It's pretty much just meat.

I don’t know what other people think about when they wake up in the night. When I wake up it’s only because I have to go to the bathroom, but I always futilely try to ignore it and fall back to sleep [for about 2 minutes]. It’s the bathroom thing that wakes me up, but it’s something else that prevents me from going back to sleep and motivates me to get up. It’s the thought of meat (or eggs or yogurt) going bad in the fridge. I don’t always have meat in the fridge, but if I do it’s what comes to mind suddenly when I wake up in the middle of the night.
“[gasp] That ground beef. How many days has it been? Is it still good? I don’t have time to cook it tomorrow….I should have frozen it when I brought it home…”
“When was the last time I bought eggs? It’s been more than two months at least. I should toss those.”
Last night it was, “The chicken!” Funny thing is, I had noticed the chicken each day this week. “I’ve got to cook that.” But we had made a whole week’s worth of enchiladas Sunday night and haven’t needed to cook since then. So, although I kept seeing the chicken as I opened the fridge multiple times each day, my uneasiness ceased once the fridge was shut. But in the middle of the night, it’s panic time. “I’ve GOT to do something.” So, I head to the kitchen, blind myself with the silly fridge light [do we really need that thing to be automatic? Trust me, I KNOW where the chicken is], toss in the entire offending item in the trash, or move it—package and all—to the freezer (for more careful consideration at a later time). Perhaps the chicken will not be useable, but maybe there’s a chance. And there’s more of a chance when it goes to the freezer in the middle of the night than the next day. Are you aware that your freezer is not lighted? Or is it? Mine isn’t and I’m always surprised at the complete darkness when I open it right after the blinding light of the fridge. What about all those midnight ice cream eaters? I’ve never had this problem, since I am comfortable binging on ice cream in broad daylight. I guess they do what I have to do in the middle of the night with the expiring meats: open the fridge to light the freezer. I think there SHOULD be freezer lights. But I’m not very scientific, so I tell myself that they don’t exist because they are impossible due to the extreme temperature, the humidity, or the properties of electricity. Does anyone know? Does anyone have a light in their freezer?

We couldn't be happier.

Last week’s Wicked performance was great. Although I listen to the soundtrack a lot, Wicked is not my favorite book/musical/story. The show gets a hearty recommendation as it was very entertaining and the leads (which are really the only two people who matter and whom I judge when I say this) were awesome. I love seeing people who really are professionals—just like I love getting information from people who really know what they’re talking about, specialists, if you will. It just makes me feel like the world works well. After last month’s Les Mis disaster, one of our suspicions has been debunked, while another suspicion has formed. First, we thought that, perhaps, the “opening night” factor could take a little of the blame for the awful Les Mis performance—not that such an excuse should be acceptable by any means. Yet, we saw Wicked on its opening night and it was electrifying. Our new suspicion is that Les Mis just doesn’t attract top talent anymore. It’s not the hot ticket. Of course, I believe there is far more talent out there than can be properly displayed, so it’s not like there was no one “else.” But maybe the available talent passed Les Mis up in hopes of waiting for something better.
In other “arts” news, B attended his first symphony concert with me a couple weeks ago. Although he was DREADING it for months, he was happily surprised to find that “the symphony” isn’t “the opera.” B’s friend, Cyril (the subject of a previous post), knowing I was a violinist in years past, had been wanting us to go to the symphony with him for a year! We [Cyril and I] talked about it every time we saw each other. B was not willing to help with the arrangements, so finally I arranged it with Cyril myself.
B: “But why do I have to go? Can’t you just go with Cyril?”
I’m so sure. Cyril and I had even picked a concert that had a piece (a movement) B would recognize (Beethoven’s Fifth: duh-duh-duh-DUUUUHHH)! The concert was comprised of a Bach piece, a Brahams piano concerto, and finally Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony. So, basically, the concert would get better and better as it went. After the Bach piece, Cyril asked B how he was doing. B answered, “It was all counterpoint, but no points.” I whispered, “It will get better.” He replied threateningly, “It better.” The Brahams piece had much more to look at (the full orchestra this time and the pianist), but was very, very long. The pianist sat stone still for about 15 minutes while the orchestra played. Finally, he joined in. When he did, I could see B’s smiling face in my peripheral vision. He was greatly amused by the antics of the performer. The heavy breathing, the wild head shaking, the hand flourishes, the trembling piano lid that was threatening to fall… But, even that gets boring after a half hour. The pianist was amazing. I always feel a mite sorry for people that talented. When he and the conductor entered the hall I wondered what his childhood had been like. Or college. All his life, really. And what’s also sad is that the people in the orchestra probably each wanted to be him [professional soloists, rather than professional musicians] but didn’t make the cut. You would think their stories are even sadder, but I’m not so sure. After the intermission, we listened to the anticipated duh-duh-duh-DUUUUHHH, which Brett informed me after reading the entire program was laughed at by Beethoven’s orchestra when he first brought it in for them to try. (duh-duh-duh-DUUUUuuuhhhh ha ha ha ha!) The movements which followed didn’t stand out much; I was particularly surprised by how non-finale-like the fourth movement was. I was completely caught off guard when it ended. B survived the experience. I really wanted to take him to the next week’s concert (Tchaikovsky violin concerto) because I’m sure it would have been even better, but by the time the next Thursday rolled around, I was too tired (end of the week; plus, the previous night had been a late night seeing Wicked). Our next concert will be the Messiah in December.

I haven’t been very consistent in my blogging effort the last month. I haven’t been feeling that great—specifically, my tailbone has been acting up. I need a tailbone transplant. I suppose I could say I’m having low lower back problems, but it’s really so far down that I don’t really consider it my back anymore. Chiropractors would disagree. “It’s all related.” Poor posture or stress in your neck, shoulders, or upper back apparently translates to pain (shooting pain) in your tailbone and pelvis (where it fuses with the tailbone) with no symptoms in whatever area is actually causing the pain. So, anything may be the culprit. Crooked ears can potentially cause this. I have my doubts, and I am inclined to believe that I simply have a bum tailbone/pelvis connection. Although, I must admit that I do have one actual “bad habit” that a chiropractor would assign all the blame to. I sit in a crappy chair for eight hours a day. The crappy chair encourages crappy posture. Maybe, after more than a year of taking this sort of beating, my tailbone has gone completely on the fritz. My original chair was awful. I “upgraded” to a different discarded chair four months later. This new chair tortured me for nine months. It, like all chairs, is huge. I don’t think they make chairs for people my size. They make them for very large people. The seat is so big that I can’t scoot all the way back, which means my back receives no support. Plus, the seat slants from left to right. That CAN’T be good. But it was better than the previous chair, and I’m no good at asking for nice office products. Perhaps if I liked my job and had no plans of leaving I would feel more entitled to a decent chair. As it is, I see this as temporary—I don’t even “personalize” my space. I guess I should confess that for months and months every time I stood up out of my chair, I could tighten my rear and my tailbone would pop. In fact, I needed to do this sometimes in order to walk comfortably. After months of this, it mysteriously stopped, and then I was hit with all this pain. After being at my wits’ end, I decided (with B’s encouragement) to do something about my chair. My solution was to buy one of my own. B wanted me to ask my boss for a new one. As fate would have it, two new chairs rolled into the office the next day. “Who are those for?” I asked. One was for my boss, one was for a new guy. I immediately sent my boss an email asking, “What are you doing with your old chair?” I figured this would get the message across that I was wanting a different chair than the one I had, and it did. She said it didn’t roll well on carpet (no problem for me, I’m on marble tile) but I could have it if I wanted. She also said if I needed a new chair, they could look into getting one. I’ve adopted the old one. Of course, it’s huge (she’s a big lady—the reason they make all chairs this big) but the seat isn’t slanting to one side. I have been making a concerted effort to sit up straight as much as I can and to stand as much as I can. When I stand, I can’t type, and the blog suffers. I have also begun using this foot rest thing that had been pushed under my desk since I came (I’m telling you, I have done NOTHING to change this space [besides disinfect it] since I arrived). It says it helps to have your knees up like this, instead of dangling downward from the chair. The jury is still out on whether these methods will be enough to prevent a full tailbone transplant.

Sean Connery + Jean Valjean FOR-EV-ER

This cautionary tale is offered with the intent of preventing people from plunking down their money to see the current touring production of Les Miserables. If you are tempted to see Les Mis when it comes to you this year, please, RESIST! If you, like I, have been dreaming, praying even, for the day it would come to you again (the last tour was in 2003—the year the show closed on Broadway) know that this production will not give you what you expect (and deserve) and will only deepen your despair and longing, while adding to these a painful sense of betrayal.
Although we’ve seen the show a few times before, we prepped for the occasion by listening to the soundtrack for a couple weeks prior to the big night. The recording I had purchased (my favorite: 10-year anniversary concert recording, for those who care) was not the recording B had expected (original Broadway cast) and took some getting used to. He was hung up for a few days on Jean Valjean’s Sean Connery-like speech oddity and eventually renamed him “Sean Val-Jeannery.” The actor, Colm Wilkinson, happens to be from Ireland (that’s close to Connery’s native Scotland, right?) and also happens to be an amazing singer and an unsurpassable Valjean (although I feel he is matched by the venerable Ivan Rutherford).
I had read that the current production was “different” from the previous 23 years of Les Mis productions in several ways. First, no rotating stage. Woah. It’s hard to picture such a static, 2-dimensional presentation, but I was intrigued. I can try new things. Besides, I believe the show is greater than its architecture. Sets were supposed to be more sparse, and Victor Hugo’s own drawings were projected on the backdrop. He wrote the story, why not see how he drew his world? Finally, there were to be many more people on stage. Besides the 35-member touring cast, 18 locals would be used as extras to give it a more operatic (and more miserable) look. The theater is located a couple blocks from a massive homeless shelter where Brett and I cleaned beds one Saturday. Needless to say the addition of a few of these authentic “locals” might have really helped the ambiance of misery. With all these changes, even Cameron Mackintosh felt it worth his time to head on over to little Atlanta (from big Great Britain) to catch a show. If he liked what he saw, he would implement changes in the still-running [after 23 years] London West End Les Mis production. We saw the show the night it opened here. He saw it two nights later, and unless they got a new cast or all learned how to act overnight, I am confident that the West End production will continue spinning into the future in all its current (and past) glory.
How can I explain the shortcomings of this production?
Our local newspaper review of the production stated that “actors who look the part, sing in key, and ooze personality can make it work handsomely. That’s mostly the case in the current run.” By “mostly” the reviewer must mean two out of the three—look the part and sing in key. But my friends, my FRIEEEEENNNNDS, couldn’t I do those things? I can wear a costume and I can sing in key. It is true, I am not a singer of hair-raising star potential. But, were THEY? It is my belief that this show requires people who sing better than “in key” and, more importantly, who understand and can convey the message and the power of the story—perhaps that’s the “oozing personality” which was referred to by the reviewer and which was, unfortunately, completely lacking in the cast we saw (none of whom were understudies).
Yes, asside from Marius and Eponine, there was NO acting on that night. Not even the Thenardiers were trying. The entire cast genuinely looked as if they didn’t know what to do with themselves. It was like they didn’t even realize what they were singing. Sure, they had the words memorized, but their meaning had not been comprehended. During a dry-eyed intermission [IMAGINE! Experiencing an intermission dry-eyed right after “One Day More” has just been sung! Imagine watching/listening to One Day More and to the finale Will You Join in Our Crusade and wondering why you feel NOTHING, and why you had ever been touched by these numbers before] I mentioned to B after several confused minutes that I felt the acting just wasn’t there. His condemning response: “I feel like I’m watching a high school production.” I was dismayed as I watched the show continue. After all, just listening to it can sometimes make you tear up while fixing breakfast. How could the live performance be so poor, lifeless, and irrelevant?

Example:
Upon being released from 19 years in prison, Valjean sings:
I drink from a pool, how clean the taste,
Never forget the years, the waste!
Nor forgive them for what they’ve done,
They are the guilty, every one.
This is an incredibly important passage, because it highlights the change in Valjean around which the whole story revolves, culminating in Valjean’s eventual forgiveness and release of his former captor. We have to know and feel how bitter and hurt he is in the beginning in order to appreciate just how amazing and unlikely his transformation must be. Unfortunately, our Valjean did not play this to the audience. No communication; no connection between him/his experience and us. He was hunched over packing his bag. You can imagine that a couple hours later, when Valjean sings the following climactic lines, they passed with as little recognition and even less meaning, since his struggle had not been properly introduced from the start:
You are wrong and always have been wrong.
I’m a man, no worse than any man.
You are free, and there are no conditions,
No bargains or petitions.
There’s nothing that I blame you for.
You’ve done your duty, nothing more.

Nothing, though, can compare with the horror and disappointment of another missed opportunity. Imagine that after 19 years in prison you broke your parole and, under an alias, started a new life, becoming an honest, wealthy, and respected citizen. Now imagine that after 10 years of hard work building a new life, your old prison captor gets a tip that you aren’t really your alias, but rather the prisoner who’s been “on the run” for ten years. When he confronts you and suggests this, how would you react? This is not a hard question. You hate him already and you would be sweating bullets. It would be a VERY tense few moments. Instead, we saw an inexplicably “cool” Valjean channel a valley girl persona for the following exchange:
Javert:
A memory stirs, you make me think of a man,
from years ago, a man who broke his parole,
he disappeared…
[pause for what should be uncomfortable silence; during which OUR Valjean is acting like he doesn’t even care or hear, turning around, waving at townspeople]
Forgive me sir, I would not dare.
Valjean [SAYS [not sings] in rising valley-girl intonation with both arms stretched out to either side of him, like he has nothing to hide]:
Say what you must [dude]!
Don’t leave it there!
I gasped at the gaff and my hand covered my mouth. Searching for an explanation [is our Valjean Canadian? do they have different cultural/behavioral norms? Is he dyslexic?] I found an interview with him and Javert in the program in which he explains that he wants to be an “honest” Valjean. Huh? “Not that previous Valjeans haven’t been honest…” [awkward] He explained he wanted to be “spontaneous”—like he’s really living it. Sadly, whatever he was living that night was not what Jean Valjean lived. Unfortunately, he was not the only person who did not play his part. Fantine did nothing, though she did have a VERY lovely [but incredibly small] voice… Javert explained his performance in an interview by stating that he hoped to make his character less stiff—more of a real person. THAT didn’t happen. He was nobody. Not stiff, not even human. See-through. Like saran wrap. Just a singing lump—and he didn’t sing well enough that we didn’t miss the acting. I only read the first question/answer of each interview. I did not have the courage to read them in their entirety.

After being so disappointed by what we witnessed, I was anxious to read what the reviewer in the local paper would say. How do you write a scathing review? I still don’t know. Although he admitted a few shortcomings, he generally praised the production. I will assume, to his credit, that he has seen more theatrical productions than I have and that he has been trained in the art of critiquing. Furthermore, his name is Pierre. But, before you decide to temper my estimation by also allowing what this “professional” critic said, consider the following:
1. He believes that the strength of Les Mis is the music. Don’t confuse this with the lyrics, which in my estimation tell one of the greatest stories ever told. The lyrics, he laments, are “sentimental and plot-thin.” Only the melodies give the show its greatness.
2. Regarding the plot, he suggests that it as a story of unrequited love. Passionate love. Between two unattached single men. How else, he asks, can you explain Javert’s fanatical, illogical obsession?
3. The “best material” in the show is that given to the Thenardiers.

Au contraire, Pierre.

Will I join in their crusade? For the first time, non merci.

On Prayer

The crisis ended last week. Not all gas stations have gas, but most do and there are no lines. The best part is that the price drops daily! I've been working on a critical review of the touring Les Mis production, which I hope to post soon. In the meantime, please be entertained by the following:

As many of you know, I am in charge of "singing time" with the children at church. It's super fun. Well, for those who aren't familiar with our church, one Sunday each year (usually around October; ours is two weeks away!) the children put on the Sunday worship service. In my opinion, it is the best Sunday of the year. The kids are so cute and unpredictable. I admit that I always pay much better attention when they are speaking/singing than I do for regular Sunday services! Most of the program is scripted--the smaller the child, the shorter the lines. The older kids are sometimes asked to prepare a short message about a certain topic, like, for example, prayer. Usually, parents help the kid prepare their remarks. One 8-year-old in our Primary wrote the following remarks all by herself [punctuation added by me]:

by Talia
My prayers help me a lot in some way. I don't know what way--but some way. I love to pray, but just before dinner I don't like long prayers. Prayers are a good thing for people. Like the talk my sister gave today, September 7th, Sunday, 2008. Her talk's good. She's going to say it--you're going to love it. Believe me, you will. Prayers are just, well, totally awesome. I love them. My sister loves them. My brother--he even closes his eyes and folds his arms. My mother too; also my father. Even though I didn't pray for that wonderful family, I got it too, because God loves me, and he probably prayed for me.
The end.

"We ran out of giss."

"About fiffteen minutes ago!"
The rumors are true. There is no gas in Atlanta. There is no gas for hours outside of Atlanta. In case you’ve wondered what it’s like when a city of 6 million runs out of gas, I’ll tell you. It’s pretty much the same as usual, only the gas stations are all closed (and in case you’ve wondered how a gas station indicates that they have no gas to sell, they signify this by pulling the prices from their reader boards). You can drive around town all day, and even out to the communities over an hour away where my coworkers live, but there will be no open gas stations. I was first alerted to the "crisis" by my sister-in-law in Utah. "Hear you're out of gas." Uhhh...that's news to me. In my defense, B was sick last week and passed it on to me, causing me to miss work on Monday and Tuesday. Apparently out-of-town towns started running out of gas this weekend (some stations closed, others with “only” regular—and only at one pump). This led to panic and runs on gas which, in addition to the fact that no gas is coming, has run the whole area dry. Since we didn't take any road trips over the weekend (because we were sick and already had fun plans here to suffer through) and don't have TV or internet at home, Wednesday, my first day back at work, was really the first day I could hear something about this. After she clued me in that something might be amiss (nothing SEEMED amiss) I checked out the local paper in the breakroom. In the "metro" section I found the article "Why We Ran Out of Gas." That same day I read about the potential crisis in Newsweek. It predicted we would be completely out of gas in about 9 days. They were one week too optimistic. But other than those two references, my daily internet surfing hasn't pulled up much national attention.
Somehow I keep expecting life—ok, specifically TRAFFIC—to be different without any available gas. Because there is no more gas, when people run out, they can’t get more. So, each day I drive to and from work and I look at the cars next to me and wonder who won’t be on the road tomorrow. SOMEBODY is on empty. I just KNOW they are. I believe that the roads will slowly clear and I’m looking forward to that. I’m hoping to be the last one driving! I will be like Will Smith in I am Legend. I’ll drive fast, using all the lanes in my 2003 Nissan Sentra! When I told my sister about my belief that my gas will last longer than anyone else’s, she suggested they should have some sort of game show/contest! Last one driving. Unfortunately, it appears that no gas is coming and when any gas DOES arrive, there will be MILLIONS of people on empty, which will suck it all dry in a matter of minutes. There’s also the panic problem. If gas arrived, people would fill EVERYTHING (all their vehicles, lawnmowers, and several gas cans). If they happened to see another station open later, they would top off. Crazy panicky hoarding. Because of this, the problem will take a while to work itself out, and who knows when the gas will begin arriving. As it is, we won’t be affected for at least another month. B bikes to school each day. I drive a 10-mile round trip. That commute, plus the 30-miles for church is only 80 miles per week. Grocery stores are two blocks away (walk), Braves game/airport/etc. we use the subway for, and we have two half-full cars to use! If the situation doesn’t improve in the next few days, I predict no one will be able to come to work by mid-week next week (except me) because they all commute ridiculous distances. No one wants to live in the city for obvious reasons, but it’s working well for this gas shortage. But, I admit that it is possible that there will still be no gas for the getting in a month; at that point, we will be affected. I’ll have to take the bus (if they are running) or walk 4.5 miles each way… I do wonder how busses and police cars etc. are getting gas. I also wonder how soon we will see this affect the food, since a truck may be able to get here from Kentucky or other locales with gas, but it won’t be able to get back out. Interesting things to think about, but so far there is no indication that anything is amiss—except for the blank reader boards on thousands of gas stations.

The Raptor

Those of you who know my sister might think it’s funny that I took this picture for her. I want her to post it on her blog because it would be funnier there, since she named the blog “tiffany-blue” after her lifelong dream to work for Tiffany’s. She has a picture of herself at Tiffany’s, pointing excitedly at the sign—it's on the blog; and if you ever chat with her online, the picture of “herself” is a picture of a Tiffany’s box. The good news is that I think our local Tiffany’s is hiring! But she may be too purist to post this photo, so I will do so here along with a fond memory of T.
T and I lived less than a block away from each other for three years at BYU. During that time she was acutely addicted to the TV show 24. No one was allowed to call or visit during the hour the show was on and would be severely reprimanded and turned out for forgetting this restriction. One afternoon T was in a panic because she had injured herself unknowingly during the previous night’s ritual 24 viewing. In order to watch the show without sacrificing her workout, she had started doing “calf raises” on her apartment stairs. Up, Down, Up, Down… Somehow she became entranced by what was happening on the TV, lost track of time, and never did recall just how long she had actually done them. All she knew is that she could now—a day later—hardly get around her apartment. “Just come down here; walking will be a good stretch for the sore muscles,” I told her. Half an hour later I called again, “Where are you?” “I’m still walking; it hurts SO bad; I can’t put my heels down!” The discomfort only worsened each day for the next week, her heels never touching the ground for the better part of the month. For days, then weeks she s-l-o-w-l-y tip-toed her way around and did her best not to let anything—even a mattress—touch the back of her legs. In addition to taking slow, tip-toed steps, she leaned her body forward slightly and tucked her arms in close in a “doubled-up in pain” manner as she laboriously transferred her weight from foot to foot. We liked to call her “the raptor” during this time. A week after the initial injury, I decided to find out just how many calf raises she had actually done. 100? 1,000? 5,000? She said she really had no idea. I went to my stairs and did 300 calf raises. The next morning I really didn’t feel anything. She was shocked by this. “So, I must have done more than 300?” Yep. LOTS more. It’s still a mystery just how many. My conservative guess is 10,000. A week and a half after the injury I actually convinced her to meet me at Target for some shopping. She agreed, reluctantly. When she called me to say that she had arrived and was walking in the store, I went to greet her and she looked almost normal! True, she still was the raptor, but her curious gait was not so noticeable behind the empty cart she was slowly pushing. Leaning forward as she slowly lollopped along, heels high, her shriveled arms were the perfect length to reach the pushing bar of the cart.

I joined. Have you?

I finally was able to get started on one of my life goals this weekend. This one has been a long time coming, and, unfortunately, will be a long time in its unlikely completion, but at least I’m on my way, which is farther than I’ve been able to get up till this moment. I am now registered in the bone marrow donor registry! This is no small thing. I have always wanted to be registered, with a life goal of donating bone marrow, but it hasn’t been the easiest thing for me to sign up—despite what they say. I’m a big fan of blood donation, organ donation, cord blood donation, and bone marrow donation. The problem is that even for the most common of these donations (blood), I don’t yet qualify. But someday I will qualify and I will have to make the time to go regularly. Although they won't let me donate blood just yet, they WOULD take bone marrow from me if I were a match for someone. So, I just need to get on the registry. But that’s the hard part because getting on the registry is as easy as signing up the next time you give blood, which is not so easy for me. Luckily, there is a hard way too! Just find a community, or church, or school that is sponsoring a big bone marrow donor registration in hopes of curing some specific person (or others) or in memory of someone who was not cured. Maybe these drives happen all the time, but I’ve only heard of one, and it was years ago and several states away from where I was living at the time. B has known of this seemingly unreachable goal of mine and last week passed along a flier advertising a sponsored bone marrow donor registration! We both signed up—me because I always wanted to, and him because he was there. I feel like I’m on my way! Now I’ll just wait by the phone. You should too. After all, I had to put down the names, addresses, and phone numbers of several of my readers (4, which is likely the majority) so that the bone marrow harvesters will be able to find me no matter where I go. [I realize that this post is just setting up the post I will make in three years detailing my supreme disappointment when the phone call comes…and it’s for B.] On a side note, they gave us these “I joined. Have you?” stickers. That evening we went to a big BBQ at our bishop’s house. He’s a heart surgeon and has a house/yard big enough to say, “everybody come over to my house for a pig roast. Bring your friends. You can park on my lawn” which by itself is kind of impressive (there were LOTS of people), but was large enough that we could play simultaneous soccer/football/volleyball games. Additionally there was the food, the pool, and 40 large tables with chairs. Anyway, there were lots of people we knew from our church and others we didn’t know who weren’t from our church, and I thought it was funny that B and I had “I joined. Have you?” stickers. Hey, this church of the roast pig isn't so bad! How do I join? My favorite part was having the bishop come out on the deck a couple stories above the law expanse and, using an electric megaphone, announce “There’s still 100lbs of pork.” [New life goal: someday use a megaphone on my property.] Apparently, a whole pig was “roasted” over a 20-hour period in some sort of pit that the bishop had someone build for this event. I never saw it and I don’t believe I ever ate any of it either. People had been singing the praises of the roast pig for weeks before the event. “You could toss a shoe in the pit the night before and it would taste good.” I don't think I got to try that pig [or shoe].
I wish I would have kept an actual hard copy list of life goals I’ve had and accomplished throughout the years. I still don’t have a list of the goals I’m working on, but the current and future goals are usually on my mind. Once I do them I will forget that they were things I wanted to do as they become instead “things I did.” Some of my current life goals include going on a pioneer trek. Not a fake one in GA with the church youth group. I want to walk through IA, or WY, or even OR (wouldn’t that be fun? Fording rivers like they really did on the “Oregon Trail” computer game?) somewhere that people in handcarts and covered wagons really went. I’ll wear a skirt too, and sing as I walk and walk and walk and walk…and…walk. I bet Grandma will want to come! Another life goal I have is to be involved with the Special Olympics someday. Once again, I don’t want to be involved as someone who shows up at the event just on the day of and cheers, but someone involved enough to attend meetings in the weeks prior to the events and has to be there early each day of the competition! I’ll stop now because the point of this entry is not to list all of my current life goals, rather it is to celebrate the near-completion of the bone marrow donation quest!

An Odyssey

A few weeks ago my hermit crab [ ] died. I’d like to write a little something about his 3-year-long life with me. He was a comfort and a joy to me from the beginning. He was originally given to my younger brother, who either grew tired of him after a couple months or felt that this crab (and his companion crab) was destined to be mine from the beginning. So, from whatever shores he was originally plucked, the crab was smuggled onto a UT-bound flight by my mother who cleverly hid him in a 35mm film canister along with other small non-living shells. The next year was spent in a rather hostile environment: dry air and extreme temperatures (a house in UT with little heat and no a/c). I have to admit that I always wondered if the crabs would make it another day. I placed the cage on a heating pad in winter, carried it downstairs in the summer, and continually sprayed them with water. Sadly, nine months after their arrival, over my 8-day Christmas vacation, one of the crabs died of what appeared to be thirst—at least, there was no water when I arrived home. The dead crab was spread eagle on the sand and our little survivor was racing around the cage in a crazed delirium. I always intended to get him a new friend, since, after all, hermit crabs like company—that’s what they tell you in the store anyway… But, realizing that hermit crab life was fragile, I held off, fearing that he too was about to kick the bucket and knowing that he had a BIG trip to make in the next few months which might do him in. A couple months later he spent a month in the care of my mother-in-law followed by a car trip from UT to GA. He survived several cage tippings (once in a car, once in a hotel, and occasionally falling off the back of our toilet). Once I asked B if he liked having a hermit crab and he replied, “I never even notice him except when I’m cleaning up the mess when his cage falls.” I noticed him all the time. Usually he was sleeping, often he was clawing at the sides of the cage, and sometimes he was hanging upside down from the roof. After his companion died, he enjoyed trading shells and successfully molted, as crabs are wont to do. He even had a short-lived nude phase. Two months before his death, I upgraded his sand to a fine, bright purple calcium sand. The cage never looked better. Perhaps it was just an unfortunate coincidence that he died shortly after the switch… In any case, I have no idea what to do with the rest of the 10-lb bad of sand. My only regret is not naming the little guy. I never could come up with the right name, and I did always suspect that the next big adventure would do him in. I think I will refer to him from now on as Ulysses.

We live less than three blocks from a large hospital, one of many in this city (and not the one that gets to brag about being the #1 gunshot-wound-treating hospital in the US). I drive by it at least twice a day on my way to and from work and I shop at the pharmacy across the street from the entrance. In the immediate vicinity of the hospital there are always lots of people coming and going wearing scrubs of all colors. Some are wearing white dr./lab coats over them. Some have hair nets on, etc. I really like seeing these people as they head to the pharmacy or to grab something to eat at Chick-fil-A or Wendy’s. I especially enjoy seeing them walking to work or catching the bus or (best of all) driving down the road on a scooter. A person wearing scrubs and a helmet riding a scooter to work in the morning is a delightful sight.

I think I get excited about seeing these people because I rarely get a glimpse of them in their “natural” setting (doctor offices/hospitals). I used to love the hospital illustration page in “Busy Day, Busy People.” Another reason I think I like seeing them is because I’ve always liked “outfits”—uniforms. If there is a special outfit, I will want it and have more fun doing the activity because I’m wearing it. Swimming is more fun with the goggles and cap. Square dancing is more fun with the bolo tie and petticoat. You make a better dilly bar with a DQ shirt on. Something about a costume… Uniforms make any activity (except Disneyland as a guest) all the more official and important (plus, if you work in a uniform, CHOOSING what to wear on your off time is so fun!).

Still though, when I see these be-scrubbed folk, I like to think about them in the hospital setting. Recently however, I’ve realized that, fun as it is to catch glimpses of creatures from that other world I never visit (thankfully), I don’t like the fact that they just come and go everywhere and do anything in their scrubs, when they are about to walk back into what I imagine to be a clean/sterile environment. It occurred to me that I picture scrubs as adding to the cleanliness of the hospital. After all, aren’t scrubs boiled in Clorox nightly? Even if they are, I see people wearing them, sweating in them, riding the bus in them, hanging out in the same chick-fil-a that I hang out in and then heading back to the hospital, and I’m suddenly quite worried because the scrubs can no longer be considered clean. I’ve been fooled all this time. I thought the doctors and nurses were clean, but really to the patient it’s just like they are wearing regular clothes. I guess the reason they wear them is simply to keep themselves clean. They just toss the scrubs in the wash, or into a boiling pot of water, with no special care instructions. No trips to the dry cleaner. Certainly, keeping yourself clean from the patients is important (and could be accomplished equally well through any other clothing, all of which would act as a “barrier”), but it does not seem as important as keeping the patients clean from everything “out there.” Basically, the hospital staff could be showing up to work wearing jeans, t-shirts, pajamas (easy to do if you sleep in scrubs anyway), anything! And I think this is gross.