting for? There were no differences. I amused myself looking around the store for about 2 minutes—that’s all the amusement the men’s shoe department offers—and I selected my favorite pair. I’m not joking either. They were slip ons, covered in some sort of animal skin, square toes rounded up like elves, with a big Spanish looking cross design on the top. Oh yeah, and they were red. Brett didn’t like them. Fine. We aren’t all the same type. But we had found Brett’s type, what was he looking at? It was while watching him consider the same shoes as if they were each different and interesting that I remembered the bread and cheese conundrum. Yes, I had seen this before. In hopes of speeding up the process and in an effort to promote sanity, I took B downstairs to the women’s shoe department. The reaction was one of disbelief. “It’s ten times as big!!!” It really was a pretty big one, and the shoes were as different as could be! I don’t think he preferred the women’s shoe section, which is probably a good thing, but we did make a purchase in the men’s shoe department after our return. The brown pair would have to wait.
There are those who believe that fewer choices make us happier, or rather, that after a certian point, additional choices do not increase our happiness and may even lower it. Was that the case for my family in German? It didn't work on me. And it was not a face of happiness I saw in Macy's among identical black shoes.

Mom’s Day Off (Are you sure you want to do that?)

On Mother’s Day, I called home. True, it was less than my sister did—she was actually visiting home. The call was twice the fun, as I was able to talk with Mom and T through the miracle of speaker phone. Mom was enjoying a lovely leisurely late afternoon while Dad cooked the family dinner. In the middle of our conversation—or rather the end, as it turned out to be—Tali went outside to see how the preparations were coming. Yes, that’s right, outside. See, Dad was using dutch ovens (of which we have three) in his effort to give mom the night off. To give Dad his due, he cooks tasty dutch oven dinners and desserts. Well, as I chatted with Mom, I suddenly heard my sister screaming her head off. I mean, REALLY screaming. So, I asked what in the world was going on outside. Mom, looking through the window guessed, “It’s probably a bee.” T does react in a rather exaggerated fashion to the threat of flying insects, but the screaming continued and was joined by Dad, although I couldn’t make out what he was yelling. At that point Mom calmly (after all it was her special relaxing day) said, “T’s having an emergency; her pants are on fire.” Then the room went quiet. So there I was, a voice coming out of a little box just wishing I could look out the window, when, HARK! Who’s that there? “D?! Hello!? D?! Is that you?!?” D was walking through the kitchen, and I was able to use him as my eyes to get the following information: T was on the ground wearing charred, ripped up pants. I instructed him to have them call me back the minute they could (which I was sure T would do anyway). Here is what happened in her own words:

I was standing next to the dutch oven (which had been cooking for a while) to dump in the bowl of potatoes, when I realized that I was standing right on the pile of coals that had been sitting on the oven lid. I stepped off and saw some smoke and thought the bottom of my Adidas sandals must be melting. No big deal. I then saw that the bottom of my too-long jeans were black and smoking. I asked Dad, who was standing nearby, if I should be concerned, if I was going to burst into flames, if I should pour water on myself just to be safe. But Dad insisted I would be fine and was not the least bit alarmed. Of course, Dad is never the least bit alarmed. Not 30 seconds later, the bottom of my jeans burst into flames. I screamed, and Dad rushed over and started beating at the flames to put them out. It didn't work. I continued to scream, for I can't quite describe the panic of seeing yourself on fire. I mean, when fire strikes, there is no possible way to stay calm. Stop, drop, and roll didn't even cross my mind. My only impulse was to run around like a crazy person. I eventually did make it to stop and drop, but only because Dad told me to get on the ground by saying, “Get on the ground!" So, there I am on the ground, and by this time I can feel the flames burning my flesh. It was by far the most painful thing I have ever endured. It was only a few seconds of flesh-burning before he got the flames out, but not before a nine inch section of skin had been burned off the back of my left leg.

For any who know T, she adds that she is accepting “all kinds of well-wishes and cards and gifts and assurances that I might still be desirable [even with a disfiguring scar].” To the lessons she says she’s learned through this experience (1. If you are cooking with a dutch oven, do not wear jeans that are too long. 2. If you are cooking with a dutch oven and you must wear jeans that are too long, at least make sure you are not wearing your favorite pair. 3. If you are cooking with a dutch oven and you must wear jeans that are too long and they happen to be your favorite pair, hose yourself off at the first sign of smoke.) I would like to add a few observations. First, things happen FAST. To be sure, this was not entirely a case of spontaneous combustion; however, once your clothes light up, there is really no way to prevent injury entirely. Having a hose sitting near the pit of coals is nice for putting them out when you are all finished and have the time to walk around the house and turn the water on, but an “off” in-case-of-emergency/only-you-can-prevent-forest-fires hose provides a false sense of security. I advise having a waterbottle or bucket ready for REAL emergencies—the kind in which something needs to be put out fast. I intend to do this at all fire activities from now on. You just never know, and when something happens, it happens fast and the result is painful and ugly. Second, events like this, though tragic, make great fodder for Mother’s Day tributes. Mom takes the night off, the kids catch on fire and pandemonium ensues. We want Mom back!

(Photo above taken a week after the incident. Ouch!)