There are things we have to do in life that we love doing for no real reason. No one else recognizes these task as having any more inherent joy than the other million tasks we are capable of. But for some reason, certain mundane and trivial things are delightful to one person. But just as there are tasks we LOVE doing, there are also those we like/don’t mind, those we “just do” (hopefully without noticing too much), those we don’t like doing, and those we abhor and refuse to do.
One thing I LOVE doing is replacing the garbage bag. Sadly the preceding task is not one I love. When I was in college and I would see a roommate bundling up the trash and heading out the door, I would race to get the new bag (isn’t pulling them off the roll fun!?) and situate it in the garbage can (waving it through the air is fun too! Also, having a fresh empty trash can. It's all so wonderful!). My roommates probably thought that I was just being Helpful Heidi, pitching in with them for the sanitation of the whole group—doing them a favor for doing us a favor. Really though, I guess I was actually stealing their opportunity for this joy. I realized this one time when I was doing the not fun job of taking out the trash and came back in to find one of them doing my fun job of replacing the bag. It was to be my reward/consolation for taking out the trash, and here they were getting to do it instead of me! I told them that I had wanted to do it. Of course, they thought they were doing me a favor, so I explained that I just love doing it SO MUCH. After that, when anyone would take out the trash, they’d notify me so that I could put the new bag in. They’d holler out, and I’d come running upstairs. If you lived with me, you could possibly go your whole life without ever putting in a new garbage bag.
One thing I abhor is grating cheese. I just can’t do it. This might be hereditary. Whenever we would have any meal with grated cheese (tacos, enchiladas, shepherds’ pie, etc.) and I would ask what I could do to help, my mom would assign me to grate the cheese. What???? I hate grating cheese. I’ve always hated it. How could she ask me—again! She knows I hate it. I would explain, “Mom. We’re having TACOS. There must be 20 jobs to do—chop tomatoes, chop lettuce, open a can of refried beans, cook the meat, set the table, round up salsa/sour cream—any of which I’m willing to do. Why must you always say ‘Grate the cheese’? It’s me, Lyndsey. I’ve always hated this one, and there are so many other ways to help.” Maybe she hated it too... This could explain why it always was the first thing to come to mind when she was offered help, and it could explain why I hate it too. B is the cheese grater in the family now. He knows that’s his “part” in the meal. The rest of the planning, preparing, and table setting is up to me. But when I call him for his part, he quickly comes and does it—then goes back to what he was doing. He has participated in the dinner preparation and probably thinks he's getting off easy since it is just one thing and over so quickly.
I only mention these things because I am excited to have identified a new task I LOVE. I love refilling the staples in the stapler. I don’t love refilling anything else—soap dispenser, tape dispenser, TP roller, salt shaker, etc.—they are all things I “just do.” But the stapler—I love refilling that. I can’t really explain why except that part of it is my sheer amazement that I’ve used a whole row of staples. It seems like so many when you put them in. It feels like an accomplishment. Plus, the whole contraption is so…mechanical. Finally, you never really know when it’s going to happen, so it’s always a surprise! Sure, they leave that window so you can see if you’re almost out. But who monitors that thing? There ARE a lot of staples inside, so there’s no point checking after each staple. Besides, if you changed it then, the new complete row would not fit and you would have to break it up. All of these reasons are still not enough to explain why I really love reloading the stapler. It’s just one of those things I really like doing, for no justifiable reason.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Next Up...DAAAAAAVID NAAAAAAY!!!
I ordered our office’s season Braves tickets a year ago (four tickets to each game). Really, my only involvement was in securing these tickets, but it has meant that I am the “contact person” at my office and the Braves send me emails all the time letting me know about things that are going on for “season ticket holders.” That’s me. A season ticket holder. Once the tickets arrived, I sorted them and handed them over to the Marketing Department so that they could hand them out to clients, coworkers, etc. Since receiving the tickets last year I have been deleting the promotional stuff the Braves email and mail me…until I got an invitation to Season Ticket Holder Playday! Free ballpark food and free Braves hats! (Ok, so everything was free—just their way of saying “thank you” to us die hard Braves fans.) Tours of the locker room/physical therapy rooms, etc. Shag balls in the outfield and use the batting cages and bullpen under the field. Plus, one lucky person in each group could sign up to bat at home plate. What a fun day. I planned to go and take B. Plus, it was the weekend my parents visited, so they would have to come along too. I RSVP’d and signed the four of us up to “play” with my dad batting at 11:00am. And of course, I didn’t tell him! Here are some impressions from the day:
1. Once we got to the stadium (no, dad didn’t even know we were going to the stadium, just that I had a surprise) and saw people batting and playing catch in the outfield, I told my dad that he was going to bat. How did he take it? The way he takes everything. In other words, I have no idea if he was happy, sad, nervous, or anything else. He made his way to the dugout at the appropriate time and got all set with a batting helmet. I have a great picture of him walking from the dugout to home plate—head down, shoulders slumped—looking like he ALREADY struck out. (http://picasaweb.google.com/lyndseyandbrett/BravesPlayday#) But everything went great! He hit his first several pitches—good hits! Only missed a couple. “Yay, Dad!” I think he was pleased.
2. I joked with him about his dejected walk to home plate and he explained that he was really looking down because he had just stepped onto the grass. This is very believable as the grass on the field is the grass they will have in heaven. It is the most amazing grass I’ve ever walked on/touched. I can’t even describe how perfect the field is. The park employs 30 people to work on the grass. They rip it all out when the season is over (which is why we got to play on it all day—they’re just going to throw it away) and plant new grass in the spring. And, get this: they mow it TWICE a day! 3/4 of an inch. It really feels just like a carpet. So fun for the four of us to play catch in the outfield!
3. The tour of the locker room, kitchen, hang-out area, physical therapy wing was great because it allows you to better picture what it’s like being a professional baseball player. Sure, it’s just a kitchen [etc.], but now I know what’s underneath the stadium. I know when the players arrive and where they wait. I wonder if THEY knew that we would all walk through their locker room (which does not look like the traditional locker room (no LOCKERS, no tile floor, no benches, no showers). More like open wooden cubicles in a carpeted circle (so no one gets that big corner cubicle). The players don’t bother cleaning out their area at the end of the season, so their spaces were just as they left them—hanging jock straps and all.
4. For $25k you can sit in the padded recliner-esque chairs right behind home plate all season. The first two or three rows directly behind the plate (which happen to be much closer to the batter than the pitcher is). You can eat/drink in the fancy-schmancy lounge right underneath you. What do you eat? Anything you want. You name it—they cook it.
5. Mom, Dad, and B all tried their luck in the batting cages under the field. I sat out for my back’s sake. I was especially glad Mom gave it a whirl—and even stuck with it when the guy came out to hand pitch it (that darn machine IS too fast). At the conclusion of our batting, B said, “Well, we’ve established that your dad is the only one of us who can hit.” (Now, Mom and B did hit SOME, just not many or well.)
6. B tried one of the cages where you throw the ball as fast as you can, hoping to get 30mph. We saw a teenage kid throwing nearly 90mph. Pretty amazing. B surprised himself getting 50mph.
7. The weather was gorgeous and the park really is beautiful. It was so nice after a morning of baseball to sit in the sun eating hotdogs and drinking coke.
I really enjoy baseball. Truly, I can’t think of a better way to spend a beautiful day than at a ball game with a good friend. I don’t watch baseball on TV and I don’t follow any players or teams. But if I get the chance to attend a pro game (or a college game—I really love college games) I will enjoy myself. Although I had tickets to four Braves games this season (three courtesy of work) THREE of the games got rained out! I felt kind of bad because the staff at the playday were thanking us profusely for our support and for being such loyal fans, when really I don’t care about the Braves (I just like baseball). They were asking people Braves trivia (or even just to name their favorite player) for prizes, and we thought it was pretty funny because between the four of us we wouldn’t be able to name a single player on the team if we had been asked. In that way we kind of felt like imposters! Anyway, it was a fun day.
1. Once we got to the stadium (no, dad didn’t even know we were going to the stadium, just that I had a surprise) and saw people batting and playing catch in the outfield, I told my dad that he was going to bat. How did he take it? The way he takes everything. In other words, I have no idea if he was happy, sad, nervous, or anything else. He made his way to the dugout at the appropriate time and got all set with a batting helmet. I have a great picture of him walking from the dugout to home plate—head down, shoulders slumped—looking like he ALREADY struck out. (http://picasaweb.google.com/lyndseyandbrett/BravesPlayday#) But everything went great! He hit his first several pitches—good hits! Only missed a couple. “Yay, Dad!” I think he was pleased.
2. I joked with him about his dejected walk to home plate and he explained that he was really looking down because he had just stepped onto the grass. This is very believable as the grass on the field is the grass they will have in heaven. It is the most amazing grass I’ve ever walked on/touched. I can’t even describe how perfect the field is. The park employs 30 people to work on the grass. They rip it all out when the season is over (which is why we got to play on it all day—they’re just going to throw it away) and plant new grass in the spring. And, get this: they mow it TWICE a day! 3/4 of an inch. It really feels just like a carpet. So fun for the four of us to play catch in the outfield!
3. The tour of the locker room, kitchen, hang-out area, physical therapy wing was great because it allows you to better picture what it’s like being a professional baseball player. Sure, it’s just a kitchen [etc.], but now I know what’s underneath the stadium. I know when the players arrive and where they wait. I wonder if THEY knew that we would all walk through their locker room (which does not look like the traditional locker room (no LOCKERS, no tile floor, no benches, no showers). More like open wooden cubicles in a carpeted circle (so no one gets that big corner cubicle). The players don’t bother cleaning out their area at the end of the season, so their spaces were just as they left them—hanging jock straps and all.
4. For $25k you can sit in the padded recliner-esque chairs right behind home plate all season. The first two or three rows directly behind the plate (which happen to be much closer to the batter than the pitcher is). You can eat/drink in the fancy-schmancy lounge right underneath you. What do you eat? Anything you want. You name it—they cook it.
5. Mom, Dad, and B all tried their luck in the batting cages under the field. I sat out for my back’s sake. I was especially glad Mom gave it a whirl—and even stuck with it when the guy came out to hand pitch it (that darn machine IS too fast). At the conclusion of our batting, B said, “Well, we’ve established that your dad is the only one of us who can hit.” (Now, Mom and B did hit SOME, just not many or well.)
6. B tried one of the cages where you throw the ball as fast as you can, hoping to get 30mph. We saw a teenage kid throwing nearly 90mph. Pretty amazing. B surprised himself getting 50mph.
7. The weather was gorgeous and the park really is beautiful. It was so nice after a morning of baseball to sit in the sun eating hotdogs and drinking coke.
I really enjoy baseball. Truly, I can’t think of a better way to spend a beautiful day than at a ball game with a good friend. I don’t watch baseball on TV and I don’t follow any players or teams. But if I get the chance to attend a pro game (or a college game—I really love college games) I will enjoy myself. Although I had tickets to four Braves games this season (three courtesy of work) THREE of the games got rained out! I felt kind of bad because the staff at the playday were thanking us profusely for our support and for being such loyal fans, when really I don’t care about the Braves (I just like baseball). They were asking people Braves trivia (or even just to name their favorite player) for prizes, and we thought it was pretty funny because between the four of us we wouldn’t be able to name a single player on the team if we had been asked. In that way we kind of felt like imposters! Anyway, it was a fun day.
Monday, December 15, 2008
I will gladly share with you the grand prize.
Saturday night was our company’s holiday party. My second holiday party with this company [sigh]. They really do throw a nice party. Like last year, I made the place cards with everyone’s name and entrée choice, which I enjoy because it gives me a heads up on who’s coming (and what their spouses/dates are named). The evening begins with a cocktail hour, followed by a 5 course meal. Dress is semi-formal (some people wear tuxes, but not many). [I had not shopped for a dress for the event (although I did last year). I’m guessing I am the only person who began their search for the perfect holiday party outfit in the evening of the big night by saying, “Step One: Locate the Halloween box.”] There are dancing and casino games (with fake money) for several hours. Throughout the night there are raffle prizes given away, and at the end of the evening you cash in all your chips for more raffle tickets for the big prizes.
I don’t need an hour for cocktails, so this year we arrived at the end of the hour (everyone else is already there and crowded around the bar). I was DETERMINED to win something in the raffle this year and so we bee-lined to one of the Black Jack tables as soon as dinner ended. See, each person gets one raffle ticket upon arrival which is thrown in the spinny bird-cage thing. Everyone’s odds of winning the small prizes given away throughout most of the evening are the same. It’s at the end, when they close down the gaming tables and we cash in that the odds change dramatically. Each person is given $25,000 fake money at the beginning of the night and will receive one raffle ticket per $10,000 at the end of the night. B and I bet VERY low and we lose often, so it’s slow going. In fact, it was SO slow going that I even decided I had better DANCE when the DJ said everyone who danced to the next song would receive $10,000. Anything for more money. What a vice gambling is.
I really wanted to win something, ANYTHING (except the gourmet coffee maker). A $25 gift certificate to On the Border? A Wii? A flat-screen TV? All fine. We had increased our money by the end, but not enough to make our odds of winning a prize “good.” Thankfully, the HR lady who was in charge of the party slipped us a stack of $5,000s which allowed us to buy more than twice the number of tickets we had earned. Our odds were probably “good,” though not as good as some. I was so excited! I always want to win and I always think it’s going to be me. We did not win any restaurant certificates or any Visa $50/$100 gift cards. We did not win either of the GPS things or the George Forman grill. We did not win the coffee maker (whew!) or the iPod. But then, [glory!] we DID win! And what did we win? No, not the flat screen TV or the Wii. We won a two-night stay at the hotel next to the office! HA HA HA HA! See, my JOB is booking people at that hotel. The sales manager there and I are tight. We talk/email several times a week. Now I get to call and tell him I won the weekend get away…the weekend get-a-block-away. A vacation to my hometown. In fact, why a vacation? I may stay there at night and walk next door to work during the day. Apparently the person who won this prize last year never used it and it expired (it expires in March, so we have to book quick!). That will not happen to us.
We will be staying in one of the fancy suites (with living room, kitchen, bedroom, shower for 8, jetted tub). Plus, this hotel has a chef that makes hot breakfast (omelets and waffles) to your liking each morning and serves fresh cookies every night. And they have a couple limos and a couple SUVs in which they will drive you anywhere within a three mile radius (which means they could almost pick us up from home at the beginning of our sojourn and take us home at the end, as we live 4 miles from the hotel). We do plan to joyride in the limo—to dinner, to a movie theater, to the subway station. It’s a funny present, but it will be fun! I’m most excited about the tub; second most about the omelets. Everything else is a tie. That’s how to wow me: a hot tub or a hot breakfast. Love those things.
I don’t need an hour for cocktails, so this year we arrived at the end of the hour (everyone else is already there and crowded around the bar). I was DETERMINED to win something in the raffle this year and so we bee-lined to one of the Black Jack tables as soon as dinner ended. See, each person gets one raffle ticket upon arrival which is thrown in the spinny bird-cage thing. Everyone’s odds of winning the small prizes given away throughout most of the evening are the same. It’s at the end, when they close down the gaming tables and we cash in that the odds change dramatically. Each person is given $25,000 fake money at the beginning of the night and will receive one raffle ticket per $10,000 at the end of the night. B and I bet VERY low and we lose often, so it’s slow going. In fact, it was SO slow going that I even decided I had better DANCE when the DJ said everyone who danced to the next song would receive $10,000. Anything for more money. What a vice gambling is.
I really wanted to win something, ANYTHING (except the gourmet coffee maker). A $25 gift certificate to On the Border? A Wii? A flat-screen TV? All fine. We had increased our money by the end, but not enough to make our odds of winning a prize “good.” Thankfully, the HR lady who was in charge of the party slipped us a stack of $5,000s which allowed us to buy more than twice the number of tickets we had earned. Our odds were probably “good,” though not as good as some. I was so excited! I always want to win and I always think it’s going to be me. We did not win any restaurant certificates or any Visa $50/$100 gift cards. We did not win either of the GPS things or the George Forman grill. We did not win the coffee maker (whew!) or the iPod. But then, [glory!] we DID win! And what did we win? No, not the flat screen TV or the Wii. We won a two-night stay at the hotel next to the office! HA HA HA HA! See, my JOB is booking people at that hotel. The sales manager there and I are tight. We talk/email several times a week. Now I get to call and tell him I won the weekend get away…the weekend get-a-block-away. A vacation to my hometown. In fact, why a vacation? I may stay there at night and walk next door to work during the day. Apparently the person who won this prize last year never used it and it expired (it expires in March, so we have to book quick!). That will not happen to us.
We will be staying in one of the fancy suites (with living room, kitchen, bedroom, shower for 8, jetted tub). Plus, this hotel has a chef that makes hot breakfast (omelets and waffles) to your liking each morning and serves fresh cookies every night. And they have a couple limos and a couple SUVs in which they will drive you anywhere within a three mile radius (which means they could almost pick us up from home at the beginning of our sojourn and take us home at the end, as we live 4 miles from the hotel). We do plan to joyride in the limo—to dinner, to a movie theater, to the subway station. It’s a funny present, but it will be fun! I’m most excited about the tub; second most about the omelets. Everything else is a tie. That’s how to wow me: a hot tub or a hot breakfast. Love those things.
Friday, December 5, 2008
Welcome to Cooking!
Last Thanksgiving my sister came to visit. It was delightful and the food turned out fabulous, which no one had expected but everyone had hoped (and she and I had SLAVED for). I guess, we did know all the sides would turn out. It was just the turkey. We’d never made one. But, miraculously, it looked just like the pictures—better than lots of the pictures, actually. Nothing to be afraid of. Why do people cook turkeys so seldom, I wondered? So, I purchased another turkey and made it a few weeks later—it did not look good at all. I made some mistakes with the bag the second time around, so I guess we got lucky to have everything go perfectly with the first one. But now, after having a bad [looking] experience, I am better able to guarantee good turkeys in the future.
This year, we contemplated going to Cleveland or Washington DC for the holiday. But, we couldn’t really afford to fly, and a drive of 11-12 hours (either destination—NOT including Thanksgiving traffic craziness) was just too much. No one wanted to come visit us, so it looked like a quiet Thanksgiving for two, which was for the best, since B had LOTS of homework/studying to do and I just wanted to relax. Then one of our friends, who goes to school with B, invited us to his family’s Thanksgiving. Excellent. 40 people = more and better food than we would have had. Plus, it was in Atlanta, so we could go for the afternoon and then have the rest of the vacation to study/relax.
I planned to make my family’s traditional cranberry salad. I purchased enough ingredients for a double batch—just in case. However, since this is a side, and not one they were expecting, I figured a single batch would probably be enough. When I woke up Thanksgiving morning to begin making the salad (it takes two steps—four hours apart), B was on his run. A cookbook was suspiciously laid on the counter turned to a page showing tasty desserts. When B returned, he announced that he intended to make a certain LOVELY baked marble cheesecake. Oy! In two years B has never cooked something from a recipe. He does cook dinner on occasion: frozen soy burgers, quesadillas, soup in a can, or nachos—all of which I love and he cooks superbly. But he had never tried a dessert (not even cookies from refrigerated dough—why cook it?) or a recipe, so I was concerned. His signature dinners are all…improved. I didn’t think improv or experimentation would be successful here. But I was just excited that he was trying a recipe (think what doors this could open!) so I rounded up the things he needed. “What’s a springform pan? Do we have one?” Why, yes, yes we do. Here’s how it operates. “Oh, it says finely chopped walnuts—that’s ok, I’m sure the crust will be fine without them.” No worries, we HAVE finely chopped walnuts. “I need some chocolate. Do we have any chocolate chips?” We have Ghirardelli’s semi-sweet, milk, and white. Which would you like? Other than rounding up ingredients, I had absolutely no part in this project, but B worked on it all morning.
Finally, when it was in the oven, I pulled out my cranberry salad that had been chilling in the fridge so that I could make/add the final ingredients. B was worried. Will that be enough? There’s going to be lots of people. Of course, I had worried the same thing, but a few years ago I had made a double batch and had leftovers for weeks. Plus, this will be one of a dozen dishes—and this one is not the turkey or the potatoes. Still B’s concern worried me enough to cause me to throw the ingredients for the second batch together… Cranberry salad to feed the whole family.
Here’s how everything was received:
B’s cheesecake was complimented by all! It looked awesome coming out of the oven and even better when we took the springform pan off! His was the only dessert that hadn’t been purchased! Side note: It took him nearly the entire day to remember that it’s a “cheesecake.” He kept forgetting. “What’s the name of the thing I made? Cheese pie?” He plans to make it again over the next vacation. Of course, this time he has some experiments he’d like to perform. I change things in recipes all the time, but I don’t do it in a scientific manner—make several at once to try them against each other and against the “control”.
My cranberry salad is frozen in two containers in our freezer. Yes, a double batch was too much. Again. I think more would have been eaten if the family handn’t had their own beloved and similar salad. It was raspberry. Mine was better. But they were anticipating the raspberry one, so more of it was eaten. I should have made one.
Over the break we also rented a couple movies, one for B and one for me. I sat and worked on my new "project" (the one that has taken over my life since finishing Luigi's dresser) during B's movie. I sat and worked on my new project during my movie too. B watched them both. I guess he can't watch and work on things and I can't not. Oh yeah, and one more thing we did: We actually went to Walmart for its 5AM Black Friday opening. I've never done something like this before because I believe that the morning after Thanksgiving is for sleeping in and making waffles...and I hate busy crowds...and my Christmas shopping is usually done by June. Our alarm went off at 4:31, we drove over and got in line, the doors opened and we split up (the faster to find our one item), we grabbed it and checked out. We were back in bed 40 minutes later.
This year, we contemplated going to Cleveland or Washington DC for the holiday. But, we couldn’t really afford to fly, and a drive of 11-12 hours (either destination—NOT including Thanksgiving traffic craziness) was just too much. No one wanted to come visit us, so it looked like a quiet Thanksgiving for two, which was for the best, since B had LOTS of homework/studying to do and I just wanted to relax. Then one of our friends, who goes to school with B, invited us to his family’s Thanksgiving. Excellent. 40 people = more and better food than we would have had. Plus, it was in Atlanta, so we could go for the afternoon and then have the rest of the vacation to study/relax.
I planned to make my family’s traditional cranberry salad. I purchased enough ingredients for a double batch—just in case. However, since this is a side, and not one they were expecting, I figured a single batch would probably be enough. When I woke up Thanksgiving morning to begin making the salad (it takes two steps—four hours apart), B was on his run. A cookbook was suspiciously laid on the counter turned to a page showing tasty desserts. When B returned, he announced that he intended to make a certain LOVELY baked marble cheesecake. Oy! In two years B has never cooked something from a recipe. He does cook dinner on occasion: frozen soy burgers, quesadillas, soup in a can, or nachos—all of which I love and he cooks superbly. But he had never tried a dessert (not even cookies from refrigerated dough—why cook it?) or a recipe, so I was concerned. His signature dinners are all…improved. I didn’t think improv or experimentation would be successful here. But I was just excited that he was trying a recipe (think what doors this could open!) so I rounded up the things he needed. “What’s a springform pan? Do we have one?” Why, yes, yes we do. Here’s how it operates. “Oh, it says finely chopped walnuts—that’s ok, I’m sure the crust will be fine without them.” No worries, we HAVE finely chopped walnuts. “I need some chocolate. Do we have any chocolate chips?” We have Ghirardelli’s semi-sweet, milk, and white. Which would you like? Other than rounding up ingredients, I had absolutely no part in this project, but B worked on it all morning.
Finally, when it was in the oven, I pulled out my cranberry salad that had been chilling in the fridge so that I could make/add the final ingredients. B was worried. Will that be enough? There’s going to be lots of people. Of course, I had worried the same thing, but a few years ago I had made a double batch and had leftovers for weeks. Plus, this will be one of a dozen dishes—and this one is not the turkey or the potatoes. Still B’s concern worried me enough to cause me to throw the ingredients for the second batch together… Cranberry salad to feed the whole family.
Here’s how everything was received:
B’s cheesecake was complimented by all! It looked awesome coming out of the oven and even better when we took the springform pan off! His was the only dessert that hadn’t been purchased! Side note: It took him nearly the entire day to remember that it’s a “cheesecake.” He kept forgetting. “What’s the name of the thing I made? Cheese pie?” He plans to make it again over the next vacation. Of course, this time he has some experiments he’d like to perform. I change things in recipes all the time, but I don’t do it in a scientific manner—make several at once to try them against each other and against the “control”.
My cranberry salad is frozen in two containers in our freezer. Yes, a double batch was too much. Again. I think more would have been eaten if the family handn’t had their own beloved and similar salad. It was raspberry. Mine was better. But they were anticipating the raspberry one, so more of it was eaten. I should have made one.
Over the break we also rented a couple movies, one for B and one for me. I sat and worked on my new "project" (the one that has taken over my life since finishing Luigi's dresser) during B's movie. I sat and worked on my new project during my movie too. B watched them both. I guess he can't watch and work on things and I can't not. Oh yeah, and one more thing we did: We actually went to Walmart for its 5AM Black Friday opening. I've never done something like this before because I believe that the morning after Thanksgiving is for sleeping in and making waffles...and I hate busy crowds...and my Christmas shopping is usually done by June. Our alarm went off at 4:31, we drove over and got in line, the doors opened and we split up (the faster to find our one item), we grabbed it and checked out. We were back in bed 40 minutes later.
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
I would, would you?
The last weekend in August, we went rafting with some friends. Sure, it was fun, because rafting has always been, according to my experience. However, the river was decidedly less dangerous [seeming (?)] than the rivers “out west.” First of all, it was super shallow. True, there is a drought going on, but it didn’t look as though the water was any lower than normal, probably due to the fact that a dam lets out a constant amount. But really, the river is only a river because of its width. It is quite shallow—creek-like. Don’t let the photos fool you. They take those at the best places. http://picasaweb.google.com/lyndseyandbrett/Rafting#
Looking at the pictures today I am reminded of the days when my back would let me do anything. Those days will come again. I am simply in a bad spell, one which will last until I can go several successive weeks without injuring my back. And that is why I have begun saying “no” to activities I might otherwise do. I believe the pain started at the beginning of October. It began without an identifiable incident and simply got worse as the weeks went by. Every step was painful. Then, I was presented with a zip-line opportunity. Having lived so long in pain, I guess I decided “why not?” I mean, I’ve got to live—back pain or no back pain! And I zip-lined. That might have been ok if I had simply hung there. But no. I had to use the opportunity to do the splits (in every direction) and attempt to push my legs behind me like I was flying. I kicked my legs like I was Tinkerbell, lighting the nightly firework show at Disneyland. I knew before I got to the end that I had done something very wrong. I almost couldn’t walk to the car. That was the low point. I spent the evening lying on the air mattress icing my back while watching a movie. I did that for a few evenings. Did I mention my parents were visiting? (By the way, only Mom and I zip lined. Repeatedly. Each. I guess I get it from her.) I just kept thinking, “What was I thinking? I broke my back being Tinkerbell on a zip line?” But, I’m not surprised I did. As I consider the activity in hindsight, I only hear Lina Lamont singing “…and if the girl were I, would you? would you? And would you dare to say, ‘Let’s do the same as they,’ I would, would you?” [Man I love that song—no matter which of the three people sings it.]
Two good things came from the experience: 1. I stopped all activities that would hurt my back. Just days after the incident we had the opportunity to bat in the Braves’ batting cages and pitch in the bullpen, etc. (subject of a future post). I went, but I passed on the activities. Very sad. Also, I’ve been refusing to rock climb with Brett, and he finally realized that I’m going to be refusing for so long that he went with someone else, which I had been encouraging him to do. 2. The back miraculously improved by figurative leaps and bounds just days after the Tinkerbell incident. I do not credit the improvement to my avoidance of potentially injuring activities (although those certainly could have made things worse if I had participated) but rather to the incident itself. I believe it twisted things back into shape. Sure, it didn’t feel like it at the time, but I have no other way to explain why I hurt BAD for several weeks with no cause, during which time no amount of good behavior or rest or ice/heat/massage had the slightest improving effect. Days after the incident I felt better than I had before the incident. The last week or two I’ve only had occasional shooting pain during the day. It’s great! I totally feel like I’m on the mend. Just can’t shake it.
But I’m not about to jeopardize my good back—not yet. Just another month or two. I’m trying out a pilates class this coming Monday. If I like it, I’ll sign up in January. Core strength might prevent future back problems. I visited a doc (finally) as soon as things started looking up. He provided me with some new ideas as to causes for my troubles (nothing conclusive) but no real treatment or cure. Just time. Time is working, thank heavens. I was really hurting for a while. And even though they are totally unrelated, I like to attribute a trip to the doctor as the fix! It makes the $180 his 15 minutes cost seem explainable, though not justifyable.
It is now the end of the year and with that visit I have finally hit my deductible. At least that is what I think the insurance statements are communicating. It’s been a slow and expensive process getting there, even though the deductible itself is not very much at all. Although I believe I have as good of insurance as they make in this country, I have been very disappointed to see how they are able to tell me things don’t apply. Basic things.
It is now the end of the year and with that visit I have finally hit my deductible. At least that is what I think the insurance statements are communicating. It’s been a slow and expensive process getting there, even though the deductible itself is not very much at all. Although I believe I have as good of insurance as they make in this country, I have been very disappointed to see how they are able to tell me things don’t apply. Basic things.
In light of my “deductible reached” status, I am very tempted to schedule some sort of appointment this month, just to see what happens now. But I’m afraid to, after seeing the crazy bills that have come for completely regular appointments and procedures—ones that I have often cleared with the insurance BEFORE I go. So, they pay for my flu shot? Great. But not entirely for the additional two charges associated with poking my arm (once). Three charges, totally nearly $100 for the "covered" $36 shot... Ok...
In July I called the insurance company to find out if an OB/GYN was a specialist. Yes, I’ll admit it, if the OB/GYN was considered a “specialist,” I would have equated that with “astronomically expensive” and simply skipped this year's yearly exam. They asked me why I was going and I told them--just a routine thing people do to feel "healthy" about themselves and to avoid the guilt that comes when you don't do it. Great news! They informed me that my insurance covers yearly “well-woman-exams.” So, I never found out if the OB/GYN is technically a specialist, but it didn't matter anymore. This was even better, right? Not when I got the bill and found out that although they covered the doctor fee (after my co-pay, of course) they don’t cover any lab work. Huh? Women, why else go in for a yearly exam than to get a pap smear? That’s the whole point for going (and frankly, I don’t feel like it's so necessary that I would be willing to pay for the lab work myself—at least not yearly). I mean, really. It’s just a little frustrating when you have insurance that will give you a low deductible, claim to cover everything, has all sorts of nice sounding percentage breakdowns once the deductible is reached but ends up pushing so much of the ridiculous costs from the doctor onto you. You never know what all the doctor will think of charging you for, and you certainly never know which of those the insurance will feel like paying, so having insurance doesn’t make me feel like I should ever go to the doctor. I live in fear. It's such a crap shoot. I might get a bill for $400. Or $20. I have no idea. I guess neither does the insurance company, since they haven’t seen the doctor’s crazy drummed up charges.
Today is not the day I should be complaining though. I just went to the dentist for the third time in the last 18 months—for free. Totally free. No co-pays even—for any of the visits. Just walk in, hand them your insurance card, and you get their service. I almost WANTED a cavity today, since apparently they cover fillings 100% as well with no co-pays. No luck though. I never knew dental insurance existed. At least not in a real-world way. I thought it was just an “idea” that a few companies/people tried—but not anyone normal or anyone taken seriously. Like pet insurance. Maybe it will catch on, maybe it won’t. Well, it’s been the purest (as in least adulterated) benefit of this job.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
To the Human Brain
The largest demographic in my office is American males. This is followed by Japanese males. The American males are only kept alive through their dependence on football season. The funny thing is that although I’ve told them repeatedly that I don’t watch or follow football, they think I MUST have some interest in BYU’s team. So they ask me all the time how I think BYU will do in an upcoming game or to explain what happened in the last game. I remind them every time that I don’t know anything about BYU football. This is so foreign to them that they are completely unable to comprehend what “don’t know ANYTHING regarding football teams/seasons” means. These people are not BYU fans. They just happen to know about every game played and continue to think that at the very least I have an interest in the school I went to. How wrong they are. I have not yet explained to them (but I really should) that I NEVER went to a football game during my undergraduate career. Not one. I was quite proud of this. I was even more proud to extend my football boycott throughout my graduate school career. Sadly, a nice guy offered a ticket…it seemed in poor form to refuse because I didn’t want to mess up my clean football record. Of course, I also didn’t have any interest in that particular activity (freezing my rear off watching an inane and violent activity), but that is almost never valid. So, in my characteristically good form, I went to the game. It was everything I thought it would be—sleet and all—the guy even wore the special headphones (not everyone has good form) leaving me to simply endure the discomfort alone, thinking how sad it was I had ruined my record—one I was proud of—for this??? (There’s a young women lesson in there…should have stuck to my no football standard.) Lucky for me, B has no interest in football either! Hooray! I really can’t believe my good fortune, considering how consumed by it some people are. Unfortunately though, after hearing enough people tell him he’s got to go to one GT football game while here, he started to believe it. Without the slightest interest in the team, the sport, or sitting in the cold for hours, he secured tickets for us to GT’s game last Thursday night. Imagine my supreeze when he told me Wednesday night that I would have to subway downtown from work the next night to go to a FOOTBALL game. What? Why on earth? “We’ve got to go to ONE! Everybody says so.” Sure. Experience is the best teacher… I didn’t end up seeing anything that seemed special at this game, so as to warrant its MUST EXPERIENCE status. We left in the middle of the weak halftime show. GT was ahead (of the Miami Hurricanes). There had been a number of interceptions, which was nice. GT has the world’s loudest sound system, we think. From the top few rows of the stadium you can see lovely Atlanta at night (that’s when it looks best).
Really though, I don’t mind hearing the males at the office talk to each other for hours about football. I like it because it’s really quite phenomenal to see just how much the human brain can keep straight—who’s playing who, every game everyone has ever won or lost, scores, coaches, EVERYTHING. They will know EXACTLY what happened in all the games played over a weekend. Amazing.
Really though, I don’t mind hearing the males at the office talk to each other for hours about football. I like it because it’s really quite phenomenal to see just how much the human brain can keep straight—who’s playing who, every game everyone has ever won or lost, scores, coaches, EVERYTHING. They will know EXACTLY what happened in all the games played over a weekend. Amazing.
Friday, November 14, 2008
Penance for Gluttony
The strangest thing happened while my parents were here visiting. I ate so much I threw up—or I ate OUT so much I threw up. Either, and probably both. At least, that’s what I think happened. Is this even possible? On Mickey and the Beanstock they sing, "I'm gonna eat and eat and eat and eat and eat until I die." My family sings that too. Often.
My dad had two objectives for his visit to Atlanta (not listed in order of importance): 1. visit the Georgia Aquarium, and 2. eat out at as many restaurants as possible. I’m not even joking. Knowing this, when we picked them up at the airport, fresh off their red eye flight at 5:50 AM, we presented them with two breakfast restaurant options and explained that generally the food at one was very sugary and the food at the other was very greasy [pick your poison], to which my dad replied, “Let’s do both!” And that was his opinion for the rest of the trip. He wanted to go out for breakfast, lunch, and dinner at multiple restaurants…and then dessert at another restaurant right after. (As a little bit of explanation, my parents live in a tiny timber town and the only “restaurant” they have is a Dairy Queen. Needless to say, they never go out.) Narrowing the selection was beyond him. So we had to choose. Presenting lots of options to him got us nowhere because instead of picking his favorite, he would want to add them all to the itinerary. Every time we would drive by a different tasty-looking restaurant (this is a huge city with thousands of restaurants) my dad would suggest adding it to the schedule. B would laugh; my mom would quietly plead (“Deeeaarr….”). Only I protested. Finally, I was driven to forbid eating breakfast out. No way. No how. We needed more hours to detox. But, I’m getting ahead of myself. Although I was uncomfortable anyway with all the eating out, planned eating out, and impossible eating out, I did not decree the ban on eating breakfast out until after the end of the second day of the “fress-fest” (for those who speak German). I will not list all the things we ate during the 40 hours leading up to the incident. But in the afternoon on the day-of, we had ballpark fare (hotdog; more on the ballpark later), followed by an obscene amount of chips/guacamole/salsa/tacos/enchiladas, immediately followed by hot fudge sundae/apple pie with ice cream/malt shakes. In the middle of the night, when I woke up sick and threw up in the nearest garbage can, all I could think was that I had eaten too much. That’s what had done it. Of course, I’ve stuffed myself throughout my life and never had this happen. In fact, I didn’t know if such a thing was possible. But when I told my theory to my mom the next morning and to my sister the next day on the phone, they both believed me. In fact, they had stories of their own. My mom said overeating ended the same way it had for me several times during her first years of college. There she was, surrounded by LOTS of tasty food already made for her. She said it was the first time in her life she could really gorge herself on as much as she wanted to eat. She reports telling herself each time she woke up sick and puking from overeating that she had to “stop doing this.” My sister and I shared a room and I remember her always saying she liked to go to bed hungry and hated to have food in her stomach if she were about to fall asleep. I always thought she was crazy. I think I would have died if I had gone to bed hungry. I hated being hungry anytime of the day or night. She told me on the phone that it was because she would wake up feeling sick (although she never threw up). So although this sounds possible, and overeating is certainly what I attributed the incident to at the time it was occurring, a few things don’t add up. For example, any chance I get I seem to eat until I’m uncomfortably full (and then I wish I could eat more). I seriously doubt that I had really eaten more than EVER before in my life on that night. After all, I was the only one who had brought a “box” home from the Mexican place. Sometimes I DON’T bring home boxes, and I think I’m even worse at home eating as much as I want of my favorite things to cook. So, why that night? Although mom and T were on my side, my dad believed from the start that I had simply eaten something that didn’t agree with me. Brett appeared to side with him by throwing away my boxed leftovers—just in case. I banned eating breakfast out—just in case. I mostly got my way, however B was won over by my dad’s mellow dramatic sniffling one night (I’m not kidding). The next morning, while we all slept and he went for his daily run, he took a bag with him and picked up breakfast to go at an establishment my dad was devastated to miss. He woke us all up when he got back. You can imagine my dad’s reaction—and mine. Yes, he’s the “best son-in-law ever.” He’s also soft and incorrigible. I looked like such a tyrant. I’d like to say in my defense that breakfast at home consisted of turkey bacon, eggs, waffles, toast (three kinds of bread), hot chocolate (three kinds), cereal (six kinds), and milk (two kinds). Really! Is it such a hard knock life living with me?
My dad had two objectives for his visit to Atlanta (not listed in order of importance): 1. visit the Georgia Aquarium, and 2. eat out at as many restaurants as possible. I’m not even joking. Knowing this, when we picked them up at the airport, fresh off their red eye flight at 5:50 AM, we presented them with two breakfast restaurant options and explained that generally the food at one was very sugary and the food at the other was very greasy [pick your poison], to which my dad replied, “Let’s do both!” And that was his opinion for the rest of the trip. He wanted to go out for breakfast, lunch, and dinner at multiple restaurants…and then dessert at another restaurant right after. (As a little bit of explanation, my parents live in a tiny timber town and the only “restaurant” they have is a Dairy Queen. Needless to say, they never go out.) Narrowing the selection was beyond him. So we had to choose. Presenting lots of options to him got us nowhere because instead of picking his favorite, he would want to add them all to the itinerary. Every time we would drive by a different tasty-looking restaurant (this is a huge city with thousands of restaurants) my dad would suggest adding it to the schedule. B would laugh; my mom would quietly plead (“Deeeaarr….”). Only I protested. Finally, I was driven to forbid eating breakfast out. No way. No how. We needed more hours to detox. But, I’m getting ahead of myself. Although I was uncomfortable anyway with all the eating out, planned eating out, and impossible eating out, I did not decree the ban on eating breakfast out until after the end of the second day of the “fress-fest” (for those who speak German). I will not list all the things we ate during the 40 hours leading up to the incident. But in the afternoon on the day-of, we had ballpark fare (hotdog; more on the ballpark later), followed by an obscene amount of chips/guacamole/salsa/tacos/enchiladas, immediately followed by hot fudge sundae/apple pie with ice cream/malt shakes. In the middle of the night, when I woke up sick and threw up in the nearest garbage can, all I could think was that I had eaten too much. That’s what had done it. Of course, I’ve stuffed myself throughout my life and never had this happen. In fact, I didn’t know if such a thing was possible. But when I told my theory to my mom the next morning and to my sister the next day on the phone, they both believed me. In fact, they had stories of their own. My mom said overeating ended the same way it had for me several times during her first years of college. There she was, surrounded by LOTS of tasty food already made for her. She said it was the first time in her life she could really gorge herself on as much as she wanted to eat. She reports telling herself each time she woke up sick and puking from overeating that she had to “stop doing this.” My sister and I shared a room and I remember her always saying she liked to go to bed hungry and hated to have food in her stomach if she were about to fall asleep. I always thought she was crazy. I think I would have died if I had gone to bed hungry. I hated being hungry anytime of the day or night. She told me on the phone that it was because she would wake up feeling sick (although she never threw up). So although this sounds possible, and overeating is certainly what I attributed the incident to at the time it was occurring, a few things don’t add up. For example, any chance I get I seem to eat until I’m uncomfortably full (and then I wish I could eat more). I seriously doubt that I had really eaten more than EVER before in my life on that night. After all, I was the only one who had brought a “box” home from the Mexican place. Sometimes I DON’T bring home boxes, and I think I’m even worse at home eating as much as I want of my favorite things to cook. So, why that night? Although mom and T were on my side, my dad believed from the start that I had simply eaten something that didn’t agree with me. Brett appeared to side with him by throwing away my boxed leftovers—just in case. I banned eating breakfast out—just in case. I mostly got my way, however B was won over by my dad’s mellow dramatic sniffling one night (I’m not kidding). The next morning, while we all slept and he went for his daily run, he took a bag with him and picked up breakfast to go at an establishment my dad was devastated to miss. He woke us all up when he got back. You can imagine my dad’s reaction—and mine. Yes, he’s the “best son-in-law ever.” He’s also soft and incorrigible. I looked like such a tyrant. I’d like to say in my defense that breakfast at home consisted of turkey bacon, eggs, waffles, toast (three kinds of bread), hot chocolate (three kinds), cereal (six kinds), and milk (two kinds). Really! Is it such a hard knock life living with me?
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
The Raptor [part II]
We went to an air show a year ago. It was my first and I had a great time. In addition to seeing crazy people trying to kill themselves in stunt planes and watching lots of parachuters, there are also a ton of military planes—on the ground and in the air. At that show we got to see demonstrations of (among other planes) the F-16, the Chinook, and the B-2 bomber (which looks JUST like a UFO and caused me to question whether or not people really HAVE seen UFOs. It was just like what happened at the Space Center when they showed a few “funny” clips of “fake” [made in studios] walking on the moon footage to recognize [and mock] the belief that the whole thing is a hoax. I had never doubted and always wondered about the people who did—until I saw this fake footage. Suddenly I realized it COULD be a hoax. Not funny. Same with the UFO-looking B-2 bomber. I’m fine with the possibility of UFOs existing, UFOs having been “sighted,” even people having been abducted. But now, wait, are they really ALL crazy? It’s all right though, Mulder. I still believe—at least the UFO controversy). At the air show there are tons of planes on the ground for you to admire and/or climb in. So, you just put your chairs down somewhere in case you want to sit down eventually (it doesn’t matter where—everything is a good seat since it’s in the air and no one can really block the view), then you go off walking around checking out all the planes on the ground and eating nachos. Anytime you want to look up there’s something awesome flying around doing tricks. A fun day. This year, I heard about a different air show up at a nearby air force base which I was certain B had not heard about (he would have told me, and we would have been planning on it). I looked it up and saw that, among other demonstrations, we would get to see the F-22 “RAPTOR,” which is his dream plane to fly. Of course, it’s also his dream to fly an F-16 or F-15 or anything—but if given the choice of all of them, he’d pick the new fancy F-22. (Also at this show we watched demonstrations of the F-15 and a Navy Hornet—which was my favorite, after the F-22, of course). So, the night before the show I told B I had this wonderful surprise day/date planned for us! It was tons of fun (after the nearly three hours we spent standing in line. We had even shown up an hour and fifteen minutes early and still got in late. This event had much more security than the last one—once we got through the initial security line, we were bussed a few miles away, where we stood in another security line... But because we got there so early, we got to see the F-22 “practicing,” yes, even from far away.) The practice flying we watched in the morning was the coolest thing of the day. It was all over the place. We saw it fly at the show again, and they had one for us to look at on the ground (only they wouldn’t let us get close enough to touch it. If you want photos though, we’ve got those…for a price. B took photos of the thing from every side (close-up of the landing gear. You hear that, China?)). While reading the brochures being handed out about the F-22, I noticed that the name of the plane (F-22RAPTOR) has a birdhead graphically designed into the lettering. It looked eagle-like, and as I only knew of raptors as dinosaurs I was confused. This was no dino head. I checked this out with Webster when we got home. One of the definitions is “a usually small-to-medium-sized predatory dinosaur,” you know, like a velociraptor or a deinonychus. The other definition simply says “bird of prey.” Sure birds fly and I get that connection. This is more than a flying or even a fighting flying machine. This one is superior to all flying and fighting planes in the world AND uses stealth technology AND does ground attack, electronic warfare, and signals intelligence. It’s time for a new species, my friends. Birds just don’t cut it anymore. They should have gone with the small-to-medium-sized predatory dinosaurs. I really get that comparison. It just makes more sense. Think Jurassic Park [shudder].
Now I would like to take a minute to record Chapter 1 of the Belt Buckle Story. (Chapter Two can only be told by B, with the belt buckle present (but he wears it more than any of his other belts, so you have a good chance of getting to hear the story if you see him).) My favorite demonstration at our first air show was the F-16. So, I decided to get B an F-16 belt buckle for Christmas that year. Good idea, right? He likes planes; even I could tell that the F-16 was cool; a belt buckle of it would ensure a merry Christmas, certainly. The buckle is a very angular 6-inch-long airplane. It’s dangerous. You could poke/cut yourself with the tale, fins, wings, or nose. Boy, it’s cool-looking though! So, I was SURE he’d love it, which was important because I wasn’t so sure he’d love the bathrobe I bought him… I was grinning ear to ear as he unwrapped the box. He pulled it out, saw it, and instantly exclaimed, “Oh! An F-15!” F-15? My smile immediately disappeared into a look of confusion and disappointment. How could it be? There were no F-15 belt buckles being sold. And we had seen no F-15 fly. B saw my face fall and knew at once what I THOUGHT the plane was. “I mean, an F-16!” he exulted. But it was too late. I guess the Chinese buckle makers were looking at the wrong plane. Unlike Chapter 1 of the Belt Buckle Story (which is heartbreaking), Chapter 2 is awkward, embarrassing, AND knee-slappingly funny. I regret that I cannot tell it here.
Now I would like to take a minute to record Chapter 1 of the Belt Buckle Story. (Chapter Two can only be told by B, with the belt buckle present (but he wears it more than any of his other belts, so you have a good chance of getting to hear the story if you see him).) My favorite demonstration at our first air show was the F-16. So, I decided to get B an F-16 belt buckle for Christmas that year. Good idea, right? He likes planes; even I could tell that the F-16 was cool; a belt buckle of it would ensure a merry Christmas, certainly. The buckle is a very angular 6-inch-long airplane. It’s dangerous. You could poke/cut yourself with the tale, fins, wings, or nose. Boy, it’s cool-looking though! So, I was SURE he’d love it, which was important because I wasn’t so sure he’d love the bathrobe I bought him… I was grinning ear to ear as he unwrapped the box. He pulled it out, saw it, and instantly exclaimed, “Oh! An F-15!” F-15? My smile immediately disappeared into a look of confusion and disappointment. How could it be? There were no F-15 belt buckles being sold. And we had seen no F-15 fly. B saw my face fall and knew at once what I THOUGHT the plane was. “I mean, an F-16!” he exulted. But it was too late. I guess the Chinese buckle makers were looking at the wrong plane. Unlike Chapter 1 of the Belt Buckle Story (which is heartbreaking), Chapter 2 is awkward, embarrassing, AND knee-slappingly funny. I regret that I cannot tell it here.
I'm a Georgia voter!
Of course, I prefer the mail-in ballot method that Oregon uses for its elections to the craziness of physical polling places found in the rest of the states, but I was so excited to get to experience voting the usual way. I’ll admit, I was sort of dreading the day-of madness and originally toyed with the idea of voting early. But early voting in Atlanta requires “normal” waits of 4-5 hours and “not uncommon” waits of 7-8 hours. Bless the 1.5 million Atlantans who suffered through this. I decided to wait till the day of in hopes that the 5 million of us remaining would be accommodated more quickly by election day’s polling stations on every corner. Here are some things I observed:
1. You are assigned a polling place. That’s where you go.
2. Last night I was at the library (not my polling place) and peeked in the conference room where two old men were setting up their station. One sat at a table organizing papers. The other was looking at the chairs that had been set up and asked the first, “Should we put one more chair…HERE?” So cute.
3. You cannot campaign at polling places. You can’t put up signs within a certain distance of the polling place. Likewise, you cannot show up to vote wearing shirts/buttons for/against candidates. (This is the most inspired law I know of! How wonderful! You don’t have to worry about being harassed by every commissioner/court of appeals judge/presidential campaign there is as you stand in line for hours. You are safe. Unfortunately, the lady in front of us was shocked that there were no signs [for Obama, naturally] and no excited supporters pumping up the crowd. She made a call to an Obama “center” to report the oversight. Of course, being told of the legal restriction only elicits the usual [and sole] conclusion: racism. [Have these people no shame?] I feel like Homer Simpson when Marge says to him, “Homer, this is the worst thing you’ve ever done.” He replies, “You say that so often it has lost all meaning.” Seriously. The woman eventually hung up on the person she was talking to. Nice.)
4. We were voting at a school and I wondered where the children were. Apparently, because schools are used as polling places, Election Day is a day off of school in states OTHER than Oregon, which requires no polling places. Who knew?
5. Employers have to give employees two hours of paid time to vote. Hooray America again! My work starts at 8. Voting begins at 7. We arrived at our designated area at 6:40. There was a two hour wait; then I took B home and got ready for work. I arrived at work just before 10. Perfect!
6. The PTA sold coffee, baked goods, and Chick-fil-A sandwiches to us as we waited. Ingenious!
7. Although Georgia is not cold—even on November 4—I bundled up [somewhat] and brought a thermos of hot chocolate. Even so, the hours of exposure slowly chilled me from the fingers in. I was chilled through by the time we made it inside the gym. I was still cold when we got home.
8. I'm proudly wearing my "I'm a Georgia voter!" sticker. It's a big peach.
You may have known all these things, but if you had only participated in elections (presidential and otherwise) as a “resident” of the state that only offers mail-in ballots, you would have learned a lot today. It was exciting getting up early and lining up with tons of strangers. All different types of people. All of us getting to have a say and make a choice. Standing in line forever is not fun. But there we all were. It could make you tear up if you thought about it. I will miss that next time—and every time. I plan to be “out of town” every election from now on. As wonderful as the experience was this year and as grateful as I am to have had it (it didn’t disappoint), I prefer using one minute of my time—whichever minute I choose, no less—to cast my vote. Thank goodness all states have the “absentee” option.
1. You are assigned a polling place. That’s where you go.
2. Last night I was at the library (not my polling place) and peeked in the conference room where two old men were setting up their station. One sat at a table organizing papers. The other was looking at the chairs that had been set up and asked the first, “Should we put one more chair…HERE?” So cute.
3. You cannot campaign at polling places. You can’t put up signs within a certain distance of the polling place. Likewise, you cannot show up to vote wearing shirts/buttons for/against candidates. (This is the most inspired law I know of! How wonderful! You don’t have to worry about being harassed by every commissioner/court of appeals judge/presidential campaign there is as you stand in line for hours. You are safe. Unfortunately, the lady in front of us was shocked that there were no signs [for Obama, naturally] and no excited supporters pumping up the crowd. She made a call to an Obama “center” to report the oversight. Of course, being told of the legal restriction only elicits the usual [and sole] conclusion: racism. [Have these people no shame?] I feel like Homer Simpson when Marge says to him, “Homer, this is the worst thing you’ve ever done.” He replies, “You say that so often it has lost all meaning.” Seriously. The woman eventually hung up on the person she was talking to. Nice.)
4. We were voting at a school and I wondered where the children were. Apparently, because schools are used as polling places, Election Day is a day off of school in states OTHER than Oregon, which requires no polling places. Who knew?
5. Employers have to give employees two hours of paid time to vote. Hooray America again! My work starts at 8. Voting begins at 7. We arrived at our designated area at 6:40. There was a two hour wait; then I took B home and got ready for work. I arrived at work just before 10. Perfect!
6. The PTA sold coffee, baked goods, and Chick-fil-A sandwiches to us as we waited. Ingenious!
7. Although Georgia is not cold—even on November 4—I bundled up [somewhat] and brought a thermos of hot chocolate. Even so, the hours of exposure slowly chilled me from the fingers in. I was chilled through by the time we made it inside the gym. I was still cold when we got home.
8. I'm proudly wearing my "I'm a Georgia voter!" sticker. It's a big peach.
You may have known all these things, but if you had only participated in elections (presidential and otherwise) as a “resident” of the state that only offers mail-in ballots, you would have learned a lot today. It was exciting getting up early and lining up with tons of strangers. All different types of people. All of us getting to have a say and make a choice. Standing in line forever is not fun. But there we all were. It could make you tear up if you thought about it. I will miss that next time—and every time. I plan to be “out of town” every election from now on. As wonderful as the experience was this year and as grateful as I am to have had it (it didn’t disappoint), I prefer using one minute of my time—whichever minute I choose, no less—to cast my vote. Thank goodness all states have the “absentee” option.
Friday, October 17, 2008
It's pretty much just meat.
I don’t know what other people think about when they wake up in the night. When I wake up it’s only because I have to go to the bathroom, but I always futilely try to ignore it and fall back to sleep [for about 2 minutes]. It’s the bathroom thing that wakes me up, but it’s something else that prevents me from going back to sleep and motivates me to get up. It’s the thought of meat (or eggs or yogurt) going bad in the fridge. I don’t always have meat in the fridge, but if I do it’s what comes to mind suddenly when I wake up in the middle of the night.
“[gasp] That ground beef. How many days has it been? Is it still good? I don’t have time to cook it tomorrow….I should have frozen it when I brought it home…”
“When was the last time I bought eggs? It’s been more than two months at least. I should toss those.”
Last night it was, “The chicken!” Funny thing is, I had noticed the chicken each day this week. “I’ve got to cook that.” But we had made a whole week’s worth of enchiladas Sunday night and haven’t needed to cook since then. So, although I kept seeing the chicken as I opened the fridge multiple times each day, my uneasiness ceased once the fridge was shut. But in the middle of the night, it’s panic time. “I’ve GOT to do something.” So, I head to the kitchen, blind myself with the silly fridge light [do we really need that thing to be automatic? Trust me, I KNOW where the chicken is], toss in the entire offending item in the trash, or move it—package and all—to the freezer (for more careful consideration at a later time). Perhaps the chicken will not be useable, but maybe there’s a chance. And there’s more of a chance when it goes to the freezer in the middle of the night than the next day. Are you aware that your freezer is not lighted? Or is it? Mine isn’t and I’m always surprised at the complete darkness when I open it right after the blinding light of the fridge. What about all those midnight ice cream eaters? I’ve never had this problem, since I am comfortable binging on ice cream in broad daylight. I guess they do what I have to do in the middle of the night with the expiring meats: open the fridge to light the freezer. I think there SHOULD be freezer lights. But I’m not very scientific, so I tell myself that they don’t exist because they are impossible due to the extreme temperature, the humidity, or the properties of electricity. Does anyone know? Does anyone have a light in their freezer?
“[gasp] That ground beef. How many days has it been? Is it still good? I don’t have time to cook it tomorrow….I should have frozen it when I brought it home…”
“When was the last time I bought eggs? It’s been more than two months at least. I should toss those.”
Last night it was, “The chicken!” Funny thing is, I had noticed the chicken each day this week. “I’ve got to cook that.” But we had made a whole week’s worth of enchiladas Sunday night and haven’t needed to cook since then. So, although I kept seeing the chicken as I opened the fridge multiple times each day, my uneasiness ceased once the fridge was shut. But in the middle of the night, it’s panic time. “I’ve GOT to do something.” So, I head to the kitchen, blind myself with the silly fridge light [do we really need that thing to be automatic? Trust me, I KNOW where the chicken is], toss in the entire offending item in the trash, or move it—package and all—to the freezer (for more careful consideration at a later time). Perhaps the chicken will not be useable, but maybe there’s a chance. And there’s more of a chance when it goes to the freezer in the middle of the night than the next day. Are you aware that your freezer is not lighted? Or is it? Mine isn’t and I’m always surprised at the complete darkness when I open it right after the blinding light of the fridge. What about all those midnight ice cream eaters? I’ve never had this problem, since I am comfortable binging on ice cream in broad daylight. I guess they do what I have to do in the middle of the night with the expiring meats: open the fridge to light the freezer. I think there SHOULD be freezer lights. But I’m not very scientific, so I tell myself that they don’t exist because they are impossible due to the extreme temperature, the humidity, or the properties of electricity. Does anyone know? Does anyone have a light in their freezer?
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