why sunday is the most beautiful day of the week

I know, I know, this is a sweeping, often inaccurate generalization.  Especially considering 8 years ago or so I used to cry almost every Sunday.  For some forgotten reason(s).

Today, though, I awoke to sunshine again, got dressed for a breakfast date at the Post House on Main Street Newark.  This place is cool -- it's a low counter in front of a grill and you sit in a line and watch your food be prepared while a cheerful redhead waitress refills your coffee over... and over... and over again.  An old-style all-American diner at least a billion times more legit than Perkins (not hating, though, Perkins, I love you).

I want to share with you, though, the most beautiful mental snapshot of my life, taken at an intersection on the way to Newark.  This is why I'm breaking my "only post every 5 days" rule.  So savor it.

So I'm sitting at this intersection, sunroof open, Journey playing on the radio ("When the lights... go down... in the city... And the sun shines on... the ba-ay..."), a truck twice my height on either side.  The one on my right is dark blue or so, with grey double wheel wells in the back, and thoroughly mud-splattered.  I'm regarding the world with a general smile, but then I catch a glimpse in profile of the driver of this rugged truck.

He is rugged, too, and his colors match the truck: dirt-road jacket, you know that classic workman's kind -- everybody's dad has one.  Dark blue cap, mud-splattered or at least not often washed.  He was swarthy, his face showing the wear of an uncoddled lifetime, and short, tight grey curls filled out his head outside the cap.

But what really got my artist's heart beating was his hands.  Everything the truck and his coat and his hat and his face was, they also were: rugged, the color of dirt, calloused, torn and reconstructed.  Strong.  Work-worn.  His palms engulfed this small cup of Wawa coffee, his wrist bracing the base of the paper cup and his fingertips framing, tracing the lip of the cup.  Like that 12-ounce cup of coffee was his space heater, his only source of warmth and comfort in the world, even in the streaming Sunday morning sunshine and even over the rumbling of the truck beneath his feet.

A real-life beautiful moment.  Brought to you by the United States of America.

I'll make the rest of this quick, but I do just want to say that today was stunning, gorgeous, mind-blowing.  I tasted scrapple for the first time and despite some mildly unsavory descriptions of what it actually is, I thought it was pretty tasty.  Also french toast, which we all know I love.  And good company.

We spent the next few hours walking around at the Newark Reservoir, which was absolutely unfrozen, and surrounded by a network of paths all gilt with fallen leaves.  We got "lost," unsurprisingly, not that I was worried about it.  Not that either of us was particularly worried about it.  Mostly it was just gorgeous, and peaceful, and so so refreshing.

I do think that my eyeballs have been mildly sunburned this weekend, but I'm really not complaining.

I also walked barefoot.  Outside.  In January.

Wonderful.

I love Sundays.

minutiae*

Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Wilmington!  It's 50 degrees and sunny today.  The moon is at a fingernail stage (not sure waxing or waning), but it was beautifully centered right above a very bright star last night in a clear navy sky.  And Mercury is causing astrological unrest, which means only one thing: Mischief.

Thanks to the cat, we've pretty much got that one covered around here.

Today is the first day in weeks that I have nothing planned, except to hang out with Asha while Mutti and Papa accompany Maria to her audition in D.C.  (Break a leg, babe!)  First, I can't believe that girl is going off to college already.  I just flipped through our baby books while I was agonizing over what to write about here today, and she was just the cutest baby.  Actually, my brother's baby book is my favorite out of the three (sadly, Asha's is at best a work in progress).  They come in 2-year increments and each one documents the first two years of each of my parents' increasingly adorable children.  Together, they trace the development of our little, bright-eyed family.  We still are bright-eyed, relative to the general population, but not so little anymore.

Anyway, Thomas' album is my favorite.  I think I was the cutest I've ever been during the first two years of his life, and also we were just the best of friends.  There is so much wide-eyed, drooly laughter in that book, as well as costumery and camraderie and a slew of other heartwarming (and often mischievous) incidents.  For example, a four-page spread of a date my parents went on in the mountains of Ecuador c.1993.  They are so young and skinny and pink in the cheeks.  My favorite shot is a rare photo-capture of my mom making an adorable flirtatious face.

I just discovered, though, a spread in the very beginning of my own baby book that for some reason never struck me before.  It features two cards, the kind that come with flower arrangements, addressed in my dad's handwriting, one to me and one to my mom.  (My dad loves buying me flowers, and I love that he loves it, and I'm ecstatic to discover that this adorable gesture dates back to Day One.)  The surrounding photographs suspend me in a moment when I was not even able to hold up my own head, propped in the corner of an armchair that was probably not as big as it looks, making a suspicious face at a bouquet propped in the opposite corner.  As if we are engaged in a deadly game of "Queen of the Armchair."

Judging by the lifespan of your average bouquet, I'll just go ahead and claim the medal on that one.

SO.  Back to the unplanned day.

I decided to celebrate by lying around literally all morning, instead of penning replies to all the letters that are stacking up higher and higher on my bedside trunk, or starting on my taxes.  (Pumped for that, by the way.  Not.)  Then I thought, Look at that gorgeous sunshine!  I will go to bed cranky tonight if I let it slip away.  I went for my first outdoor run since September, and it was almost as warm today as it was back then!

Not really, but it was very warm, and it would be nice if I got a little sun on my face and arms.  I got up the guts to leave my little 'hood on foot, finally, which felt good.  Liberating.  I crossed a bridge over a lovely glittering creek, and circumnavigated a sun-glazed park where cops and other sketchy characters hang out after dark.  Also, my sister and her friends.  Not that I didn't hang out in sketchy parks when I was in high school, but my parents know about her going there and kind of roll their eyes, but don't do anything about it?  I find that weird.

I guess she'd probably go either way, so it's better that they know about it.  (Resisting the urge to hashtag "future parenting dilemmas.")  Also, back in '05 I never would have been allowed to meet up with my friends literally every night this week and stay out 'til everyone else in the house was asleep.  Things change.

This week's features:

• Bowling, and I'm still as bad at it as I've always been.  Although I did get two strikes in a row.  Total fluke, I'm sure.
• Sushi from a cute little shop in a strip mall, followed by froyo in the less anime-ish froyo shop on the block.
• Tried on some assless leather chaps (OVER my jeans!) at Goodwill in said strip mall.
• Nora Lee's French Quarter Bistro in Historic New Castle, which actually did the NOLA thing really well.  I could have been off Bourbon Street the whole time.
• Saw the new movie Contraband, which was not as fast-paced or explosion-happy as I'd hoped.  Fortunately Mark Wahlberg is really nice to look at.
• Some really great raspberry wheat beer at Iron Hill, much better than Shock Top but not quite as good as 75th Street Brewery's raspberry wheat, which was the second beer I had when we went out for my 21st in Kansas City.  That might be an emotional flavor influence though.
• Walking around a ton on the UD campus, mostly.  I am actually getting oriented in that part of town, but I still SUCK at parking.  It helps to have a guide, I guess...  Even if my "guide" did get TWO parking tickets in the span of hours while we wandered.

Now I am VERY SLOWLY defrosting a tub of frozen-solid chicken noodle soup on the stove so Asha and I will have something to eat for "lunch."  Or at least something to complement our slightly stale artisan bread toasted with gouda cheese.  Since when do we eat gouda?

*I dedicate this post to my dear friend Steve, for reasons that should become clear if he can ever get his act together and write a blog post.  Luvz boo.  </3

Q&A

Please believe me when I say that I am at least as concerned as you are by the increasing number of my posts lately that start out: “I’m sorry I haven’t written in 4/5/6/7 days, but…”

Then again, maybe I’m not that concerned.  Keep in mind always Tolstoy and the Writer’s Dilemma: How To Live Life and Also Write About It.  And I can assure you, the reason I haven’t written in 5 days (or responded to a growing stack of letters and emails in much longer than 5 days) is because I have been living pretty fast & furious.

Here is what astounds me about this: 2 or 3 months ago, my life consisted of working two jobs, sleeping through church, working out a few days a week and blogging on the days I didn’t.  Every now and then I would take a weekend off and drive north to visit my people.  Far-flung friends would text, call, email and Facebook me to ask how I so successfully found work; how I meet people; how I deal with homesickness or physical sickness or heartsickness, or with a painful breakup.  And I have by and large felt highly unqualified to answer these questions: I found my job on Craigslist in a flash of luck.  I don’t actually know anyone yet in the state of Delaware.  If you learn the secret to getting over a breakup, or if you find a way to teleport to where my besties are, please let me know.

But suddenly on Sunday I found myself at Buffalo Wild Wings, surrounded by Ravens fans, drinking beer with two people I met at two separate networking events, some people I met through them, and an ex-suitemate from college, talking about Southern accents and speeding tickets and planning a Super Bowl party, of all things.

Life is very, very strange, but very good.

Here are a few reasons why:

Anna Linn, my TMI Pod protege, flew up from Nashville this weekend to hang out in my new life.  We haven't seen each other since May, which was MORE THAN 6 months ago!  Also, she is newly 21.  This combination of factors means only good things, as we all know.

When we first planned this weekend, months ago, I had planned on taking the weekend off from hostessing so I would be able to spend the whole weekend with my guest.  The way things started rolling in 2012, though, I had to quit at the restaurant so that the end of my 2 weeks fell right on this weekend.  I couldn't very well ask for my last 2 days off, so I decided to just man up and apologize profusely for leaving A.L. on her lonesome.

On top of that, Maria was going to have an audition in D.C. this weekend, so I would have to take Grampi to the airport before Saturday morning while our parents took her to Washington.

Around 1am on Saturday morning, though, it started snowing.  Everyone was ready for it; but by morning the entire area was covered in a couple of layers of snow, all sealed in with a fifth of an inch of ice.  Pleasant.

This Major Winter Weather Event dissuaded my mom from driving over the mountains to D.C., which meant she, my dad, and the van were available to drop Grampi off at PHL.  This turned out to be a massive windfall, because when they finally made it to the airport there was a huge fiasco involving Grampi not being registered on any flights until the next morning, among other things.  I don't have a lot of patience for this kind of fiasco, especially at 6:00 on Saturday morning (after not hitting the minimum recommended hours of sleep once in the past week).  Saved by the Hielo*, I guess.

Translator's Note: "Hielo" is the Spanish word for ice.  It's just a little closer to rhyming with "bell," which brings me a little bit closer to some terrible wordplay.


So Grampi is cleared out of our place now, and en route to his new abode in Cumbayá, Ecuador, via my cousin Andrew's wedding (!!) and a few other events in Cali and Florida.

So A.L. and I slept in, and then drove some errands.  The Golf weighs about 4 pounds and therefore didn't want to stick to the road.  To make matters worse, I had forgotten to park at the top of the driveway in anticipation of the impending dump and it took a heavy foot and a careful hand to make it to the road.  Which, not being one of the 7 highways that triangulate my position in this state at any given time, was not plowed or salted.  This made for several days of delightful driving.  (The second, third, fourth, or fifth spring of the year melted the ice trap this morning with a 50-degree January day.  ...what?)

Anyway, around 2 o'clock my manager called and said there had been so few tables in all day that I could stay home that evening.  What a way to go.  Typical, really.

So I spent the afternoon whacking my driveway with an ice pick so my dad and Anna Linn could shovel our ice luge of a driveway so Mutti could cover the whole thing in kitty litter.

We stayed in on Saturday night.

Also, I visited my first-ever IHOP on Friday night.  Obliterating that bucket list, baby.  What up.  Mostly it reminded me of all my weird late-night excursions to Perkins in Northfield and Owatonna, but without the raspberry muffins and Natalie Merchant.

So.  How do you find a job?  Apply.  Search and apply to as many jobs as you can possibly find, and try a few different industries.

Where do you meet people?  Networking events.  Open mics.  Twitter.  Church.  Your favorite coffee shop (or Japanese restaurant).  Bars and gyms tend to be superficial as a general rule -- but we all know how I feel about rules:

So use your own best judgment.  I've got a team working tirelessly on this question day and night (that's getting more and more literal by the day) so I'm sure the list will grow.  Don't lose hope, dear readers.

How do you deal with homesickness, heartsickness, or a really nasty breakup?  Cry.  Watch Forgetting Sarah Marshall for the billion-and-1th time.  Get too drunk at least one or two times and probably send an ill-advised message or two.  Become a compulsive texter/Facebook wall-poster/Tweeter. Blog obsessively until things get better.

Because they will.  In all honesty, I left some things out of that last list, like find someone to hold you accountable.  Even if that person is 1000 miles away (totally hypothetical), somebody loves you and misses you.  It's like a New Year's Resolution -- mine, as a refresher, is to express my appreciation and admiration more often.  So I semi-accidentally stumbled upon someone who will come right out and say, "I think you just complimented me under your breath, but I didn't really hear it...  I think you said I'm sweet?"  And a few people who prod me, explicitly or with a pointed look, to graciously accept a compliment or praise.

I don't have The Answers.  I perhaps have some, but they are far from watertight.  I'm afraid to say I'm getting closer to the real deal, but it feels like a lie to say I'm getting farther from it.  So we'll just leave it at that for now.  I'll enjoy myself and probably come back with an existential dilemma or an ocean of tears in 5 days or so.

a rare musical love affair

One question I dread when I'm getting to know somebody new is the "what kind of music do you like" question, or more specifically "name 5 bands you listen to the most."  (Thanks, Steve.)

I then complain that I can't listen to the same artist for the length of an entire CD.  In fact, I'm far more likely to play the same song on repeat 12 times than listen to a 12-track album all in one pop.  Weird, I know.  But I get very irritated with most artists by about track 04.

With a few exceptions: Simon & Garfunkel, Bruno Mars, Norah Jones, Natalie Merchant, and Train.

Yeah, that's pretty much it.  Go ahead, laugh.  I have no shame.

Anyway, part of the reason I'm thinking about this is because Train recently released a new single, which has been plastered all over my Spotify homepage for at least a week now, and for some reason it took me a long time to listen to it...  But I did, and it's pretty much all I've been listening to for the past 4 days...  Interspersed occasionally with the rest of the discography.  I'm smitten.  Here's the new song:

I would like to point out to all the haters that Train has been cranking out hits since 1998.  That is quite a long pop career.  Or alternative, or whatever they do.  I struggle with genres almost as much as I do with artists.  Plus, somebody pointed out to me yesterday that they've also written music for other people, which is cool.

Now don't worry, because this is more than just my global profession of love for Train (which may very well be stricken from the web, anyway, if SOPA and PIPA all that were to ever go through).  (Also, I have to admit that I'm struggling to take these campaigns seriously since in Spanish sopa means soup and pipa is a pipe.  It trips me up every time, and I never immediately think "oh, internet privacy!"  Despite the fact that this has been going on for quite some time.)

Yes, this post is more than just a profession of love for Train.  It is also my brief, ditzy contribution to the current political uprising.  And it is also about to become a musical deconstruction.

You might have noticed that Train's video features all the lyrics to the song, and you might also have noticed that a few of the lines don't quite make sense.  I'm not too worried about it, though, because life doesn't make sense and love doesn't make sense and even lust doesn't really make sense.  I'd say that's part of the point, is it's irrational, and if you try to organize it too much then it all goes out the window.  I tried to come up with an illustration for how the beauty gets sucked right out, but I couldn't think of anything non-beautiful enough to do the comparison justice.  Nothing bland enough to represent a life so structured and analyzed that there is no room to actually live it.  Nothing hopeless enough.

The title line of the song strikes me, though: This is not a drive by.

There is a low-key commitment in this statement, an awe-inspiring resonance.  I have been here, in this same house, this same tfoL, this same job, 4 months now.  Going on 5.  This is not a drive-by.  I'm not going to pack my car one of these days and split, like I have in the past.  I don't want to.  I want to break that habit.  Desperately.  And in the same vein, I would love to not be the bystander in a drive-by anytime soon.

It's the simplicity of the image, it's not straight up, "I'm never going to leave."  It's more of an, "I've parked my car and turned it off for the night and that's what matters."  The promise exists in a state of extended present, in the current moment that stretches on indefinitely into the future.  Refreshing.  Tantalizing.

And admittedly catchy.

This is the cherry on top I can't ever pass up.  Not that I am inclined to pass up any cherry, really, maraschino, bing or otherwise.  But if it catches my tongue I'm done for.

cover art

I was browsing the stacks at Barnes & Noble a couple of weeks ago, pulling out a book here or there to look at more closely.  Now, we all know how much I love metaphors, and I wish I intended to use this image as set-up for some profound revelation.  But, perhaps also in line with some literary affection, I am going to stick to a skin-deep, felt-up cliche.

And now, as the Great Professor Williamson so wisely suggests, I will stop telling you what I am going to do and just do it.

The thought that came to me suddenly in a fit of passion was the proverbial warning: Thou shalt not judge a book by its cover.

In all honesty, I have no passion for this proverb.

Not true.  (I lied to myself before, unintentionally.  I never intend to mislead you, dear readers.)  I do have passion for this proverb.  But in no universe would I hold it as any realistic standard.  Because, come on, what else are we supposed to judge a book on, but its cover?  A decent number of people are paid a decent living to create book covers that consumers will judge favorably enough to pick up, and exchange cash (or the theoretical equivalent), and take home.  And then the really good covers will be spotted casually perched upon a coffee table by the consumer's friends, who will say, "Well doesn't that look interesting," and the friends will go out to their preferred book vendor in search of a copy all their own.

I know what you're thinking: "Clara, for someone who professes such great love for metaphor, you have altogether missed the point!"  So, I will humor you and take this into the real world (because who really reads anymore, anyway?  Raise your hand if you just collect e-books on your Kindle).

The number of people who are paid an [in]decent living to create metaphorical book covers that fall favorably upon consumers of all types of goods is even greater than the literal cover designers.  And even those of us who are not paid to create an appealing product strive to create an appealing product every day.

Believe me, I commoditize self-presentation here with the utmost critical respect.  I am the Queen of Internal Battles Over Self-Presentation, that is, I care altogether too much what people think.  Or I strive simultaneously to blend in and to be unforgettable.  Anyone would tell you that this level of contradiction can only portend failure on all counts.  But I understand how important it can be to appear a certain way, to conduct oneself in a certain way, and oftentimes it is beneficial to follow the rules to get what I want.  On the other hand, one who only roams within the parameters of the game can only ever hope to achieve the average payoff of the game.  (Here comes my inner economist.  Quick, out the side door!)

The side door being, in this case, a brief foray into creepiness.  Senior year of high school the guys I hung out with had read whatever it was that talked about having a "woman-suit," and their way of processing this misogyny was to make fun of it -- ironically at the expense of their female friends.  I won't go into details, but today the word popped into my head under a totally different connotation, in a liquor store, of all places.

I stopped in to pick up a 6-pack of beer because I'm almost out, and because we were having company for dinner tonight and I thought it might be good to have some beer around just in case our guest wanted some.  I learned long ago that the best way to avoid questions is a confident sense of direction (which in my case is usually a complete facade) so I walked in, greeted the proprietors, and made a beeline for the beer cooler.

I set my choice on the counter with a smile, and the clerk snapped, "ID!"  Still smiling, I pulled it out with no particular urgency, so the two of them (husband and wife, a pleasant-looking Indian couple) could pore over it in search of my DOB, inspect my face for lies and wrinkles, and tilt the license to see the watermarks.  Finally, finding nothing to suggest I was duping them, the man handed the card back and with those eternally unnerving green Indian eyes, smiled weakly and apologetically.  "You look very young, ma'am."

I laughed.  "I know.  Everyone says that."  This is true.  People are constantly failing to hide their surprise when I tell them that Maria and Asha are 4 and 6 years younger than me, respectively.  They look less shocked if they happen to run into me in my work clothes.  I try to make them feel less awkward by joking that I can only hope I still look young when I'm 40, 50, and so on, but I doubt if any of them ever fully believes that I'm not 17.  The other day I was exchanging ages with someone and his response to my youth was, "You look young, but you act much older.  Women are like that, though."

I of course gave him a hard time for implying that I am just another average woman, and he weaseled out of the chokehold with a very meta rendition of the "unique-snowflake-just-like-everybody-else" joke.  And since I love meta at least as much as I love metaphors, I let it slide.

So all of these instances, far from making me feel insecure about my green-dom, have done more to force me to wear in my "woman-suit" of sorts.  I am learning to carry myself more like a woman, less like a college girl.  More importantly, I am learning how to navigate my own personal carriage without wobbling, faltering, or turning over in a ditch.  Knock on wood -- because we all know that overconfident drivers are at greater risk of accidents.  (Don't quote me on that, though.  It's mostly circumstantial.)

This is progress, and I am starting to feel more comfortable than ever in my very own skin.  How very refreshing.  (Also in my very own family...  But that is perhaps a story for another day.)

OK, not a story for another day.  I'm just going to say yet again that I love them, and I could not be happier to be spending this time with them.  This afternoon my sisters and I and our dinner guest laughed so hard for so many hours that Maria's and my throats hurt by the end of the evening.  Good times.  Remember what I said about how crucial hilarity is...

Now, speaking of being of legal drinking age, and being comfortable in my own skin, and laughing a lot, and judging books by their covers, for that matter...  I am coming to terms with my indecisiveness surrounding beer lists.  I have a few "favorite" beers (New Glarus Totally Naked, Old Dominion Oak Barrel Stout, Mudpuppy something-or-other -- if only on Wisconsin mornings) but I don't really do the go-to thing.  Maybe I just haven't found it yet, but I like to try new things.  I like to judge a new beer by its label, or by its name, more like.  I like to weigh reputation, context, recommendation, and creativity of presentation, and then top it off with a flourish of impulse, and get something I sometimes can't even pronounce.

Saturday night at the Homegrown I further solidified my unexpected growing infatuation with interesting stouts, by haphazardly ordering a bottle of North Coast Brewing Co.'s Old Rasputin Russian Imperial Stout.  My companion fortunately warned me of its high (9%) alcohol content and predicted that it might be too heavy for me, but I actually really liked it.  Partially because of the creepy picture of the creepy dude on the bottle, partially because I actually love that deep stout color, partially because it was full and good.  This stout wasn't very bitter, and I found it warm and almost sweet.  A very pleasant drinking experience.

We left after just one, though, because I had to drive home before the cows beat me to it, and walked around the UD campus a little.  It was really cold, but I love campus greens (the quad, to all ye Oles) and clear skies at night between those classic buildings pillared and painted for academia.  Also, the green was still strangely green, even in the dark, and even in January.  It was a lovely night.

The beer I chose today was from Dogfish Head, a Delaware brewing company located down in Dover.  Their big thing is pale ale, at least that's the impression I get, and that might be a seasonal technicality.  Whatever the case, their motto is "off-centered stuff for off-centered people," and most of what I've tasted from them makes me want to err on the side of normal and centered.  But, I really want to like some of these beers since they are local.  (Oh no, here comes my hipster ego!  Quick, out the side door!)

So, I'm still trying.  I chose a mahogany ale because I love the color and concept of mahogany, and because the brew is called Raison D'Etre.  Too good.  Dogfish Head caps come in a gorgeous golden-bronzey color, with a sharky fish silhouette, so this is also exciting.  It should provide fodder for some jewelry for my beer-loving 'Sconnie mates.  As for the drink itself, it looked beautiful in my clear-bottomed mug, swirling with foam and those mahogany tones I like to see in people's eyes.  It was a bit too heavy for my tastes, and Maria commented on its strong winey smell.  But I enjoyed it well enough.  I might have to invite a friend or two over to help me finish it, and I really need to hold myself to the task of not buying 6-packs of ale.

Every day I learn something new, and while covers and labels and titles are there to help us navigate our lives, I do need to remember that sometimes the best books come in an understated cover; sometimes, they come highly recommended but you would have never picked them up on your own.  The best beers taste even better when you have someone to share them with, and some beers just taste bad regardless.  I don't have to like all of them.  The best me, though, likes myself and doesn't drive into a ditch.  She holds her carriage steady and walks around the green while the tipsy wears off.  She arrives home safely and sleeps comfortably knowing that, when it comes down to it, there is nothing worth worrying so hard about that time stops.

healthcare

I’ve been in college.  I’ve been insuranceless.  In the past few years I’ve visited the campus health center a few times, particularly in the midst of my General Unwellness of 2009, until I realized it was holistically unhelpful.  Other than that, I’ve pretty well stayed on the personal side of healthcare.

But then my dad got back his insurance plan from work, and I graduated college, and I thought it wouldn’t be a bad idea to start off my adult life in verified good health.

Now, my Grandfather the Missionary Doctor has bestowed a good bit of medical wisdom upon me over the years.

Our version of Norman Rockwell's Doctor and Doll

Once, I called him from the bathroom floor of a Quito hotel room, undoubtedly facing my death at the hand of some Amazonian parasite.  I was delirious from fever and, as I said, propped somewhere between the tub and the toilet.  I choked an account of my symptoms into the phone, and in a slow, even tone he told me to sleep, and call him back in two hours, at 1am, with a status update.  “Our bodies are pretty well designed to take care of themselves,” he said, “but sometimes they just need a little help.”

And so I slept.

Lo and behold, by 1am I no longer felt as though my brain was the 10^th tier of the Inferno, and could keep enough crackers and water in my system to give me hope that I might actually see the morning.  When the sun came up that day I felt the Pit of 2009 bottom out and start the upward climb toward sea level.

At least a year before that, Grampi, M.D., was telling me some of his (incredible) field stories.  I won’t share the stories right now, but one thing he said has stuck with me ever since: “You know, people in a lot of parts of the world never know what it is to feel good, they never know what it feels like to be in good health.”

I understand what he was getting at, but as I get older I’m starting to think that most people don’t feel good most of the time.  At least, I usually have at least one minor ailment on my radar at any given time, and I consider myself a relatively happy, healthy person.

That being said, I went to the doctor 2 months or so ago with a short list of questions about mildly annoying but not incredibly worrying issues, and emphasized that I’d really like to avoid taking any medications if I could help it.  I just wanted to make sure I didn’t need to be particularly concerned about anything.

So, the doctor checked my ears, throat, height and weight, asked me a few questions and prescribed me a month of allergy meds and an antibiotic, “just in case” my symptoms were indicative of a bacterial sinus infection.  (She also mentioned that a lot of patients were appearing with sinus infections, but that unfortunately most of them were viral.)

There’s something wrong with this situation.

Somebody, please, show me a doctor who will talk to me honestly about my health, and more importantly about my life.

If this mythical doctor could manage his or her accounts efficiently and transparently, that would be a major selling point as well.  Because, to add insult to injury, I’ve received a bill for every appointment with pre-approved physicians, informing me that my visit was not covered by my insurance and demanding that I pay in full.  Several hundred dollars a pop.  For someone who doesn’t give a shit about me to write two pointless prescriptions I never planned to fill, and take my (eternally normal) blood pressure.

Although I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s nearing dangerous levels as I write.

Fortunately I have had some excellent customer service fix the billing issues and charge me only one-third to half of the original rate.  So that’s… positive?

I could wax political about the state of “healthcare” in our country/world.  I could rant about the inefficiency and unfairness of the billing system, about the moral erosion of health insurance under force of market competition, or about the myriad frustrations and limitations of healthcare and medicine.  I could go on for years (and in fact I have, to various audiences) about how overmedicated our society has become, about cultural hypochondria, about our skewed modern perception of health and illness, about pathological epidemiology and epidemic pathology.

But I’ll direct you instead to a great article that calls Americans “anxious wimps,” and move on to a more interesting/constructive discussion of health.  (I have a South American uncle who once laughed at me for freaking out about an obviously cancerous spot on my toe and said, “You North Americans worry so much.”

Point taken.)

And true to form, I’ll finish with my personal outlook on healthcare.  Aside from the fact that I need to get my wisdom teeth out, and the unfortunate side effects of missing a few days of work, taking medications, and shelling out a couple hundred for a procedure that doesn’t even pretend to be covered by insurance, I’ve basically decided to avoid most medical professionals for awhile. (Excepting gynecologists – for some reason I’ve had overwhelmingly positive experiences with that particular branch of medicine.  At least with the specialists.  Again, won’t speak for campus health services.)  The dilemma I’m faced with then is that I forsake the opportunity to build a relationship with any particular healthcare practitioner, but I’m mostly too disgusted to be interested in that right now anyway.  And then, if an emergency happens and suddenly some biomedics are saving my life, can I in good conscience accept their help having publicly shunned the profession?

So maybe I’ll hold healthcare at arm’s length and focus on self-care.  (Ha, ha!)  I’ve substituted long-distance phone calls, blogging, and journaling for my monthly chats with a personal counselor back at good ole Boe House.  I’m creating a lifestyle.  Lifestyle goals: Boost my immune system.  Be physically fit.  Foster healthy relationships.  Nurture my spiritual side.  Like myself.  Breathe.  Laugh.  Feel good.

prayer for presence

Dear readers, I'm sorry to have left you so long!  I've spent the past few days battling a cold and feeling like my brain was slowly leaking out through my face.  This unfortunate circumstance, not randomly correlated with the recent cold spell, reminded me of my main vendetta against winter.

That is to say, it was no strange coincidence that this illness took me down right when everybody sealed the windows and doors and cranked up the heat against the cold.  Yes, it's the fake, stuffy, stale air that hits my immune system the hardest.

I extend this immunology to all aspects of my good life and health: As much as I seek security and constancy in my life, in the deepest recesses of my soul there lives a wild child who is terrified of falling into a rut, terrified of being straitjacketed or inflexibly contained within any building, relationship, religion, or situation in general.  Back in high school my friends and I dubbed it "commitmentphobia," layman's terms for "Type II Claustrophobia."  I've spent a lot of time and energy since then targeting this debilitating condition in search of a cure.  Since then I've gotten a lot better at not turning tail when a relationship threatens to get serious (although I have perhaps strayed too far in the opposite direction on one or two occasions) and I've gotten a lot better at getting comfortable in a new place, even if that place is a suitcase.  I've gotten a lot better at investing in people and places and decisions.  This fear probably originated from an ingrained belief that no situation is permanent, that everything will at some point be ripped out from under my feet and I will again be saddled with a new earthquake relief project like the one from which I was born.  (Ecuador: March 5, 1987.)

But I contradict myself: I hate change, but I'm afraid of things that stay the same; I seek stability, and yet I seek to shake things up.  Such is life.

On the plus side, this whole brain-leaking-out-of-my-face thing has really put things in perspective.  I'm changing some things about my life.  For example, I've officially pulled out my winter coat so I can be more comfortable walking around outside, during my lunch break, or whenever, to make sure I get some kind of fresh air quota.  Focusing on bolstering my immune system with good food and good exercise.  Air-tightened the door where most of the cold air was seeping into my room.  Washed all my sheets last night.  I love a fresh bed.

I feel refreshed, too, from spending an entire weekend sleeping, drinking honey tea and watching bad movies like Blue Crush 2 -- guilt-free!  Because there are no classics I didn't read and no papers I didn't write as a result of staying on this side of the River Styx.  What I'm trying to say is, getting sick as a student SUCKS because there are constantly 7,000,000 things you have due on Monday that you either have time to survive your illness, or you have time to pass your classes.  Not both.  Now that I'm an adult, I can be sick all weekend without dooming myself to academic mediocrity.

So.  I face the upcoming week with gumption.

Today I finally pulled together the young adults group I've been trying to orchestrate at church since I got here.  I mean, the group I started to organize a long time ago and promptly left to wallow.  But after today's meeting, I am optimistic about the future of this group, and perhaps more importantly I see that there is a need for it.  This is the kind of project that can foster really deep, significant friendships, and I'm looking forward to working on it.

Speaking of friends, I have quite a few plans floating around in the air with different people, to the point that my weekly schedule is muddled full of social obligations/opportunities.  When is the last time this happened?  Senior week?  Ha.  We all know I like it that way.  Before long I will know enough people in this state, and know them well enough, to play host.  This is my happiest state of being.  There are so many things I want to do and so many projects I want to pour my energy into, so many things to learn and things to see and people to meet and spend time with.

Let me not get ahead of myself.  Let me remind myself that I am not yet fully recovered and that I still need time to rest.  Let me remember to breathe.  Let me smile, and laugh.  Let me do the things I need to do and do them well, but allow me flexibility to take a new turn, a new opportunity, to try something unprecedented and potentially wonderful.  Let me enjoy each activity, each person, each moment, for what it is.

This is my prayer for presence.

a series of reviews

OK, it's officially cold.  I've enjoyed rocking my leather jacket straight into the new year, but after shivering visibly and audibly for at least one full day, I gave in and switched to the black cherry fleece-lined coat I begged for last year.  A word to any future professionals out there: When investing in clothes, outerwear, and footwear, go for black, sleek and simple.  It should transition smoothly among whatever personas you might need to have over the item's lifespan.

Or maybe I'm the only one who compartmentalizes.

This sudden temperature change also means that my basement tfoL is FREEZING.  Granpa told me back in November that I would need some insulation down there, but it wasn't cold enough yet for me to flag it as a priority.  So it stayed as-is.  And now I'm regretting it.  I might have to go back to wearing hats when I sleep, because I think my sinuses froze overnight.  It is bitter.

I could go for a little snow, and I could stand if it stuck for a few days.  It would be romantic.

Speaking of -- kind of -- not really -- I have not been doing my blogger duty in the venue-review vein.  So here it goes.

Ann eating honey stix
outside the farmer's market

Today I took my frigid, frigid lunch break at the Back Burner To Go, right around the corner from the office.  I go there for the pumpkin-mushroom soup, which is delicious although I'm suspecting I might be mildly allergic to it.  I also go there for the accents: It's a haunt for the local Hockessin stay-at-home ladies with foreign accents and sometimes cute foreign babies.  They talk about books and vacations and, at least, today, my soup.  This afternoon I also found honey stix there, something Ann and I have been hunting fiendishly since Day One in Sunny V.

Review #2 is overdue.  On Saturday morning I went to the Perfect Cup looking for a simple breakfast sandwich, but when I saw sweet potato pancakes (with walnuts) on the menu I didn't really have a choice.  De-lish!  Especially since I love all things sweet potato: Fries, fried, baked, mashed, mashed and baked, scalloped, smothered in other delicious things like black beans and salsa and cheddar cheese...  You name it.  Pancakes was a new one for me though.  Also, the vibe was so perfect for a Saturday morning: Bustling, buzzing, pleasant.

I had brought my book (Bloodsucking Fiends by Christopher Moore) and sat at the wall right next to the door, scoping like I do.  Then this ADORABLE curly-headed baby and her family set up shop right next door.  She was VERY friendly and her dad put his full attention to trying, sheepishly and unsuccessfully, to distract her from distracting me from my (obviously very private) moment.  But I smiled as she waved her own palm-sized board book at me, and assured her that I was reading too.  Dad leaned over his baby girl, still looking nervous, and said, "See, she has her grown-up book and you have your baby book!  See?"

My GROWN-UP BOOK.  I'm old.  Little kids point up at me and say, "Mommy, why is that lady so tall!"  Or whatever little kids say about ladies.

Speaking of my "grown-up book," I am not typically into vampires, despite the fact that Bram Stoker's classic was maybe the only book I enjoyed reading in 12th grade English.  And I did get a kick out of Twilight & Co., at least until the movie came out.  (A horrible-awful piece of cinema.)  But I really did enjoy Bloodsucking Fiends.  It was fun, and funny of course, but what I really liked about it was Christopher Moore's intricate attention to detail, his careful study of human interactions, motivations, and relationships.  Leave it to me to pull that out of a comedic vampire novel with a lime green cover.  Leave it to me to like it for its realism.  Of all things.

It's the first in a trio, the second installment of which (entitled You Suck) I now have in my possession.  But I've already started reading Michael Crichton's Eaters of the Dead.  A delightful title, I know, but the introduction framed it as a scholarly report, an ethnography, if you will, about the Vikings.  Like a dark, undead version of St. Olaf.  I'm kind of excited about it.

Go ahead.  Call me a nerd.  I'll own it.

On a totally different note, I just got home from work and we now have a cat.

She found the warm spot between the couch and the radiator. Smart Stellaluna.

cheers to a year free of wild goose chases

Well, happy new year!  Welcome to 2012!  It is everything I hoped it would be, so far.

Let's compare.

Last week, to top off my recent series of shenanigans a.k.a. 2011, I managed to slice my poor little pinky finger with a butter knife.  Thank you, frozen cinnamon raisin bagel.  On the plus side, now I see the reason in butter knives not being allowed past airport security.

And I decided that I'd like to start the new year with a clean shiny car.  So, fittingly, December 31st turned into the King of 2011 Wild Goose Chases: the Great Car Wash Expedition.

Let me first illustrate the situation here.  I have not washed my car since I got it.  It has dust from at least twelve states on it, plus the cave drawings certain people used to make it look prettier through the grime.  It also has several different varieties of bird poop, mud splatters, dead bugs (on the inside and outside), and toe prints on the passenger's side windshield left over from the Sunny V - DE road trip this summer.  I finally gave in and realized I couldn't put it off any longer when I noticed flies congregating on the car after work on Friday.

Yeah, gross.

Now, the last time I was even inside a car wash was Christmas break of 2008.  The reason?  The only 3 places open in Amsterdam after 10pm (at least for the under-21 crowd) are Price Chopper, FasTrac, and the automated car wash.

It wasn't because Kat's car was particularly dirty.  We were just bored.

We looked online for nearby car washes, and found that one of the nation's top 50 car washes is only a few miles from our house.  Imagine if your job was to scope out the best car washes in the U.S.  I can't believe this list exists.  Of course I had to check it out, so I convinced my sibs to ride along with me in exchange for sparkling apple cider and we went in search of the famous Prices Corner Car Wash.

We passed one car wash in Prices Corner, but it wasn't THE car wash.  Then we passed the real deal, but it was on the other side of the highway, so I had to pull a U-ie and pass another car wash to get to it.  Then I got in line, a long, long line...  And couldn't read the sign until we were boxed in on both sides.  The basic car wash was $14.  No way, José.  I threw my dirty Golf in reverse and hightailed it out the back way.

...Still grimy.  We headed down toward a gas station on the corner of Limestone Boulevard where you get 20 cents off per gallon if you get a car wash with it, but went through the car wash first (apparently that's not how it works).  I drove forward with the green light and stopped when it turned red, and in turn the car wash soap-soaked the front half of my car.  Then nothing happened, except a couple of tiny tubes trickling water on my front windows.

...And nothing continued to happen until after a few minutes the green light flashed again, ushering me out.  Guess how much cleaner my car was?  Not.  Only now it was streaked with dirty soap, or rather, soapy dirt.

So I parked and tried to figure out what was going on, and formulated my speech asking for help from the gas station attendants.  Who were totally trying not to laugh when I explained the situation, especially since there wasn't much to explain except, "I think I messed up the automatic car wash...  By the way how do I get that discount on my gas?"

So they refunded my $6 in the form of a free car wash, and I bought gas with the discount, and then the pump I'd chosen refused to print up my receipt with my "free" car wash code.  We tried again.  Watched the car in front of us very carefully, and did everything the same.

Double soapy scum, no rinse.  Not even a drip on the back half of the car.

Same result the third time, even though I followed directions better than I have since middle school.  I gave up, and forfeited my $12 as reparation for all the car washes I will never again try to get at that horrible place.

It was not my fault.

Fortunately, the whole thing was audio- and video-recorded (all three times) so I hope someone gets a good laugh out of it.

To keep a long story from getting too much longer, I decided to wash my own car at home on December 31st.  Thank you, global warming.

Come to find out, we don't have a garden hose...  Nor do we have car soap, and the biggest sponge we own sits in a seashell on the kitchen sink.  So I washed my car with old T-shirts soaked in tea tree castille soap, and my sister's help.

Bizz III is now clean and shiny, just like 2012.  And I guess that's probably a more green way to get her clean anyway.

I've managed to keep from slicing myself with any butter knives so far this year, and I haven't had to work at all yet.  (Hopefully that will be the first thing to change.)  Plus, I challenged Craig's farthest champagne cork pop.  A proud moment, documented in the morning by the former champ himself (see photo).


New Year's Eve was a lot of fun, even though I did not send my resolutions up in smoke this year.  There was plenty of snapping (the quick and silent substitute for "that's what she said" in mixed company, in case you want to adopt it in your classes and workplaces worldwide) and even more laughing, and an unknown amount of pomegranate tequila (absolutely delicious, in case you were wondering).  Apparently I am the unlucky team member in a game of pool, so be warned.  However, I'm not bad at air hockey...

Craig has a lot of tools, which is exciting.  My favorite was a welding mask, which he let me wear for a few minutes because it made me feel like Jennifer Beals in Flashdance (a la this video at about 1:00).  I love tool chests.  You never know exactly what combination of things will be in their drawers, but whatever it is it's always useful.  I love useful things, and I love the cool stuff that tools in particular can make happen.

That being said, I did not manage to finish my cedar chest before year end as I had hoped.  I opened it up and found that the inside lip is covered with layers and layers of paint just like the rest of it -- I thought I was done with that.  Unfortunate.

I'm not feeling particularly refreshed for the year, but hopeful?  Definitely.  I'm excited to get to know the people I shared the opening moments of the new year with, and I'm excited to get to know new people as well.  I'm excited to learn more things and read more books and taste more beers.  I'm excited to visit people and host visitors, the first planned guest of the new year being Anna Linn a few weekends from now!  I'm excited to stay in touch with far-flung friends and watch all my classmates find new opportunities and passions and whatever else we find this year.  Hopefully all good things!  I'm excited to listen to new music, watch new movies, to write new poetry and maybe even a novel, this year, and, of course, more blog entries.  It's been over half a year now since we graduated, and look how much has happened since then!

I'm not gonna lie, I would be OK if the world didn't end on December 21.  I could go for a lot more years like the ones I've had so far -- with a few minor tweaks.  Here's hoping.

Cheers.

beNaked2012

I must be settling in here, because fewer blog-worthy existential dilemmas have been pushing me to write lately.  Maybe I am just tired.  2011 has been a huge, monumental, gargantuan year in so many ways.  Most of the days instated to mark the passage of time, despite all their promise, leave me drifting in the doldrums, feeling no different than I did before.

But New Years' Eve is important to me.  It's not because of the traditional midnight kiss--I don't think I've ever kissed someone special right as the year was changing.  No one I was in love with, I mean.  It's not watching the ball drop: overrated at best.  It might be because I claimed it, because it remains relatively uncelebrated by our family traditions (no special church service).  I make sure to touch base with someone important, or to be with fun, happy, positive people as the year changes.  I'm superstitious enough, or theological enough, or emotionally intelligent enough to believe that the beginning of something colors the middle and end of that something.  Whatever the reason, the anticipation that carries me through December 31st tends to become refreshed satisfaction when the year changes.

Thrilling start to 2010.

I could trace it back to NYE 2007, Cortes Island, British Columbia.  I came to my uncle's farm in mid-late December, reeling from my first semester of college and the unfamiliar insecurity that turned my world upside down.  I was used to getting great grades without breaking a sweat.  I was used to having my crew around me, the same people who had come up from 7th grade together through all those ch-ch-changes, the people who knew all my history and all my loves and my foibles up to that point.  And suddenly I was wiped clean, and I could choose what of that to bare, with great effort, and what to banish to the Dusty Attic of Secret Memory.  I didn't know who I was or what I stood for, and most of all I was exhausted of holding myself up without the flying buttresses of people I loved and trusted existentially and unconditionally.

My cousin Maya is a year or so younger than I am.  Our reunions usually start with a few moments of awkward silence before our mothers herd us into another room and shut the door, and then shenanigans ensue.  We spent the break running wild over the farm grounds, imagining epic adventures out of the errands Aunt Donna had us run, creating photo storybooks of ridiculous incidents.  We gave each other drastic haircuts and left piles of coarse hair on the carpet ("You were TWO FEET FROM THE WORKSHOP!  That hair will NEVER come off that carpet!")  We ate an entire trunk-ful of California oranges, carted up by Gramma & Grampa in the little 2-door from Yreka, tried to weasel dirty secrets from our elders, and begged them to let us share their alcohol.

Case in point.

So New Years' Eve arrived and we were feeling restless.  I had to leave early the next morning and we were restless, because we'd already used up our wildest ideas over the past few weeks.  We had to do something drastic to ring in the new year.  2008 had to be special.

We sat around the fire outside melting candy canes in mugs of rich hot chocolate, roasting marshmallows and challenging each other to hold our feet closer to the flames for longer.  Sulking and plotting, each of us, until the critical hour.

In the meantime, one of us got the idea to burn the worst of 2007, and we Sharpied everything we wanted to leave behind onto logs and threw them into the fire with great ceremony, dancing and chanting like banshees.  Then each of us Sharpied onto another log our resolutions for 2008.  We each had long lists of very specific things to change for ourselves--but the one thing we all agreed on became our theme for the evening, and for the year: beNaked2008.

Bidding 2007 adieu

I have tried, with varying degrees of success, to carry out this tradition every year since.  It reminds me of the effigy-burning new years' tradition in Ecuador, my homeland, where people burn figures and pictures and other things to symbolize letting go of the past year.

Goodbye, 2008

We let the bonfire peter out and left our clothes inside the house, Maya and her cousin on the other side and her friend from school, and me, wearing only boots and sporting 2 flashlights, tiptoeing down the slippery patio stairs, through the horse pasture and 2 electric fences, along a rocky path down to the lake.

It was a clear night, and frigid.  Maya, of course, jumped in first, and the rest of us followed in waves.  I thought, "This must be what it felt like to be drowning on the Titanic."  (I would think that.)  The night air, after that, felt warm and soft in comparison.

We hurried, squealing, back to the house, wearing only boots and trying not to run into each other naked.  We had to count down to the new year five times because we had one bottle of champagne and none of us knew quite how to pop the cork...

But finally we cheered in the new year, and to make an already-too-long story a little bit shorter, I'll just say we spent the first several hours of 2008 in the nude.  (CUE FORESHADOWING.)

no photo

Now, the takeaway message here is not to glorify nudity for its own sake--so try not to get too excited--but symbolic nudity, and being comfortable in our own skins.  Being able to bare our true selves to really offer our best and our wholest, and be open to the best and wholest of the rest of the world as well.

All hail 2011!

This year I will sorely miss the traditional New Years' Bash in Ithaca with my Original Crew.  I will miss New Years' Eve in Hudson, WI, and those most wonderful [choir] bros.  (Also I will miss being one of 3 women honored to join the Great Sausagefest of 2010.)  I am not looking forward to hostessing on Saturday night, because we're slammed with reservations, and many large parties, from 4:00 to 8:00.  And that's just the beginning.  The party runs there until 1:00am.

But I should be out in time to do my own thing, and this year I plan to welcome the new year with the That's-What-She-Saiders, which should prove to be an all-around good time.  I definitely have some things I'd like to leave behind in 2011, and some things I plan to grab hold of on my way into 2012.  I think it could be time for another beNaked year, although the novelty of nudity has, for the most part, worn off--I could just use a refresher course in being myself, and being open and allowing myself to trust people.  To smile more, and say thanks more, and to say "I love you" more.  To try new things and meet new people, fearlessly and honestly.  To be at my best and wholest, my most daring and able and ready to take on the universe.

so the story goes

Merry Christmas, readers!  I will spare you all the "politically correct holiday season" rant, as I know we've all heard it before (at least 4,000 times this year alone), and as it says in the Bible, "Do not be [offended], for I bring you glad tidings and great cheer" and so on.

Anyway, what does it matter, because I have missed not only the actual Christmas, but Boxing Day as well.  So I am not only politically incorrect, but increasingly tardy as well.  We're coming up on New Years now.

My Boxing Day did, in fact, involve some boxing.  Of fruitcakes.  Tomorrow I intend to do the actual posting of those boxed fruitcakes, and any recipients should know that my fruitcake-boxing battle was not a particularly neat or quiet one.  Please appreciate my countless trips to the recycling bin in the freezing cold garage for packing materials.

Something about the convergence of events (and the escalation of my coffee shop book exchange) lately has me thinking about storylines.  I first saw Google's Zeitgeist 2011 video framed as a bit of brilliant digital storytelling, intentionally and evocatively constructed.  If you haven't seen it already, please take a moment.  Or, if you have, take a moment to watch it again.

More generally, social media news has been lately dominated by headlines about Storify and the new Facebook Timeline and the new Twitter app, all created to somehow "organize stories" that build our lives online and, increasingly, offline.  That's the idea, anyway.  It's making me think about what a story actually is, and how we tell them, and what role they play in our lives.  It's making me wonder whether the meaning of the word "story" is taking on new digital meaning, similar to the way "viral" has.  (In case you missed it, you can read more about my thoughts on going viral here.)

Also in that post you will find what anchors my storyline fixation in the physical world: fruitcake.

Aside from the fact that I legitimately love fruitcake, especially fruitcake from this recipe, I have been most excited about carrying on the family legacy of making and sending fruitcakes.  This is a personal storyline that crosses, now, four generations, in a very simple frame: a recipe.  (Remember Thunder Cake by Patricia Polacco?  Brilliant.)  I already told you about getting fruitcakes in the mail every Christmas, wrapped in Sunday comics.  Actually I think I left out the comics before, and the fact that we always had to wait until Christmas morning to open and cut into the fruitcake.  And as we all know, waiting for something makes it taste that much sweeter.  This storyline includes not only my childhood, but the unknown plot deviations of Aunt Judy struggling to locate candied orange peel in modern supermarkets, trying different substitutes, maybe once pickling watermelon rind in the summer to use come Christmas in the cakes.  And the beginning of this story is completely blank; I can only tell you bits of the middle and the ellipsis of an end.

Consider also the cultural storyline of fruitcake.  As I churned the exotic dried fruits into the batter, it suddenly occurred to me to ask where fruitcake came from.  What genealogy does fruitcake follow in our family?  Is it British?  German?  Under what rule did it gain the honors of tradition?  In which empire?  Which traders brought the fruits to fill it?  And how did it get such a bad rap today?

Not that you will probably be called on to share any fruitcake trivia, but if you think there is a chance of this happening I recommend this article from TLC.  I can't say for certain that it is the most accurate or comprehensive, I just like it best of all the ones I've seen.

Now, for the sake of time and attention, let's make an undeveloped allegorical leap to the Christmas storyline.  In fact, we can take it full-circle to the whole politically-correct thing and ask which storyline each of us prefers to follow at this time of year.  Is it Santa Claus?  St. Nicholas?  Festivus?  Solstice?  Kwanzaa?  Hanukkah?  The birth of Jesus?

Grampi has been featuring heavily of late, and while I fear some of you might be cringing at the apparent disregard in which I hold my elders, please take heart in knowing that any confrontation is both the result and the catalyst of important learning experiences, I dare hope, for both of us.  As Maria has reminded me over and over again these past few weeks, coming to face opposition forces us to grow in ways we might otherwise atrophy.

Anyway, Grampi and the birth of Jesus.  On Sunday morning in church he went out of his way to point out to Mutti and I that the baby in the manger had been set up directly beneath the cross hanging over the altar.  The significance of this symbolic placement brought him to tears.  I admit I rolled my eyes the way I do when he skillfully relates any topic to missionary work, but even I can't deny the brilliance of this nativity setup.  I do revere the Biblical storyline, the way it unfolds over thousands of years, the careful genealogies, the outstanding characters, the fulfillment of prophecies.  (This year I found myself wishing the Gospel writers paid more attention to Jesus' childhood, because the Terrible Twos are notably absent, and for some reason I have developed a sudden urgent curiosity about Jesus as a 6-year-old.)

I'm focusing on the Christian storyline of Christmas because it's the one I'm most familiar with, and the one that is most significant in my family tradition; but I am well aware, and fascinated by, the pagan influences on this endless tale.  I appreciate the fact that I can't escape the materialistic aspects of this holiday, and that the giving and receiving of gifts is not something I could easily extract from my own experience of Christmas.

These complicated details only make the storyline more intricate, more unique, more fascinating.  I always have to remind myself that each storyteller constructs the story differently and each listener understands it differently.  No frame is quite the same, no language holds the same weight or connotation, no scene is so well-constructed that it excludes the possibility of misunderstanding, of a wrong color in a corner or a detail slightly misaligned.

And yet I consider my storylines carefully.  I see a story in everything.  I see a story arc everywhere, a conflict, a happy ending.  I have endless prepackaged choices: fairytale, Judeo-Christian, origin myth, comedy, tragedy, series of snapshots.  But I delight most in the deviations from the predictable introduction, escalation, resolution, the allegedness of everything, the details and the soundtracks and illustrations and, most of all, the fact that in real life, the story doesn't end with a slammed-shut cover, but with a ...

rubber-banding

I'm on vacation!  Out of the office until Wednesday, and the restaurant too.  I'm definitely looking forward to having some time off, but I'm also mildly terrified about having nothing on my schedule, no obligations or anything.

...Besides carrying the star into the crèche on Christmas morning.  I have graduated from my days of playing Mary, Mother of Jesus, and my days of co-writing and co-directing overambitious nativity villages and talk shows.  I am moving into a new role.

Speaking of changing roles, my latest realization is how utterly awful I am at transitions.  The other day I walked into Bishop's after work and I must have been acting weird because the guys said, "Hey, are you OK?  You seem... distraught."

First of all, how pumped am I that that's the word they came up with!  Secondly, after they called me out, a lot of my tension evaporated, and I smiled and realized that I am often distraught when I walk in there.  I'm easily distraught from one side of a new situation to the other, and it takes me so long to adapt.  Which is a strange thing to realize (over and over again over the last few years) when "adaptable" used to be a pretty accurate descriptor of me as a kid.  Of course, back then I had to be.

And I guess, if we're being realistic, I still do, because life is basically a series of changes.  I wouldn't want to become prematurely stuck in my ways at the age of 22.  I hope to at least be 80 before that happens.

I can't knock on my need for routines, though, and on a more fundamental level, some sort of stability.  Thus my uncharacteristically vehement response yesterday morning to certain suggestions about my future...

When I came upstairs in the morning, Grampi was already up and bumbling around.  Now, first off, you need to understand that the communication centers of my brain don't fire up until I've been bumbling around for at least 20 minutes.  Also, I'm definitely not interested in small talk over breakfast.  Breakfast with other people is a time for communal basking, or important discussions.  And when I say important, I mean touchy-feely important.  Like relationship-talk.

Anyway, he asked what I studied in college (even though he totally knows, and brings it up himself from time to time) and then asked if I'm planning on going to grad school in the near future (the answer is no, because I'm sick of school, I don't know what I would study if I went back right now, and I love working).  My early morning mumbling problem also makes conversation difficult, especially with someone who doesn't understand me very well on a regular basis.  So I mumbled that question away, and then he said, "You know, anthropology has been one of the great passions of my life" (an odd contradiction to the anti-anthropology creationist sermon he preached to me on a flight to India 4 years ago).  "Have you ever considered mission work?"

I think I actually snorted, and responded shortly in a definite non-mumble, "No."  Not that don't revere the incredible work of my grandparents (all four of them) and appreciate the experiences I was able to have as a result... I just feel quite certain that the type of mission work he's talking about is not my life's calling.

"You have some skills, though, that could really serve you well as a missionary!"

For some reason it took me twice as long to eat breakfast and get ready for work.

Every semester, every vacation, every project and job I've been amazed at how long it takes me to settle into a new routine, a new way of thinking and of doing things.  I feel like it used to be a lot easier, and I'm wondering now if I'm subconsciously resisting change as a defense mechanism, to protect my seemingly fragile core and foundation.  Things--my future, my control--feel uncertain.  This is disconcerting.  It makes me act irrationally and defensively, to protect the delicate balance I have worked out to move forward.  Ironically, when I am existentially so unbending, it makes me more vulnerable to the threatening aspects of change, and I bounce back less readily.  A la bridge pose mantra, "I am vulnerable.  I am strong.  I can be vulnerable because I am strong."

As far as getting comfortable goes, I'm just now starting to settle into my jobs and my routine, after how long?  I'm starting to feel actually comfortable with the people I work with, to feel some rapport.  On Wednesday I brought a fruitcake to work to share, and--it's not too early to share this here--my top New Year's resolution is to express my appreciation more openly, to say thanks more often.  So I wrote this in an accompanying note, and it's always strange to me when people are surprised to hear that I like them, or to hear anything that I think, in fact.  It's just so transparent to me!

Speaking of saying thank you, Coffeeshopcrush finished (and loved--no surprise) The Princess Bride...  And he introduced himself, and now that I know his name, the saga is over.  As promised.

Happy Christmas weekend, Merry Christmas Adam, because Adam came before Eve (via @jensentweets on Twitter)!  More to come this weekend, I'm sure.

Until then, I'll get a headstart on 2012 and say thanks for reading!

fruitcake

As of today my father has officially spent half his life with my mother.

In other words, today was my parents' 25th wedding anniversary so I am sitting at the dining room table blogging in front of a beautiful bouquet of purple and white flowers.  (And when I say today, I mean I haven't slept yet since I woke up on December 20.  You understand.)

Remind me to plan that my important wedding anniversaries (if I ever do settle down) will never fall on a Tuesday.  Our house was like a sprawling, overpopulated game of musical chairs with a few inanimate players tonight.  Which resulted in, long story short, all of us sitting down for dinner at 10pm.

And now I am sitting up waiting for the raisins on top of my second batch of fruitcakes to burn, just slightly, so I know they're done.

My life has not been quite this complicated, on a regular basis, in quite some time.  This is what I get for moving back home, I guess...

This morning Grampi came down to the kitchen earlier than usual--"So I have time to eat lunch before physical therapy," he explained.  Oh, the men in this house!  The other night after dinner I passed along Time magazine's Person of the Year article, about the Protester.  His main worry, before reading the article, was about protest information getting into the wrong hands (i.e. certain religious-political groups) with a nefarious agenda, so I quickly excused myself to avoid a blowout.

Anyway, this morning, on top of his usual "time for work" opener, he says, "I've been reading that article you gave me, and you know, it's realllly interesting."  Of course he's going to get his own thing out of it, but I'll tell you he's been exploring the spectrum of conservatism a little more adventurously these days, so I don't mind discussing things with him quite as much as I used to.  He continues, "I'm really fascinated, they're saying it's like a virus, that it just spreads like an infection, these protests."

It takes me a split second to process this comment, and once I put two and two together I am struck dumb by the gaping chasm of understanding that both changes and reflects the differentness of our perspectives.  I open my mouth to explain to my doctor grandfather that "viral" to my generation has less to do with epidemiology than it does with the internet, but then I remember the hours I've already spent explaining, to various degrees of failure, social media and how it works and how I use it on a daily basis, and the moment passes.

This is a thrilling sociolinguistic dilemma: My grandfather's thoughts on protesting feed into the way he understands the use of the term "viral," and his understanding of "viral" spreading color his reading of global sharing and mobilization.  What excites me most about the protest phenomenon is almost completely lost on him.  His worldview comes pre-installed with a firewall against being able to fully grasp the way I use the internet, as well as my deep appreciation for social movements.  This is a much more enmeshed situation than you want me to get into here, but I will tell you that my brain is exploding quietly about it.

Speaking of the men in this house, I let my brother use my car today to do some Christmas shopping.  The joke in our house right now is that 50% of accidents happen to drivers under the age of 20, and 50% of those happen within the first 6 months of those drivers getting licenses.  No wait, that wasn't the joke--the joke is that my brother will be 20 in about a week, and if we can make it through the first 6 months of his licensure without him having to actually drive anywhere, then the danger zone is over!  Ha.  Yes, we are hilarious.

Anyway, him borrowing my car meant I needed him to drop me off at work and pick me up afterwards.  So last night I said, "That means we'll have to leave at 8:30."  To the guy whose usual bedtime is about 6am.  But he replied cheerfully, "OK, just wake me up 10 or 15 minutes before you want to leave so I can splash some water on my face."

He's not a bad driver, but the poor guy gets such a rap from the family.  And for some reason, riding shotgun while my brother drives my car (or any car, if I recall correctly) stresses me out beyond belief.  I may have control issues, which I expressed by letting him know ahead of time when the speed limit was about to change.  By the time I got outside at the end of the day he was already buckled into the passenger's seat so I could live out my neuroses in peace.  This might be something I should work on.

So we are a family of seven, with two cars, three jobs to work around, and a LOT of Christmas shopping to do.  This means that various family members and vehicles have been M.I.A. at random times and for undefined lengths of time, and that this happens more and more the closer it gets to Christmas.  I'm losing my mind.

Check out my muscles! Ohh yeahh...

Not to mention this week has been a series of wild goose chases for me.  I spent Monday afternoon trying to track down mace (the spice, not the spray) and never actually found it.  The fruitcakes seemed to have turned out OK in spite of that.  I love this living recipe, and I'm so excited to adapt it based on my lifestyle and the ingredients I can get my hands on.  When I was little, my aunt Judy used to always send fruitcake from Oregon for Christmas, wrapped with her other gifts in Sunday comics pages.  For the longest time I didn't like it (big surprise) and then one year I think I realized that if I started liking fruitcake I would be the only one of my siblings to like it, and this was an obvious source of superiority for me.  Then I discovered I really do love fruitcake, and as Coffeeshopcrush hilariously put it yesterday, it's packed full of energy in case you just so happen to spend a lot of time in the woods...  Anyway, Aunt Judy gifted me her simplified version of the recipe she got from her grandma Allene.  And now it is up to me to fashion and ship 8 fruitcakes.  It's a more interesting and delicious version of those dumb chain letters that were going around in the 90s (another thing I love).  (Not chain mail--the 90s.)

So, life is complicated.  And living at home is like secondary education with a major in compromise, and a double minor in patience and sharing.  I have felt blessed all throughout college to have learned these important people skills through growing up in a big family, but after four years of blatant selfishness I'm realizing how rusty I've gotten at moving in a pack, at making decisions that impact 4-6 other people, at somehow taking up both more and less space than I do as a party of one.  (Cue track below.)

I think it's doing me a world of good.