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

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

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

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?

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.

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:

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.

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

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.

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!

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.

(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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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

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

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?

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.