Excuses Excuses

Grandma Beery's Butterscotch Pudding

2011-12-22T15:03:00.000-06:00

1 c brown sugar
1 c water
3 T flour + 1 t cornstarch*
1 egg
1 c milk

Boil sugar and water. Mix together other ingredients and add to the sugar/water. Stir until boiling.

*If making pie filling, increase cornstarch.

Chicken and Coconut Milk Soup

2011-12-22T15:01:00.000-06:00

3 stalks celery
3 carrots, peeled
1 onion
2 cloves garlic
salt
ginger
2 qts chicken stock
cooked chicken
2 1/2 c basmati rice
1 can coconut milk
Herbs:bay leaf, thyme, basil, tarragon, cilantro (or herbs of your choice)

Chop and saute celery, carrots, and garlic. Add a pinch of salt and fresh ginger (to taste). Cook over low heat and allow to sweat, approx. 5 minutes. Add stock, chicken, rice, and herbs. Bring to boil and cook until rice is cooked through. Add coconut milk. Remove bay leaves and serve.

Mrs. Rhein's Granola

2011-12-22T14:56:00.000-06:00

1/2-1 c coconut
4 c rolled oats
1 c sunflower seeds
1 c wheat germ
1/4-1/2 c sesame seeds
1 c chopped pecans
1/4 c flax seeds
3/4 c honey
1/2 c oil
1 T cinnamon

Preheat oven to 350. Mix together first 7 ingredients in large bowl. Boil honey, oil, and cinnamon. Pour over dry ingredients and mix thoroughly. Spread on 2 greased cookie sheets. Bake approx. 30 minutes, stirring often. Cool, then break into chunks.

Brownie Pudding

2011-12-22T14:24:00.001-06:00

(On a whim, I gathered together a few of my mom's recipes that I've been wishing I had. I'm entering them in here for posterity and convenience, since I don't have much luck with recipe cards.)

1 c flour
3/4 c sugar
2 T cocoa powder
2 t baking powder
1/2 t salt
1/2 c milk
2 T melted butter
1 t vanilla
1 c chopped nuts
Topping: 3/4 c brown sugar, 1/4 c cocoa powder.

Sift together the first 5 ingredients. Add milk, butter, and vanilla, and mix until smooth. Stir in nuts. Pour into greased casserole dish. Mix together topping and sprinkle over top of batter. Pour 1 3/4 c hot water over batter and topping. Bake at 350 for 45 minutes.

Dinner Success

2011-11-28T20:14:00.000-06:00

Today was the first day of my new job and I cannot express what a relief it is to be working in an Indian-Grandmother-Free zone. I get to act like an adult, no one is yelling at me for who-knows-what-reason, and I'm paid to snuggle a precious six month old boy all day.

This evening, in celebration of "I'm Never Going to be Force-fed Rice Again" Day and "Look What Happens When I Only Have to Work Until 4:00" Day, I made...

...wait for it...

...Indian food. Dal, rice, and parathas, to be precise. The flatbreads were surprisingly easy and I can already tell that they are going to be a staple around here. The best part was the surprised (and pleased) look on my husband's face when he walked in to the smell of spicy lentils simmering away on the stove. He thought I was reheating leftover soup. A wifely coup!

Pneumonia and Apple Cake

2011-11-15T19:04:00.001-06:00

How's that for an appetizing title?

There are some positives to being sick with something as scary-sounding as pneumonia. Positive #1: I'm not contagious, so it didn't interfere with my scrapbooking weekend with my mother and DoRena. Positive #2: My employeress didn't want me to come back for work this week. I texted her after a trip to the Redimed on Saturday: "Sorry to bother you on vacation. Just found out I have walking pneumonia. Let me know what you want to do about next week." Her return text went something like this: "Take liquids and rest. Nice working with u. Enjoy ur new job." Thus concludes our association.

So, I've had a few days to loll about the house and recuperate. As of this morning, I feel almost 100%. Except for the hacking cough every time I even think about laughing, but I'm sure that will clear up. Azithromycin and codeine have done their work.

Feeling better and lots of time alone in the apartment can only mean two things: cleaning and baking. In the interests of ensuring that my lungs are fully healed before I expose them to anything unusual, I skipped the cleaning and went straight to the kitchen. There were apples to be used! After much searching and a chat with my grandma (always helpful), I settled on this recipe:

Good Housekeeping* Apple-Walnut Bundt Cake

3 c. flour
1 c granulated sugar
1/2 c lightly packed dark brown sugar**
1 t baking soda
1 1/2 + t cinnamon
3/4 t salt
1/2 t nutmeg
1/2 t ground ginger
1 c vegetable oil
1/4 lemon juice +1/4 c water and 1/2 t honey***
2 t vanilla
3 large eggs
1 lb apples (I used Macs, but something a little tarter would probably be nice), peeled, cored, and coarsely chopped
1 c walnuts, coarsely chopped****

1) Heat oven to 350. Grease and flour 10" bundt pan
2) In large bowl, combine first 11 ingredients (everything but the apples and nuts). Beat at low speed until well-blended, scraping bowl frequently. Increase speed to medium and beat for 2 minutes, scraping bowl. Stir in apples and walnuts.
3) Spoon batter into prepared bundt pan and spread evenly. Bake approx 1:15, until cake pulls away from sides and toothpick inserted in middle comes out clean.***** Cool pan on rack 10 minutes. Remove from pan and cool cake completely on rack.

* I give those fine folks some credit, despite my many alterations.
** The recipe called for 1 3/4 c white sugar, but 1) that sounded like a lot to me, so I cut it back 1/4 c. and 2) I just like brown sugar more. This did not seem to have any negative effect on the texture.
***Sometimes I don't alter things just because I feel like it. This calls for 1/2 c of apple juice and I had to come up with something else since we don't keep juice on hand.
****They also added 1 c raisins, but that sounds like a horrible thing to do to a nice cake.

Bits and Pieces

2011-11-04T15:48:00.000-05:00

1) Spelling:The grandmother takes some time every day to read through one or the other of Prita's books, spelling and sounding out all the English words. Often, this starts with a barked, "You: come!", followed by her making space on the couch for me to come coach her through the longer words and those that make no phonetic sense. Prita generally just hangs out next to us while this is going on, taking a moment to snatch the book out of her grandmothers' hands every so often, and crying--nay, screaming--when she realizes that she doesn't have all the books in the house in her pile. Two-year olds. Sheesh.

As a result of all of this reading-practice, Prita has started spelling things on her own. It goes something like this:

Me: What's this a picture of?
Prita: D-O-E dog!
Me: D-O-G, but yeah! Good job! Now, what's this?
Prita: G-O-E girl!
Me: Girl is right...
Prita: E-O-E ellyphant!!!!!!!!!
Me: . . . .

She gets the first letter right most of the time, although sometimes she only recognizes letters that come later in the words. Like, she always spells fox "X-O-E." She also makes up letters, as in, "SNA-O-E" snake!"

2) The Three-Egg Diet: My very own soon-to-be-patented miracle plan. See, you just go work for a family that eats lots of hard-boiled egg whites, but never the yolks. These folks should also feel a little bad about wasting any food and be very anxious to see that everything gets eaten and that nothing goes to waste. Let it be known that you don't hate the yolks, in general. Before you know it, you will have an eighty-year-old Indian woman practically force-feeding you three plain hard boiled egg yolks every day. And don't you dare try to sneak one into the trash or the garbage disposal; you're being watched too carefully for such high-jinks. While you will often feel like vomiting halfway through the second yolk (don't do it), this diet will do wonders for your skin and hair. If you can manage to have the same eighty-year-old spoon-feeding you the skins off of the top of a pot of boiled milk, all the better.

3) "Healthy. Healthy Food." Speaking of food and controlling Indian grandmothers, the last week, I had my lunch prepared for me. Generally, the grandmother will pull a box of rice and a few leftover curries out of the fridge and leave me to it. Well, leave me to it as she hovers somewhere over my right shoulder, telling me to take more and looking really confused when I don't. This week, however, she plated my food for me. Monday, it wasn't too bad. They were running short on leftovers, so we both got reasonable portions. (Of course, she did "encourage" me to eat two very soft apples as a snack later in the day. Gross.) Tuesday, she made my lunch the same was she normally makes hers: two curries mixed in a bowl, topped with a couple handfuls of chickpeas, fresh diced onions, and a sprinkling of lemon juice. Nothing earth-shattering, but edible. After that was finished, she made up a bowl of yogurt and rice for me. As I was standing in the kitchen finishing that, she walked up to me, put her hand on my shoulder, and said with very careful diction: "This. Healthy. Healthy food. Yogurt. Dal curry. Healthy." Thursday was the worst. We had, apparently, left all concern about healthy food behind, as she completely filled my full-sized dinner plate, half with white rice, half with some spiced rice pilaf-y dish. Mounded. Spilling over the sides. Rice. And then, she gave me more rice so that I would have enough for with my after-lunch yogurt.

4) More Indian TV: Despite my employeress' strictures regarding any TV viewing while her daughter is around, the grandmother continues her soap opera habit. At least naps have been reinstated, so Prita and I can retreat to the bedroom while Granny vegges out. However, her favorite show starts approximately 20 minutes before nap time begins, so I still get to see some of it. And--oh my goodness--it is indescribable. That won't stop me from trying. Imagine a show that seems to be entirely built around 4 characters: (1) the screaming damsel in distress, either standing slump-shouldered and sobbing or laying on the bed or floor, sobbing; (2) the fleshy-cheeked villain whose entire M.O. seems to be to taunt said damsel in the most annoying voice imaginable while bobbing his head smugly; (3) some random crazy-eyed man dressed all in white who is constantly carrying around a bloody knife or machete; and (4) a thicker, tougher, older woman who always seems to be coming to the damsel's rescue, sometimes with the assistance of the crazy man, sometimes without. Now imagine all of this presented in a highly repetitious manner, with exceedingly overwrought background music and quick, zooming camera moves. I really feel like I'm not missing much, not understanding the dialogue. The visuals are story enough.

"What are you? Like, a walking window?"

2011-11-01T20:28:00.000-05:00

A busy last week turned into a busy weekend, which turned into a busy Monday--and here we are!

The weekend was mostly dedicated to Halloween-related activities. Namely, parties.

The MBA student organization had its Halloween bash on Friday night. It was held in a hotel on the Capitol Square, in a bar area overlooking the Capitol building. It was a good party--music, free pizza and beer--and there were some great costumes on display. Really, I was tremendously impressed by the creativity and dedication that went into some of those get-ups. Evan and I had planned to dress as The Walrus and the Carpenter, from Through the Looking Glass, but we ran out of time to get the necessary bits together. On top of that, Evan got home from an MBA-related competition in Michigan at 8:30 on the night of the party, and we had to throw something together at the last moment. Inspired by the fact that Evan won a nice chunk of money at this competition, we decided to dress up as "The 1%." Evan with his hair slicked back, wearing a suit, suspenders, and a tie clip; me in my black cocktail dress wearing all my pearls and my mink cape. We were definitely the classiest couple at the party. That makes the photos of us holding red plastic tumblers even more awesome.

We spent all of Saturday preparing our next set of costumes: Sydney Carton and Madame Dufarge from A Tale of Two Cities. I won't even attempt to describe those. Just look:

Those costumes took us to a house party thrown by one of the guys in Evan's center. It was also a good party. We ended up leaving around 11:30 with a group of people who were headed down to State Street for the big Freakfest party. We went along for the walk, intending to find something to eat. We left them at the gates (paying $12 to access a street one can walk on any other day for free) and began to make our way home. Somehow that resulted in the two of us walking down Langdon St., aka Madison's Frat Row. At midnight. The night of Freakfest. =:oO For the first ten minutes or so, the drunken antics were amusing. Really, a couple hundred drunken revelers in costume should provide some entertainment value. After we'd been walking for a while, though, the obnoxious caterwauling and profane screaming started to get to me. It was one of those situations where I wanted to go up to every cop (the stand-ins for grown-ups) stationed at the corners and say, "Just so you know, I'm NOT one of them!" It was amusing, too, to see how many passers-by were genuinely delighted to be able to demonstrate that they recognized a guillotine. And then there were the people who had no idea, but felt compelled to yell at us anyway. My costume got some comments too, most notably the jerks walking a ways behind us who were yelling for the "pirate chick" to turn around, and then called me a choice name when I ignored them. Like I indicated before, it's all amusing until it becomes embarrassing for the entire human race.

What Goes On

2011-10-24T20:50:00.002-05:00

The blog does not get updated when:

1) I am too cranky and cannot find anything amusing to say, particularly as regards my job.

2) I am in Fort Wayne, enjoying some quality time with my six favorite people in the whole world, plus Pastor and Jacqui.

On the job front, I gave notice on Thursday. Everyone cheer! I have another situation lined up, which should be much more reasonable in its demands and much less frustrating. It will also--I anticipate--furnish much less in the way of blog-fodder, so be prepared. I'll be taking care of the 8 mo. old son of one of Evan's classmates. This means that my husband and I will be on the same schedule, most of the time AND I will have Fridays off. Way back in September, I did commit to giving a full month's notice, though, so I will be stuck with my Indian friends through November 18. Oh well. Discounting vacation days (theirs), I only have 16 full days of work left. I imagine I'll pull through just fine.

As to our weekend in Fort Wayne, it was as wonderful as might have been anticipated. We stayed Thursday night at my father's this-is-NOT-a-bachelor-pad. My daddy and I had a nice drive over to Fort Wayne on Friday morning, while Evan attended a career fair in Chicago. Shopping, cooking, eating, visiting with the Petersens over dinner and cake, church at Redeemer, attention from my cat and my little brothers...all awesome.

A Paid Jukebox

2011-10-18T18:39:00.001-05:00

Prita likes for me to sing to her. A lot. Any time one of her little toys plays music*, she demands that I sing along. If it's a song that doesn't actually have words, I need to make them up on the spot or risk incurring her wrath. She particularly likes lyrics that involve babies. My best effort so far goes something like this:

Big baby, big baby
Small baby, small baby
Babies big and babies small
Big babies and small babies.

Look out, Oscar Hammerstein II. There's a new lyricist in town.

She also likes going through her alphabet cards and asking for songs that correspond with the pictures. "M for Monkey song!!!!" means Pop! Goes the Weasel because--hey!--there's a monkey in the song. M is also good for Hickory Dickory Dock (the mouse, right?). Bye Baby Bunting goes with R for Rabbit. F for Fish results in Have You Ever Been A-Fishin'. Sometimes, though, I'm just stumped. My knowledge of silly children's songs only goes so far, and it certainly stops well before "X for X-ray song!" When she started crying out for a "W for Watch" song today, though, I knew exactly where to go.

Rise, my soul to watch and pray;
From your sleep awaken!
Be not by the evil day
Unawares o'ertaken;
For the foe,
Well we know,
Is a harvest reaping
While the saints are sleeping.

Etc. etc. and so forth.

*I really want to know two things: Who writes the songs that modern children's toys play and WHO PERFORMS IT?!?! Have they no shame? No pride?

On a more cheerful note:

2011-10-17T20:57:00.000-05:00

Nutella.

That's all I'm going to say.

Gah.

2011-10-17T20:50:00.000-05:00

I don't normally like to post pure complaints without at least a little sense of humor...but can we just forget today ever happened?

Prita's parents are in the process of getting her to sleep alone--instead of sprawled on top of her mother--and part of their strategy is skip naps so that she's so tired she'll sleep anywhere, anyhow. This works really well for a parent who works full time and doesn't have to deal with a nap-less two-year-old. I really felt very sorry for the poor little thing. By 1:30, she was begging me for a nap. "Sleepy time now? Sleepy time now? Pleeeeease?" I was under orders, however.

You can imagine how well this went. By 3:00, the child was a total basketcase. Everything caused tantrums and crying. Each time I would pick something up from the floor, be it a length of yarn, trash, or a book, she would start screaming for it and would not calm down until I handed it to her. As soon as the random object was in her hands, however, it would be forgotten. She cried because she wanted a bath. When I gave her a bath, she cried because she didn't like it. When I tried to put her anklets back on after her bath, it was as if I was torturing her. She went from sobbing like her heart was breaking to arching her back and screaming to running to her grandma to tattle on me. I'm still not sure why that last one resulted in Granny coming in to yell at me. I'm still confused.

Better still, the time that would usually be devoted to her nap--the best hour and a half of my day--was spent scrubbing the drip pans of their electric range. I'm not sure this had ever been done before, but Granny decided that today was the day and I was the girl to get it done.

Tomorrow starts at 7:00 a.m. God grant me patience. Please.

Apple Butter

2011-10-16T19:29:00.001-05:00

I made up a batch of apple butter yesterday and am preparing to can it right now.

I sorta-kinda used this recipe...but then I changed everything. So this is basically what I did:

5 1/2 pounds apples - cut into eighths
1 scant cup white sugar (I cut this back because the apples were pretty sweet, but you could probably add a little more)
3 teaspoons ground cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon whole cloves
1/2 teaspoon nutmeg
1/2 teaspoon ginger
1/4 teaspoon salt

Fill a crockpot with the apple pieces and turn it on high. Let that go for something like an hour (or two, if you're like me an a little forgetful). Stir the apples around and turn the crockpot down to low. Let it all simmer down for as long as it takes you to get up the courage to prepare your canning supplies. In my case, this was about 24 hours. Stir whenever you remember to do so, or as often as you want the smell of condensing apples to fill your house. The next day, run the apple mush through a food mill or, if you're like me and just don't get around to buying a food mill in time, squish it through a strainer or mesh colander, just to remove the stringy bits, seeds, and whole cloves.

I have no business telling anyone how to can, so just follow the directions here. Or eat it, fresh, by the spoonful. That works, too.

If you choose to can, this recipe yields approximately 3 pints of apple butter. From 5 1/2 pounds of apples. It's that strong.

Weekend!

2011-10-15T17:23:00.000-05:00

Long weekends are the best. I wasn't needed at work Friday, so I 1) stayed out a little later than usual on Thursday, 2) slept until 8:30 and 3) didn't deal with vomit or rude men all day.

One of Evan's classmates held a nice, low-key get-together at her apartment--right across the street from us--that evening. It was lovely; just a few adults eating snacks, drinking wine, talking like grown-ups, watching YouTube videos.... Four words: LeRoy Jenkins, Chuck Testa.

This morning, we had a tailgate for the WI-IU homecoming game at 9:00. Tailgating in the morning just doesn't work out as well. There were burgers and brats, as usual, but also a table of baked goods and a Gatorade cooler full of screwdrivers. (The drink, that is, not the tool.) Those got me in trouble, but not for the expected reason. I had no issue with the vodka, but that much orange juice left me feeling utterly wretched. We left a little before 11:00 and went home to take a nap.

This afternoon, Evan spent entirely too long on the phone with Charter, trying to figure out why our internet was not working...again. They got everything straightened out (hence the blog post), and he has moved on to bottling his homebrew. I just cleaned and chopped 5 1/2 pounds of apples, which are now in the process of turning into apple butter.

Excuse me while I smash that plate over your head.

2011-10-11T22:39:00.000-05:00

So yes. The father-in-law.

He met me at the door when I arrived this morning with a brief "Good morning" and a "What is your name?" and that was the extent of our conversation for the day. It isn't due to any language barrier; my employeress assured me that he speaks fluent English, "because he's an ophthalmologist." For most of the day, he just pretended I wasn't there. Okay, fine with me.

Not that we didn't interact, after a fashion. I think there was definitely some communication going on when he rattled his dirty dishes at me from his position in front of the TV, waiting for me to take them to the kitchen. His eyes never wavered from the screen. Plate. Bowl. Spoon. Rattle-rattle. This happened three times over the course of the late morning. On the positive side, the Granny seemed determined to be extra-friendly, as if to make up for her son's treatment. My employeress told me this morning that her grandmother's only complaint about me over the last month is that I simply do not eat enough. I knew she was trying to fatten me up.

On another subject, we had our first "Sig O's" bookclub meeting tonight and it seemed to go pretty well. We read and discussed "A Visit from the Good Squad" by Jennifer Egan. The conversation was more thoughtful and less faux-intellectual than any bookclub I've ever heard of. My one complaint is that I fixed my mother's famous, nationally-known, award-winning buffalo chicken dip and no one ate any. Except me, of course. But then, the other goodies were...let's just say, not up to bunko levels. Wine, cheese, and veggies, nothing fattening, no beer, very little chocolate. That's gotta change.

Friday, Friday, etc.

2011-10-07T19:59:00.000-05:00

Ahhhhh, the sweet smell of the weekend. No really. Something smelled really amazing on the way home tonight. Someone was grilling brats and someone was burning leaves (is that legal, here?) and the combination of those smells--along with the earthy smell of the leaves lining the sidewalks--was just heavenly.

Not much to report on the job front. Today was a fine day, despite the fact that I was overly tired and cranky when I got to the apartment this morning. That grumpiness evaporated when I found that my employeress had a canister of chocolate-covered almond butter toffees to which I was welcome to help myself.

Om nom nom nom nom.

The father-in-law arrives on Tuesday, and I'm not quite sure what to expect on that front. Updates will follow, I am sure. The good news is that it sounds like I have next Friday off AND I also have the Friday after that off so we can fit in a long weekend trip to Fort Wayne.

It's a phase, right?

2011-10-06T22:06:00.000-05:00

Prita has a charming new trick. I say something, and she repeats it back precisely, with a loud "NO!" appended to the end of the last word. It goes something like this:

Me: Please pick up your matching cards.
Prita: Please pick up your matching cardsNO!

Me: It's time for yogurt.
Prita: 's'time for yogurtNO!

Me: Get your fingers out of your nose!
Prita: Get your fingers out of your noseNO!

Ah, yes. The Terrible Twos, but with a language gap. She's not quite sure what I'm saying, but she is NOT GOING TO DO IT!!!

This is why Evan and I have decided that all of our children are going to be naturally obedient and compliant....
Just kidding. I know we're doomed.

It's the little things you notice.

2011-10-04T20:10:00.000-05:00

Prita has two stuffed bunnies that she loves. One is purple, the other is white.

I'm trying not to read anything into the fact that, after playing with said bunnies today, she threw up her snack of blueberries (purple) and a later snack of yogurt (white).

Today: A story.

2011-10-03T20:22:00.000-05:00

Once upon a time...
We had a good weekend. Rumor has it there were parties and keg stands involved, but I wouldn't give that too much credence. Unless you've seen the video Evan sent my mom.

Things went swimmingly today. The morning hours flew by, the child ate, the child slept, we went to the park, and my employeress came back at a reasonable hour, despite her dire warning that "hours will be longer this week." Of course, she also came home 3 minutes after the bus I had hoped to catch was gone, giving me the choice to 1) wait an hour for the next bus or 2) do my walking thing and meet the bus as far away as I could get in an hour.

My job isn't that bad, but given the chance to but some space between myself and them, I'm always going to choose that option.

Anyway, I walked four miles, rode the bus for about 1 mile, and got back off to meet my husband at Grainger (the business school building). We did some shopping and headed home. The end.

Epilogue: I found out this morning that my employeress's father-in-law--son of Granny--is going to be coming from India next week to spend "5 days." I put "5 days" in scare-quotes because I'm scared. They told me that Granny was originally intending to stay a month, but she has now been there 5. If they say the father is staying 5 days, what does that actually translate to? This would not trouble me so much were it not for the fact that it sounds as if he'll just be hanging around the apartment all day..... But who am I kidding? More stories!

Catching Up

2011-09-29T20:58:00.000-05:00

Before I say anything else, let me just put this out there: chili-masala pumpkinseed pralines. Mmmm mmmm mmmm!

It's been a good week. It started off well, Monday being a day off for me. I used it wisely and took several hours to do some necessary cleaning of the apartment. It was one of the highlights of my week. Seriously. I reveled in my reclaimed domesticity. I also did not-so-fun things like pay bills and get The Worst Passport Photo Ever taken, but all that paled in comparison to the fun I had just getting stuff done at home.

I know you think I'm being sarcastic, but I'm really not.

There hasn't been much to report on the nannying front, at least, not much that provides any entertainment value or inspires me to new heights of hyperbole. Prita is now napping for me. It requires at least 20 minutes of singing and rocking on my part, but at least she's getting some rest. She has some definite favorite songs to be put to sleep by: "Pop! Goes the Weasel" (aka, The Monkey Song), "Baa Baa Black Sheep," and everyone's favorite "Little Bunny Foo-Foo." I should have started keeping track of the number of times we have been through "Bunny Foo," as she calls it. She also requests things like, "Big Baby Song" and "Octopus Song" and I have no idea what she's talking about. My inability to oblige only infuriates her (at least, when she's tired), and the only way to soothe her is to start singing, "Little Bunny Foo-Foo, hoppin' through the forest...."

Granny and I are slowly but surely improving our communication skills. We now serve Prita all her meals, get diaper changes done, give baths, and do dishes and laundry with a minimum of ridiculous gesturing. We had a charming little interlude today when she had me come sit next to her so she could sound out the words in Prita's Mickey Mouse book and have me check it for her. She knows all the letters and can sound things out, but she doesn't really seem to know what the words mean. After she had worked through a paragraph, she had me read the whole thing aloud...and cackled all the way through. I know my reading voice sounds considerably different than my normal talking voice, but really? Am I that funny? Laughing over, she grabbed Prita's Telugu primer and started showing me the letters and how to pronounce their names and the names of the accompanying pictures. I really can't remember a single thing, except that "rumpum" (or something like that) means saw. That'll be a great help, I'm sure.

I've also gotten a little more confidence when it comes to mealtimes with Granny. Previously, I had just been taking some of whatever she thrust at me, regardless of whether it sounded good or if I was even hungry, We've established, now, that I can get food when I want it--she doesn't have to serve me--and that I will not always want rice with curry, followed by rice with yogurt. Sometimes, I may just eat an apple and some nuts or cheese. Consequently, when I do have some of what Granny is having for lunch (or breakfast), I enjoy it a lot more and don't feel gross all day.

Tomorrow is Friday, which means 1) I get paid and 2) I get to look forward to an entire weekend at home, with my husband. Sounds pretty nice.

Stay classy, UW-Madison

2011-09-24T20:18:00.000-05:00

I'm sorry, but the University of Wisconsin is crazy. These are just some highlights of our trip across town on game day:

--A man with his (pink) pants legs rolled up, showing off his glowing white ankles and blush suede oxfords (worn without socks, of course). On top, he had on a *very* tight red WI t-shirt with the sleeves cut off.

--A pack of girls, all wearing red and white striped overalls with one strap undone, many of them with only a sports bra on underneath

--A man wearing leggings...under a pair of booty shorts with "SCONNIE" emblazoned across his rear end

A Tale of Two Dishwashers

2011-09-23T21:48:00.000-05:00

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.... That is, it was 6:15 on Friday morning. Best, in that it was Friday. Worst, in that it was an ungodly early hour and the sun had not yet shown up. I hadn't slept much, thanks in large part to my husband having only that night taken up the habit of snoring. (At least he wasn't sleep-walking.)

My employeress had told me the day before that I should get over to the apartment any time from 7:00 to 7:30. Like any normal human being with a functioning brain, I chose the later of those two options and timed my morning to arrive right before 7:30. On the bus on the way over, I got a frantic call from my employeress, asking where I was and why I wasn't there yet. I jabbered for a moment, trying to figure out how to answer without 1)sounding snotty or 2)apologizing for going along with her plan. I passed her in the hall on my was up to the apartment, looking completely frazzled and harried. When I got inside, I was treated to a scolding from Granny, the only intelligible words of which were "seven," "seven-thirty," and "LATE." I shrugged and smiled what I hope was a winning smile. This is my new go-to answer when I have no idea what's going on or no idea why I'm being scolded.

Speaking of being scolded.... I should mention that I have a big, nasty, problematic fault that is coming into direct conflict with Granny. My fault is this: I HATE being told how to do something with which I'm already well-acquainted. In this case, the issue is dishes. As part of the "light housekeeping" I'm asked to engage in, I'm supposed to clean up the dishes after meals and snacks. I know how to do dishes. My mother made sure of it, even if I did pass that task off on my brothers as soon as humanly possible.

Thus, it really, really, really irks me when I start to clean up Granny's kitchen mess and she stands behind me, looking over my shoulder and giving directions. (I may not understand a single word, but I understand the intent.) Occasionally, she will grab the scrubber and pot from my hands and give a demonstration. I'm never quite sure what the point is, as I clean dishes exactly the same was she does: apply soap, scrub, rinse. The best part of all of this is that I'm supposed to wash all the dishes...before I put them in the dishwasher. If she finds a dish in the (dirty) dishwasher that still appears to have been used, she will pull it out and wave it at me. Finally today I seem to have reached a point where she trusts me to clean everything properly and no longer inspects the dishwasher every time I leave the kitchen.

Contrast this with my home life: We got a new dishwasher a couple weeks ago and Evan has been testing it by seeing how much gunk we can leave on the dishes and still have them come out clean. So far, it seems to have dealt well with everything.

(I'm struggling to find a way to work in a play on Sydney Carton's last line, but my creativity has failed me. Oh well, here it is in all its beauty, sans sense or context: "It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known.")

"...the monkey chased the weasel...."

2011-09-20T17:55:00.000-05:00

Another 7:00 AM day. It's getting easier to wake up, although no more enjoyable. As Evan astutely remarked last night, "Oh, you're one of those 'eight hours of sleep' people." I had to correct him. I'm one of those 10-11 hours of sleep people.

The early start meant lots of gorgeous morning hours, which Prita and I spent at the park. I used my handy-dandy smartphone (I still can't get over that thing) and found a city park with a playground about a mile away. We walked down and Prita spent the next two hours running, jumping, swinging, sliding, and staring at all the bigger kids. I was happy to let her go as long as she wanted because, of course, lots of exercise means a better nap, right? Or no nap, if you're dealing with this kid. She managed 10 minutes of sleep in the stroller as we walked home. That was it. She was good to go for the rest of the day. Not that I didn't try to get her to nap again. We spent 45 minutes in the rocking chair, singing. If sound stopped coming from my mouth, she would cry. I cannot count the number of times I sang "Pop Goes the Weasel" to the wee beastie.

For all that, it was a pretty good day, and the mother came home over an hour early, so I get to spend the entirety of the evening with my husband.

Gone Walkabout

2011-09-19T21:06:00.000-05:00

Firstly, we had an excellent weekend in Fort Wayne. Buca was delicious. The Johnny Appleseed Festival was awesome, as always. Church at Redeemer was church at Redeemer, and therefore difficult to beat, this side of Heaven. Even if Pr. Petersen was AWOL. I got hugs from some of my very favorite people (besides my family, I would have to count Jacqui, Lori, Nancy, and the Reunings in that extremely exclusive group).

Our drive home was uneventful and we made pretty good time, despite missing an exit and ending up driving along Hwy 14 through Palatine and Barrington. I only cried sporadically...the whole way home.

It rained all night and into the morning hours, but it stopped just in time for me to make my walk to the bus stop. The rest of the day only got more beautiful by the hour. When I got to work, I discovered that Prita spent the weekend sick with whatever nasty cold I had last week. She seemed to be on the mend, though, with no runny nose and very little congestion. She and I took a long walk late in the morning, just after the sun finally broke through the clouds. I'm seriously considering writing to Google to request that their maps have some way to indicate on which routes you will be forced to push a stroller uphill. I was so warm by the time we got back to the apartment (despite it only being in the 60s, at that point), that Granny was a little alarmed and made me drink some water. She really is a nice old lady.

On toward Prita's 2:00 naptime, I was trying to wear her out by having her ride her tricycle up and down the apartment hallways. As we were heading back toward their unit, Prita started crying out for her mom and, when I turned around, there she was. She hadn't been feeling well all day and finally decided to give up and come home. I felt bad for her, facing the prospect of putting her daughter down for a nap AND stressing out over missing work AND nursing a headache and a cold. But anyway, I got to leave 4 hours early.

Practically skipping with glee, I got outside and pulled out my phone to determine what time the bus would be coming by. Turns out, the buses run much less frequently during the day and the next one was not scheduled to be along for another hour and ten minutes. Rather than go sit somewhere and wait an hour, I started walking along the bus route, keeping track of the stops and planning to stop just in time for the bus to catch up with me further down the line. Originally, I figured I'd just walk a few streets down, until I found a stop with a likely looking bench where I could sit and read. No. Instead, I ended up walking over half the length of the route between work and our apartment. When I got home, I figured I had walked just a touch under four miles. But it was a perfectly beautiful day, and I was full of energy and wearing really comfy shoes, so I didn't even notice.

Evan and I made good use of our unexpectedly free afternoon. We headed over to the DMV (which was, incidentally, on the route I took home) and Evan got his license renewed, while I replaced my IN license with a WI license. That felt oddly final and I'm afraid I pouted a little when I figured out that they weren't going to let me have my old license back. After the DMV, we did our second ever Big Grocery Trip, this time checking out Woodmans. Which was huge and overwhelming and delightfully cheap.

On Vacation

2011-09-16T13:35:00.000-05:00

Evan and I are spending the weekend in Fort Wayne, so don't expect much from me for the next few days.

We have all sorts of plans. Tonight, we're having dinner at Buca di Beppo in Indianapolis with my Caston aunt, uncle, and cousins, and also with Grandfather Dear. My Grandmother Dear is ditching us to go hang out with her church ladies. The ostensible reason for the party is that my birthday was earlier this month, Evan's birthday is later this month, and Jonathan never got his birthday party back in April. Really, it's just an excuse for us to visit the family and eat way too much pasta. I'm okay with that.

Just a brief update on the nanny front: yesterday was good, even though it started off with me crying in front of my employer. I was overly tired and had a racking cough and no voice and the combination of the three just suddenly overwhelmed me. I tried to make sure that she knew that I was not crying because I hate my job. And I was not crying because I can't communicate effectively with either Granny or Prita, despite the fact that the tears started rolling just as I started talking about that. She was understandably freaked out, and I got a call later from her husband, making sure everything was okay and that I am really comfortable with the position. The answer, of course, was "Yes. It's only been three days. Any problems we have now will only improve with a little time. Stop worrying. There's nothing wrong here..." etc.

Otherwise, the day was good. We spent a total of 5 hours outside, walking. We walked to the Social Security office so that I could drop off the paperwork to get my name changed with the government. Later, we took a route that just happened to lead right through the nearest Starbucks. Talk about fortuitous. Incidentally, I finally discovered just why Granny wants us to get out of the apartment so often: she uses the time to watch her Indian soap operas. Really. Watch the full 5 minutes, I dare you. The full episode I got to see yesterday was even better.

"Walk walk walk walk walk"

2011-09-14T18:48:00.002-05:00

Today started off much worse than yesterday, and by "much worse" I mean a whole half-hour earlier. That's right, ladies and gents, I woke up at 5:45 AM and was out of the house by 6:15. At that hour, life is not worth living. In fact, I'm pretty sure I wasn't alive, but rather undead.

Anyway, my zombified form made it to the bus stop on time. The ride went quickly and there were no hiccups or wrong turns. I was even the last one on the bus for the final 4 stops before my destination....Which must be why the driver decided to stop for coffee, 1 mile from my stop and 5 minutes before I was supposed to be there. The look on my face when he said he was stopping to grab some coffee must have been something to see, because he immediately changed his mind and got back behind the wheel, and I made it to work on time.

Granny* offered me breakfast, which in this case involved curried green beans, mystery orange curry, rice, and chapatis. It was all delicious, but my poor, cossetted stomach was not prepared for that onslaught at 7:00 AM. Note to self: buy granola bars. We had essentially the same meal for lunch, minus the chapatis and plus a boatload of homemade yogurt. At one point in the not-so-distant past, I deluded myself into thinking I would be happy eating Indian food all the time. I was so naive.

Prita and I were kicked out of the apartment around 9:00 and told--very forcefully--to "walk walk walk walk walk!" We walk-walk-walked for almost an hour, coming back just in time for the power to go out as we walked up to the apartment. Granny was trying to get lunch started and could not figure out why the rice-cooker wasn't working. Try explaining "power outage" without any common words. After I went around pointing to all the non-functioning appliances saying "power: off" and making a chopping motion with my hand, she caught on. The outage only lasted about 20 minutes, though, and the day got back on track.

After Prita's lunch, we were kicked out of the apartment again with another vigorous "walk walk walk walk walk!" Prita was asleep within minutes, but I couldn't make myself turn around and go back to the apartment. I made a tour of the neighborhood, wishing I had brought my book along on the journey. Finally, after 45 minutes of fairly aimless wandering, I gave up and went back, hoping to get some reading in while Prita finished her nap. She woke up as soon as we walked in the front door. Back upstairs, I laid down with her and she was nearly asleep again when Granny walked in, yelling for me to come eat lunch. At that point, Prita gave up on sleep for the remainder of the day and became her usual, hellion-like self.

Other highlights include peeling a basket-full of onions, being chastised (I think) for letting Prita watch me play Angry Birds to get her to sit still for 5 minutes, and seeing a dead body carried out of another apartment while out walking. Good times, all.

Overall, despite some mishaps, it was a much better day than yesterday. Tomorrow should be better yet: it's the last day I work this week AND I don't have to be there until 8:00.

*I should note that in referring to the grandmother as "Granny" I'm not being disrespectful or flippant. (That's reserved for the actual content of my comments.) Rather "Granny" is how the family refers to her, when speaking English. I haven't the foggiest notion what else to call her. Although, she knows to call me "Brittany." Amazing.

First Day

2011-09-13T20:46:00.000-05:00

Ha. Haha. Hahahaha. Hahahahahahahahahaha....

Sorry. Crazed laughter over.

So, I started my new job this morning. I am nannying 40ish hours a week, taking care of a two-year old girl, only child of a young Indian couple. Those 40 hours began at 7:30 this morning. (Rather, they were supposed to. More on that in a moment.)

My wonderful husband got up early to walk me to the bus stop. It was a lovely morning, if a little cool, and he made that walk much more enjoyable. I got on my #14 bus and was on my way. Until the driver missed a turn, drove a couple miles out of the way, circled back around to get back on her route, and made me twenty minutes late for my first day of work.

Thank goodness the people for whom I'm working are very understanding and flexible. I called them and they told me not to worry about anything and just get there ASAP. When I got to the apartment, the husband was at work and the wife was ready to walk out the door, leaving me alone with their daughter and their eighty-year-old grandmother. Did I not mention her before? She lives with them. And she speaks no English.

The little girl--I'll just call her "Prita"--is a squirrel. She doesn't sit down to eat; she runs back and forth and you have to reach out at just the right time to get the food into her mouth. At least today, the grandmother did most of this. She would cajole her for 5-10 minutes (at least, I'm assuming it was cajoling...it sounded like it, but I really have no idea what she was saying) and finally Prita would back up against the far wall, lower her head like a bull, and charge. About the time she pulled even with the grandmother, she (the granny) would force a handful of food into her (Prita's) mouth.

Prita spent much of the day reciting her ABCs to me, or having me write them out one at a time on her Magnadoodle. Prita doesn't actually converse in English--she talks mainly in whatever Indian language the family uses--but she knows a number of English words that she can shout out. She especially likes cats and I cannot number the times she yelled, "C is for KITTY!!!!!"

Prita is on a set schedule of meals and naps, although her mother was out the door before I could ask what time the nap was set for. It took granny and I several tries at gesturing and trying to find mutually-comprehensible words before I could find out from her that Prita goes to bed at 2:00. Well, come 1:00, granny scooped her up, beckoned for me to follow, and carried Prita off to her (granny's) room. She set Prita in the middle of the bed, laid down on one side, and gestured for me to lay down on the other. Uh...come again? I have no problem cuddling with a child who needs to be coaxed into sleep, but cuddling with a child and an 80 year-old woman who I've never met before and with whom I can't really communicate? Weird. I tried it anyway, but Prita was having none of this napping business. We gave up and let her run around for awhile. Several tries at putting her to bed were unsuccessful, so I let granny know that I was going to take Prita out for a walk in the stroller, to see if that would get her to sleep. Don't ask how I got that across, but I did somehow. Granny was also able to tell me to make sure Prita was wearing shoes and to keep the sun out of her face. Bethany and Granny: 1, Language-Gap: 0. That walk was the best part of the day. That that's despite my congested state which made the entire endeavor completely exhausting.

Anyway, Prita never did get a nap, but she did get increasingly moody and clumsy with every passing minute. By the time her mother got home around 6:00, she was mood-swinging like a manic-depressive and running into walls, but she would NOT sleep.

There are so many more quirks in this job, most of them will just have to wait.

The Busy Weekend

2011-09-11T22:23:00.001-05:00

We attended a family wedding up in Green Bay yesterday. On the way out of town, after the reception, we took a detour past Lambeau Field because, apparently, not doing so would be like going to Rome and skipping St. Peter's. I took a photo with my phone as we drove past, in the dark, and sent it to Patrick, who is now above responding to messages from his sister. That is to say, I don't know that he ever got it. (Did you, Patch? We went five minutes out of our way, just to get that picture. Some appreciation is warranted.)

Rather than drive back to Madison that night, we stayed with Evan's folks in Plymouth, and drove from there to Sussex for church this morning. First, I just have to say how thankful I am that we are able to attend church at Peace. Pr. Bender is great and the people there (not even counting the Gehlbachs, my adopted family) have been really welcoming and kind. The following should in no way be taken as a reflection on that church or the gifts we receive there each week. But there are no adequate words to describe how much I miss Redeemer and my church family. Seriously, I cried like a baby through the first two services away from Redeemer. The third week, Evan's parents were along and I managed to keep myself in check. This week, I didn't cry at the service, but ended up weeping my way through "Lord, Thee I Love With All My Heart" at the church picnic. I probably would have cried through "O Lord We Praise Thee", but I was too distracted by the pace at which the organist was playing it--MUCH slower than Kantor Reuning-- and thought of my brothers straining to sing it faster. At one point, I looked up toward the chancel to make a face at one of them, but of course none of them were there. And at the church picnic, I had a perfectly good time and sat with Susan and Katie and made faces at Alia when I should have been paying attention to Pr. Suelflow....But it was almost disorienting to look out at a park pavilion full of church people and not see Osbuns or Lagemanns or Ridleys or anyone else I know.

But just so you know, I'm not complaining. Just reflecting.

We left before the church picnic was quite through to drive back to Madison in time to get ready for a Supply Chain Management center party. That sounds unbelievably awful, but it was a seriously good party, in the most sophisticated, grown-up way. Like Evan said as we walked back to our car afterwards, it was the sort of party that makes you feel like an adult. It had smart people, really good food, a nice selection of drinks, and it was held in a beautiful home, perfect for entertaining.

Tomorrow is my last day of freedom before I settle down and start working for my keep again. I have a whole list of things to get done--cleaning, laundry, picking up a bus pass--but I have this premonition that I will actually spend the whole day watching movies on Netflix. But I really don't know where that thought came from.

Thank You Notes

2011-09-06T18:11:00.000-05:00

I love thank you notes. I love picking them out, I love writing them, I love receiving them. For the most part, I have had a lot of fun doing the thank yous for our wedding gifts. Evan and I turned on some music, sat down, and knocked over half of them out one evening last week.

When I woke up this morning, I decided to use my day at home, alone, to get the rest of them done.

Did you know you can have thank-you-note-writer's-block? I sat down, picked out the first name, picked up the pen and...nothing came out except. "Thank you." What else to say? This normally comes so easily. Today, though, nothing. It took me two hours to get nine notes written. Then they sat in a little pile, mocking me and egging me on. By the time Evan got home at 2:00, I had been at it for 5 hours straight and only gotten 30-some notes written (which means my rate had improved, but not enough) and my hands were cramping.

My reward was that we ran to the post office to get more stamps and stopped at Starbucks for pumpkin spice lattes on the way home. And everything was better, because I was out in the sunshine holding yummy coffee with one hand and my husband's hand with the other.

Tomorrow's tasks: finishing the notes for which I was missing addresses, calling a piano tuner, and getting a bus pass. If any of those should produce blog-worthy results, an update will follow.

People Watching

2011-09-05T21:25:00.000-05:00

My dear sister-in-law likes to talk about car-spotting. Well, cars are great and all, but I really don't know enough about them to appreciate the hobby, so I just play my own version: clothing-disaster-spotting.

There is, very possibly, no better place to enjoy this pastime than a county fair. Oh. My. Goodness. I'm not about to pick on the legitimate fair people in their boots and flannels, or even the country people in last decade's Walmart bargains. Oh, no. Why descend to petty, income-based mockery when there are targets aplenty?

Take, for instance, the woman walking around with the bottom of her t-shirt tucked up under the edge of her bra. That encounter had the potential to be scarring, except that she had the waist of her pants pulled up to the bottom of her rib cage. That just took it from indecent to inconceivable.

Being newly arrived in Wisconsin, I was delighted to see the men walking around in camouflage Packers jerseys. Really? This isn't Minnesota; there's no need to hide your loyalty. There was a whole display of Packers-themed 4-H homegoods projects, for crying out loud.

Also, a fair classic, was the "skunk" hair phenomenon. Dark hair, light roots; light hair, dark roots; light hair, dark tips; dark hair, light tips, etc.

But, oh. You simply have not LIVED until you have seen the glow-in-the-dark tie-dye t-shirt stand advertising sized L through XXXXXL.

Hair Woes

2011-09-02T21:05:00.000-05:00

Ahhh, the perennial topic of complaint.

So, it's like this: I let my hair grow out for the wedding and it is now a little longer than shoulder-length. I would say that this is the length where it starts going flat, but I'm not really sure there is a length where it doesn't do that. The upside to my hair right now is that I can leave it down or put it up and either way it looks semi-presentable. I can finally get a good french braid in, and it's been years since I was able to do that.

The downside to my hair right now is that it goes flat and ratty very quickly. I feel like I can't go anywhere without a hairbrush and I'm not comfortable unless it is pulled back somehow, thus camouflaging its tendency to go lank.

The problem is, I'm not sure how much a shorter cut will help. It could, very possibly, remove the things I like about my hair (being able to put it back) but leave all the things I don't like (flat crabbiness).

I would seriously consider just CHOPPING IT ALL OFF and going the pixie cut route, but I know for sure that my husband would not appreciate that. :o)

A Weekend Conundrum

2011-08-27T12:26:00.001-05:00

What to do, what to do? It's a Saturday sans big plans and sans big projects. What does one do with a weekend when there are no family parties to attend? No walls to knock down and build back up?

As Evan so-helpfully pointed out, we have lots of small projects to work on, but that makes things even more difficult. Which job do you choose, and how to you keep yourself from project-hopping like an ADD-riddled eight year-old?

Very Important Things

2011-08-24T20:54:00.000-05:00

In other news, I am now completely caught up on my back episodes of this season of Project Runway. I missed two whole weeks of drama queens and, well, queens battling to see who could make the crummiest outfit. No, really, there were a few cute articles of clothing mixed in with the dreck. Mainly, I just didn't enjoy watching it as much on my own. How can I form a proper opinion of anything--or mock the entries sufficiently--without my mother alongside? Not good. Not good at all. Besides which, watching PR brings back alarming memories of being called into my boss's office and alternately having my opinion sought on the last episode of the show and being harangued for someone else's incompetence. (No! I will not let Jane ruin this for me again! No!)

Also, as part of catching up on the show, I finally got through all two weeks worth of posts from Tom and Lorenzo. Not that it mattered or anything. It had just been a while since I'd read anyone tear apart some random celebrity's wardrobe choices, that's all.

And while I'm talking fashion, pretty-things, and the depths of the internet.... Whose idea was Pinterest? Seriously, I didn't get to all the housework I meant to get done today and my failure is directly attributable to that site.

No more isolation.

2011-08-24T20:38:00.000-05:00

Not only do we now have reliable internet at the apartment, I have a super-fancy smartphone.

Ooooooh! Aaaaaah!

This is one of those things that I never really wanted but am now going to be completely addicted to and reliant on. Thanks, Evan. :o) It's amazing. My complete address book, email, Facebook, music: all with me all the time. Oh yeah, and it makes calls, too.

We were at the park this evening with a group of Evan's fellow MBA students and, while they played "networking games" I did not let myself check Facebook. Not even once.

On the Hunt

2011-08-23T20:28:00.000-05:00

I finally sat down and got serious about looking for a job today.

Wait...just....give me a minute....

SNIFFLE

Okay. I'm fine, really. It wasn't that bad. I put in an application at Starbucks, both my home office on the Capitol Square and two others in town. I also looked up all the banks within walking distance and applied to the two that were hiring tellers. I took a deep breath and an antacid and checked the city and county websites for jobs, since that would be the place to find something library-related. No luck there, but that's really okay. As much as I loved my library job, I'd really rather not work directly for the government again. It always made me feel a touch squeamish. While I was holding my nose (or was it my breath? I don't know...holding something and feeling ill, anyway), I also checked one of the job sites with paralegal job listings. Then I came to my senses and realized that I would rather work at Sears--now hiring 7 salespersons--than go back into the law office environment.

I also checked out Craigslist, for the first time ever, and was immediately sidetracked by the weirdness. "YOU CAN BE A SURROGATE MOTHER. $30,000+!!!!!!!" "Make $3,000 a day from home. Not a scam." "Apprentice seeking Jedi Master." All good options, I'm sure.

The search continues tomorrow. And every day until I am successfully bound in wage slavery.

What do your books say about you?

2011-08-22T11:01:00.000-05:00

Thanks to Pastor and Susan Gehlbach, we are the proud owners of Enough Bookshelves (for now, at any rate). They brought a load of our wedding gifts--which they had been kind enough to haul up to WI last week--and added in two new shelving units. They're pretty enough to go in the living/family/dining room and we worked on setting up the first one last night.

Evan and I have worked on projects before--see my family's house--so we already know that we work well together. And he knows that I really don't know what I'm doing with tools, most of the time. And that I'm often dreadfully clumsy. So, I guess, when I say that we worked on setting it up, really I mean he worked on setting it up and I just tried not to undo anything important. I did take the job of hammering the wooden pegs into the screw holes and, let me tell you, those are some well-hammered pegs.

After the shelf was built and in place came the very most important process of filling it. Cookbooks were an obvious first step, as they had already outgrown their original home in the cupboard over the stove. We have a pretty darn impressive collection of cookbooks, for newlyweds. After the cookbooks were in place, we started searching our current shelves for "impressive books." I'm going to blame this one on the first week of business indoctrination: we were working on our brand through the books on our public bookshelves. Sigh. Anyway, our brand is, apparently, composed of old things, pretty things, and things no one else has ever heard of. We still have that second shelf to set up, so we'll see how the brand goes from there. Of course, if they were to set foot in the guest room, they'd see that our brand is leans much more heavily toward "widely-read language and history geeks with 5 different copies of Pride and Prejudice."

Note:

2011-08-19T11:58:00.002-05:00

Can I just say how much I LOVE having a wedding ring? It can be awkward, trying to find ways to use my left hand to make my status more apparent, but it is totally worth the effort. Seriously, it's like creeper repellant.

A View from Starbucks

2011-08-19T11:25:00.003-05:00

We don't have reliable internet access at our apartment, right now. Madison has city-wide wireless, but it functions about as well as you'd expect. As Patrick said, "In Soviet Russia, you take what you're given." Being disconnected from the world at large is not an option, so I've been spending a couple hours every morning at the Starbucks on Capitol Square. Safely ensconced behind my laptop, drink in hand, I can watch and laugh at my fellow city-dwellers.

Someone just pulled a fire alarm inside the capitol building, so the square is flooded with people in suits, enjoying some time out in the sun. (There couldn't possibly be anything suspicious about a false alarm, pulled just before lunch time, right?) The fire trucks are gone and it looks like they've given the all-clear, but very few people have gone back in, yet.

There's a homeless lady who just came in and ordered a Venti latte in two cups, and the jerk on a bike who keeps riding through her pile of belongings. Sometimes I feel like such a sheltered, small-town girl. Despite having lived in a good-sized city, I am constantly shocked when I see the numbers of homeless people around here. Were they just better at hiding in Fort Wayne, or are there just that many of them here? I'm inclined to believe my hometown to be superior in all ways, so I'm going to say that this liberal Utopia of Madison is just a deeper hole.

A guy has been sitting two tables down from me since I came in. He's on his third iced coffee in an hour and looks wired enough to right every wrong complained about on the bumper stickers covering his laptop. He'd probably get along well with the father and toddler son duo riding around the square, their bikes bedecked with "TAX THE RICH!!!" flags.

In the same vein, there is a group across the square on a long-term hunger-strike. Their placards don't tell us what the strike is about, just that they're angry and hungry. Speaking of which, the Italian beef and Chicago dog cart just outside Starbucks has been taunting me for 3 days. I have food at home, I have food at home....

Busy-looking career women are everywhere, in their serious slacks and cardigans. Mostly I just make fun of them because I want so desperately not to be one of them. I'm perfectly content to sit here in my jeans and Cap'n Curt's t-shirt, looking forward (LOOKING FORWARD!) to vacuuming my apartment and doing more laundry when I get home.

Some Initial Thoughts

2011-08-18T13:39:00.010-05:00

Blogging makes more sense when the people who want to know the mundane details of my daily life aren't also the people experiencing those mundane details with me. So this is for anyone who cares to know. :o)

1) Having a small washer and dryer is a pain in the rear. Seriously. The washer maxes out at four towels; I just stuck a sheet set in and it is making me nervous. Granted, there are only two of us here, so the laundry doesn't exactly pile up like it did at home, but the inefficiency of doing five loads where I formerly could have done one is driving me batty.

2) Shopping for two people is harder than I had anticipated. We went to the supermarket on Tuesday evening and neither one of us has any idea how to buy groceries in small amounts. How much milk will we use before it goes bad? How many eggs? If we buy a pack of frozen burritos, will they actually last more than a day?

3) The other side of only having two people eating is that cooking and post-meal clean-up takes no time. We've run the dishwasher twice in three days, and that was mainly to deal with new dishes, glasses, and storage boxes.

4) Leftovers. I get them.

2011-02-15T14:33:00.003-06:00

For Adriane...
(Because we can't have her throwing a fit.)

First, I was not expecting the proposal. It was a beautiful, sunny, mild day. Our dinner reservations were for after 9:00, so we had an entire afternoon and evening at our disposal, most of which we had spent sitting around, doing nothing. He suggested that we should take advantage of the waning sunlight and maybe work in a walk. We headed over to Foster Park and strolled along beside the river for a while. I told him I wanted to show him my favorite old sycamore tree before we left, so we looped around and made that our last stop on the way to the car. When we got over to the tree, he stopped, took my hands, and told me that he had been making a lot of plans recently and that I featured in all of them. (There was some other stuff too, but as soon as I figured out what was going on, my mind went kind of blurry and I don't remember much of it very clearly.) He got down on one knee, right there in the snow, pulled out the ring, and asked me to marry him. Again, I'm sort of fuzzy on what exactly happened next. He tells me I said, "Oh, absolutely!" All I remember it that poked myself with my sunglasses, forgot what finger the ring was supposed to go on, and accidentally kissed him on the nose. Yeah, I'm a spaz.

The ring is an antique pearl, for which we're going to design a new setting.

Yum.

2010-10-30T15:22:00.001-05:00

The brownie bites.

They're almost too pretty to eat.

Almost.

Caramel-Glazed and Chocolate-Filled

2010-10-29T21:53:00.004-05:00

This was my day today:

Pumpkin Bars

Apple Spice Cakes

Red Velvet Cupcakes

Pretty Little Brownie Bites

It started at 9:30 a.m. It is now 11:00 p.m. and my mother is still working on some little cheesecake thingamabobs. We ate lunch standing at the counter (bite, measure, bite, dump, bite, stir...). Dinner was taken between batches of brownies.

Tomorrow I glaze and decorate 6 dozen brownie bites and bake a layer cake.

I'm tired.

I'm crabby.

My feet hurt.

My pants legs are covered in flour. (Really.)

I never want to see another dessert.

Or maybe that's an exaggeration. As worn-out and tetchy as I am feeling right now, I had a great day. I love baking and especially baking with my mother. Her goofy cheerfulness balances my intensity--like, when I was about to cry because the STUPID CREAM CHEESE WOULDN'T STOP CLUMPING UP in the pumpkin bar filling.

Mmmm...no.

2010-10-27T19:57:00.000-05:00

Oh, I love my friends.

I found the following recipe written on an index card, which was stuck inside a book. There isn't a date noted, but I'm going to guess 2003 or 2004.

(Original spelling and form maintained for comedic value)

"Code Red Mt. Dew! Mocha Chocolate Chunk Sundae"

spoon chocolate chunk ice cream into a large cup (or margarita glass, hehe)
Nestle Java Ice Syrup, mocha flavor, drizzled over ice cream
1 can Code Red Mt. Dew poured over ice cream
use tounge to lap up bubbles :)

Naomi or DoRena: did we make these or did you guys just give me the recipe? I very clearly remember the Mt. Dew cappuccinos, but not this...creation.

...in Which the First Step to Recovery is Not Taken

2010-10-25T18:27:00.007-05:00

I swear I don't have a problem with finishing things, no matter the piles of evidence to the contrary. I'm just good at prioritizing...and realizing when I'm beaten.

Current projects, in reverse chronological order:

1) Lovely knitted baby blanket for a friend, expecting her first son: Obviously, this sort of thing is time sensitive and it was therefore absolutely necessary that I should start before finishing anything else. The instructions say "super easy" and "makes a great last-minute shower gift!" but don't believe it. I've been exhausting my poor fingers for a week now and have less than a foot of length. I don't think I'm that slow at knitting. The pattern lied, that's all.

2) Scrap quilt: I started this last winter, got all the squares cut out and sewn together, backing and batting basted, and knot-quilting started. And then, when it got too warm to sit under a pile of fabric every evening, I folded it up and stuck it in the back of my closet. I finished the knotting last month and purchased the binding fabric...which is now sitting in a Walmart bag under the end of my bed. I'll get to it eventually, but I need (1) several hours of uninterrupted time, during which I will not feel guilty that I'm not doing something legitimately useful and (2) plenty of uninhabited space in which to spread out my work. Both are hard to come by.

3) Hostess apron: I don't know what made me choose this pattern. It's completely useless. When I want an apron, I want an apron that will cover my entire front. Not one that starts at my waist, leaving my shirts exposed to tomatoes, oil, cleaning products, dust, or whatever else is flying about as I work. Anyway, I got the pieces all cut out and then realized that I was missing the lace trim (impractical, yes?) and could not proceed until I acquired said trim. That feat only took two years. So now, instead of a pile of fabric and pattern pieces, I have a pile of fabric, pattern pieces, and lace under my bed. I'll get to it eventually. Like, maybe when I figure out why I wanted to make it in the first place.

4) Pink scarf, green scarf, red and white striped scarf...: Boring. Besides that, I already have approximately 3,762 scarves filling the coat closet (and spilling out on to the floor every time someone tries to grab a jacket). They're destined to be gifts for some grateful individual who won't realize that they're just the victim of a decluttering effort.

In my defense, while these projects have been languishing--forgotten--in closets and under the bed, I've finished other things. Scarves and hats for all my girl cousins, scrapbooking pages galore, a bachelor's degree.... little things like that.

Just a Little Sentimental

2010-10-18T21:58:00.003-05:00

Growing up, I was privileged to have a close relationship with my great-grandparents, Robert and Helen Beery. I know one is not supposed to have favorites in the family, but I looked forward to seeing them more than almost anyone else. When we moved to Fort Wayne it meant living within 40 minutes of their house in Magley and, later, within the same distance of their apartment and nursing home.

I was always a little bit in awe of Grandpa Beery, but he never intimidated me. When we were little, Grandpa would take us kids outside and show us his garden. I don't remember him talking very much; my most vivid memories are of him sitting back in his chair, grinning and chuckling at my brothers' antics. That's a fairly standard response to my brothers, but there was something extra-special about Grandpa's grin.

I spent the most time with Grandma Beery. She was sweet and soft, but she also had a core of iron and spunky, sparkling blue eyes. She loved playing with the grandkids. We would paint pictures together or color or go outside and look at the flowers. When I began taking piano lessons, she always wanted "a concert", which would often end in the two of us playing duets. At the assisted living center, she would open the apartment door when I played so that her neighbors could enjoy the music too. When they finally had to leave the apartment for the nursing home, she gave me her beautiful piano. I still think of her every time I play.

Anyway, this was all brought up because my mother and I were looking at old photos of Grandma and Grandpa. And they made me cry. Turns out I still miss them...a lot.

At the Grocery (with snarky commentary)

2010-10-15T16:58:00.003-05:00

Cashier-Guy: So, do you like classical music?

Excellent pick-up line.

Bagger-Girl: You mean, like, Elton John or, like, Michael Bolton?

Come on. You could have said, "Like, AC/DC or Van Halen?"
Michael Bolton??? Seriously????

Cashier-Guy: No....
Bagger-Girl: OH, or do you mean, like, Pachelbel?

And then the light comes on.

Cashier-Guy: Yeah, or like Beethoven.
Bagger-Girl: Yeah, I like it okay. I used to play the piano.
Cashier-Guy: Yeah, me too. I can play, like, half of Fur Elise. You know the song Fur Elise?

Maintaining the spelling "Fur" because 1) that's how he said it and
2) I don't feel like searching for an umlaut.

Bagger-Girl: Oh yeah. That's cool. I used to play Beethoven's 9th Symphony.

The whole thing? On the piano? That is an accomplishment, indeed!

Cashier-Guy: You know what my favorite piece is? The Brandenburg Concerto.

Points given for knowing of the Brandenburg Concerti.
Points deducted for not realizing that there are, in fact, six of them.

...in Which We Bring Order Out of Chaos

2010-10-14T13:40:00.007-05:00

Proof that I have the best little brothers ever: they still like me after 1) I woke them up this morning and 2) made them clean for 4 1/2 hours.

When I came downstairs this morning I was feeling a little peevish and restless. None of my usual pursuits sounded at all interesting and I was at risk for sitting in front of my computer all day, waiting for something to happen. (Not that I would ever do that.) So, instead of wasting any more of my time wandering around in circles, I decided that I would put my time to good use. If I'm going to be bored anyway, why not clean? I turned on my iTunes "cleaning mix" and got to it. Windows: cleaned. Screens: swept. Curtains: vacuumed. Floors: swept. Woodwork: dusted. Furniture: swept, fluffed, and dusted as needed. (You might say my mother did raise me to be a cleaning lady.) And voila! My churlish lassitude evaporated and I felt invigorated and useful!

My poor brothers were the real victims of my fey mood. They were pressed into service and--before they could even eat breakfast--found themselves cleaning the kitchen, washing dishes, straightening the family room, vacuuming, and doing laundry. (And wearing ruffled aprons, but that's beside the point.) Even with all of that, they retained their sunny and chipper dispositions. Patrick, having school, missed out on all of this cheerful usefulness. He'll pay later.

A Heartwarming Scene

2010-10-10T13:25:00.003-05:00

In the middle of the Sunday School lesson this morning....

Girl 1: I like your necklace, Miss Bethany,
Me: Thank you!
Girl 2: You're the best Sunday School teacher I've ever had.
Me: Awww, you guys are sweet.
Girl 3: Your dress is so ugly. Why you wearin' green, girl?

...in Which I Learn to Spell "Solzhenitsyn"

2010-10-09T21:00:00.005-05:00

As I walked out the door on my way to run errands the other day, I noticed a pile of library books waiting to be returned. I grabbed them, stuffed them in my tote bag (ok, fine, Patrick: I "gently placed them" in my tote bag) and worked in a stop at the library in between grocery stops.

When I say a pile, I really do mean a pile. Lots of books. Heavy books. Hardcovers. The sort that--inevitably--get dropped all over the floor, right next to the book return, disturbing the dusty, midday quiet of the library. The lady working at the desk flinched and tried not to look too pained as I cleaned up my mess. I gave her a smile and a clumsy nod and promptly tripped over a floor mat. She watched me walk across the room as though expecting me to start flinging books off the shelves. Because I'm a spaz, I hid behind the first shelf I came to. (Have I mentioned that I get really embarrassed sometimes, and for no good reason? Seriously, dropping a pile of library books and stumbling is nothing compared to the graceful stunts I pull on a daily basis.) I chose a couple of books at random and went to check out, trying to act as normal as possible. "Is that all?" the librarian asked. "Only three? But you brought back such a large pile. Ah yes, and you have $4.50 in fines."

Apparently, the shelf behind which I had been hiding was part of the "serious(ly painful) literature" section, because I ended up checking out some Solzhenitsyn and two Thomas Hardy novels. I detest Hardy. Reading "Jude the Obscure" was one of the more disagreeable literary experiences of my life. And Solzhenitsyn? I know very little about him, beyond the fact that being able to spell his name feels like an accomplishment. He looks interesting enough, but as I sit here wanting something to read before bed, I'm not really sure that stories from a Soviet work camp are going to cut it. At least all three books are trade paperbacks and won't make too much noise when I drop them in front of the book return.

...in Which Shoes are Thrown and Sharks are Battled

2010-10-07T18:05:00.005-05:00

So, I thought that encouraging a three year old to exercise his imagination was a good thing. He was going through a pirate phase and, while we were at the park, I suggested that the fort part of the swingset would make a good pirate ship. We climbed aboard and kept a lookout for sharks and storms. He made his little brother walk the plank (or, you know, slide down the slide) and told me to trim the sails and swab the poop deck. (And oh, how he loved saying "poop deck.")

Today, we went back to the playground and, of course, he started yelling, "Climb aboard the ship! There's a storm coming! Ahoy!" I watched from below as the pirate Captain rushed back and forth, issuing orders to his imaginary crew. Suddenly, a shoe came flying out of the fort, followed by the declaration, "Pirates don't wear shoes and socks! They just wear feet! I can't climb the rat lines with shoes!"

I had just finally gotten his shoes back on him when another family showed up with two little boys. The Captain turned to me with a whisper: "Ahhh! Those boys are sharks! There are sharks! Lots of sharks!" Then the whisper turned into a yell: "We need to kill them, Bethany! Kill them! KILL THEM ALL!" Oddly enough, that other family didn't stick around long.

A Thing or Two

2010-10-05T22:58:00.000-05:00

1) There are some very good things about having brothers with very retentive memories. Like, for instance, when I can't remember what the years of Charlemagne's rule were, or when I really really need to know the country-of-origin of the lead singer in some band.

It can, however, make conversations with them more than a little confusing and VERY bizarre. Particularly when they latch on to a book, movie, or TV show and quote it excessively. For example, they are currently on a "Burn Notice" kick (thanks, Bean). I cannot say how many times in the last 3 days I have heard "Duct tape makes you smart!" inserted into the middle of a seemingly unrelated sentence. Combine that with Andrew's current "Bed Intruder" song fixation (thanks, Pastor and Emma). Every conversation now ends with a chorus of, "hide your kids, hide your wife". Try explaining THAT to your confused relatives.

Which leads me to....

2) I had the nicest lunch with my Grandma and Grandfather Dear today. They're getting ready to leave for several weeks in the sunshine and, for some reason, they wanted to squeeze in one last visit. We met at Cracker Barrel, halfway between our house and theirs. GFD quizzed me on how I'm treating my car and how fast I drove on the way to meet them. (The answers? "Well" and "too fast," respectively.) Grandma, great multi-tasker that she is, talked about random little details of everyday life and looked gorgeous at the same time.

Currently near the top of my list of things that are very handy to have around: Grandparents who give a standing invitation for their favorite-oldest granddaughter to come visit them in Florida. Since said granddaughter starts getting chilled right about now and doesn't feel warm again until March or April, the prospect of a visit to someplace sunny and sub-tropical is very pleasant to contemplate. (Sun....Sand....Seafood....)

"I need to tell you something," he said...

2010-09-30T22:25:00.004-05:00

When I was five, I got engaged to a boy in my kindergarten class. Noah. He was cute, we sat at the same table, and we shared glue and scissors. When I moved away just before Christmas, he drew me a picture.

In second grade, Tommy McCann and I decided that we were going to get married when we grew up. In third grade, we were elected to the student council together, proving that our destinies were indelibly intertwined. It just made sense that we--the cutest boy and the smartest girl in the entire third grade (all 26 of us)--belonged together. Plus, his older sister had an amazing dollhouse and flowery hair-wreaths with pink ribbons and two pairs of sparkly fairy wings.

Somehow, I managed to go from then until now without receiving another proposal. Until this afternoon, while babysitting.....

Me: John, eat your crackers, please.
John: I need to tell you something. I need to TELL you something.
Me: Don't talk with your mouth full, silly. Chew. Now, what do you need to tell me?
John: I need to marry you. Can you marry me? And give me some chocolate milk. Please.

Three-year-olds are funny creatures.

...in Which Our Heroine Works a Political Event

2010-09-28T13:08:00.003-05:00

A friend-of-a-family-friend kicked off her mayoral campaign this afternoon and my brothers were volunteered to volunteer at the press conference and celebratory lunch. To save them from hitchhiking across town, I offered to drive them over ('cause I'm just nice that way). My plan was to get the boys where they needed to be, maybe watch the press conference, and then retreat to my car with a good book. And I was really looking forward to that time with my book.

I didn't realize that merely approaching the building and smiling constituted a binding offer to help, but I quickly found myself presented with a campaign t-shirt ("Just put it on over your sweater. Let me stash your purse for you.") and a pile of stickers ("Make sure everyone is wearing a sticker, then tell them to move in to the back...."). Thus outfitted, I joined the ranks of the faithful. When the press conference started, someone took my stickers and handed me a sign, telling me to go "infiltrate" the crowd and wave the sign around where the cameras could see it. When my sign-waving duties were fulfilled, someone else took the sign and gave me a pile of cards to hand out. (I might add that there were at least 5 other people handing out the same cards, in the same room. Everyone I approached had already been given a card).

As the attendees filed out for lunch, a residue of red-clad campaign volunteers was left along the edges of the room. The rest of crew--all well-acquainted and friendly--gathered together in a clump and discussed how great everything was. Poor poor little me was left standing alone, unneeded and not knowing anyone. I was also painfully aware that my red shirt was clashing with my berry-colored sweater sleeves. And my hair was limp. And I had a headache. And my stomach hurt. And my legs hurt. And, and, and.... I gave up and retreated to my car and my book.

Now that I'm home, I feel pretty silly. I like volunteering for these sorts of shin-digs and I like the candidate for whom I was working. I'll probably work on her campaign again at some point. It should not have been that hard to stand around handing out cards or stickers or whatever else they had sitting there waiting to be distributed. But my introverted-side rose up and did NOT want to talk to another stranger or interrupt another conversation to proffer stickers. And Kipling was waiting for me in the car.

Embracing the moment

2010-09-27T13:13:00.004-05:00

As always, I've been meaning to get back to writing. Every few days I think, "Hey, I should blog.... I wonder what we have around here to eat...." And then I eat, but I don't blog.

At the moment, however, it just seemed like the thing to do. I'm sitting in the local independent coffee shop with my Mac, sipping a chai. To fully appreciate and engage in this hipster-y moment, I need to blog.

Ok, so I'm also missing the skinny jeans, plaid shirt, and heavy glasses, but work with me here. It's a start.

And, in the meantime, I can try to think of something slightly more substantial to say.

Zucchini chocolate chip cookies

2010-07-11T15:20:00.002-05:00

Lora requested the recipe for these lovelies, so here it is for the delight of all:

1 c. butter
2 c. sugar
2 eggs
2 c. grated zucchini
4 c. flour
2 t. baking soda
2+ t. cinnamon (in my world, there's no such thing as too much cinnamon)
2 t. cloves
1 t. salt
1 c. chopped pecans
1 c. chocolate chips (the original recipe called for raisins, but since I have an irrational dislike of those things, I started substituting chocolate chips. Chocolate or shriveled grapes...is that really a hard choice?!)

Preheat oven to 375. Cream butter, sugar, and eggs. Add zucchini. In separate bowl combine flour, baking soda, cinnamon, cloves, and salt. Add gradually to wet mixture. Mix in pecans and chocolate chips (or raisins, if you can't help yourself).

The original recipe did not specify the baking time, but I found that 10 minutes is about right

Icing:
2 T. milk
1 c. powdered sugar
3 T. butter

In small saucepan, lightly brown butter. Gradually add milk (doing that nifty tempering thing), then powdered sugar.

I found that the above icing recipe covers just under 5 dozen cookies, while I end up with 9 dozen (small) cookies total. So, 1/2 again or double the icing might be a good plan.

Wait. Insects live outside?

2010-06-20T16:37:00.005-05:00

I've always enjoyed gardening more in theory than fact. The planning and planting stages were always great fun, but the actual day-to-day maintenance of a plot or bed held no interest for me. I remember, at our house in Spring Grove, I begged my parents to let me have the care of one particular bed. It had wonderful potential, being tucked away in a shady corner behind the garage, and I dreamed of rows of hollyhocks, trellised clematis and sweet peas, coral bells and bleeding hearts, all old-fashioned loveliness. Then I discovered the snake hole. And the spiders. And the ants. So much for my dreams of peaceful, picturesque garden work. The outdoors are dangerous! (I should note that my aversion to a potentially snake-infested garden was kind of ridiculous, given that my friend Brit and I used to play with snakes, frogs, toads, and whatever else our neighbor April could dig out of a window-well. Go figure.)

For the most part, I've maintained that wimpy attitude toward outside work. I'm fine, until the bugs start crawling out of hiding. Ants, pill bugs, grubs, slugs, centipedes...all would send me running inside to shower and don a sundress. Nope, sorry, can't garden in a skirt. Wouldn't be ladylike.

For some reason, it's different this year. Ants get brushed off and ignored. Slugs and grubs go the way of all flesh ('cause seriously, those things have to die). And spiders...well, they merit a screech and a momentary "you can do it, Bethany" pep-talk, but after that they either die (for the big ugly guys) or get flicked away (for the little ones). The pest dealt with, I go back to the important task at hand.

The timing for this abrupt change in attitude could not have been better. When I get home after a day in the office, I need sunshine and fresh air. I could take a book and sit outside, but a good deal of the time I simply don't have the brain power required to read anything more complex than InStyle magazine or Georgette Heyer. In addition, since I'm out of the house all day, I don't get to contribute much to the day-to-day work around here. If I can spend a bit of my evening clearing the weeds out of the garden and deadheading the flowers, it helps me feel a little less like a leech. This Summer, I need that time in the garden.

Although it would help if certain people would stop using and losing my gardening gloves. They say "ladies, size small" for a reason, guys.

Another Sunday School Adventure

2010-05-02T11:50:00.005-05:00

Sunday school this morning was a bit of a zoo. If zoos had one uncontrollable animal and one harried and exasperated zookeeper, that is. We had a very difficult time focusing on the lesson (even more than usual) and no amount of simplification seemed to make the story of Jesus sending the seventy comprehensible. Thanks for nothing on that one, CPH.

The capper for this helter-skelter lesson came when we were working on a craft involving lots of paper, markers, and the stickers that came with the lesson. After a few minutes of quiet (quiet because the student was ignoring my questions), she gasped and held up her stickers. "Miss Bethany," she cried,"I didn't know there were girl pastors!"

Wait. What?

She brought her stickers up to me and, sure enough, on of the stickers was a female person in a cassock and surplice. She looked like a female pastor. (Again, a great big thanks to CPH.) I would guess that she was supposed to be an acolyte, but that explanation wouldn't fly since we don't have girls acolyting in our services (for more on that, see Patrick's post on the subject). Instead I told her that some churches have choirs that wear robes, so maybe she was a member of the choir. That seemed to satisfy the student, although she dismissed it as "stupid" that a girl would look like a pastor.

At last, in that moment, we were on the same page.

Surely there are better ways to waste my time.

2010-04-05T19:00:00.004-05:00

While our family was sitting around the house this evening, the TV ended up on "House Hunters." Heav-ENS, as Patrick would say. It's been a while since I watched this show.

If you haven't seen the show, it involves an individual or couple looking to buy a new house. They and their realtor look at three properties in their target price-range and location and, at the end, they announce their choice.

It's very strange how invested I get in their selection. I've been known to yell at the screen when the end comes and they make the WRONG CHOICE. (Honestly. What idiot would choose that house? Did you see the kitchen? And it had, like, no yard.) This investment is all the more mysterious when the artificial nature of the show is taken into account. Obviously, they do not follow these people around while they are actually house-hunting. They recreate a few choice scenes in the three most photogenic properties. It would be better if they were all the way with their fabrications and hired actors to play the part of the house-hunters and realtors. As it is, we get the most dreadful performances and jokes imaginable.

A sample....
Realtor: Sooo, heeeere [expansive gesture] we have a luvly deetached home. 1,500 square feet. 3 bedrooms, 1 1/2 baths. Only $300,000! And guhREAT schools for when you decide to start a family, eh? [winks] Let's look at the backyard firrrst. Isn't this nice?
Woman: Ooooh, that's nice.
Man:[impassive] I like grass. And trees.
Realtor: Now, how about that master bedroom! Isn't this nice?
Woman: Ooooh, that's nice.
Man: [impassive] There's a closet. And a window.
Realtor: And check out that view! [sweeps curtain aside to show view of industrial park] Ok, lets move on to the kitchen....
Realtor: Thiiiiis is what you call a "galley kitchen." Isn't this nice?
Woman: Ooooh, that's nice.
Man: [impassive] I like the refrigerator.
Realtor: Think you can cook up some good stuff in here? Maybe get a bun in the oven? [cackes raucously, uncomfortable laughter from the buyers]

Also, the realtors invariably wear the most unflattering pantsuits. That offends me.

What's the moral of this story?

2010-03-24T17:06:00.004-05:00

I posted once before about the characters I encounter in the elevator at work.

Add this guy to that mix.

I prepared to go downstairs this evening and, when the elevator doors opened, I found that it was already occupied. A young man--probably my age or a little younger-- was standing in the far corner, leaning one shoulder against the elevator wall. He was wearing sunglasses (!!!), very droopy, frayed jeans, and a very loose white tank top that showed off his myriad tattoos. As I walked in, I noticed that he was listening to his iPod and that it was turned way up. He was also singing along under his breath.

It took me a few seconds to hear exactly what he was listening to, and a few seconds more for it to fully register.

This wasn't quite what I was expecting.

Time for a change

2010-03-22T17:30:00.002-05:00

I got tired of feeling cold every time I looked at my own blog. Ice and winter berries just weren't working any longer. I realize that it will still be some time before we get to deal/play with dandelion tufts, but hey. The picture makes me happy and warm.

What were we talking about again?

2010-03-21T18:12:00.004-05:00

Student: What's a creditor? Is it a kind of animal?
Assistant: No, that's a predator.
Me: A creditor is a person to whom a debt is owed.
Student: Whom? Whom. [like an owl] Whoooom, whoooom, whoooom.
Student Two: Is a creditor the same thing as a debitor?
Assistant: Debitor? Oh wait. Debtor.
Me: No, a debtor is the person to whom....
Student: [owl voice] Whoooom! Whoooom!
Me: Moving on....
Student: Hey, why does the lesson not match the coloring page? It's, like, not the same story. Look! On this picture, they're eating grapes and blueberries and, like, bread. In this picture, they're eating, like fish filets and bacon. Obviously not the same story.
Assistant: What is it with you children and food? Don't you eat breakfast before Sunday School?
Student: Bethany, who created the first avocado?
Me: God did.
Student: Cool. Who created the second avocado? Was that God too? Did the avocado fall into sin with Adam and Eve?
Student Two: Why do you like avocados so much? I like strawberries.
Student: Yeah, how about strawberries? Did they fall into sin too?
Me: Hey look! It's time for music!
Student: Whoooom. Whoooom.

Seasonal Denial

2010-03-01T15:52:00.003-06:00

I have long held the conviction-unsupported by the calendar and cold facts of Indiana winters- that the beginning of March really means the beginning of Spring. In Bethany-land, Summer runs from May to September, September through November constitute Fall, and Winter begins with December and ends with February. March means Spring. Spring means sunshine and rain, gradual warming, and growing things. Grey and mud-brown relieved at last by green and palest pink. Bunnies and birdies. (And bugs, but nevermind them.)

Thus, I woke this morning with high expectations. I purposely left my decidedly Winter Red gloves at home and bore the chill of a frozen steering wheel all the way to work, secure in the knowledge that, whatever my senses chose to tell me, THIS IS SPRING. I considered leaving off my cardigan while working, as if to defy the chill coming off my office window with its overcast view. My lunch break was spent in indecision regarding what sort of Easter hat I want this year (Pillbox? Wide brim? How retro do we go?) and whether I want those Miss Sixty sandals in pink or blue. (Pink.)

At long last, sometime after noon, the sun worked its way through the clouds and, as I enjoyed the warm light, I knew. The air is still cold and there snow drifts haven't yet melted, but Spring-complete with sunshine and rain showers and Easter and baseball and sandal shopping- is coming.

Teaching fail.

2010-02-18T19:54:00.003-06:00

Last Sunday I had the pleasure of a one-on-one session with a student. Me and her. No one else showed up, so the lesson went something like this:

Me: ...and what were Moses and Elijah talking about?
Student: Shopping?
Me: Seriously now. Let's look back at the Bible story....
Student: Ok, so they were talking about what Jesus was going to do.
Me: And what was Jesus going to do?
Student: Do I need to answer these questions? You already know the answers. How 'bout I ask you things and you answer. Huh? And then we color.

After 20 minutes of that, I surrendered and let her color.

Lunch break

2010-02-15T11:52:00.003-06:00

Two words: turtle brownies.

Those lucky ladies who were at bunco last night made a mistake of gargantuan proportions, for which I thank them most sincerely. They left 1/2 a pan of gooey, caramelly, chocolaty brownieness behind. I understand: there were chocolate chip cookie dough brownies, deep dark chocolate cake, and jars of M&Ms. And then the non-chocolate goodies: cream puffs, apricot scones, corn salad, and the famous buffalo chicken dip. (Did I miss anything?) And heck, there were only 11 of us.

All of that to say thank you, Bunco Ladies, for not eating all of the brownies, because today is Monday and I packed leftovers for lunch.

Odds and Ends

2010-02-10T19:25:00.004-06:00

I got my hair cut short again today, and it's a good thing I did. My 'do was creeping into "I don't care what my hair looks like as long as it stays out of my face" territory. Practical, but sad. It probably didn't help that work was super busy in the last few weeks and I haven't had the time or energy to think about primping. (Actually, the only thing I seem to have had the energy or desire to do after work is sit around on the sofa in my pajamas, watching Jane Austen adaptations and knitting while my cat sleeps in my lap. You see the problem. This haircut came none too soon. The hairdresser said that it was a very young style, so maybe it can prevent me from turning into a pitiful cat lady.)

Speaking of watching Jane Austen adaptations.... I heartily approve of the new BBC version of "Emma." Patrick and I watched the first two episodes on PBS and, by the time we were halfway through, I got on to amazon.com and ordered the DVD set. We watched the whole thing (all 4 hours) yesterday evening and I went off to bed grinning like an idiot.

Sorta kinda related, KUDOS to my little brother, who is slogging his way through "Wuthering Heights." He's going to finish it on his first try. It took me four or five attempts-- and four or five aerial trips across the room for Heathcliff and Cathy--before I forced myself to finish it. The agony. (Agony. I suppose that it an appropriate response to that book.)
Anyway, bravo Patrick for having a stronger tolerance for self-indulgent idiocy than I do. Your next challenge is to make it through anything by Henry James and to fill me in on how you did it. In return, I'll let you borrow--and write in--my copies of Machiavelli and the Federalist Papers. Deal?

I'l take a . . .

2010-02-03T17:59:00.005-06:00

I remember, just after the middle of the first semester of my senior year, having a bit of a rough day at school. Several papers were due the following week, I had a major exam to prepare for, and piles of history books and papers waiting to be read and annotated in preparation for my senior seminar project. Before I could settle down for some quality studying time, I needed to make a stop at Starbucks.

Or mornings like the one I had today, when there's nothing exactly wrong but I just lack the oomph to face an entire day at the office. That downtown Starbucks begins to looks mighty inviting.

It's very curious. It's not the caffeine: I only do decaf. It's not the comfort of holding a hot drink, because it works with cold drinks too. Drive through or cafe. Tall, grande, or venti. Coffee or tea. There's just something about getting a drink at Starbucks that makes me feel cozy and relaxed. Add in a pastry and the day gets even brighter. Travel cup in hand, I feel equipped to face tests or papers or 8 1/2 hours in the office with a cranky boss.

Maybe I'm just a victim of highly successful marketing. Well, I'll take it. And a tall decaf cinnamon dolce latte.

(There's no escape! I surrender.)

Some thoughts over lunch break

2010-02-01T11:38:00.002-06:00

1) Baked chicken with a dijon and breadcrumb crust, fresh from the oven, bears very little resemblance to the same dish fresh from the microwave. The latter is more reminiscent of an old leather shoe. (Note for my brother: we'll call this dish "Chicken Khrushchev". And we'll even spell it correctly.)

2) If I ever again complain about not having enough to do at work, please--anyone--feel free to smack me. On second thought, don't worry about it. At some point in the next few days I'll be lost beneath the mountain of paper accumulating on my desk and no one will have to hear me complain about anything ever again.

Start time: 11:00. End time: 5:30.

2010-01-29T21:09:00.007-06:00

I attended my first deposition yesterday.

No, not that kind of deposition.

No, not that kind either.

It would be fun to describe it and give everyone a little taste of what the day was like, but I am too darn tired.

Actually, that pretty much describes it. 6 1/2 hours of detailed questioning and no food. (The rumor is true. Lawyers really do live on coffee. One more reason I'm just not cut out for law.) I was only there to take notes, charm the co-defense counsel and the client, and ensure that my boss knew when the deponent contradicted the records. Oh yeah, and to make sure the lawyers had enough coffee. It was interesting, though, and it was good practice. Apparently we'll be having an eight-day marathon of depositions for one of our cases in May. Gah.

More Sunday School Quotes

2010-01-24T15:45:00.002-06:00

Today was a bit of a rough one, Sunday School-wise. The teacher was frazzled. The students were frazzling, each in their own special way. No one seemed to understand the lesson, but that might have been because no one could stop talking long enough to listen.

Assistant: God knows all about you. He counts every hair on your head.
Student: What if you have head lice?

Student: So, God knows, like, everything, right?
Assistant: That's right.
Student: (thinks for a moment) So, does Jesus like "What Not to Wear?"

Student: (looking at lesson leaflet) What's in this picture? Those look like chicken tenders! Are those chicken tenders?
Me: I don't think they are. So, can anyone tell me....
Student: Does God like chicken tenders? I love them.

I just know that if I was 60 years old and scary, this would not happen.

"Whatever you do, don't look in the kitchen sink."

2010-01-17T13:29:00.002-06:00

Our church held a potluck this afternoon to celebrate Dr. Evanson's visit.

I don't know if I've mentioned this before, but I love potlucks. Especially potlucks where people bring freshly baked bread, homemade noodles, artery-clogging rice casserole, and mustard greens. Mustard greens. Life is good.

The best thing about potlucks is that the food is brought in and our church family can enjoy lunch together without actually needing to use the church kitchen. Anyone who has seen our church kitchen will understand why this is a good thing. I don't even want to describe it because, well, it's scary down there.

There are, however, degrees of scary.
Loose plaster and cobwebbed pipes are one thing. Bats are another.

One of our friendly little church bats decided to pay the kitchen a visit and he ended up hanging out in the kitchen sink. He wasn't there for long. After entirely too many people had crammed into the kitchen to get a glimpse of the bat, my father came and "dealt with it."

There were some feigned tears and squealing on the part of the little girls who felt so sorry for the poor helpless little thing. "It's so cuuuuuuuuuuuute! Awwww Look at it! It's breeeeeeathing! Can it fly?!"
There were some relieved sighs on the part of the women. "I don't even want to think about it. Those things get in your hair. That's not something anyone wants to deal with. I'll be standing over here, out of the way. Let me know when it's safe to move."
Then there were the weirdos like my brothers and me. "Awesome! No, let me get a closer look. Gross. But cool! Eine Fledermaus-- right Sis? Look at the claws. I wonder if it was hibernating in here? Andrew, get back. It's rabid. You can see it in its eyes.*"

I suppose it's too late now to tell my dad that he "dealt with" an endangered animal.

*Sorry. Absurd family joke, involving a raccoon. Also scary.

New template

2010-01-07T13:45:00.002-06:00

I was tired of the old look. I'm at home sick. It's cold outside. Hence the new look.

2009-12-31T17:11:00.002-06:00

If I was still a kid—or even a college student—the past week would have looked a lot different.

Being sick generally makes a helpless baby out of me. The minute my face first got that dry feeling on Saturday (for me, always the first sign of an impending sinus problem or nasty cold), I would have retreated to the family room. I would have spent all day curled up in my corner of the couch, swathed in my blue fleece blanket, drinking tea and watching movies. I would probably have my laptop within reach, along with whatever books I was feeling too stupid to read. I probably would have slept 10-11 hours every night.

Instead, since I'm no longer a little kid or a college student, I’ve been leaving the house in the bitter cold every morning at 7:45 and spending my days at a desk, staring at a computer screen (which drives my already watery eyes completely bonkers). I’ve accomplished very little, apart from filling my wastebasket with tissues and emptying the water cooler. But since I'm not really all that sick I have no good excuse to stay home, and I’m too miserly with my personal days to give them up for anything so trifling as a cold.

Holiday menu planning?

2009-12-23T21:32:00.002-06:00

While doing some research today, I happened across WebMD's "Naughty List of Holiday Foods." I had to investigate further, because, for one, the name annoyed me: it was either going to be about stigmatizing fat or...uh...nevermind.

They provided a list of 15 or so fat and sodium laden delicacies with ideas about how to make them healthy. One or two of the ideas sounded edible. For instance, it probably wouldn't kill me to eat white meat turkey and not pick the skin off the bird while my grandpa isn't looking. The vast majority of their suggestions, however, were either just plain silly or just plain revolting.

Can't stop yourself from eating piles and piles of creamy, buttery mashed potatoes? Leave out the dairy and mash the potatoes with low-sodium fat-free (taste free) chicken broth. Not only will there be fewer calories in the potatoes, you'll suddenly lose the desire to die eating them.

Love pecan pie but hate yourself for eating so much sugar for dessert? Eat a handful of mixed nuts. You won't notice the difference. Honest. Equally interchangeable: caramel corn and popcorn (doubtless, butter and salt-free), Christmas cookies and whole-wheat crackers.

And drinks don't escape the purge. White wine and cranberry juice spritzers stand in for festive cocktails. Nevermind the fact that if you liked white wine spritzers you'd be drinking them anyway. Or--my personal favorite--serve their super secret recipe low-fat egg nog: skim milk, artificial sweetener, and egg substitutes. Mmmmm.

Please, just let good food be good food. If you're on a diet, eat REAL healthy food. If you feel the need to indulge in Christmas treats, it is possible to do so with moderation. Is there any point in eating traditionally rich foods with the good stuff --fat, salt, and sugar--removed? Foods that are genuinely healthy are delicious. Splenda and egg substitutes? Not so much.

Avoidance? Nah.

2009-12-16T18:30:00.003-06:00

Bethany hates making phone calls.

Bethany hates singing in front of people.

Is it any wonder that it took nearly two weeks for me to get around to calling the Civic Theater to set up a time to audition for Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat?

But I did it. It's DONE.

Vanity post:

2009-12-14T17:05:00.006-06:00

As my mother--and nearly every other girl born with straight hair--could tell you, I wish desperately that I had been born with curly hair. Or wavy hair. Or hair that does something besides hang in lank strands around my face. I've long held a grudge against Patrick and Andrew for having naturally thick, wavy hair that actually forms ringlets when it gets too long. Those two have the amazing hair, Jonathan has the absurdly long and thick eyelashes, and I have a chip on my shoulder.

In the last few weeks I've taken to sleeping with my hair in curlers a few times a week. When the rollers come out and the resulting curls are forced into order I have something resembling the hair I've always wanted.

No more. It would appear that my hair can't withstand the weekly onslaught of curlers and has decided that it would rather break and fall out that be forced into ringlets.

See that poor girl? I'm calling her the anthropomorphic representation of my hair. Except that she has improbably nice locks and a well-dressed gentleman to rush to her aid.

My feet hurt.

2009-12-12T18:19:00.003-06:00

As much as I enjoy shopping, I find malls singularly unpleasant: the noise of too many different stores playing too many different kinds of music too loudly; the smell of Abercrombie cologne mixing with whatever bizarre fruit-and-floral concoction is being hawked by The Body Shop; the sight of tragic fashion victims and girls with those silly pompadour-poof things over their foreheads. It's a multi-sensory torture process.

Having said that, I had a great time doing some Christmas shopping today with my mother and Jacqui. We went to Keystone (or, to give the full and pretentious name, "The Fashion Mall at Keystone"), which boasts such startlingly expensive novelties as Burberry and MaxAzria, as well as the places real people shop. We spent the most time at Anthropologie, my new favorite place to indulge my whimsical-yet-domestic side. I managed to NOT buy anything for myself--just presents for a few lucky people. Another favorite stop, visited annually, is the Game Preserve. I'm a sucker for games and, consequently, spent way more there than any place else. But I won't say what I bought or for whom I bought it. Somehow we didn't make it to a bookstore. Had we done so, I am certain that my resolve to not buy anything for myself would have broken down; I may be able to resist flower-shaped measuring cups but there is no way to say no to 25,000 square feet of books.

Sunday School Snippets

2009-12-06T11:26:00.003-06:00

Bethany: So, what sort of gifts does God give us?
Girl 1: Shoes!...and forgiveness!
Girl 2: Fishnets.

Bethany: ...because Elizabeth was barren.
Girl 3: What's "barren" mean?
Girl 1: It means she can't have any kids. Her womb was closed. [Note: Has someone been paying attention, or what???]
Girl 4: (pause, frowns) I think I'm barren 'cause I've never had any kids.
Girl 1: Girl, that's 'cause you're only ten years old.

Girl 2: So, does God still send Gabriel to people? Like, can I see him sometime?
Girl 1: I think if you don't stop interrupting Bethany when she's reading the lesson, you'll be seeing Gabriel and all the other angels real soon.

Oooh, pretty.

2009-12-05T17:31:00.003-06:00

My mother and I had a wonderful morning, starting with divine service at Redeemer. Our next stop was at the Calhoun Street Emporium, an antique mall close to downtown. Besides the fact that they have a fantastic selection of vintage hats, it's an Emporium, and with that title it has to be more interesting than a plain ol' store. The recessed front door squeals and creaks as you open it, and a sign warns customers not to let the cats out. Oh, yes. There are cats. Affectionate, soft and sleek, mouse-fed cats. When we got there a pair of them were fighting over a box of Christmas garland. They stopped as soon as they realized someone was paying attention, and the little calico spent the next 15 minutes trying to curl up on top of my feet. While I was walking.

I won't even talk about the hats I bought (except to say that they are fabulous). Or the 1940s wool cape I scored for $15 (to be accessorized with riding boots, a walking stick, and a pack of hounds). My surprise find today was a cheaply framed fashion plate from Peterson's Magazine. I hadn't ever heard of that magazine, but I guessed from the styles depicted that it was from the mid-late 1860s. With some quick research at home, I found that Peterson's Magazine was one of the top women's magazines of the 19th century, right up with Godey's Ladies Book. It had a readership of over 200,000 American women, which it not too shabby.

When I removed my plate from its frame, I discovered, first, that the matting had hidden the date (January, 1867) and, second, that it was an original and not a reprint. It isn't worth all that much as a collector's item--I won't be turning around and selling for a profit or anything-- but I am really excited by the fact that I had a 143 year old print hanging in my bedroom.

I guess this is the way I reconcile my fashion-conscious side with my nerdy historian side.

Earplugs out, everyone!

2009-12-03T20:21:00.002-06:00

This Sunday the Collegium is hosting a sing-along of Handel's Messiah. People are invited to bring their own Messiah scores--or use one of the extras provided--and sing along on the choruses. (Y'all come!) Choir members were invited to sign up for the solos and, when volunteers were not forthcoming, an email was sent out BEGGING them to sign up.

Guess who is a sucker. Guess who inherited the "can't say no" gene from her mother.

I don't do solos. The last time I sang on my own in front of people (deliberately) was when I was 12 and I sang Twyla Paris's "How Beautiful" at my aunt's wedding. Before that, it was my 3rd grade operetta, in which I starred as The Professor in "The Color Factory." (I had the distinction of portraying the only human in the play--everyone else was playing colored crayons.) I sincerely wanted to avoid this solo also, but there was no way I was going to wimp out and change my mind. So I did the only sensible thing and asked my friend Katie to sing with me. By the time we got our act straightened out, only tenor and bass pieces remained.

We've taken a tenor aria and turned it into a soprano duet. So far, our practice sessions have been continuously disrupted by fits of laughter and forays into other pieces of music. (Who wants to sing the assigned piece of music when you could be singing random folk songs and hymns?) Last night we became distracted and began singing "Every Valley" in the style of various Muppets. Good times.

The sing-along is just days away and our duet needs some work, but it will come together...

...I hope.

See that door? You know what to do.

2009-12-02T18:00:00.004-06:00

(The story you are about to read is true. Only the names have been changed to protect the innocen...er...guilty.)

I had a rough afternoon at work. Two hours yesterday and three hours today were eaten up in preparing a whole heckuva lot of subpoenas for a pain-in-the-neck case. (I was only able to bill for about 1 1/2 hours of that time, but that's beside the point.) My boss had a deposition that lasted a good part of the morning and early afternoon, and she signed my pile of subpoenas just before she left the office for the day at 3:00. At that point, she turned the subpoenas over to one of the other gals--we'll call her Ellen-- to finish up copying and assembling a set for each of the 900 other attorneys involved in the case while I got started on a much more "pressing and time-sensitive" project.

Apparently, someone didn't understand "pressing and time-sensitive." Within minutes of my boss leaving Ellen was back in my office berating me for using Word 2007 to create documents instead of Word Perfect, despite the fact that she is the only person in the office who uses it. And then for not noticing that the lines in the caption were a 1/2 inch too long (WHAT?). And for saving the files in a folder--incidently, the folder they belonged in--that she hadn't thought to check. And for choosing a size 2 envelope for our 80 page packet of papers instead of the too-small size 1 envelope. These subpoenas, already OKed and signed by the boss, were just not good enough for her, but that was not something she was prepared to deal with. No. I had to put aside my "pressing and time-sensitive" project and reformat every stinkin' subpoena or risk her eternal disapproval.

Generally, we get along very well. I'm just glad that no one in the office knows what I look like angry. When I my voice got sort of low and quiet and even and I moved very slowly... they didn't know it was because I wanted to tell sweet little Ellen to back off and stop bothering me with her control issues.

I didn't. I didn't glare, didn't get testy, and didn't let her know just how annoyed I was. I attempted to smile sweetly and explain why there wasn't anything wrong with the way I was doing things. (And then I instant-messaged my mother to whine at her about the situation.) All I know is that Ellen was much happier after she scolded me, and she quickly went back to being her usual cheery self. Crisis averted.

Life flies when you're having fun.

2009-11-24T18:56:00.000-06:00

I have a confession to make.

Deep breath.

Better just come out and say it.

I... am a magnetic poetry addict.

There, it's out. I have almost every set of Magnetic Poetry available. Rock'n'Roll Magnetic Poetry, Shakespearean Magnetic Poetry, Romantic Magnetic Poetry. I could go on and on, and you would understand why our fridge eventually ran out of space and I just took it all down. Before that melancholy day, I could spend hours sitting on the floor of the kitchen (blocking access to the fridge), physically playing with words. The magnets were organized by part of speech and alphabetized several times. That's how we homeschoolers roll.

I found these two refrigerator compositions on a piece of paper being used as a bookmark (original lack of punctuation preserved):

vouchsafe melancholy friend
the question is naught

and

haste you who would
wish every drunkard
a steed
bestow nothing o fool
lest of thy mercy they only jest

We also had a set of "Fractured Proverb" magnetic poetry, which allowed us to rearrange common cliches and figures of speech. These were captured for posterity when the magnets were taken down:

The best things in life have big ears.
Virtue is only skin deep.
Ennui is its own reward.
Behind every good man is a bowl of cherries.
A fool and his money shall inherit the earth.
Children find work for idle hands to do.
Beauty makes the heart grow fonder.
Life is a man's best friend.
Every good boy makes waste.
All work and no play doesn't pay.
Crime helps those who help themselves.

Humbug.

2009-11-23T20:47:00.004-06:00

Call me a curmudgeon, but I do not appreciate that every single stinkin' pop station in Fort Wayne has changed over to an all-Christmas, all-the-time format. It's not even December yet and I am already more than tired of "Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree" and "Silver Bells". At work today I had to make several long phone calls (trying to track down a felonious doctor... but that's another story), which necessarily included being left on hold to enjoy a fine selection of Christmas muzak. "Silver Bells" as rendered by synth and sax.

On the positive side, hearing "Silver Bells" made me think of my brother, who does a hilarious sloshed Dean Martin impression (or is that redundant?) And that made me laugh out loud.

Having complained, I must admit that I will be enjoying some laid back Christmas shopping on Friday, soaking up the festive atmosphere and possibly, maybe singing along with some carols.

2009-11-21T22:09:00.003-06:00

I've been suffering from a serious case of writer's block lately. Every time I consider blogging, my mind is quickly swept clean of all creative thought and all I am left with is an inner monologue that looks something like this: "What did I think I was going to write about? Did I really think at all? I wonder what's for dinner...."

In lieu of actually writing something, I thought I'd share some of the amusing things I found in an old notebook last time I cleaned out my closet.

Written pieces of scratch-paper:
"You're one of those disasters that only cockroaches survive. Love, Patrick."

"Marie Antoinette was married to Henry VIII, wasn't she?" (not going to attribute this one, because the culprit KNOWS BETTER NOW)

Girl One: It's that thing... You know, the yoga of cleaning.
Girl Two: Huh?
Girl One: Where you arrange furniture.
Girl Two: Feng shui?
Girl One: Yeah, that.
Girl Two: You make me nervous.

"It's all about cookies. Baptism has nothing to do with it." (Wouldn't some context be useful here? Too bad I can't remember.)

And my personal favorite, from a note passed to Rachael during sociology class:
"Career advice? Yeah. He told me to marry a Lutheran."

Lunch Break

2009-11-12T11:51:00.000-06:00

On a slightly more uplifting note, Target is carrying Tim-Tams again! Oh frabjous day! I can once more indulge my slightly pretentious and well-traveled sweet-tooth without the trouble of international shipping costs. (Or the plane ticket necessary if I wanted to go biscuit-shopping in Sydney.)

Now I just need to find a bakery that sells Lamingtons and my joy will be complete.

Argh.

2009-11-11T23:45:00.000-06:00

What? No really. WHAT?

The guy espouses extremist views. He tries to convert his patients. His coworkers are concerned that, if sent overseas, he'll leak information to the enemy or commit fratricide.

And the first conclusion his coworkers and superiors reach is that he might possibly be mentally unstable and unfit to serve. Unfit to serve? To borrow a phrase from my uncle, no ****, Sherlock.

What really frightens me about this article is the underlying supposition that Islamic extremism is a mental disorder that needs to be treated gently. That argument could have disturbing implications. If it is mental illness that causes individuals to blow up buses on crowded streets or shoot their way through a room full of people, it could be argued that terrorists need to be treated instead of punished.

On second thought, I agree. There is an illness in play here and, although I'm not a doctor, I think I can diagnose it. It's called EVIL.

2009-11-11T20:50:00.003-06:00

My mother met me outside the building after work this evening. We skittered on over to J.K. O'Donnell's --skittered because my mother did not think to wear her coat and the air was getting nippy as the sun set. Our plan was to do dinner before a 6:30 presentation and book-signing at the library. OF COURSE, beer was expected to be part of dinner. It's a pub (albeit a really nice one). Pub = beer.

Our waiter was so obliging as to choose our drinks for us from their vast menu of fancy-pants imported beers. It's a good thing he did, because I could have spent the entire evening trying to figure out what I wanted. For my mother, he picked Dragon's Milk, to go with her fish'n'chips. When told that I don't care for overly hoppy beers, he chose Belhaven Wee Heavy. It was seriously delicious. And strong. And it went really well with shepherd's pie.

Lunch break

2009-11-05T12:18:00.002-06:00

It had been a while since I wore my long suede skirt, and I wasn't sure why. It's fabulous, yet it was at the back of the office closet with my prom dress and salwar kameez.

I took it out and wore it today, and now I remember why it was put away.

This skirt is the loudest piece of clothing I have ever worn. Not loud as in used-car lot salesman's plaid jacket, but loud like a jet engine. Loud like a stadium full of soccer hooligans. The lining of the skirt is the sort of super-slick polyester that makes swishing and screaming noises when it rubs against itself... which means, every time I move. I've been walking around our very quiet office all day sounding like I'm wearing a cheap track suit. Swish-swish swish-swish.

The rustle of silk is nice. So is the soft, crisp swish of a cotton skirt. Polyester just sounds embarrassing.

It's Wednesday, and I have this theory

2009-11-04T17:17:00.005-06:00

I think that just as the length of the day, as measured by light, changes over the course of the year, the length of the day, as measured in hours, changes over the course of the week. Just as there is the most daylight at midsummer, Wednesday is definitely the longest day of the week. The hours seem to slow down and stretch out interminably. And, just as the midwinter days are the shortest, the 24 hours from noon Saturday to noon Sunday go SO much more quickly than any other time of the week. These were the thoughts going through my head this Wednesday morning, as I faced the length of the day.

I had one of those mornings.

Nothing looked good enough to eat for breakfast. My white blouse, which I had ironed the night before, was wrinkly again. When I put my shirt on, I found that it had been shrunk in its last trip through the laundry. My hair would not cooperate. I packed a healthy and tasty lunch, which was left on the kitchen counter when I ran out the door. Clearly EVERYTHING was out of whack and the day would be better spent in bed or curled up under a blanket reading something witty.

Things improved a little as I drove to work (except for the fact that I was driving to work and not sleeping or reading my Jeeves biography). It was a beautiful morning and traffic cooperated fairly well. I stopped at the downtown Starbucks for some fake (read: decaf) espresso and a cheese danish. The coffee was hot and the warm cup was exactly what my very cold fingers needed. The danish was--well--a danish, and therefore delicious.

Forgetting my lunch turned out to not be such a disaster. It meant that I had to leave the office and get some sunshine and fresh air in the middle of the day. That little bit of outdoor time woke my brain up and enabled me to face 4 1/2 more hours of work more cheerfully. My lunch from Loaf'n'Ladle came with a gigantic chocolate chip-pecan cookie, which also made everything a little brighter. I only ate a few bites of it (the gooey-oozy-melty chocolate chips represented a clear and present danger to my blouse) and stuck the rest of it back in my purse. . . . Come to think of it, that cookie is waiting for me as I type this.

Mmmm. Chocolate. Maybe Wednesdays aren't so bad after all.

A new career?

2009-11-02T17:08:00.005-06:00

Last night, I dreamed I was filming a martial arts movie with Jackie Chan. The main action sequence involved throwing rolls of paper towels across the room--don't ask me why. I remember the director telling me that it didn't matter what moves I made as long as they 1) were unusual, 2) were funny, 3) allowed Mr. Chan to win the fight, and 4) showed off my muscles.

It was at that point that I realized I was dreaming. I don't really have discernible muscles.

Shoulda Known Better

2009-10-31T07:36:00.002-05:00

The week before last I surrendered to boredom and ordered The Sims 3 from Amazon.com. It took about 9 days to get here from Lexington, KY, which would be impressive if the Post Office was still using horse-drawn wagons to transport the mail. I got around to installing it on Thursday evening after church.

Oh boy.

I'm doomed. I'll never accomplish anything ever again. Sims 2 was bad enough for wasting time, with entire weekends being eaten up by marathon Sims-sessions. I'm not bragging about this, mind you, but admitting that I have a problem.

So, Thursday evening I stayed up until 11:00 getting acquainted with the game. At first glance that doesn't seem so very late, but when you consider that I needed to get up at 7:00 the next morning, and I have a difficult time functioning on less than 8 hours of sleep. . . . Last night, I was awake until midnight playing with my Sim. I could have kept on going, but my (limited and computer addled) sense finally kicked in and I went to bed.

But please don't judge me for my geeky gamer tendencies. I spend all day being put-together and professional and it feels good to let my brain check-out for the evening.

2009-10-27T17:21:00.004-05:00

I took my brothers, my father, and Emma to the Daughtry/Theory of a Deadman/Cavo concert last night. I had intended to post something about that, but my brother beat me to the punch. There doesn't seem to be any sense in repeating what he already said. If you want to know how it was, read what he wrote. I'll just say be succinct and say that the concert was AWESOME.

Ok, so the concert was awesome. Waking up the next morning after a scant 6 hours of sleep? Not so much. The good news is that I was probably not in the same sort of fix as the trampy chicks who sat in front of me.... Well, sat when they weren't running out to buy more beer. I'm sure they had a lovely day today. No hangover here, just one zombified girl who did not get quite enough sleep. "Quite enough" meaning 10 hours.

Enjoying it while it lasts

2009-10-20T16:50:00.002-05:00

My twenty-minutes in the car on the way home was the best part of the day. The sun was shining and I had my windows down, enjoying the nearly 70 degree air. Traffic was relatively sane (although there was that one idiot that seemed oblivious to all other drivers) and I was able to take it easy. Ahhhhhhhhhhhh.

Nearer to home, someone (across the street, and therefore in unincorporated territory where stupid city laws don't apply) was doing a controlled burn of their vegetable garden and the air was full of thick, woody, leafy, autumn-y smoke. At home, Andrew had just finished mowing the lawn and the collision of the two smells--smoke and grass clippings--seemed to fit the weather perfectly.

So, could the weather just stay like this for a while? Please? That whole ice-and-snow thing is pointless.

Is Winter over yet? Wait.... It hasn't even started?

2009-10-18T17:50:00.003-05:00

As I sit here, wrapped in a blanket and shivering, I really miss my beach. The warm sun. The warm breeze. The warmest softest sand you've ever felt.

The food isn't too bad either.

Casual Day?

2009-10-15T16:43:00.004-05:00

This afternoon, the announcement went out that tomorrow is Jeans Day at SUM-Law. Both partners will be out and there are no meetings scheduled, thus giving the paralegals and secretaries a certain feeling of freedom and relaxation. This idea was first run past the associate attorneys (both 20-something males, inclined to put their feet on their desks and wear IU sweatshirts at work when they think no one is looking), who thought it was a brilliant idea.

I suppose I'll be going along with it, although I dislike the idea of casual days at work as a general rule. The more professionally I'm dressed, the more I get done. Tomorrow, it will just take more effort, I suppose.

And this reminds me of one of my pet peeves, encountered this evening at the grocery store: why oh why oh why do medical "professionals" wear scrubs out of work? Doesn't that defeat the purpose? Aren't scrubs supposed to hygienic and aid in controlling germs and all those gross things that can potentially fasten themselves to street wear?

Besides that, they just look slovenly. I know they're supposed to be so comfortable, but so are pajamas and you don't see people. . . . Nevermind.

Exercising my selective memory

2009-10-14T15:58:00.007-05:00

I've said before that I'm glad I don't live in the Chicago area, but I'm glad I did live there once. There were any number of reasons that we were all glad to get out of Chicagoland: probably too many to count, any one of which would be enough for it's own post. But I like to remember the fun parts too.

As a kid, I was there for five of the Bulls' six championships, moments of which I remember vividly.... standing in the middle of our great room, watching MJ on our little TV, jumping up and down and screaming. My favorite bedtime story was the Three Little Bulls--Michael, Scottie, and Dennis-- who always managed to conquer their nemesis, be it the Big Bad Barkley or the Big Bad Ewing.

Most of my favorite restaurants are still up in the northwest suburbs. (Drat, now I'm really hungry for a Hackneyburger.)

I still listen to The Roe Conn Show regularly and laugh at Chicago-related jokes.

I still feel a pleasant sensation of nostalgia when I get off work and listen to WLS for the twenty minutes it takes me to get home, especially when Jim Johnson delivers the rush-hour traffic reports. Oh wait. That's not nostalgia. That's schadenfreude.

The very thought of living within Cook, Lake, or McHenry County EVER again fills me with something between annoyance and dread. But it's fun to reminisce.

Eleven, please.

2009-10-12T18:11:00.003-05:00

One of the things I've had to get used to over the last few months is the daily ride in the elevator. I've never been a big elevator fan. When staying in hotels, I've been known to drag my suitcase up four floors (and not just at the hotel in Italy where that was the only option) to avoid being enclosed in a metal box and suspended within a shaft of unknown depth. I suspect that this senseless aversion has its origins in memories of my five-year-old self sneaking out of bed to watch TV and seeing one of the chicks on L.A. Law fall down an elevator shaft. That really freaked me out.
Now, I need the elevator to get to my office, to get to the building break room, to get to the rest rooms, and to come back down to earth in the evening. Thank goodness, I've gotten used to it and no longer experience any sort of apprehension.

I have noticed, however, that people act differently in elevators. There are the people who engage total strangers in conversation. There are people who look everywhere but at the other person in the elevator (kinda hard since the walls are mirrors.... ). There are the people who smile tentatively at their fellow passengers and then act really interested in their purse or cuffs. Then, there's the blonde from the 7th floor who acts like Ally Sheedy in The Breakfast Club, minus the hoodie. She steps on with quick, mechanical steps, keeps her head down, and heads directly for the corner. She stands there, impervious to the conversation around her until the doors open again and she can make her escape. Despite getting to work at approximately the same time and riding seven floors together almost every morning, I've never seen her face. Just her hair. Lots of permed, bleached, crunchy-sprayed hair.

When things feel particularly awkward in the elevator (and whenever Miss 7th Floor steps on), I just think of this and everything seems a little cozier.

2009-10-11T11:28:00.005-05:00

Unlike most of my friends, I never thought I wanted to be a teacher. My pals growing up all wanted to be teachers. Or marine biologists. Or pediatricians. Or stunningly beautiful princess-ballerina dancers. I went along with those fads, but I never EVER thought that I should be a teacher. It wasn't because the teachers I knew were so horrible, although they did have a tendency to "seatbelt" children into their chairs and take recess away from the entire class because that one obnoxious eight year old boy in the back wouldn't shut up. (Huh. Turns out I'm still mad about that 14 years later.) Even knowing that my wonderful grandma was a teacher didn't help. I just knew that I did NOT want to be one of them.

It turns out I was wise beyond my years.
Hauptbeispiel: My Sunday School class. I am teaching the 3rd through 5th grade class, comprised of 5-9 girls (only girls, for some reason). They are all very sweet and smart and, since they've all been through confirmation classes already, they know their stuff about as well as I do. The problem is that they are all FUNNY and I cannot concentrate on the lesson for laughing.

I ask a question and they respond by pointing out the window and cooing about the cute birdies on the roof: I laugh.
I ask a question and they give an answer that strikes me as funny ("Well, I bet the rich man didn't trust God to take care of him because he had servants to do that stuff"): I laugh.
I ask a question and the only answer I can get is how this reminded so-and-so of a movie she just saw..... : I laugh.

THEY ask questions. Why do you sit on the desk instead of the chair like a normal person? Did you know that Andrew likes Gracie? Why don't you write on the chalkboard? Can I borrow your shoes when I'm older? Why don't you have a boyfriend? Why is it so cold in our Sunday School room? Can I read next? What does [list 10-15 long, foreign, and/or archaic words from the reading] mean? Why are you teaching us instead of, like, an old grown up? (HA! Loved that one.)

I just laugh. Victoria, my assistant who loves seeing me lose my composure, laughs. The girls look at me like I'm crazy, because these are obviously very serious matters. And then I try calm down and explain things without using any words with more than three syllables, which turns out to be harder than one would expect.

The good news is that they all come and we do get at least a little work done. We read the day's lesson from the Bible and (attempt to) talk about it. At least one of them will have done their memory work from the previous week. And if nothing else, they're getting a vocabulary lesson.

Fierce!

2009-09-14T20:51:00.003-05:00

From my second favorite Project Runway alumnus:

Christian Siriano, Spring 2010.

There are several dresses in there that I would be more than happy to wear.

2009-09-14T19:57:00.002-05:00

This post is for my dear friend DoRena, who is so very tired of seeing the same post every time she checks my blog.

I actually had a pretty good post, talking about the fun of working downtown in a building with shiny brass elevators, how freezing-cold my office is (because I can't complain enough about that), and how good Fort Wayne can smell in the evening (baking bread and gyros, anyone?)

Obviously, that was a "things are good" sort of post. Well, I'm too ticked off at the moment to write one of those. Right now I'm stuck on the topic of how undependable some people can be and bemoaning the manners of the world in general.

The week before last I assumed my position as numero uno paralegal in our office; my predecessor left to join her husband in Chicago, and we hired a new paralegal to take my place in the cubicle while I settled into an office with a door. The new girl turned out to be very friendly and outgoing, good at the job, and easy to work with. She asked plenty of good questions and not many stupid ones (that's still my job). We went out to lunch last Wednesday and swapped IPFW stories over pub chips at JK O'Donnell's. On Thursday, we chatted about some photos she brought in to decorate her cubicle.

Then, Friday morning, I came in to find out that she had called in (before the office was even open) to say that she wasn't ever coming back. No notice, no apology for leaving us shorthanded at a very busy time. She left her pictures (including family photos) in her cubicle, along with a personal coffee mug and portfolio of school documents. On Saturday, I received a text from her saying that she had a new job, wouldn't be coming back , that she had left the office keys were in the drawer, and wanted me to keep her photos (just what I always wanted.... pictures of someone else's husband and daughter).

We have another candidate coming in next week for an interview, and until that time Heather, the other former paralegal--who is still stuck in Fort Wayne-- is filling in a few days a week and helping me keep up with the increased work load. I am SO thankful that she is around to help because, as much as I'd like to be able to handle a double work load and even though I was considering working extra hours as long as necessary, I definitely needed help today. If not for Heather, I'd be a quivering mass of nerves and my boss would be majorly inconvenienced by my inability to work 24 hour days (my 9 hours, the other nine hours, and an extra 6 for diminishing returns).

So, there are dependable people out there and my head doesn't need to explode from stress...this week. But PLEASE, people. Two weeks notice is encouraged for a reason.

2009-09-02T17:34:00.001-05:00

Ben and Jerry's renames ice cream Hubby Hubby in celebration of gay marriage.

Ewwwwww. My craving for ice-cream has suddenly evaporated.

At least they chose one of their more revolting flavors for this dubious honor. I can't imagine what take off on "Cherry Garcia" they could have come up with, but I'm glad their thoughts were not bent in that direction.