The largest demographic in my office is American males. This is followed by Japanese males. The American males are only kept alive through their dependence on football season. The funny thing is that although I’ve told them repeatedly that I don’t watch or follow football, they think I MUST have some interest in BYU’s team. So they ask me all the time how I think BYU will do in an upcoming game or to explain what happened in the last game. I remind them every time that I don’t know anything about BYU football. This is so foreign to them that they are completely unable to comprehend what “don’t know ANYTHING regarding football teams/seasons” means. These people are not BYU fans. They just happen to know about every game played and continue to think that at the very least I have an interest in the school I went to. How wrong they are. I have not yet explained to them (but I really should) that I NEVER went to a football game during my undergraduate career. Not one. I was quite proud of this. I was even more proud to extend my football boycott throughout my graduate school career. Sadly, a nice guy offered a ticket…it seemed in poor form to refuse because I didn’t want to mess up my clean football record. Of course, I also didn’t have any interest in that particular activity (freezing my rear off watching an inane and violent activity), but that is almost never valid. So, in my characteristically good form, I went to the game. It was everything I thought it would be—sleet and all—the guy even wore the special headphones (not everyone has good form) leaving me to simply endure the discomfort alone, thinking how sad it was I had ruined my record—one I was proud of—for this??? (There’s a young women lesson in there…should have stuck to my no football standard.) Lucky for me, B has no interest in football either! Hooray! I really can’t believe my good fortune, considering how consumed by it some people are. Unfortunately though, after hearing enough people tell him he’s got to go to one GT football game while here, he started to believe it. Without the slightest interest in the team, the sport, or sitting in the cold for hours, he secured tickets for us to GT’s game last Thursday night. Imagine my supreeze when he told me Wednesday night that I would have to subway downtown from work the next night to go to a FOOTBALL game. What? Why on earth? “We’ve got to go to ONE! Everybody says so.” Sure. Experience is the best teacher… I didn’t end up seeing anything that seemed special at this game, so as to warrant its MUST EXPERIENCE status. We left in the middle of the weak halftime show. GT was ahead (of the Miami Hurricanes). There had been a number of interceptions, which was nice. GT has the world’s loudest sound system, we think. From the top few rows of the stadium you can see lovely Atlanta at night (that’s when it looks best).
Really though, I don’t mind hearing the males at the office talk to each other for hours about football. I like it because it’s really quite phenomenal to see just how much the human brain can keep straight—who’s playing who, every game everyone has ever won or lost, scores, coaches, EVERYTHING. They will know EXACTLY what happened in all the games played over a weekend. Amazing.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Friday, November 14, 2008
Penance for Gluttony
The strangest thing happened while my parents were here visiting. I ate so much I threw up—or I ate OUT so much I threw up. Either, and probably both. At least, that’s what I think happened. Is this even possible? On Mickey and the Beanstock they sing, "I'm gonna eat and eat and eat and eat and eat until I die." My family sings that too. Often.
My dad had two objectives for his visit to Atlanta (not listed in order of importance): 1. visit the Georgia Aquarium, and 2. eat out at as many restaurants as possible. I’m not even joking. Knowing this, when we picked them up at the airport, fresh off their red eye flight at 5:50 AM, we presented them with two breakfast restaurant options and explained that generally the food at one was very sugary and the food at the other was very greasy [pick your poison], to which my dad replied, “Let’s do both!” And that was his opinion for the rest of the trip. He wanted to go out for breakfast, lunch, and dinner at multiple restaurants…and then dessert at another restaurant right after. (As a little bit of explanation, my parents live in a tiny timber town and the only “restaurant” they have is a Dairy Queen. Needless to say, they never go out.) Narrowing the selection was beyond him. So we had to choose. Presenting lots of options to him got us nowhere because instead of picking his favorite, he would want to add them all to the itinerary. Every time we would drive by a different tasty-looking restaurant (this is a huge city with thousands of restaurants) my dad would suggest adding it to the schedule. B would laugh; my mom would quietly plead (“Deeeaarr….”). Only I protested. Finally, I was driven to forbid eating breakfast out. No way. No how. We needed more hours to detox. But, I’m getting ahead of myself. Although I was uncomfortable anyway with all the eating out, planned eating out, and impossible eating out, I did not decree the ban on eating breakfast out until after the end of the second day of the “fress-fest” (for those who speak German). I will not list all the things we ate during the 40 hours leading up to the incident. But in the afternoon on the day-of, we had ballpark fare (hotdog; more on the ballpark later), followed by an obscene amount of chips/guacamole/salsa/tacos/enchiladas, immediately followed by hot fudge sundae/apple pie with ice cream/malt shakes. In the middle of the night, when I woke up sick and threw up in the nearest garbage can, all I could think was that I had eaten too much. That’s what had done it. Of course, I’ve stuffed myself throughout my life and never had this happen. In fact, I didn’t know if such a thing was possible. But when I told my theory to my mom the next morning and to my sister the next day on the phone, they both believed me. In fact, they had stories of their own. My mom said overeating ended the same way it had for me several times during her first years of college. There she was, surrounded by LOTS of tasty food already made for her. She said it was the first time in her life she could really gorge herself on as much as she wanted to eat. She reports telling herself each time she woke up sick and puking from overeating that she had to “stop doing this.” My sister and I shared a room and I remember her always saying she liked to go to bed hungry and hated to have food in her stomach if she were about to fall asleep. I always thought she was crazy. I think I would have died if I had gone to bed hungry. I hated being hungry anytime of the day or night. She told me on the phone that it was because she would wake up feeling sick (although she never threw up). So although this sounds possible, and overeating is certainly what I attributed the incident to at the time it was occurring, a few things don’t add up. For example, any chance I get I seem to eat until I’m uncomfortably full (and then I wish I could eat more). I seriously doubt that I had really eaten more than EVER before in my life on that night. After all, I was the only one who had brought a “box” home from the Mexican place. Sometimes I DON’T bring home boxes, and I think I’m even worse at home eating as much as I want of my favorite things to cook. So, why that night? Although mom and T were on my side, my dad believed from the start that I had simply eaten something that didn’t agree with me. Brett appeared to side with him by throwing away my boxed leftovers—just in case. I banned eating breakfast out—just in case. I mostly got my way, however B was won over by my dad’s mellow dramatic sniffling one night (I’m not kidding). The next morning, while we all slept and he went for his daily run, he took a bag with him and picked up breakfast to go at an establishment my dad was devastated to miss. He woke us all up when he got back. You can imagine my dad’s reaction—and mine. Yes, he’s the “best son-in-law ever.” He’s also soft and incorrigible. I looked like such a tyrant. I’d like to say in my defense that breakfast at home consisted of turkey bacon, eggs, waffles, toast (three kinds of bread), hot chocolate (three kinds), cereal (six kinds), and milk (two kinds). Really! Is it such a hard knock life living with me?
My dad had two objectives for his visit to Atlanta (not listed in order of importance): 1. visit the Georgia Aquarium, and 2. eat out at as many restaurants as possible. I’m not even joking. Knowing this, when we picked them up at the airport, fresh off their red eye flight at 5:50 AM, we presented them with two breakfast restaurant options and explained that generally the food at one was very sugary and the food at the other was very greasy [pick your poison], to which my dad replied, “Let’s do both!” And that was his opinion for the rest of the trip. He wanted to go out for breakfast, lunch, and dinner at multiple restaurants…and then dessert at another restaurant right after. (As a little bit of explanation, my parents live in a tiny timber town and the only “restaurant” they have is a Dairy Queen. Needless to say, they never go out.) Narrowing the selection was beyond him. So we had to choose. Presenting lots of options to him got us nowhere because instead of picking his favorite, he would want to add them all to the itinerary. Every time we would drive by a different tasty-looking restaurant (this is a huge city with thousands of restaurants) my dad would suggest adding it to the schedule. B would laugh; my mom would quietly plead (“Deeeaarr….”). Only I protested. Finally, I was driven to forbid eating breakfast out. No way. No how. We needed more hours to detox. But, I’m getting ahead of myself. Although I was uncomfortable anyway with all the eating out, planned eating out, and impossible eating out, I did not decree the ban on eating breakfast out until after the end of the second day of the “fress-fest” (for those who speak German). I will not list all the things we ate during the 40 hours leading up to the incident. But in the afternoon on the day-of, we had ballpark fare (hotdog; more on the ballpark later), followed by an obscene amount of chips/guacamole/salsa/tacos/enchiladas, immediately followed by hot fudge sundae/apple pie with ice cream/malt shakes. In the middle of the night, when I woke up sick and threw up in the nearest garbage can, all I could think was that I had eaten too much. That’s what had done it. Of course, I’ve stuffed myself throughout my life and never had this happen. In fact, I didn’t know if such a thing was possible. But when I told my theory to my mom the next morning and to my sister the next day on the phone, they both believed me. In fact, they had stories of their own. My mom said overeating ended the same way it had for me several times during her first years of college. There she was, surrounded by LOTS of tasty food already made for her. She said it was the first time in her life she could really gorge herself on as much as she wanted to eat. She reports telling herself each time she woke up sick and puking from overeating that she had to “stop doing this.” My sister and I shared a room and I remember her always saying she liked to go to bed hungry and hated to have food in her stomach if she were about to fall asleep. I always thought she was crazy. I think I would have died if I had gone to bed hungry. I hated being hungry anytime of the day or night. She told me on the phone that it was because she would wake up feeling sick (although she never threw up). So although this sounds possible, and overeating is certainly what I attributed the incident to at the time it was occurring, a few things don’t add up. For example, any chance I get I seem to eat until I’m uncomfortably full (and then I wish I could eat more). I seriously doubt that I had really eaten more than EVER before in my life on that night. After all, I was the only one who had brought a “box” home from the Mexican place. Sometimes I DON’T bring home boxes, and I think I’m even worse at home eating as much as I want of my favorite things to cook. So, why that night? Although mom and T were on my side, my dad believed from the start that I had simply eaten something that didn’t agree with me. Brett appeared to side with him by throwing away my boxed leftovers—just in case. I banned eating breakfast out—just in case. I mostly got my way, however B was won over by my dad’s mellow dramatic sniffling one night (I’m not kidding). The next morning, while we all slept and he went for his daily run, he took a bag with him and picked up breakfast to go at an establishment my dad was devastated to miss. He woke us all up when he got back. You can imagine my dad’s reaction—and mine. Yes, he’s the “best son-in-law ever.” He’s also soft and incorrigible. I looked like such a tyrant. I’d like to say in my defense that breakfast at home consisted of turkey bacon, eggs, waffles, toast (three kinds of bread), hot chocolate (three kinds), cereal (six kinds), and milk (two kinds). Really! Is it such a hard knock life living with me?
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
The Raptor [part II]
We went to an air show a year ago. It was my first and I had a great time. In addition to seeing crazy people trying to kill themselves in stunt planes and watching lots of parachuters, there are also a ton of military planes—on the ground and in the air. At that show we got to see demonstrations of (among other planes) the F-16, the Chinook, and the B-2 bomber (which looks JUST like a UFO and caused me to question whether or not people really HAVE seen UFOs. It was just like what happened at the Space Center when they showed a few “funny” clips of “fake” [made in studios] walking on the moon footage to recognize [and mock] the belief that the whole thing is a hoax. I had never doubted and always wondered about the people who did—until I saw this fake footage. Suddenly I realized it COULD be a hoax. Not funny. Same with the UFO-looking B-2 bomber. I’m fine with the possibility of UFOs existing, UFOs having been “sighted,” even people having been abducted. But now, wait, are they really ALL crazy? It’s all right though, Mulder. I still believe—at least the UFO controversy). At the air show there are tons of planes on the ground for you to admire and/or climb in. So, you just put your chairs down somewhere in case you want to sit down eventually (it doesn’t matter where—everything is a good seat since it’s in the air and no one can really block the view), then you go off walking around checking out all the planes on the ground and eating nachos. Anytime you want to look up there’s something awesome flying around doing tricks. A fun day. This year, I heard about a different air show up at a nearby air force base which I was certain B had not heard about (he would have told me, and we would have been planning on it). I looked it up and saw that, among other demonstrations, we would get to see the F-22 “RAPTOR,” which is his dream plane to fly. Of course, it’s also his dream to fly an F-16 or F-15 or anything—but if given the choice of all of them, he’d pick the new fancy F-22. (Also at this show we watched demonstrations of the F-15 and a Navy Hornet—which was my favorite, after the F-22, of course). So, the night before the show I told B I had this wonderful surprise day/date planned for us! It was tons of fun (after the nearly three hours we spent standing in line. We had even shown up an hour and fifteen minutes early and still got in late. This event had much more security than the last one—once we got through the initial security line, we were bussed a few miles away, where we stood in another security line... But because we got there so early, we got to see the F-22 “practicing,” yes, even from far away.) The practice flying we watched in the morning was the coolest thing of the day. It was all over the place. We saw it fly at the show again, and they had one for us to look at on the ground (only they wouldn’t let us get close enough to touch it. If you want photos though, we’ve got those…for a price. B took photos of the thing from every side (close-up of the landing gear. You hear that, China?)). While reading the brochures being handed out about the F-22, I noticed that the name of the plane (F-22RAPTOR) has a birdhead graphically designed into the lettering. It looked eagle-like, and as I only knew of raptors as dinosaurs I was confused. This was no dino head. I checked this out with Webster when we got home. One of the definitions is “a usually small-to-medium-sized predatory dinosaur,” you know, like a velociraptor or a deinonychus. The other definition simply says “bird of prey.” Sure birds fly and I get that connection. This is more than a flying or even a fighting flying machine. This one is superior to all flying and fighting planes in the world AND uses stealth technology AND does ground attack, electronic warfare, and signals intelligence. It’s time for a new species, my friends. Birds just don’t cut it anymore. They should have gone with the small-to-medium-sized predatory dinosaurs. I really get that comparison. It just makes more sense. Think Jurassic Park [shudder].
Now I would like to take a minute to record Chapter 1 of the Belt Buckle Story. (Chapter Two can only be told by B, with the belt buckle present (but he wears it more than any of his other belts, so you have a good chance of getting to hear the story if you see him).) My favorite demonstration at our first air show was the F-16. So, I decided to get B an F-16 belt buckle for Christmas that year. Good idea, right? He likes planes; even I could tell that the F-16 was cool; a belt buckle of it would ensure a merry Christmas, certainly. The buckle is a very angular 6-inch-long airplane. It’s dangerous. You could poke/cut yourself with the tale, fins, wings, or nose. Boy, it’s cool-looking though! So, I was SURE he’d love it, which was important because I wasn’t so sure he’d love the bathrobe I bought him… I was grinning ear to ear as he unwrapped the box. He pulled it out, saw it, and instantly exclaimed, “Oh! An F-15!” F-15? My smile immediately disappeared into a look of confusion and disappointment. How could it be? There were no F-15 belt buckles being sold. And we had seen no F-15 fly. B saw my face fall and knew at once what I THOUGHT the plane was. “I mean, an F-16!” he exulted. But it was too late. I guess the Chinese buckle makers were looking at the wrong plane. Unlike Chapter 1 of the Belt Buckle Story (which is heartbreaking), Chapter 2 is awkward, embarrassing, AND knee-slappingly funny. I regret that I cannot tell it here.
Now I would like to take a minute to record Chapter 1 of the Belt Buckle Story. (Chapter Two can only be told by B, with the belt buckle present (but he wears it more than any of his other belts, so you have a good chance of getting to hear the story if you see him).) My favorite demonstration at our first air show was the F-16. So, I decided to get B an F-16 belt buckle for Christmas that year. Good idea, right? He likes planes; even I could tell that the F-16 was cool; a belt buckle of it would ensure a merry Christmas, certainly. The buckle is a very angular 6-inch-long airplane. It’s dangerous. You could poke/cut yourself with the tale, fins, wings, or nose. Boy, it’s cool-looking though! So, I was SURE he’d love it, which was important because I wasn’t so sure he’d love the bathrobe I bought him… I was grinning ear to ear as he unwrapped the box. He pulled it out, saw it, and instantly exclaimed, “Oh! An F-15!” F-15? My smile immediately disappeared into a look of confusion and disappointment. How could it be? There were no F-15 belt buckles being sold. And we had seen no F-15 fly. B saw my face fall and knew at once what I THOUGHT the plane was. “I mean, an F-16!” he exulted. But it was too late. I guess the Chinese buckle makers were looking at the wrong plane. Unlike Chapter 1 of the Belt Buckle Story (which is heartbreaking), Chapter 2 is awkward, embarrassing, AND knee-slappingly funny. I regret that I cannot tell it here.
I'm a Georgia voter!
Of course, I prefer the mail-in ballot method that Oregon uses for its elections to the craziness of physical polling places found in the rest of the states, but I was so excited to get to experience voting the usual way. I’ll admit, I was sort of dreading the day-of madness and originally toyed with the idea of voting early. But early voting in Atlanta requires “normal” waits of 4-5 hours and “not uncommon” waits of 7-8 hours. Bless the 1.5 million Atlantans who suffered through this. I decided to wait till the day of in hopes that the 5 million of us remaining would be accommodated more quickly by election day’s polling stations on every corner. Here are some things I observed:
1. You are assigned a polling place. That’s where you go.
2. Last night I was at the library (not my polling place) and peeked in the conference room where two old men were setting up their station. One sat at a table organizing papers. The other was looking at the chairs that had been set up and asked the first, “Should we put one more chair…HERE?” So cute.
3. You cannot campaign at polling places. You can’t put up signs within a certain distance of the polling place. Likewise, you cannot show up to vote wearing shirts/buttons for/against candidates. (This is the most inspired law I know of! How wonderful! You don’t have to worry about being harassed by every commissioner/court of appeals judge/presidential campaign there is as you stand in line for hours. You are safe. Unfortunately, the lady in front of us was shocked that there were no signs [for Obama, naturally] and no excited supporters pumping up the crowd. She made a call to an Obama “center” to report the oversight. Of course, being told of the legal restriction only elicits the usual [and sole] conclusion: racism. [Have these people no shame?] I feel like Homer Simpson when Marge says to him, “Homer, this is the worst thing you’ve ever done.” He replies, “You say that so often it has lost all meaning.” Seriously. The woman eventually hung up on the person she was talking to. Nice.)
4. We were voting at a school and I wondered where the children were. Apparently, because schools are used as polling places, Election Day is a day off of school in states OTHER than Oregon, which requires no polling places. Who knew?
5. Employers have to give employees two hours of paid time to vote. Hooray America again! My work starts at 8. Voting begins at 7. We arrived at our designated area at 6:40. There was a two hour wait; then I took B home and got ready for work. I arrived at work just before 10. Perfect!
6. The PTA sold coffee, baked goods, and Chick-fil-A sandwiches to us as we waited. Ingenious!
7. Although Georgia is not cold—even on November 4—I bundled up [somewhat] and brought a thermos of hot chocolate. Even so, the hours of exposure slowly chilled me from the fingers in. I was chilled through by the time we made it inside the gym. I was still cold when we got home.
8. I'm proudly wearing my "I'm a Georgia voter!" sticker. It's a big peach.
You may have known all these things, but if you had only participated in elections (presidential and otherwise) as a “resident” of the state that only offers mail-in ballots, you would have learned a lot today. It was exciting getting up early and lining up with tons of strangers. All different types of people. All of us getting to have a say and make a choice. Standing in line forever is not fun. But there we all were. It could make you tear up if you thought about it. I will miss that next time—and every time. I plan to be “out of town” every election from now on. As wonderful as the experience was this year and as grateful as I am to have had it (it didn’t disappoint), I prefer using one minute of my time—whichever minute I choose, no less—to cast my vote. Thank goodness all states have the “absentee” option.
1. You are assigned a polling place. That’s where you go.
2. Last night I was at the library (not my polling place) and peeked in the conference room where two old men were setting up their station. One sat at a table organizing papers. The other was looking at the chairs that had been set up and asked the first, “Should we put one more chair…HERE?” So cute.
3. You cannot campaign at polling places. You can’t put up signs within a certain distance of the polling place. Likewise, you cannot show up to vote wearing shirts/buttons for/against candidates. (This is the most inspired law I know of! How wonderful! You don’t have to worry about being harassed by every commissioner/court of appeals judge/presidential campaign there is as you stand in line for hours. You are safe. Unfortunately, the lady in front of us was shocked that there were no signs [for Obama, naturally] and no excited supporters pumping up the crowd. She made a call to an Obama “center” to report the oversight. Of course, being told of the legal restriction only elicits the usual [and sole] conclusion: racism. [Have these people no shame?] I feel like Homer Simpson when Marge says to him, “Homer, this is the worst thing you’ve ever done.” He replies, “You say that so often it has lost all meaning.” Seriously. The woman eventually hung up on the person she was talking to. Nice.)
4. We were voting at a school and I wondered where the children were. Apparently, because schools are used as polling places, Election Day is a day off of school in states OTHER than Oregon, which requires no polling places. Who knew?
5. Employers have to give employees two hours of paid time to vote. Hooray America again! My work starts at 8. Voting begins at 7. We arrived at our designated area at 6:40. There was a two hour wait; then I took B home and got ready for work. I arrived at work just before 10. Perfect!
6. The PTA sold coffee, baked goods, and Chick-fil-A sandwiches to us as we waited. Ingenious!
7. Although Georgia is not cold—even on November 4—I bundled up [somewhat] and brought a thermos of hot chocolate. Even so, the hours of exposure slowly chilled me from the fingers in. I was chilled through by the time we made it inside the gym. I was still cold when we got home.
8. I'm proudly wearing my "I'm a Georgia voter!" sticker. It's a big peach.
You may have known all these things, but if you had only participated in elections (presidential and otherwise) as a “resident” of the state that only offers mail-in ballots, you would have learned a lot today. It was exciting getting up early and lining up with tons of strangers. All different types of people. All of us getting to have a say and make a choice. Standing in line forever is not fun. But there we all were. It could make you tear up if you thought about it. I will miss that next time—and every time. I plan to be “out of town” every election from now on. As wonderful as the experience was this year and as grateful as I am to have had it (it didn’t disappoint), I prefer using one minute of my time—whichever minute I choose, no less—to cast my vote. Thank goodness all states have the “absentee” option.
Friday, October 17, 2008
It's pretty much just meat.
I don’t know what other people think about when they wake up in the night. When I wake up it’s only because I have to go to the bathroom, but I always futilely try to ignore it and fall back to sleep [for about 2 minutes]. It’s the bathroom thing that wakes me up, but it’s something else that prevents me from going back to sleep and motivates me to get up. It’s the thought of meat (or eggs or yogurt) going bad in the fridge. I don’t always have meat in the fridge, but if I do it’s what comes to mind suddenly when I wake up in the middle of the night.
“[gasp] That ground beef. How many days has it been? Is it still good? I don’t have time to cook it tomorrow….I should have frozen it when I brought it home…”
“When was the last time I bought eggs? It’s been more than two months at least. I should toss those.”
Last night it was, “The chicken!” Funny thing is, I had noticed the chicken each day this week. “I’ve got to cook that.” But we had made a whole week’s worth of enchiladas Sunday night and haven’t needed to cook since then. So, although I kept seeing the chicken as I opened the fridge multiple times each day, my uneasiness ceased once the fridge was shut. But in the middle of the night, it’s panic time. “I’ve GOT to do something.” So, I head to the kitchen, blind myself with the silly fridge light [do we really need that thing to be automatic? Trust me, I KNOW where the chicken is], toss in the entire offending item in the trash, or move it—package and all—to the freezer (for more careful consideration at a later time). Perhaps the chicken will not be useable, but maybe there’s a chance. And there’s more of a chance when it goes to the freezer in the middle of the night than the next day. Are you aware that your freezer is not lighted? Or is it? Mine isn’t and I’m always surprised at the complete darkness when I open it right after the blinding light of the fridge. What about all those midnight ice cream eaters? I’ve never had this problem, since I am comfortable binging on ice cream in broad daylight. I guess they do what I have to do in the middle of the night with the expiring meats: open the fridge to light the freezer. I think there SHOULD be freezer lights. But I’m not very scientific, so I tell myself that they don’t exist because they are impossible due to the extreme temperature, the humidity, or the properties of electricity. Does anyone know? Does anyone have a light in their freezer?
“[gasp] That ground beef. How many days has it been? Is it still good? I don’t have time to cook it tomorrow….I should have frozen it when I brought it home…”
“When was the last time I bought eggs? It’s been more than two months at least. I should toss those.”
Last night it was, “The chicken!” Funny thing is, I had noticed the chicken each day this week. “I’ve got to cook that.” But we had made a whole week’s worth of enchiladas Sunday night and haven’t needed to cook since then. So, although I kept seeing the chicken as I opened the fridge multiple times each day, my uneasiness ceased once the fridge was shut. But in the middle of the night, it’s panic time. “I’ve GOT to do something.” So, I head to the kitchen, blind myself with the silly fridge light [do we really need that thing to be automatic? Trust me, I KNOW where the chicken is], toss in the entire offending item in the trash, or move it—package and all—to the freezer (for more careful consideration at a later time). Perhaps the chicken will not be useable, but maybe there’s a chance. And there’s more of a chance when it goes to the freezer in the middle of the night than the next day. Are you aware that your freezer is not lighted? Or is it? Mine isn’t and I’m always surprised at the complete darkness when I open it right after the blinding light of the fridge. What about all those midnight ice cream eaters? I’ve never had this problem, since I am comfortable binging on ice cream in broad daylight. I guess they do what I have to do in the middle of the night with the expiring meats: open the fridge to light the freezer. I think there SHOULD be freezer lights. But I’m not very scientific, so I tell myself that they don’t exist because they are impossible due to the extreme temperature, the humidity, or the properties of electricity. Does anyone know? Does anyone have a light in their freezer?
We couldn't be happier.
Last week’s Wicked performance was great. Although I listen to the soundtrack a lot, Wicked is not my favorite book/musical/story. The show gets a hearty recommendation as it was very entertaining and the leads (which are really the only two people who matter and whom I judge when I say this) were awesome. I love seeing people who really are professionals—just like I love getting information from people who really know what they’re talking about, specialists, if you will. It just makes me feel like the world works well. After last month’s Les Mis disaster, one of our suspicions has been debunked, while another suspicion has formed. First, we thought that, perhaps, the “opening night” factor could take a little of the blame for the awful Les Mis performance—not that such an excuse should be acceptable by any means. Yet, we saw Wicked on its opening night and it was electrifying. Our new suspicion is that Les Mis just doesn’t attract top talent anymore. It’s not the hot ticket. Of course, I believe there is far more talent out there than can be properly displayed, so it’s not like there was no one “else.” But maybe the available talent passed Les Mis up in hopes of waiting for something better.
In other “arts” news, B attended his first symphony concert with me a couple weeks ago. Although he was DREADING it for months, he was happily surprised to find that “the symphony” isn’t “the opera.” B’s friend, Cyril (the subject of a previous post), knowing I was a violinist in years past, had been wanting us to go to the symphony with him for a year! We [Cyril and I] talked about it every time we saw each other. B was not willing to help with the arrangements, so finally I arranged it with Cyril myself.
B: “But why do I have to go? Can’t you just go with Cyril?”
I’m so sure. Cyril and I had even picked a concert that had a piece (a movement) B would recognize (Beethoven’s Fifth: duh-duh-duh-DUUUUHHH)! The concert was comprised of a Bach piece, a Brahams piano concerto, and finally Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony. So, basically, the concert would get better and better as it went. After the Bach piece, Cyril asked B how he was doing. B answered, “It was all counterpoint, but no points.” I whispered, “It will get better.” He replied threateningly, “It better.” The Brahams piece had much more to look at (the full orchestra this time and the pianist), but was very, very long. The pianist sat stone still for about 15 minutes while the orchestra played. Finally, he joined in. When he did, I could see B’s smiling face in my peripheral vision. He was greatly amused by the antics of the performer. The heavy breathing, the wild head shaking, the hand flourishes, the trembling piano lid that was threatening to fall… But, even that gets boring after a half hour. The pianist was amazing. I always feel a mite sorry for people that talented. When he and the conductor entered the hall I wondered what his childhood had been like. Or college. All his life, really. And what’s also sad is that the people in the orchestra probably each wanted to be him [professional soloists, rather than professional musicians] but didn’t make the cut. You would think their stories are even sadder, but I’m not so sure. After the intermission, we listened to the anticipated duh-duh-duh-DUUUUHHH, which Brett informed me after reading the entire program was laughed at by Beethoven’s orchestra when he first brought it in for them to try. (duh-duh-duh-DUUUUuuuhhhh ha ha ha ha!) The movements which followed didn’t stand out much; I was particularly surprised by how non-finale-like the fourth movement was. I was completely caught off guard when it ended. B survived the experience. I really wanted to take him to the next week’s concert (Tchaikovsky violin concerto) because I’m sure it would have been even better, but by the time the next Thursday rolled around, I was too tired (end of the week; plus, the previous night had been a late night seeing Wicked). Our next concert will be the Messiah in December.
In other “arts” news, B attended his first symphony concert with me a couple weeks ago. Although he was DREADING it for months, he was happily surprised to find that “the symphony” isn’t “the opera.” B’s friend, Cyril (the subject of a previous post), knowing I was a violinist in years past, had been wanting us to go to the symphony with him for a year! We [Cyril and I] talked about it every time we saw each other. B was not willing to help with the arrangements, so finally I arranged it with Cyril myself.
B: “But why do I have to go? Can’t you just go with Cyril?”
I’m so sure. Cyril and I had even picked a concert that had a piece (a movement) B would recognize (Beethoven’s Fifth: duh-duh-duh-DUUUUHHH)! The concert was comprised of a Bach piece, a Brahams piano concerto, and finally Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony. So, basically, the concert would get better and better as it went. After the Bach piece, Cyril asked B how he was doing. B answered, “It was all counterpoint, but no points.” I whispered, “It will get better.” He replied threateningly, “It better.” The Brahams piece had much more to look at (the full orchestra this time and the pianist), but was very, very long. The pianist sat stone still for about 15 minutes while the orchestra played. Finally, he joined in. When he did, I could see B’s smiling face in my peripheral vision. He was greatly amused by the antics of the performer. The heavy breathing, the wild head shaking, the hand flourishes, the trembling piano lid that was threatening to fall… But, even that gets boring after a half hour. The pianist was amazing. I always feel a mite sorry for people that talented. When he and the conductor entered the hall I wondered what his childhood had been like. Or college. All his life, really. And what’s also sad is that the people in the orchestra probably each wanted to be him [professional soloists, rather than professional musicians] but didn’t make the cut. You would think their stories are even sadder, but I’m not so sure. After the intermission, we listened to the anticipated duh-duh-duh-DUUUUHHH, which Brett informed me after reading the entire program was laughed at by Beethoven’s orchestra when he first brought it in for them to try. (duh-duh-duh-DUUUUuuuhhhh ha ha ha ha!) The movements which followed didn’t stand out much; I was particularly surprised by how non-finale-like the fourth movement was. I was completely caught off guard when it ended. B survived the experience. I really wanted to take him to the next week’s concert (Tchaikovsky violin concerto) because I’m sure it would have been even better, but by the time the next Thursday rolled around, I was too tired (end of the week; plus, the previous night had been a late night seeing Wicked). Our next concert will be the Messiah in December.
Thursday, October 16, 2008
I haven’t been very consistent in my blogging effort the last month. I haven’t been feeling that great—specifically, my tailbone has been acting up. I need a tailbone transplant. I suppose I could say I’m having low lower back problems, but it’s really so far down that I don’t really consider it my back anymore. Chiropractors would disagree. “It’s all related.” Poor posture or stress in your neck, shoulders, or upper back apparently translates to pain (shooting pain) in your tailbone and pelvis (where it fuses with the tailbone) with no symptoms in whatever area is actually causing the pain. So, anything may be the culprit. Crooked ears can potentially cause this. I have my doubts, and I am inclined to believe that I simply have a bum tailbone/pelvis connection. Although, I must admit that I do have one actual “bad habit” that a chiropractor would assign all the blame to. I sit in a crappy chair for eight hours a day. The crappy chair encourages crappy posture. Maybe, after more than a year of taking this sort of beating, my tailbone has gone completely on the fritz. My original chair was awful. I “upgraded” to a different discarded chair four months later. This new chair tortured me for nine months. It, like all chairs, is huge. I don’t think they make chairs for people my size. They make them for very large people. The seat is so big that I can’t scoot all the way back, which means my back receives no support. Plus, the seat slants from left to right. That CAN’T be good. But it was better than the previous chair, and I’m no good at asking for nice office products. Perhaps if I liked my job and had no plans of leaving I would feel more entitled to a decent chair. As it is, I see this as temporary—I don’t even “personalize” my space. I guess I should confess that for months and months every time I stood up out of my chair, I could tighten my rear and my tailbone would pop. In fact, I needed to do this sometimes in order to walk comfortably. After months of this, it mysteriously stopped, and then I was hit with all this pain. After being at my wits’ end, I decided (with B’s encouragement) to do something about my chair. My solution was to buy one of my own. B wanted me to ask my boss for a new one. As fate would have it, two new chairs rolled into the office the next day. “Who are those for?” I asked. One was for my boss, one was for a new guy. I immediately sent my boss an email asking, “What are you doing with your old chair?” I figured this would get the message across that I was wanting a different chair than the one I had, and it did. She said it didn’t roll well on carpet (no problem for me, I’m on marble tile) but I could have it if I wanted. She also said if I needed a new chair, they could look into getting one. I’ve adopted the old one. Of course, it’s huge (she’s a big lady—the reason they make all chairs this big) but the seat isn’t slanting to one side. I have been making a concerted effort to sit up straight as much as I can and to stand as much as I can. When I stand, I can’t type, and the blog suffers. I have also begun using this foot rest thing that had been pushed under my desk since I came (I’m telling you, I have done NOTHING to change this space [besides disinfect it] since I arrived). It says it helps to have your knees up like this, instead of dangling downward from the chair. The jury is still out on whether these methods will be enough to prevent a full tailbone transplant.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Sean Connery + Jean Valjean FOR-EV-ER
This cautionary tale is offered with the intent of preventing people from plunking down their money to see the current touring production of Les Miserables. If you are tempted to see Les Mis when it comes to you this year, please, RESIST! If you, like I, have been dreaming, praying even, for the day it would come to you again (the last tour was in 2003—the year the show closed on Broadway) know that this production will not give you what you expect (and deserve) and will only deepen your despair and longing, while adding to these a painful sense of betrayal.
Although we’ve seen the show a few times before, we prepped for the occasion by listening to the soundtrack for a couple weeks prior to the big night. The recording I had purchased (my favorite: 10-year anniversary concert recording, for those who care) was not the recording B had expected (original Broadway cast) and took some getting used to. He was hung up for a few days on Jean Valjean’s Sean Connery-like speech oddity and eventually renamed him “Sean Val-Jeannery.” The actor, Colm Wilkinson, happens to be from Ireland (that’s close to Connery’s native Scotland, right?) and also happens to be an amazing singer and an unsurpassable Valjean (although I feel he is matched by the venerable Ivan Rutherford).
I had read that the current production was “different” from the previous 23 years of Les Mis productions in several ways. First, no rotating stage. Woah. It’s hard to picture such a static, 2-dimensional presentation, but I was intrigued. I can try new things. Besides, I believe the show is greater than its architecture. Sets were supposed to be more sparse, and Victor Hugo’s own drawings were projected on the backdrop. He wrote the story, why not see how he drew his world? Finally, there were to be many more people on stage. Besides the 35-member touring cast, 18 locals would be used as extras to give it a more operatic (and more miserable) look. The theater is located a couple blocks from a massive homeless shelter where Brett and I cleaned beds one Saturday. Needless to say the addition of a few of these authentic “locals” might have really helped the ambiance of misery. With all these changes, even Cameron Mackintosh felt it worth his time to head on over to little Atlanta (from big Great Britain) to catch a show. If he liked what he saw, he would implement changes in the still-running [after 23 years] London West End Les Mis production. We saw the show the night it opened here. He saw it two nights later, and unless they got a new cast or all learned how to act overnight, I am confident that the West End production will continue spinning into the future in all its current (and past) glory.
How can I explain the shortcomings of this production?
Our local newspaper review of the production stated that “actors who look the part, sing in key, and ooze personality can make it work handsomely. That’s mostly the case in the current run.” By “mostly” the reviewer must mean two out of the three—look the part and sing in key. But my friends, my FRIEEEEENNNNDS, couldn’t I do those things? I can wear a costume and I can sing in key. It is true, I am not a singer of hair-raising star potential. But, were THEY? It is my belief that this show requires people who sing better than “in key” and, more importantly, who understand and can convey the message and the power of the story—perhaps that’s the “oozing personality” which was referred to by the reviewer and which was, unfortunately, completely lacking in the cast we saw (none of whom were understudies).
Yes, asside from Marius and Eponine, there was NO acting on that night. Not even the Thenardiers were trying. The entire cast genuinely looked as if they didn’t know what to do with themselves. It was like they didn’t even realize what they were singing. Sure, they had the words memorized, but their meaning had not been comprehended. During a dry-eyed intermission [IMAGINE! Experiencing an intermission dry-eyed right after “One Day More” has just been sung! Imagine watching/listening to One Day More and to the finale Will You Join in Our Crusade and wondering why you feel NOTHING, and why you had ever been touched by these numbers before] I mentioned to B after several confused minutes that I felt the acting just wasn’t there. His condemning response: “I feel like I’m watching a high school production.” I was dismayed as I watched the show continue. After all, just listening to it can sometimes make you tear up while fixing breakfast. How could the live performance be so poor, lifeless, and irrelevant?
Example:
Upon being released from 19 years in prison, Valjean sings:
I drink from a pool, how clean the taste,
Never forget the years, the waste!
Nor forgive them for what they’ve done,
They are the guilty, every one.
This is an incredibly important passage, because it highlights the change in Valjean around which the whole story revolves, culminating in Valjean’s eventual forgiveness and release of his former captor. We have to know and feel how bitter and hurt he is in the beginning in order to appreciate just how amazing and unlikely his transformation must be. Unfortunately, our Valjean did not play this to the audience. No communication; no connection between him/his experience and us. He was hunched over packing his bag. You can imagine that a couple hours later, when Valjean sings the following climactic lines, they passed with as little recognition and even less meaning, since his struggle had not been properly introduced from the start:
You are wrong and always have been wrong.
I’m a man, no worse than any man.
You are free, and there are no conditions,
No bargains or petitions.
There’s nothing that I blame you for.
You’ve done your duty, nothing more.
Nothing, though, can compare with the horror and disappointment of another missed opportunity. Imagine that after 19 years in prison you broke your parole and, under an alias, started a new life, becoming an honest, wealthy, and respected citizen. Now imagine that after 10 years of hard work building a new life, your old prison captor gets a tip that you aren’t really your alias, but rather the prisoner who’s been “on the run” for ten years. When he confronts you and suggests this, how would you react? This is not a hard question. You hate him already and you would be sweating bullets. It would be a VERY tense few moments. Instead, we saw an inexplicably “cool” Valjean channel a valley girl persona for the following exchange:
Javert:
A memory stirs, you make me think of a man,
from years ago, a man who broke his parole,
he disappeared…
[pause for what should be uncomfortable silence; during which OUR Valjean is acting like he doesn’t even care or hear, turning around, waving at townspeople]
Forgive me sir, I would not dare.
Valjean [SAYS [not sings] in rising valley-girl intonation with both arms stretched out to either side of him, like he has nothing to hide]:
Say what you must [dude]!
Don’t leave it there!
I gasped at the gaff and my hand covered my mouth. Searching for an explanation [is our Valjean Canadian? do they have different cultural/behavioral norms? Is he dyslexic?] I found an interview with him and Javert in the program in which he explains that he wants to be an “honest” Valjean. Huh? “Not that previous Valjeans haven’t been honest…” [awkward] He explained he wanted to be “spontaneous”—like he’s really living it. Sadly, whatever he was living that night was not what Jean Valjean lived. Unfortunately, he was not the only person who did not play his part. Fantine did nothing, though she did have a VERY lovely [but incredibly small] voice… Javert explained his performance in an interview by stating that he hoped to make his character less stiff—more of a real person. THAT didn’t happen. He was nobody. Not stiff, not even human. See-through. Like saran wrap. Just a singing lump—and he didn’t sing well enough that we didn’t miss the acting. I only read the first question/answer of each interview. I did not have the courage to read them in their entirety.
After being so disappointed by what we witnessed, I was anxious to read what the reviewer in the local paper would say. How do you write a scathing review? I still don’t know. Although he admitted a few shortcomings, he generally praised the production. I will assume, to his credit, that he has seen more theatrical productions than I have and that he has been trained in the art of critiquing. Furthermore, his name is Pierre. But, before you decide to temper my estimation by also allowing what this “professional” critic said, consider the following:
1. He believes that the strength of Les Mis is the music. Don’t confuse this with the lyrics, which in my estimation tell one of the greatest stories ever told. The lyrics, he laments, are “sentimental and plot-thin.” Only the melodies give the show its greatness.
2. Regarding the plot, he suggests that it as a story of unrequited love. Passionate love. Between two unattached single men. How else, he asks, can you explain Javert’s fanatical, illogical obsession?
3. The “best material” in the show is that given to the Thenardiers.
Au contraire, Pierre.
Will I join in their crusade? For the first time, non merci.
Although we’ve seen the show a few times before, we prepped for the occasion by listening to the soundtrack for a couple weeks prior to the big night. The recording I had purchased (my favorite: 10-year anniversary concert recording, for those who care) was not the recording B had expected (original Broadway cast) and took some getting used to. He was hung up for a few days on Jean Valjean’s Sean Connery-like speech oddity and eventually renamed him “Sean Val-Jeannery.” The actor, Colm Wilkinson, happens to be from Ireland (that’s close to Connery’s native Scotland, right?) and also happens to be an amazing singer and an unsurpassable Valjean (although I feel he is matched by the venerable Ivan Rutherford).
I had read that the current production was “different” from the previous 23 years of Les Mis productions in several ways. First, no rotating stage. Woah. It’s hard to picture such a static, 2-dimensional presentation, but I was intrigued. I can try new things. Besides, I believe the show is greater than its architecture. Sets were supposed to be more sparse, and Victor Hugo’s own drawings were projected on the backdrop. He wrote the story, why not see how he drew his world? Finally, there were to be many more people on stage. Besides the 35-member touring cast, 18 locals would be used as extras to give it a more operatic (and more miserable) look. The theater is located a couple blocks from a massive homeless shelter where Brett and I cleaned beds one Saturday. Needless to say the addition of a few of these authentic “locals” might have really helped the ambiance of misery. With all these changes, even Cameron Mackintosh felt it worth his time to head on over to little Atlanta (from big Great Britain) to catch a show. If he liked what he saw, he would implement changes in the still-running [after 23 years] London West End Les Mis production. We saw the show the night it opened here. He saw it two nights later, and unless they got a new cast or all learned how to act overnight, I am confident that the West End production will continue spinning into the future in all its current (and past) glory.
How can I explain the shortcomings of this production?
Our local newspaper review of the production stated that “actors who look the part, sing in key, and ooze personality can make it work handsomely. That’s mostly the case in the current run.” By “mostly” the reviewer must mean two out of the three—look the part and sing in key. But my friends, my FRIEEEEENNNNDS, couldn’t I do those things? I can wear a costume and I can sing in key. It is true, I am not a singer of hair-raising star potential. But, were THEY? It is my belief that this show requires people who sing better than “in key” and, more importantly, who understand and can convey the message and the power of the story—perhaps that’s the “oozing personality” which was referred to by the reviewer and which was, unfortunately, completely lacking in the cast we saw (none of whom were understudies).
Yes, asside from Marius and Eponine, there was NO acting on that night. Not even the Thenardiers were trying. The entire cast genuinely looked as if they didn’t know what to do with themselves. It was like they didn’t even realize what they were singing. Sure, they had the words memorized, but their meaning had not been comprehended. During a dry-eyed intermission [IMAGINE! Experiencing an intermission dry-eyed right after “One Day More” has just been sung! Imagine watching/listening to One Day More and to the finale Will You Join in Our Crusade and wondering why you feel NOTHING, and why you had ever been touched by these numbers before] I mentioned to B after several confused minutes that I felt the acting just wasn’t there. His condemning response: “I feel like I’m watching a high school production.” I was dismayed as I watched the show continue. After all, just listening to it can sometimes make you tear up while fixing breakfast. How could the live performance be so poor, lifeless, and irrelevant?
Example:
Upon being released from 19 years in prison, Valjean sings:
I drink from a pool, how clean the taste,
Never forget the years, the waste!
Nor forgive them for what they’ve done,
They are the guilty, every one.
This is an incredibly important passage, because it highlights the change in Valjean around which the whole story revolves, culminating in Valjean’s eventual forgiveness and release of his former captor. We have to know and feel how bitter and hurt he is in the beginning in order to appreciate just how amazing and unlikely his transformation must be. Unfortunately, our Valjean did not play this to the audience. No communication; no connection between him/his experience and us. He was hunched over packing his bag. You can imagine that a couple hours later, when Valjean sings the following climactic lines, they passed with as little recognition and even less meaning, since his struggle had not been properly introduced from the start:
You are wrong and always have been wrong.
I’m a man, no worse than any man.
You are free, and there are no conditions,
No bargains or petitions.
There’s nothing that I blame you for.
You’ve done your duty, nothing more.
Nothing, though, can compare with the horror and disappointment of another missed opportunity. Imagine that after 19 years in prison you broke your parole and, under an alias, started a new life, becoming an honest, wealthy, and respected citizen. Now imagine that after 10 years of hard work building a new life, your old prison captor gets a tip that you aren’t really your alias, but rather the prisoner who’s been “on the run” for ten years. When he confronts you and suggests this, how would you react? This is not a hard question. You hate him already and you would be sweating bullets. It would be a VERY tense few moments. Instead, we saw an inexplicably “cool” Valjean channel a valley girl persona for the following exchange:
Javert:
A memory stirs, you make me think of a man,
from years ago, a man who broke his parole,
he disappeared…
[pause for what should be uncomfortable silence; during which OUR Valjean is acting like he doesn’t even care or hear, turning around, waving at townspeople]
Forgive me sir, I would not dare.
Valjean [SAYS [not sings] in rising valley-girl intonation with both arms stretched out to either side of him, like he has nothing to hide]:
Say what you must [dude]!
Don’t leave it there!
I gasped at the gaff and my hand covered my mouth. Searching for an explanation [is our Valjean Canadian? do they have different cultural/behavioral norms? Is he dyslexic?] I found an interview with him and Javert in the program in which he explains that he wants to be an “honest” Valjean. Huh? “Not that previous Valjeans haven’t been honest…” [awkward] He explained he wanted to be “spontaneous”—like he’s really living it. Sadly, whatever he was living that night was not what Jean Valjean lived. Unfortunately, he was not the only person who did not play his part. Fantine did nothing, though she did have a VERY lovely [but incredibly small] voice… Javert explained his performance in an interview by stating that he hoped to make his character less stiff—more of a real person. THAT didn’t happen. He was nobody. Not stiff, not even human. See-through. Like saran wrap. Just a singing lump—and he didn’t sing well enough that we didn’t miss the acting. I only read the first question/answer of each interview. I did not have the courage to read them in their entirety.
After being so disappointed by what we witnessed, I was anxious to read what the reviewer in the local paper would say. How do you write a scathing review? I still don’t know. Although he admitted a few shortcomings, he generally praised the production. I will assume, to his credit, that he has seen more theatrical productions than I have and that he has been trained in the art of critiquing. Furthermore, his name is Pierre. But, before you decide to temper my estimation by also allowing what this “professional” critic said, consider the following:
1. He believes that the strength of Les Mis is the music. Don’t confuse this with the lyrics, which in my estimation tell one of the greatest stories ever told. The lyrics, he laments, are “sentimental and plot-thin.” Only the melodies give the show its greatness.
2. Regarding the plot, he suggests that it as a story of unrequited love. Passionate love. Between two unattached single men. How else, he asks, can you explain Javert’s fanatical, illogical obsession?
3. The “best material” in the show is that given to the Thenardiers.
Au contraire, Pierre.
Will I join in their crusade? For the first time, non merci.
Monday, October 6, 2008
On Prayer
The crisis ended last week. Not all gas stations have gas, but most do and there are no lines. The best part is that the price drops daily! I've been working on a critical review of the touring Les Mis production, which I hope to post soon. In the meantime, please be entertained by the following:
As many of you know, I am in charge of "singing time" with the children at church. It's super fun. Well, for those who aren't familiar with our church, one Sunday each year (usually around October; ours is two weeks away!) the children put on the Sunday worship service. In my opinion, it is the best Sunday of the year. The kids are so cute and unpredictable. I admit that I always pay much better attention when they are speaking/singing than I do for regular Sunday services! Most of the program is scripted--the smaller the child, the shorter the lines. The older kids are sometimes asked to prepare a short message about a certain topic, like, for example, prayer. Usually, parents help the kid prepare their remarks. One 8-year-old in our Primary wrote the following remarks all by herself [punctuation added by me]:
by Talia
My prayers help me a lot in some way. I don't know what way--but some way. I love to pray, but just before dinner I don't like long prayers. Prayers are a good thing for people. Like the talk my sister gave today, September 7th, Sunday, 2008. Her talk's good. She's going to say it--you're going to love it. Believe me, you will. Prayers are just, well, totally awesome. I love them. My sister loves them. My brother--he even closes his eyes and folds his arms. My mother too; also my father. Even though I didn't pray for that wonderful family, I got it too, because God loves me, and he probably prayed for me.
The end.
As many of you know, I am in charge of "singing time" with the children at church. It's super fun. Well, for those who aren't familiar with our church, one Sunday each year (usually around October; ours is two weeks away!) the children put on the Sunday worship service. In my opinion, it is the best Sunday of the year. The kids are so cute and unpredictable. I admit that I always pay much better attention when they are speaking/singing than I do for regular Sunday services! Most of the program is scripted--the smaller the child, the shorter the lines. The older kids are sometimes asked to prepare a short message about a certain topic, like, for example, prayer. Usually, parents help the kid prepare their remarks. One 8-year-old in our Primary wrote the following remarks all by herself [punctuation added by me]:
by Talia
My prayers help me a lot in some way. I don't know what way--but some way. I love to pray, but just before dinner I don't like long prayers. Prayers are a good thing for people. Like the talk my sister gave today, September 7th, Sunday, 2008. Her talk's good. She's going to say it--you're going to love it. Believe me, you will. Prayers are just, well, totally awesome. I love them. My sister loves them. My brother--he even closes his eyes and folds his arms. My mother too; also my father. Even though I didn't pray for that wonderful family, I got it too, because God loves me, and he probably prayed for me.
The end.
Friday, September 26, 2008
"We ran out of giss."
"About fiffteen minutes ago!"
The rumors are true. There is no gas in Atlanta. There is no gas for hours outside of Atlanta. In case you’ve wondered what it’s like when a city of 6 million runs out of gas, I’ll tell you. It’s pretty much the same as usual, only the gas stations are all closed (and in case you’ve wondered how a gas station indicates that they have no gas to sell, they signify this by pulling the prices from their reader boards). You can drive around town all day, and even out to the communities over an hour away where my coworkers live, but there will be no open gas stations. I was first alerted to the "crisis" by my sister-in-law in Utah. "Hear you're out of gas." Uhhh...that's news to me. In my defense, B was sick last week and passed it on to me, causing me to miss work on Monday and Tuesday. Apparently out-of-town towns started running out of gas this weekend (some stations closed, others with “only” regular—and only at one pump). This led to panic and runs on gas which, in addition to the fact that no gas is coming, has run the whole area dry. Since we didn't take any road trips over the weekend (because we were sick and already had fun plans here to suffer through) and don't have TV or internet at home, Wednesday, my first day back at work, was really the first day I could hear something about this. After she clued me in that something might be amiss (nothing SEEMED amiss) I checked out the local paper in the breakroom. In the "metro" section I found the article "Why We Ran Out of Gas." That same day I read about the potential crisis in Newsweek. It predicted we would be completely out of gas in about 9 days. They were one week too optimistic. But other than those two references, my daily internet surfing hasn't pulled up much national attention.
Somehow I keep expecting life—ok, specifically TRAFFIC—to be different without any available gas. Because there is no more gas, when people run out, they can’t get more. So, each day I drive to and from work and I look at the cars next to me and wonder who won’t be on the road tomorrow. SOMEBODY is on empty. I just KNOW they are. I believe that the roads will slowly clear and I’m looking forward to that. I’m hoping to be the last one driving! I will be like Will Smith in I am Legend. I’ll drive fast, using all the lanes in my 2003 Nissan Sentra! When I told my sister about my belief that my gas will last longer than anyone else’s, she suggested they should have some sort of game show/contest! Last one driving. Unfortunately, it appears that no gas is coming and when any gas DOES arrive, there will be MILLIONS of people on empty, which will suck it all dry in a matter of minutes. There’s also the panic problem. If gas arrived, people would fill EVERYTHING (all their vehicles, lawnmowers, and several gas cans). If they happened to see another station open later, they would top off. Crazy panicky hoarding. Because of this, the problem will take a while to work itself out, and who knows when the gas will begin arriving. As it is, we won’t be affected for at least another month. B bikes to school each day. I drive a 10-mile round trip. That commute, plus the 30-miles for church is only 80 miles per week. Grocery stores are two blocks away (walk), Braves game/airport/etc. we use the subway for, and we have two half-full cars to use! If the situation doesn’t improve in the next few days, I predict no one will be able to come to work by mid-week next week (except me) because they all commute ridiculous distances. No one wants to live in the city for obvious reasons, but it’s working well for this gas shortage. But, I admit that it is possible that there will still be no gas for the getting in a month; at that point, we will be affected. I’ll have to take the bus (if they are running) or walk 4.5 miles each way… I do wonder how busses and police cars etc. are getting gas. I also wonder how soon we will see this affect the food, since a truck may be able to get here from Kentucky or other locales with gas, but it won’t be able to get back out. Interesting things to think about, but so far there is no indication that anything is amiss—except for the blank reader boards on thousands of gas stations.
The rumors are true. There is no gas in Atlanta. There is no gas for hours outside of Atlanta. In case you’ve wondered what it’s like when a city of 6 million runs out of gas, I’ll tell you. It’s pretty much the same as usual, only the gas stations are all closed (and in case you’ve wondered how a gas station indicates that they have no gas to sell, they signify this by pulling the prices from their reader boards). You can drive around town all day, and even out to the communities over an hour away where my coworkers live, but there will be no open gas stations. I was first alerted to the "crisis" by my sister-in-law in Utah. "Hear you're out of gas." Uhhh...that's news to me. In my defense, B was sick last week and passed it on to me, causing me to miss work on Monday and Tuesday. Apparently out-of-town towns started running out of gas this weekend (some stations closed, others with “only” regular—and only at one pump). This led to panic and runs on gas which, in addition to the fact that no gas is coming, has run the whole area dry. Since we didn't take any road trips over the weekend (because we were sick and already had fun plans here to suffer through) and don't have TV or internet at home, Wednesday, my first day back at work, was really the first day I could hear something about this. After she clued me in that something might be amiss (nothing SEEMED amiss) I checked out the local paper in the breakroom. In the "metro" section I found the article "Why We Ran Out of Gas." That same day I read about the potential crisis in Newsweek. It predicted we would be completely out of gas in about 9 days. They were one week too optimistic. But other than those two references, my daily internet surfing hasn't pulled up much national attention.
Somehow I keep expecting life—ok, specifically TRAFFIC—to be different without any available gas. Because there is no more gas, when people run out, they can’t get more. So, each day I drive to and from work and I look at the cars next to me and wonder who won’t be on the road tomorrow. SOMEBODY is on empty. I just KNOW they are. I believe that the roads will slowly clear and I’m looking forward to that. I’m hoping to be the last one driving! I will be like Will Smith in I am Legend. I’ll drive fast, using all the lanes in my 2003 Nissan Sentra! When I told my sister about my belief that my gas will last longer than anyone else’s, she suggested they should have some sort of game show/contest! Last one driving. Unfortunately, it appears that no gas is coming and when any gas DOES arrive, there will be MILLIONS of people on empty, which will suck it all dry in a matter of minutes. There’s also the panic problem. If gas arrived, people would fill EVERYTHING (all their vehicles, lawnmowers, and several gas cans). If they happened to see another station open later, they would top off. Crazy panicky hoarding. Because of this, the problem will take a while to work itself out, and who knows when the gas will begin arriving. As it is, we won’t be affected for at least another month. B bikes to school each day. I drive a 10-mile round trip. That commute, plus the 30-miles for church is only 80 miles per week. Grocery stores are two blocks away (walk), Braves game/airport/etc. we use the subway for, and we have two half-full cars to use! If the situation doesn’t improve in the next few days, I predict no one will be able to come to work by mid-week next week (except me) because they all commute ridiculous distances. No one wants to live in the city for obvious reasons, but it’s working well for this gas shortage. But, I admit that it is possible that there will still be no gas for the getting in a month; at that point, we will be affected. I’ll have to take the bus (if they are running) or walk 4.5 miles each way… I do wonder how busses and police cars etc. are getting gas. I also wonder how soon we will see this affect the food, since a truck may be able to get here from Kentucky or other locales with gas, but it won’t be able to get back out. Interesting things to think about, but so far there is no indication that anything is amiss—except for the blank reader boards on thousands of gas stations.
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