Wednesday, November 21, 2012
He Almost Arab!
In my beginners class today, I told my 11 Saudi Arabian students (all men) about the history of Thanksgiving. Because they're beginners, the story was drastically simplified, but it seemed that they were getting the general idea. At the end I asked for questions. One student asked if this holiday was celebrated in other countries. I said that lots of countries have days to give thanks, but maybe not all with the same story as in the U.S.
He thought about that, then said that the two Muslim holidays are about being thankful to God, too. Having taught Saudis for over a year now, I'm familiar with the holidays, so I said something about the holiday that marks the end of the Ramadan fast, Eid Al Fitr.
One of my newer students exclaimed in surprise that I knew the name (though I pronounced it poorly). Another student, whom I've taught longer said, "Of course he know. He almost Arab." In the midst of the laughter, a third student corrected, "He IS Arab!" A fourth student chimed in authoritatively, "SHE is Arab." Satisfied now that their sentence was grammatically correct,thanks to their group effort, the class all turned to me, smiling and nodding.
I couldn't help chuckling to myself that the "Arab" part was not considered to be an error.
Saturday, October 27, 2012
Oh, dear...
So it seems that I haven't posted a real post in awhile. Now I have two Inspired By Family alerts back-to-back. Alas. Well, in any case, my latest article is up here http://inspiredbyfamilymag.com/2012/10/27/fear-anger-and-bitterness-keep-me-company/
And I will try to get are real post on here soon. I just don't feel inspired, really. But I'll try. Feel free to attempt to inspire me in the meantime. :)
And I will try to get are real post on here soon. I just don't feel inspired, really. But I'll try. Feel free to attempt to inspire me in the meantime. :)
Sunday, September 30, 2012
New Post on Inspired By Family
Hey Kids!
My latest article for InspiredByFamily online magazine has been posted. If you're interested in checking it out, here's the link: http://inspiredbyfamilymag.com/2012/09/30/the-busy-trap/
My latest article for InspiredByFamily online magazine has been posted. If you're interested in checking it out, here's the link: http://inspiredbyfamilymag.com/2012/09/30/the-busy-trap/
Thursday, September 27, 2012
Gas Fireplace
Tonight I laid on the floor of my living room in front of the gas fireplace for a half an hour. I'm really happy to have a gas fireplace. But it's not the same.
It doesn't sound right. It doesn't roar. Or snap and pop. It doesn't make that sound when the wind blows hard and sucks extra air up the chimney. And my very favorite fire-noise: when the flames get to a sap pocket in the log and it hisses for a few second before the super-loud CRACK! That's my favorite.
Gas fireplace doesn't look right, either. It doesn't shift. The flames are always the same color. You can't poke it. And you can't have that little moment of secret victory when you've neglected to feed it and it's died down, so you haul in a few more logs, stack them on what looks like a dead fire, and then give it a few, long, narrow blows. And then, like magic straight out of a fantasy novel, the fire SPRINGS back to life and you smugly smile and go back to whatever you were doing. YOU knew it wasn't dead. YOU knew it was playing possum, and look! Here it is again- that fire's right as rain, thanks to your expertise.
None of that with the gas fire. But it's ok. Gas fireplace is still a pretty awesome perk.
It doesn't sound right. It doesn't roar. Or snap and pop. It doesn't make that sound when the wind blows hard and sucks extra air up the chimney. And my very favorite fire-noise: when the flames get to a sap pocket in the log and it hisses for a few second before the super-loud CRACK! That's my favorite.
Gas fireplace doesn't look right, either. It doesn't shift. The flames are always the same color. You can't poke it. And you can't have that little moment of secret victory when you've neglected to feed it and it's died down, so you haul in a few more logs, stack them on what looks like a dead fire, and then give it a few, long, narrow blows. And then, like magic straight out of a fantasy novel, the fire SPRINGS back to life and you smugly smile and go back to whatever you were doing. YOU knew it wasn't dead. YOU knew it was playing possum, and look! Here it is again- that fire's right as rain, thanks to your expertise.
None of that with the gas fire. But it's ok. Gas fireplace is still a pretty awesome perk.
Saturday, September 15, 2012
How to Brand Your Own Lip
Yesterday was the first cool day of the season. I love fall! And so I was thrilled to come home from work and put on jeans, a sweatshirt, and my slippers. Later in the evening, I had the brilliant idea of roasting a marshmallow over the flame of my gas stove burner. I'd never tried this before, but heard it works pretty well. I headed for the kitchen.
Being the clever girl that I am, I chose a fork with a plastic handle, so I wouldn't burn myself. This detail makes the story extra ironic. Just wait.
I lit the burner and proceeded to catch the mallow on fire several times in the process of finding the best distance from the flame (in case you're going to try this at home, you have to hold it much farther away from a flame than you do embers of a fire). Eventually I found the right distance, and watched joyfully as my little marshmallow puffed up and turned a beautiful, golden brown.
I turned off the burner and gave it a couple seconds to cool. Then I carefully removed the treat from the fork. I took a bite. Mmmmmm. As I savored the first bite, I realized that a small lump of marshmallow had stuck to the fork when I removed it. Without thinking about it, I put the fork in my mouth to eat off the leftover mallow.
I will never know how that particular bit tasted. As I began to close my lips around the fork, I was started by the sound of a very hot metal fork cooling quickly from the saliva in my mouth. The reaction was so fast that it didn't even feel hot- I just heard the sound and felt the steam in my mouth.
Feeling stupid for not realizing that the fork would stay hot longer than the marshmallow, I tossed the offending utensil in the sink. I finished my marshmallow and returned to my life.
A couple hours later I realized that there were rough patches on my lower lip. I headed to the bathroom for a closer inspection. Sure enough, there, branded into the skin inside my lips, were the four tines of the fork. I had branded myself. Oddly enough, it didn't hurt at all. Not sure how I managed that. I'm just gifted, I guess.
Or something.
Being the clever girl that I am, I chose a fork with a plastic handle, so I wouldn't burn myself. This detail makes the story extra ironic. Just wait.
I lit the burner and proceeded to catch the mallow on fire several times in the process of finding the best distance from the flame (in case you're going to try this at home, you have to hold it much farther away from a flame than you do embers of a fire). Eventually I found the right distance, and watched joyfully as my little marshmallow puffed up and turned a beautiful, golden brown.
I turned off the burner and gave it a couple seconds to cool. Then I carefully removed the treat from the fork. I took a bite. Mmmmmm. As I savored the first bite, I realized that a small lump of marshmallow had stuck to the fork when I removed it. Without thinking about it, I put the fork in my mouth to eat off the leftover mallow.
I will never know how that particular bit tasted. As I began to close my lips around the fork, I was started by the sound of a very hot metal fork cooling quickly from the saliva in my mouth. The reaction was so fast that it didn't even feel hot- I just heard the sound and felt the steam in my mouth.
Feeling stupid for not realizing that the fork would stay hot longer than the marshmallow, I tossed the offending utensil in the sink. I finished my marshmallow and returned to my life.
A couple hours later I realized that there were rough patches on my lower lip. I headed to the bathroom for a closer inspection. Sure enough, there, branded into the skin inside my lips, were the four tines of the fork. I had branded myself. Oddly enough, it didn't hurt at all. Not sure how I managed that. I'm just gifted, I guess.
Or something.
Monday, September 3, 2012
Grill Like You Know What You're Doing
I generally feel like a real adult. I mean, I pay bills and go to work and do things like forward my mail when I move and pay for life insurance so my family isn't left with a big bill if I kick off unexpectedly. But in spite of my efforts to be a good adult, I am occasionally caught totally unawares in some area of life that seems like it should be standard for a 32 year old. You know, like charcoal grills.
Tomorrow I'm hosting a cookout for my Bible study group. I've hosted many a movie night, game night, and dinner in my day. I like having people over. But a cookout is new to me. Mostly because I've never had a grill. I still don't, actually, but one came with my townhouse, so I offered to host said cookout.
I'm excited.
I was pretty pleased with myself for thinking to check the grill for charcoal before people showed up at my door with raw meat and potato salad. Turns out that was a good call, because there were about 5 used lumps of charcoal when I looked. I don't actually know how many lumps of charcoal one needs to grill stuff, but five doesn't seem like enough.
So I felt prepared today when I nailed down some plans with my co-coordinator, Stephanie, and she asked if I had the grilling stuff. I said I would be getting charcoal and lighter fluid today. Then she asked about the other stuff.
I give Stephanie my confused look. Other stuff? She says, you know, the metal scraper brush thingy to clean off the nasty left-overs of the previous use? And metal spatulas?
Quiet little bells of recognition start going off in my head. Yah, that seems right.
No. No scraper brush thingy. None of my spatulas are metal.
Maybe we can ask the Stambaughs to bring some? We think they have some. Yah, that's a good idea.
Starting to wonder now about my ability to maneuver the tricky world of grilling, I cleverly think to ask Stephanie about charcoal. I don't know if she has grilled before, but clearly she knows more than I do.
Steph's voice fades as I remember the time my stepmother suggested that I buy baby wipes for my step sister for Christmas, and I nearly had a nervous breakdown in the baby-wipe aisle at Wal-Mart because there were, quite literally, 843 types of baby wipes, and choosing the right type probably matters to someone and I might accidentally give my sweet little niece diaper rash if I choose wrong!?!?! (pause here to calm down. Gemma's butt is fine, as far as I know)
Back in reality, Stephanie is saying she doesn't think the kind of charcoal matters, but definitely get some lighter fluid. Check. I can do this.
After church but before I buy charcoal, I help some friends move, and in the course of spending an hour in the car collecting and delivering her stuff, I tell Rachael about the grilling, and how it seems complicated. Rachael helpfully suggests that Kingsford is a good charcoal brand, and that you can get it with lighter fluid already on it, which is best cause it's faster. Faster seems good. I'm usually starving by the time the meat's ready at your average cookout. I make a mental note.
Finally, full of good info from friends, I arrive at the grocery store. I stumble upon an aisle dedicated to summer cookouts, strategically placed so that I can't possibly miss it. Well done, grocery store. My eyes start to glaze over as I gaze at what appear to be 30 different charcoal choices. The words "diaper rash" start running through my mind.
Before I can start hyperventilating, I notice that there are only two types of lighter fluid. I clutch at this brief reprieve from addressing the charcoal problem. I think I can handle choosing between two things. More expensive, name brand, or cheaper, store brand? Surely one highly flammable liquid is the same as the next highly flammable liquid, right? Right. It is so because I deem it so. I confidently toss a bottle of the cheap stuff into the cart.
But now I'm back to the charcoal thing. How much charcoal do I need? Kingsford or store brand? Why are there so many choices?!? None of them actually said they had lighter fluid on them already; some said they light faster...is that the same thing? If they light faster, do they burn up faster? Will I need more to compensate? And what is "more"? How much do I need to start with? One layer on the bottom? Fill the whole body of the grill? Do I need to add more charcoal in the middle?
I consider calling someone, but realize that I have left my phone in the car. I look around for a man that doesn't seem like a college student. No dice. I stand around for a couple minutes, looking my most-needy, hoping a grocery store angel of charcoal mercy will show up. Crickets chirp.
I sigh dramatically (even though no one is around to notice).
FINE. I find the cheapest bag that still says something about fast lighting and throw it into the cart. This shouldn't be hard. I mean, stuff burns on accident every day, right? How hard can it be to make stuff that's designed to burn, burn?! Surely I'm making this more difficult than necessary.
I return from the grocery store, thankful that my part of the grilling is mostly over. I just have to turn it over to the guys tomorrow, and then sit around chatting with their wives. And chatting with friends is something that I feel very confident about.
Tomorrow I'm hosting a cookout for my Bible study group. I've hosted many a movie night, game night, and dinner in my day. I like having people over. But a cookout is new to me. Mostly because I've never had a grill. I still don't, actually, but one came with my townhouse, so I offered to host said cookout.
I'm excited.
I was pretty pleased with myself for thinking to check the grill for charcoal before people showed up at my door with raw meat and potato salad. Turns out that was a good call, because there were about 5 used lumps of charcoal when I looked. I don't actually know how many lumps of charcoal one needs to grill stuff, but five doesn't seem like enough.
So I felt prepared today when I nailed down some plans with my co-coordinator, Stephanie, and she asked if I had the grilling stuff. I said I would be getting charcoal and lighter fluid today. Then she asked about the other stuff.
I give Stephanie my confused look. Other stuff? She says, you know, the metal scraper brush thingy to clean off the nasty left-overs of the previous use? And metal spatulas?
Quiet little bells of recognition start going off in my head. Yah, that seems right.
No. No scraper brush thingy. None of my spatulas are metal.
Maybe we can ask the Stambaughs to bring some? We think they have some. Yah, that's a good idea.
Starting to wonder now about my ability to maneuver the tricky world of grilling, I cleverly think to ask Stephanie about charcoal. I don't know if she has grilled before, but clearly she knows more than I do.
Steph's voice fades as I remember the time my stepmother suggested that I buy baby wipes for my step sister for Christmas, and I nearly had a nervous breakdown in the baby-wipe aisle at Wal-Mart because there were, quite literally, 843 types of baby wipes, and choosing the right type probably matters to someone and I might accidentally give my sweet little niece diaper rash if I choose wrong!?!?! (pause here to calm down. Gemma's butt is fine, as far as I know)
Back in reality, Stephanie is saying she doesn't think the kind of charcoal matters, but definitely get some lighter fluid. Check. I can do this.
After church but before I buy charcoal, I help some friends move, and in the course of spending an hour in the car collecting and delivering her stuff, I tell Rachael about the grilling, and how it seems complicated. Rachael helpfully suggests that Kingsford is a good charcoal brand, and that you can get it with lighter fluid already on it, which is best cause it's faster. Faster seems good. I'm usually starving by the time the meat's ready at your average cookout. I make a mental note.
Finally, full of good info from friends, I arrive at the grocery store. I stumble upon an aisle dedicated to summer cookouts, strategically placed so that I can't possibly miss it. Well done, grocery store. My eyes start to glaze over as I gaze at what appear to be 30 different charcoal choices. The words "diaper rash" start running through my mind.
Before I can start hyperventilating, I notice that there are only two types of lighter fluid. I clutch at this brief reprieve from addressing the charcoal problem. I think I can handle choosing between two things. More expensive, name brand, or cheaper, store brand? Surely one highly flammable liquid is the same as the next highly flammable liquid, right? Right. It is so because I deem it so. I confidently toss a bottle of the cheap stuff into the cart.
But now I'm back to the charcoal thing. How much charcoal do I need? Kingsford or store brand? Why are there so many choices?!? None of them actually said they had lighter fluid on them already; some said they light faster...is that the same thing? If they light faster, do they burn up faster? Will I need more to compensate? And what is "more"? How much do I need to start with? One layer on the bottom? Fill the whole body of the grill? Do I need to add more charcoal in the middle?
I consider calling someone, but realize that I have left my phone in the car. I look around for a man that doesn't seem like a college student. No dice. I stand around for a couple minutes, looking my most-needy, hoping a grocery store angel of charcoal mercy will show up. Crickets chirp.
I sigh dramatically (even though no one is around to notice).
FINE. I find the cheapest bag that still says something about fast lighting and throw it into the cart. This shouldn't be hard. I mean, stuff burns on accident every day, right? How hard can it be to make stuff that's designed to burn, burn?! Surely I'm making this more difficult than necessary.
I return from the grocery store, thankful that my part of the grilling is mostly over. I just have to turn it over to the guys tomorrow, and then sit around chatting with their wives. And chatting with friends is something that I feel very confident about.
Sunday, August 12, 2012
New Article on IBF Magazine
Hi Everyone! My latest article has been published by Inspired By Family magazine. You can click on the link below if you'd like to read it.
http://inspiredbyfamilymag.com/2012/08/12/the-garbage-day-miracle/#comment-4458
http://inspiredbyfamilymag.com/2012/08/12/the-garbage-day-miracle/#comment-4458
Tuesday, July 24, 2012
Plan B
Sometimes things seem really terrible and I really hate my life and I feel sad and lonely and I think, "Maybe I'll do something daring and shocking and desperate. And people will be shocked. And no matter what happens, at least my life won't be like this anymore."
Then I come up with good ideas like these:
Maybe I should secretly sell off all my belongings and start traveling the country and living out of my car.
Maybe I should use my entire savings to buy yarn and teach myself to knit and sell hand-knitted baby booties to all those happy moms-to-be. I could come up with something new and awesome, like booties that increase your baby's neural stimulation, so they'll be smarter. Or maybe booties that smell like bacon, so that the baby will always want to suck on them and then your baby will be more flexible, from all the pulling the feet to the mouth exercises. Then I can charge a lot of money and support myself.
Maybe I should rob a bank and run away to Mexico.
Maybe I should fake my own death to get out of my college loans, and then rob a bank and run away to Mexico.*
Maybe I should go back to school to become a plumber. No matter how bad things get, people will always need plumbers.
Maybe I should move to some village in Africa and live off $2 a day like most of the world.
I know. These plans seem awesome, right? But then I think, "Nah, I can't really do that stuff." Then I feel sad and little bit trapped in my life and I think maybe it's time for me to go to bed. Maybe things will seem a little less crappy tomorrow.
But if not, maybe I'll start plumbing school.
*If you're an NCIS agent or an FBI guy or something, I'm just kidding. I'm not going to rob a bank. I promise.
Then I come up with good ideas like these:
Maybe I should secretly sell off all my belongings and start traveling the country and living out of my car.
Maybe I should use my entire savings to buy yarn and teach myself to knit and sell hand-knitted baby booties to all those happy moms-to-be. I could come up with something new and awesome, like booties that increase your baby's neural stimulation, so they'll be smarter. Or maybe booties that smell like bacon, so that the baby will always want to suck on them and then your baby will be more flexible, from all the pulling the feet to the mouth exercises. Then I can charge a lot of money and support myself.
Maybe I should rob a bank and run away to Mexico.
Maybe I should fake my own death to get out of my college loans, and then rob a bank and run away to Mexico.*
Maybe I should go back to school to become a plumber. No matter how bad things get, people will always need plumbers.
Maybe I should move to some village in Africa and live off $2 a day like most of the world.
I know. These plans seem awesome, right? But then I think, "Nah, I can't really do that stuff." Then I feel sad and little bit trapped in my life and I think maybe it's time for me to go to bed. Maybe things will seem a little less crappy tomorrow.
But if not, maybe I'll start plumbing school.
*If you're an NCIS agent or an FBI guy or something, I'm just kidding. I'm not going to rob a bank. I promise.
Saturday, June 23, 2012
When I Work Out I Develop a Split Personality
Saturday, June 23, 2012
[Editor's note: For those of you who don't hydrate enough and/or have larger bladders than I, a pee dream is when whatever you were previously doing in a dream changes, and becomes an all-out battle to find a usable toilet. It happens to me when I need to pee in real life, but I'm sleeping deeply enough that it doesn't wake me up. Usually the dream has to do with searching for a toilet for a long time, until eventually I find one, but something makes it unusable. It's running over; it's in a middle of an airport without any sort of doors or screens; or I start to sit down on the toilet and someone walks into the stall. Anyway, I always wake up from a pee dream with the same immediate need.]
5:47- After my much appreciated trip to the loo, I yawn and stretch, stalling. There's no reason that I HAVE to go. No one will even know the difference. It's not even 6am, for crying out loud. On a Saturday! I could crawl back in bed and be asleep in a couple minutes. Besides, last week I worked out out five times and the scale still went up. Finally, I give in and put in my contacts. This is the point of no return- the contacts. Can't go back to sleep with those guys in.
5:53- I grab a peach, my pepper spray, my cell phone, and bid Phil (the beta fish) goodbye as I head out the door. I happily acknowledge that it's pretty cool out, which will make the jog better.
5:59- I pull into a parking spot at the park, hide the cell phone, lock up the car, and hit the trail. There's no one else in sight. On the way in I notice that the park doesn't actually "open" until 7am. That seems odd to me. I debate momentarily aborting the plan in order to follow the rules. But nope. I already did the hard part of working out- getting up. Not going to waste that effort.
6:03- The path is green and leafy and cool. For the first few minutes, it is only separated from the railroad track by about a ten-foot strip of trees and undergrowth. I listen to a trail rumble past me, dwarfing me with its noise, size, and speed. I walk the first five minutes to warm up. I breathe deeply the fresh, wholesome scent of the woods in the morning. I smile and feel pleased with my decision.
6:10- Having been jogging for a few minutes now, my euphoria is waning. A guy passes me in the opposite direction. He has a weird mustache and two little dogs on leashes. I'm at a point in the path that is less wooded, so it's hotter. And let's face it- I don't really like to jog. Jogging just might be dumb, in fact. But I'm still feeling good, and I chug along- quite possibly the world's slowest jogger. I remind myself that I'm still going faster than if I had stayed in bed.
6:15- I finish my first ten-minute jogging stretch and I'm back to a brisk walk. I'm thinking about safety. Although I love this path because it's pretty and sheltered, that also means that it's less safe. I feel glad that I brought the pepper spray, and feel thankful for this Easter present from my step-mom. I also feel somewhat like a private eye, as I try to be extra-aware of my surroundings, which, in reality, seem quite benign.
6:30- I'm finishing my second stretch of jogging. My feelings about the plan to get up early to do this are at a low point. Jogging is clearly dumb and I'm unsure as to why I would have ever thought otherwise. I'm hot and sweaty and I hate being hot and sweaty. Creepy, overly-friendly guy and his dog, Buck (the rescue dog who's "been through hell and back" according to his loquacious owner) are behind me a bend or two in the trail. But I keep going, reminding myself that I'm very near to the end of the jogging part, and then I'll feel really good about myself. Just a little farther!
6:31- whiny me: I hate jogging.
teacher me: Suck it up, Cupcake!
whiny me: Whose stupid idea was this, anyway?
teacher me: You're almost there! Another minute! You can do it!
whiny me: Jogging is dumb. This minute is longer than a normal minute.
teacher me: Stop whining, Foster!
whiny me: (grumble, grumble, grumble)
6:32- Back to walking! Jogging's done for this day! Whee! I love jogging! I love this path! I love the whole world! Creepy, overly-friendly guy is probably just lonely! Buck probably IS the best dog ever!! Sweating isn't really all THAT bad! Maybe I should go around agai-- Whoa, whoa, whoa. Let's not get carried away.
6:40- I pause in the path to pick a couple of very sad black raspberries. It's been too dry, so they're small, but still tasty. I finish the route and jump back into the car, feeling a little bit like everything is awesome. It's not really. Real life will be waiting for me, when I come down off the post-exercise high. But in the meantime, I guess there's no reason not to enjoy it while it lasts, right?
Friday, June 22, 2012
Thursday, June 21, 2012
Forewarned is Forearmed
Hello friends!
I'm just stopping in on my way to bed, to let you know that I'm feeling the writing itch. Haven't narrowed it down to a topic yet, but I anticipate a post in the near future. And I just realized that my next post will be #200! Isn't that crazy?!? It's like a blogging anniversary!
Um. Yah. That's all I have to say for now. And so, until we meet again I remain
Faithful Yours,
Leslie :)
I'm just stopping in on my way to bed, to let you know that I'm feeling the writing itch. Haven't narrowed it down to a topic yet, but I anticipate a post in the near future. And I just realized that my next post will be #200! Isn't that crazy?!? It's like a blogging anniversary!
Um. Yah. That's all I have to say for now. And so, until we meet again I remain
Faithful Yours,
Leslie :)
Wednesday, June 6, 2012
On Cleaning the Floors
The thing about cleaning is, I don't like to do it. I mean, I'm anti-mold-growing. But I can happily go months without cleaning my shower. Know why? First, I usually don't have my contacts in when I shower, so I can't see the dirt. Second, I know it's only my own dirt anyway, so it doesn't gross me out.
Same goes for washing the floors. I really would rather not wash my floors. My apartment is all hardwood, so though it's just a one bedroom, sweeping and washing all the floors is an event. Particularly because I once cleaned houses professionally and will probably never again be able to bring myself to mop a floor. It's like going back to canned pineapple after you've eaten it fresh off the plant, still warm from the sun. Not really possible.
And so. There are some aspects of house cleaning that get a little (ahem) overlooked in my world. But this weekend my aunt and uncle are going to spend the night at my place, and so I have kicked myself into cleaning gear. Last weekend I cleaned the shower. That was a really good idea. And today I finally swept all the floors, and washed the bathroom and kitchen floors.
As I scrubbed, I was inspired to write this blog about why you shouldn't wait six month to clean your floors. I thought if you read it, it might inspire you to not wait six months to clean YOUR floors. If, in fact, there is anyone else in the blog-reading world that waits that long. I'd like to think there is.
Here goes.
Why You Shouldn't Wait Six Months Between Floor Cleanings
- Dust bunnies the size of your head are scary. Sort of mesmerizing, but scary nonetheless.
-After such a long hiatus, cleaning might make your beta fish look at you in shock. You might fear that the sudden flurry of cleaning could send him into fishy-cardiac arrest, which would make you feel really sad as you'd be alone in the apartment again.
-You're likely to have visions of your deceased mother closing her eyes and shaking her head in dismay at how terribly she failed to raise you to be a responsible, floor-sweeping woman. Then you might feel a little bit guilty. But then you might think about how your mom didn't like to clean, either. So that's a way you're similar. And that would make you feel happy.
-Scrubbing six months of dirt off the bathroom linoleum is a lot harder than scrubbing a couple weeks' dirt off the bathroom linoleum.
-Your thoughts might turn to that annoying Proverbs 31 woman. I bet she never went six months without cleaning her floors. Course, she had maids, so I'm not sure it counts. No, definitely an unfair comparison.
-Sweeping the floor should not always be an event meriting a blog post. As I planned this blog I realized that the last time I swept the floors, I blogged about it. You can read that post here. I suppose it really should be a little more common-place. Shouldn't it?
-You could have been using that tube of chapstick that rolled to the far side of the bed about four months earlier.
-The floors look satisfyingly shiny after their sweeping.
That's about it. Are you feeling inspired? Happy Sweeping!
Same goes for washing the floors. I really would rather not wash my floors. My apartment is all hardwood, so though it's just a one bedroom, sweeping and washing all the floors is an event. Particularly because I once cleaned houses professionally and will probably never again be able to bring myself to mop a floor. It's like going back to canned pineapple after you've eaten it fresh off the plant, still warm from the sun. Not really possible.
And so. There are some aspects of house cleaning that get a little (ahem) overlooked in my world. But this weekend my aunt and uncle are going to spend the night at my place, and so I have kicked myself into cleaning gear. Last weekend I cleaned the shower. That was a really good idea. And today I finally swept all the floors, and washed the bathroom and kitchen floors.
As I scrubbed, I was inspired to write this blog about why you shouldn't wait six month to clean your floors. I thought if you read it, it might inspire you to not wait six months to clean YOUR floors. If, in fact, there is anyone else in the blog-reading world that waits that long. I'd like to think there is.
Here goes.
Why You Shouldn't Wait Six Months Between Floor Cleanings
- Dust bunnies the size of your head are scary. Sort of mesmerizing, but scary nonetheless.
-After such a long hiatus, cleaning might make your beta fish look at you in shock. You might fear that the sudden flurry of cleaning could send him into fishy-cardiac arrest, which would make you feel really sad as you'd be alone in the apartment again.
-You're likely to have visions of your deceased mother closing her eyes and shaking her head in dismay at how terribly she failed to raise you to be a responsible, floor-sweeping woman. Then you might feel a little bit guilty. But then you might think about how your mom didn't like to clean, either. So that's a way you're similar. And that would make you feel happy.
-Scrubbing six months of dirt off the bathroom linoleum is a lot harder than scrubbing a couple weeks' dirt off the bathroom linoleum.
-Your thoughts might turn to that annoying Proverbs 31 woman. I bet she never went six months without cleaning her floors. Course, she had maids, so I'm not sure it counts. No, definitely an unfair comparison.
-Sweeping the floor should not always be an event meriting a blog post. As I planned this blog I realized that the last time I swept the floors, I blogged about it. You can read that post here. I suppose it really should be a little more common-place. Shouldn't it?
-You could have been using that tube of chapstick that rolled to the far side of the bed about four months earlier.
-The floors look satisfyingly shiny after their sweeping.
That's about it. Are you feeling inspired? Happy Sweeping!
Friday, May 11, 2012
New Inspired Article
Hey again! Just a note to let you know that my latest Inspired By Family magazine article is live now. It's about my mom. You can click on the link to the right to read it.
How To Make Cheese Hamburg
Tonight I was reading through some essays my students wrote for me. Their assignment was to practice with a process essay by writing a recipe. Since the majority of my class are guys who were raised in places where men don't cook, I clarified that the recipe doesn't have to be complex. My example recipe was a PB&J.
In honor of the season of burgers being upon us, and because I found it so delightful, I now present to you, "How to make cheese hamburg", unedited except for the sake of clarification.
It easy to make hamburg
1. go to supermarket. go to meat-selection
find the best beef burgers and cheese
don't forget burger bread
2. In the kitchen, turn on the ovan at 300 degrees to preheat
put the beef burger into ovan.
bake the beef for 20 minutes. then flip it. and
bake them for 20 minutes.
3. Take the beef out. open the hamburg bread.
Then, put some lettuce and a pices of tomato lettuce
and onions (optional)
After that, put some mayonnaise and some tichup
So you finish your hamburg and enjoy it. if you
went, you can eater it with juice.
Happy grilling, everyone!
In honor of the season of burgers being upon us, and because I found it so delightful, I now present to you, "How to make cheese hamburg", unedited except for the sake of clarification.
It easy to make hamburg
1. go to supermarket. go to meat-selection
find the best beef burgers and cheese
don't forget burger bread
2. In the kitchen, turn on the ovan at 300 degrees to preheat
put the beef burger into ovan.
bake the beef for 20 minutes. then flip it. and
bake them for 20 minutes.
3. Take the beef out. open the hamburg bread.
Then, put some lettuce and a pices of tomato lettuce
and onions (optional)
After that, put some mayonnaise and some tichup
So you finish your hamburg and enjoy it. if you
went, you can eater it with juice.
Happy grilling, everyone!
Monday, April 16, 2012
From Russia With Love
I know. It's a world-record. Three posts in four days. Do try to control yourself.
So, when I was clearing out some folders and notebooks from times past (Dad, fewer things to move!!) I ran across this letter that I wrote during a class while I was in Russia. Yes, I would like you to think that I was always listening during those afternoon lectures, but I wasn't. :) I found the letter pleasing to read, and I decided to copy it here, and tag as many of the people mentioned as possible, so we can all reminisce together. I didn't date the letter, but it would have been written in the fall of 2001.
Dear Jooiee [Joy Huizinga; college roommate and close friend],
Sometimes listening intently to political convos is just not a realistic option. It is at these times that writing to a good friend is a good alternative.
I have now been in Russia for 61 days. I will be here for 45 more days. These facts seem strange. Please note that I just counted those numbers up- I'm not keeping track, so wipe that smug, "Leslie, you know Better!" smirk off your face, chica! :)
But anywho, I've been at my host family's house for almost 2 weeks now. Things are going reasonably well. They have two cats (one hates me) and a rat (which resides in my room). Masha (short for Maria) is 19, and my primary contact. Zhyenya (short for Yevgeny, Russian equivalent to Eugene) is 14, and your typical squirrelly baby-teen. Mama Vera is petite, smiley, and seems to have at least a small obsession with beauty or appearance. She's a good cook. Papa Zhyenya is kindof burly and a little awkward with me, in an endearing sort of way. We all get along alright. The parents speak no English, which is an interesting exercise for us, considering my pathetic Russian language abilities (or lack thereof).
This Thursday is a party for out group and the Russian students that help us. There are two bad things implied in the previous sentence. 1. We're expected to prepare talent show type things for the entertainment (singing, playing an instrument, skits, poetry, dances, etc.); and 2. the second half of the party will be a dance, wherein I will struggle to extricate myself from multiple, well-meaning Russians, who are trying to pull me onto the dance floor. I'm singing a Jennifer Knapp song. Sid, our student assistant, is accompanying me on the guitar and vocally. I think another girl (Maria) is going to do some harmony, too. We've yet to practice, though the party is day after tomorrow. No need to rush into these things... Oh, it's a dress-up in a costume party, and let me tell you how much I would love to shop at a second hand store! No resources!!
In other news, I now again have two new second cousins that I've never seen. Preston (born a couple of days ago) and Sarah (born the week I left). This seems to be a regular occurrence lately. Christmas is going to be so wonderful. Whenever I think about it, I smile inside. Warm, cozy home. Family and friends. Candlelight Christmas Eve service with church family. American Christmas food. Excitement and secrets. Relaxation and safety. My own culture. Whee!!
I wonder how you are. I wonder if you like your classes; if you're tried unsuccessfully to study in the Philathia lounge lately; if you've eaten a cheese popper from Alpha in the past week; when the last time you put on mascara instead of being productive was (sorry about the awkward syntax there). I miss you, Jooiee. I miss knowing what's going on in your life and talking for a long time and even not talking sometimes. You're a nice girl. IYQ.
Here's a list of people I miss and would like you to greet for me, ok? Jessica Gillet. Becky Monoit. Liz Sprankle. Renessa Rauch (if she hasn't left yet). Kristen Riddick. Kate Millin. Julie Galle. Megan Reeder. Katie James. There are more, but I don't want to overwhelm you.
I went to Moscow this past weekend. I had an awesome time. When we go back at the end of the semester, I'm going to take a picture of me running toward the embassy, like the girl on The Saint. [this didn't happen because of 9/11, which occurred during my semester in Russia; I decided it wasn't worth the risk of running frantically toward the embassy with everyone on high alert, even at the cost of a super-cool picture]
I miss you and will see you in a couple of months.
Love,
Leslie :)
So, when I was clearing out some folders and notebooks from times past (Dad, fewer things to move!!) I ran across this letter that I wrote during a class while I was in Russia. Yes, I would like you to think that I was always listening during those afternoon lectures, but I wasn't. :) I found the letter pleasing to read, and I decided to copy it here, and tag as many of the people mentioned as possible, so we can all reminisce together. I didn't date the letter, but it would have been written in the fall of 2001.
Dear Jooiee [Joy Huizinga; college roommate and close friend],
Sometimes listening intently to political convos is just not a realistic option. It is at these times that writing to a good friend is a good alternative.
I have now been in Russia for 61 days. I will be here for 45 more days. These facts seem strange. Please note that I just counted those numbers up- I'm not keeping track, so wipe that smug, "Leslie, you know Better!" smirk off your face, chica! :)
But anywho, I've been at my host family's house for almost 2 weeks now. Things are going reasonably well. They have two cats (one hates me) and a rat (which resides in my room). Masha (short for Maria) is 19, and my primary contact. Zhyenya (short for Yevgeny, Russian equivalent to Eugene) is 14, and your typical squirrelly baby-teen. Mama Vera is petite, smiley, and seems to have at least a small obsession with beauty or appearance. She's a good cook. Papa Zhyenya is kindof burly and a little awkward with me, in an endearing sort of way. We all get along alright. The parents speak no English, which is an interesting exercise for us, considering my pathetic Russian language abilities (or lack thereof).
This Thursday is a party for out group and the Russian students that help us. There are two bad things implied in the previous sentence. 1. We're expected to prepare talent show type things for the entertainment (singing, playing an instrument, skits, poetry, dances, etc.); and 2. the second half of the party will be a dance, wherein I will struggle to extricate myself from multiple, well-meaning Russians, who are trying to pull me onto the dance floor. I'm singing a Jennifer Knapp song. Sid, our student assistant, is accompanying me on the guitar and vocally. I think another girl (Maria) is going to do some harmony, too. We've yet to practice, though the party is day after tomorrow. No need to rush into these things... Oh, it's a dress-up in a costume party, and let me tell you how much I would love to shop at a second hand store! No resources!!
In other news, I now again have two new second cousins that I've never seen. Preston (born a couple of days ago) and Sarah (born the week I left). This seems to be a regular occurrence lately. Christmas is going to be so wonderful. Whenever I think about it, I smile inside. Warm, cozy home. Family and friends. Candlelight Christmas Eve service with church family. American Christmas food. Excitement and secrets. Relaxation and safety. My own culture. Whee!!
I wonder how you are. I wonder if you like your classes; if you're tried unsuccessfully to study in the Philathia lounge lately; if you've eaten a cheese popper from Alpha in the past week; when the last time you put on mascara instead of being productive was (sorry about the awkward syntax there). I miss you, Jooiee. I miss knowing what's going on in your life and talking for a long time and even not talking sometimes. You're a nice girl. IYQ.
Here's a list of people I miss and would like you to greet for me, ok? Jessica Gillet. Becky Monoit. Liz Sprankle. Renessa Rauch (if she hasn't left yet). Kristen Riddick. Kate Millin. Julie Galle. Megan Reeder. Katie James. There are more, but I don't want to overwhelm you.
I went to Moscow this past weekend. I had an awesome time. When we go back at the end of the semester, I'm going to take a picture of me running toward the embassy, like the girl on The Saint. [this didn't happen because of 9/11, which occurred during my semester in Russia; I decided it wasn't worth the risk of running frantically toward the embassy with everyone on high alert, even at the cost of a super-cool picture]
I miss you and will see you in a couple of months.
Love,
Leslie :)
New Article on Inspired by Family
Hey Kids! My latest article on Inspired by Family online magazine has gone live! If you want to read it, you can follow the link to the right. It's the one about goldfish. Happy reading!
Saturday, April 14, 2012
Rollin' With the Punches
Today I took eight of my students on the public bus to Wal-Mart to give them a chance to use some of the new grammar we've been learning. Each month we get to do something like this, as part of the curriculum. It's great; one chance to do teaching the way I would like to- fun, real-life stuff.
So after attendance this morning, we headed out to the bus stop. All the students got to ride free with their ID cards. I, being merely a teacher, got to pay my own way. Whatever.
We arrived at Wally World and I gave the run down: do this; don't do that; be back here for the next bus at 9:20 sharp. DON'T be late; we WILL leave you. :) Have fun! We went our separate ways.
I sat in the entryway for about 10 minutes, finishing some grading I had brought along. About every five minutes, an obnoxious recording of "Bob the Builder" would go off in one of the games behind me. I headed into the store to pick up a couple things I needed, and checked out just in time to get to the meeting place a few minutes early.
As I walked out of the store, I saw a bus pulling away from the parking area. I had a moment of panic, but then thought, "Nah, that can't be our bus. It's five minutes early!" As the bus turned, I could see the number on the back. 7. Our bus.
I looked over at the bench by the stop. Two of my eight students were there. No good running for it. I couldn't leave 6 students behind. I closed my eyes and took a breath. The next bus comes in 30 minutes. That will put us back at school about 20 minutes after my next class starts. Less than ideal.
I stroll slowly over to where my two students are calmly chatting, oblivious to the fact that their bus just took off. "Hey guys," I said.
"Teacher, we are on time!" one student replied proudly. He and I had a Come to Jesus talk last week about his consistent tardiness.
"Yeah!" I replied. "In fact, you're early! It's not even 9:20 yet. Did you see the bus leave?"
"Is that our bus??"
"Um, yes. It came early. We missed it."
The students looked at each other. I could see the gleam of recognition. I might have a bit of a situation on my hands, but they've gotten a Get Out of Jail Free card; they're going to miss some class without any penalty. I dig out my cell phone and call my boss.
No answer. I call his boss. No answer. I call the general office phone, mentally demanding that someone answer. I don't have any other numbers. More students filter out of the store, and get filled in on the exciting developments by their classmates. Someone answers the phone.
Happily, my uber-gracious co-worker offers to babysit my computer lab (my next class) until I show up. In other good news, my current students are also in the lab, so they're not going to be late for another teacher. And so. Twenty-five minutes until the next bus. I explain the situation to the students.
"Teacher, I say this morning I should drive. It is better. Next time, I will drive for us."
"Miss Foster, can we get something to eat?"
"Teacher, let's walk back." (yes, that should only take an hour or so)
"Teacher, school finished today. We are go home."
I gave them 15 minutes to get food, giving them a firm reminder that I will leave them this time, even if I'm the only one on the bus back. They chuckle and disperse again. A few stay at the bench with me. Before long the smart phones and iPods have appeared as if by magic. Soon someone's playing an Arabic song that everyone (except me) knows. It's a pop tune, catchy.
Sometimes life seems really surreal. Usually when this happens for me, I'm overseas. I'm eating jellyfish tentacles. On accident. Or looking at the ruins of the Colosseum, trying to wrap my mind around the fact that it was around at the same time as Paul. I'm hiking up a mountain, getting a picture next to a pillar that marks a place that's higher than anywhere in the continental US. Or sweating through a church dedication ceremony in the middle of nowhere. But today I had one of those moments in DeKalb, IL.
As I sat on a bench outside of Wal-Mart with six Saudi men, listening to them sing along to an Arabic pop song, I thought about how life is funny. Not always good. Not always bad. But rarely boring.
So after attendance this morning, we headed out to the bus stop. All the students got to ride free with their ID cards. I, being merely a teacher, got to pay my own way. Whatever.
We arrived at Wally World and I gave the run down: do this; don't do that; be back here for the next bus at 9:20 sharp. DON'T be late; we WILL leave you. :) Have fun! We went our separate ways.
I sat in the entryway for about 10 minutes, finishing some grading I had brought along. About every five minutes, an obnoxious recording of "Bob the Builder" would go off in one of the games behind me. I headed into the store to pick up a couple things I needed, and checked out just in time to get to the meeting place a few minutes early.
As I walked out of the store, I saw a bus pulling away from the parking area. I had a moment of panic, but then thought, "Nah, that can't be our bus. It's five minutes early!" As the bus turned, I could see the number on the back. 7. Our bus.
I looked over at the bench by the stop. Two of my eight students were there. No good running for it. I couldn't leave 6 students behind. I closed my eyes and took a breath. The next bus comes in 30 minutes. That will put us back at school about 20 minutes after my next class starts. Less than ideal.
I stroll slowly over to where my two students are calmly chatting, oblivious to the fact that their bus just took off. "Hey guys," I said.
"Teacher, we are on time!" one student replied proudly. He and I had a Come to Jesus talk last week about his consistent tardiness.
"Yeah!" I replied. "In fact, you're early! It's not even 9:20 yet. Did you see the bus leave?"
"Is that our bus??"
"Um, yes. It came early. We missed it."
The students looked at each other. I could see the gleam of recognition. I might have a bit of a situation on my hands, but they've gotten a Get Out of Jail Free card; they're going to miss some class without any penalty. I dig out my cell phone and call my boss.
No answer. I call his boss. No answer. I call the general office phone, mentally demanding that someone answer. I don't have any other numbers. More students filter out of the store, and get filled in on the exciting developments by their classmates. Someone answers the phone.
Happily, my uber-gracious co-worker offers to babysit my computer lab (my next class) until I show up. In other good news, my current students are also in the lab, so they're not going to be late for another teacher. And so. Twenty-five minutes until the next bus. I explain the situation to the students.
"Teacher, I say this morning I should drive. It is better. Next time, I will drive for us."
"Miss Foster, can we get something to eat?"
"Teacher, let's walk back." (yes, that should only take an hour or so)
"Teacher, school finished today. We are go home."
I gave them 15 minutes to get food, giving them a firm reminder that I will leave them this time, even if I'm the only one on the bus back. They chuckle and disperse again. A few stay at the bench with me. Before long the smart phones and iPods have appeared as if by magic. Soon someone's playing an Arabic song that everyone (except me) knows. It's a pop tune, catchy.
Sometimes life seems really surreal. Usually when this happens for me, I'm overseas. I'm eating jellyfish tentacles. On accident. Or looking at the ruins of the Colosseum, trying to wrap my mind around the fact that it was around at the same time as Paul. I'm hiking up a mountain, getting a picture next to a pillar that marks a place that's higher than anywhere in the continental US. Or sweating through a church dedication ceremony in the middle of nowhere. But today I had one of those moments in DeKalb, IL.
As I sat on a bench outside of Wal-Mart with six Saudi men, listening to them sing along to an Arabic pop song, I thought about how life is funny. Not always good. Not always bad. But rarely boring.
Thursday, March 22, 2012
A Little Less Lonely
Earlier this week I was leaving the computer lab at work on my way to my next class. A student (who seems to have developed a bit of a crush on me) was coming into the lab at the same time. He's Saudi. He teasingly blocked the doorway. I moved right to go around, but he moved to block my way. We're saying hello as this happens. I move left. He blocks me again.
We stand there, at an impasse. I can't touch him to move him out of the way (cultural no-no), and I don't want to make a big deal of it. I'm not sure what to do, and I'm feeling a little annoyed, because I want to get to my next class. Suddenly, one of the guys in my lab comes from behind me, walks past me, and proceeds to push the guy physically out of the way. Just nonchalantly backs him out of the doorway and up against the wall. He pins him there while I walk past. It was all in good fun, and they were both chuckling as I left.
I felt lots of things- relief to be out of an awkward situation; amusement at the matter-of-fact way that this other guy just appointed himself my personal body guard; but mostly- and most unusually, in my world- I felt protected. Not that I was in any danger, but I still felt like someone was looking out for me, without being asked to; just because it needed to be done.
It's a special thing- knowing that someone is making it their business to protect you. Not because they have to, but because they want to. Because they care about what happens to you. Enough to take on danger in order to keep you safe. It makes the world seem a little less lonely.
I'm pretty sure that wasn't on my student's mind the other day. But I hope one day soon it will be on someone's mind. Because being protected is a feeling I would like to experience more often.
We stand there, at an impasse. I can't touch him to move him out of the way (cultural no-no), and I don't want to make a big deal of it. I'm not sure what to do, and I'm feeling a little annoyed, because I want to get to my next class. Suddenly, one of the guys in my lab comes from behind me, walks past me, and proceeds to push the guy physically out of the way. Just nonchalantly backs him out of the doorway and up against the wall. He pins him there while I walk past. It was all in good fun, and they were both chuckling as I left.
I felt lots of things- relief to be out of an awkward situation; amusement at the matter-of-fact way that this other guy just appointed himself my personal body guard; but mostly- and most unusually, in my world- I felt protected. Not that I was in any danger, but I still felt like someone was looking out for me, without being asked to; just because it needed to be done.
It's a special thing- knowing that someone is making it their business to protect you. Not because they have to, but because they want to. Because they care about what happens to you. Enough to take on danger in order to keep you safe. It makes the world seem a little less lonely.
I'm pretty sure that wasn't on my student's mind the other day. But I hope one day soon it will be on someone's mind. Because being protected is a feeling I would like to experience more often.
Saturday, March 3, 2012
A Day In The Life
I float up from the deep well of sleep. With my eyes still closed I can tell that it is too light. A split-second of terror before I remember that it's Saturday. Blessed, glorious Saturday. I open my eyes and stare at the still-bare wall. I should hang something there. But the walls are cement, and hanging stuff's a pain. I yawn, stretch, and turn off the sound machine. It's on full-blast, drowning out the rockin' beer-and-pizza party that was still going on last night in the apartment below me when I finally went to bed a little after 1am. I have to turn off the machine before I take out the ear plugs, or it sound hurts my early-morning ears.
I roll over and enjoy the knowledge that I don't have to get up if I don't want to. I DO want to get up, but that's not the point. I make a note that I should wash the sheets in this week's load of laundry.
An hour later I'm on my way to Blain's Farm and Fleet. In that hour I've eaten breakfast (my last container of greek yogurt, thereby making today's grocery run more or less a necessity), checked email, started the laundry, and narrowly escaped a nasty fall down my icy-slick stairs. I listen to Rascal Flatts croon about Mayberry as I drive north, past the magical divide between DeKalb and Sycamore, where BFF is located.
[Editor's Note: it is, no doubt, NOT a coincidence that my favorite store's initials are BFF. Really? How could that not be significant?]
I need a broom. I've lived in the US for 8 months now. I really need a broom. I could get a broom at Wal-Mart, probably, but it's a good excuse to go to BFF. I see a dad and two kids while I mosey down the aisles. All three are wearing cowboy boots. I refrain, with some difficulty, from approaching them for a picture. While there I also discover a delightfully inexpensive solution to my electrical outlet problem. A $0.39 adapter that will allow me to plug a grounded plug into an ungrounded outlet. God bless you, BFF! I bought three.
Next I headed to the fancy-pants grocery store here, Hyvee. I was there once before. On my very first day in DeKalb, in fact. I was trying to get to Wal-Mart, but got lost and eventually ended up there. I got what I needed, but I hadn't been back because Wal-Mart is cheaper. But this week a co-worker told me their produce is really good, so I decide to try again.
The produce section IS impressive. Lots of selection, including organic, some local, and the prices seemed to be about the same as Wally World. But the excitement of the day comes in my discovery of the WHOLE FOOD SECTION. To my great delight, they carry lots of hard-to-find, usually healthier-for-you items, like organic stuff, glutten free products, grains and flours that are less known in the Midwest, like rye, quinoa, semolina, etc. And perhaps MOST exciting, you can buy spices there in bulk! Ironically, this is exciting for me because I always wish I could buy LESS than the whole container of a spice. I learned a few years ago that spices lose their flavor with time, and there are only a few that I use enough to merit a whole jar. I gaze. I marvel. I help a lady look for the taco seasoning container. I buy some cayenne pepper. And finally, reluctantly, I move on.
Back home, I switch the laundry in the basement and then lug my grocery treasures...and my broom...up to my third floor apartment. On my first trip in, I realize that I have forgotten to return my RedBox movie during my errands. Dangit. I unload everything and check email. A message from my car insurance. Awesome. My next six months is due at the end of the month. Just in time to swallow up a good chunk of my tax return. I chat with the nice rep lady, who finds me an extra $18 discount while I wash apples and pears and grapes. Not a lot, but I'd rather have $18 than give it to them, I suppose.
After making another trip to the basement to collect my now-clean-and-dry clothes, I decide it's time to sweep. I free my new broom from its plastic wrapping (why is it necessary to wrap a broom, I ask you? For the love of Pete, people, stop packaging our world to death!) and move my bed away from the wall.
Gray dust monsters, grown from their bunny childhoods on a healthy diet of my hair and DeKalb's dust, swirl around my new broom, daring us to trap them. I sweep and sweep and sweep. This apartment is much smaller than my last, but it's still a lot of hardwood floor to sweep. Eventually I have corralled the dust monsters into a pile, roughly the size of my head. It's gross. I decide the broom was a good idea.
Laundry is folded and put away, floors are clean...er. Bed is remade, and ready- as it happens- for me to jump in for a nap. No ear plugs or sound machines needed this time. Probably because the frat boys downstairs are still sleeping off last night's revelries. I ponder, not for the first time this weekend, how much I would love to not share walls with college students. I sleep.
After the nap I reheat some chicken enchiladas (my most successful cooking experiment in awhile) and settle in on the couch to watch a movie I borrowed from the library called The Children of Huang Shi. It's based on a true story of a British man who went to China in 1937 during the unofficial war between Japan and China. He ends up taking about 60 orphan boys on a 700 mile trip to safety, escaping both the Japanese army (who would like to kill them) and the Chinese, communist army (who would like to force them to be soldiers). It's a sad and stirring movie. I cry and laugh, and look forward to the time when I will not be watching movies alone more often than not.
And that brings us up to the present. I felt the writing itch. Decided to write a post. I look at the mess of my kitchen table/desk, and think I should prune that a bit. I think happily that tomorrow is Sunday, and after the spiritual food of the church service, I will hopefully get to have some social and physical food at lunch with some friends somewhere. It hasn't been a particularly thrilling day, but it's been good. I am thankful.
I roll over and enjoy the knowledge that I don't have to get up if I don't want to. I DO want to get up, but that's not the point. I make a note that I should wash the sheets in this week's load of laundry.
An hour later I'm on my way to Blain's Farm and Fleet. In that hour I've eaten breakfast (my last container of greek yogurt, thereby making today's grocery run more or less a necessity), checked email, started the laundry, and narrowly escaped a nasty fall down my icy-slick stairs. I listen to Rascal Flatts croon about Mayberry as I drive north, past the magical divide between DeKalb and Sycamore, where BFF is located.
[Editor's Note: it is, no doubt, NOT a coincidence that my favorite store's initials are BFF. Really? How could that not be significant?]
I need a broom. I've lived in the US for 8 months now. I really need a broom. I could get a broom at Wal-Mart, probably, but it's a good excuse to go to BFF. I see a dad and two kids while I mosey down the aisles. All three are wearing cowboy boots. I refrain, with some difficulty, from approaching them for a picture. While there I also discover a delightfully inexpensive solution to my electrical outlet problem. A $0.39 adapter that will allow me to plug a grounded plug into an ungrounded outlet. God bless you, BFF! I bought three.
Next I headed to the fancy-pants grocery store here, Hyvee. I was there once before. On my very first day in DeKalb, in fact. I was trying to get to Wal-Mart, but got lost and eventually ended up there. I got what I needed, but I hadn't been back because Wal-Mart is cheaper. But this week a co-worker told me their produce is really good, so I decide to try again.
The produce section IS impressive. Lots of selection, including organic, some local, and the prices seemed to be about the same as Wally World. But the excitement of the day comes in my discovery of the WHOLE FOOD SECTION. To my great delight, they carry lots of hard-to-find, usually healthier-for-you items, like organic stuff, glutten free products, grains and flours that are less known in the Midwest, like rye, quinoa, semolina, etc. And perhaps MOST exciting, you can buy spices there in bulk! Ironically, this is exciting for me because I always wish I could buy LESS than the whole container of a spice. I learned a few years ago that spices lose their flavor with time, and there are only a few that I use enough to merit a whole jar. I gaze. I marvel. I help a lady look for the taco seasoning container. I buy some cayenne pepper. And finally, reluctantly, I move on.
Back home, I switch the laundry in the basement and then lug my grocery treasures...and my broom...up to my third floor apartment. On my first trip in, I realize that I have forgotten to return my RedBox movie during my errands. Dangit. I unload everything and check email. A message from my car insurance. Awesome. My next six months is due at the end of the month. Just in time to swallow up a good chunk of my tax return. I chat with the nice rep lady, who finds me an extra $18 discount while I wash apples and pears and grapes. Not a lot, but I'd rather have $18 than give it to them, I suppose.
After making another trip to the basement to collect my now-clean-and-dry clothes, I decide it's time to sweep. I free my new broom from its plastic wrapping (why is it necessary to wrap a broom, I ask you? For the love of Pete, people, stop packaging our world to death!) and move my bed away from the wall.
Gray dust monsters, grown from their bunny childhoods on a healthy diet of my hair and DeKalb's dust, swirl around my new broom, daring us to trap them. I sweep and sweep and sweep. This apartment is much smaller than my last, but it's still a lot of hardwood floor to sweep. Eventually I have corralled the dust monsters into a pile, roughly the size of my head. It's gross. I decide the broom was a good idea.
Laundry is folded and put away, floors are clean...er. Bed is remade, and ready- as it happens- for me to jump in for a nap. No ear plugs or sound machines needed this time. Probably because the frat boys downstairs are still sleeping off last night's revelries. I ponder, not for the first time this weekend, how much I would love to not share walls with college students. I sleep.
After the nap I reheat some chicken enchiladas (my most successful cooking experiment in awhile) and settle in on the couch to watch a movie I borrowed from the library called The Children of Huang Shi. It's based on a true story of a British man who went to China in 1937 during the unofficial war between Japan and China. He ends up taking about 60 orphan boys on a 700 mile trip to safety, escaping both the Japanese army (who would like to kill them) and the Chinese, communist army (who would like to force them to be soldiers). It's a sad and stirring movie. I cry and laugh, and look forward to the time when I will not be watching movies alone more often than not.
And that brings us up to the present. I felt the writing itch. Decided to write a post. I look at the mess of my kitchen table/desk, and think I should prune that a bit. I think happily that tomorrow is Sunday, and after the spiritual food of the church service, I will hopefully get to have some social and physical food at lunch with some friends somewhere. It hasn't been a particularly thrilling day, but it's been good. I am thankful.
Sunday, February 12, 2012
Harmony
It's interesting to me how I remember learning some skills quite vividly, and how I have zero recollection of learning others. Evidence reveals that at some point, I learned to brush my teeth and talk and add. I don't remember learning those things. But I DO remember the exact moment when reading made sense to me. I remember Grandma Foster teaching me how to put those tight little Barbie doll pants on the Barbie (the key is BOTH legs at the SAME TIME). I remember learning that when you cut a flower (even with the good intention of presenting it to Grandma Nell, who loved flowers), it would die. (sorry, Grandma Nell) I remember learning to tie my shoes. Dad taught me, on his GIANT work boots, on the brown carpeted floor in the living room of our old house. (incidentally, I was the fastest shoe-tie-er amongst my siblings. I was quite proud of that.) And I remember learning how to sing harmony.
My Grandpa Foster taught me, though I'm not sure if he realized it. I was riding in the backseat of his car, sandwiched between my sister, Brittony, and my cousin, Tami. Grandma was in her seat in the passenger side in the front of the car. I don't remember where we were going, but chances are good that we three were being returned to our homes from a visit to Ludlow Falls. In any case, Grandpa, a proud barbershop singer, was teaching us a new song to pass the travel time.
The song was called "Wait 'Til the Sun Shines, Nellie". He taught us the melody, and we all sang that through a few times, and then he said, "Leslie, you sing with me this time." And so I did. This time Britt and Tami sang the melody and Grandpa sang other notes, similar to, but not the same as, what the girls were doing. I followed along. It was easy. The notes made sense in my head. I could almost hear them in my head before I heard them with my ears.
Grandpa must have said something nice about how I was doing. I don't remember any particular words, but I remember feeling very proud, and that kind of pride in an accomplishment always meant that someone had complimented me verbally. I would imagine it was something pretty mild, like "Very good!" or "Nice job!" But whatever he said, I was hooked.
From that moment, the way I heard music changed. Once I knew about this other kind of singing, I always heard it when music played. Whether I sang it or not, I heard it. Chords, playing in my mind. Sometimes I have trouble knowing which of the notes is the melody, because the harmony lines play so loudly in my mind.
When I sing harmony, it's like I'm dancing. Like dancing with my voice.
Melody...it's ok, too. But it's so straight-laced. When you sing melody, you have very little room for creativity. Like you're dancing inside of a metal, body-shaped cage. It moves to allow you to follow the steps, but you can't really improvise much.
But harmony? If harmony is a dance, it's freestyle. Like dancing freestyle in a weightless environment. It's not learned steps; it's a feeling. It's going higher...a third, a fifth...or lower...or moving back and forth, circling the melody and coming back.
And when you get a second harmonic part? Oh man. Tight, three-part harmony? I'm pretty sure that's what we'll be hearing when we stand in the presence of the Father one day. Singin' harmony with the angels. A vocal dance of praise and joy and beauty.
And so. I am thankful for the teachers in my life. I am thankful to you, Grandpa Foster, for introducing me to harmony, and simply letting me know that I did it well.
My Grandpa Foster taught me, though I'm not sure if he realized it. I was riding in the backseat of his car, sandwiched between my sister, Brittony, and my cousin, Tami. Grandma was in her seat in the passenger side in the front of the car. I don't remember where we were going, but chances are good that we three were being returned to our homes from a visit to Ludlow Falls. In any case, Grandpa, a proud barbershop singer, was teaching us a new song to pass the travel time.
The song was called "Wait 'Til the Sun Shines, Nellie". He taught us the melody, and we all sang that through a few times, and then he said, "Leslie, you sing with me this time." And so I did. This time Britt and Tami sang the melody and Grandpa sang other notes, similar to, but not the same as, what the girls were doing. I followed along. It was easy. The notes made sense in my head. I could almost hear them in my head before I heard them with my ears.
Grandpa must have said something nice about how I was doing. I don't remember any particular words, but I remember feeling very proud, and that kind of pride in an accomplishment always meant that someone had complimented me verbally. I would imagine it was something pretty mild, like "Very good!" or "Nice job!" But whatever he said, I was hooked.
From that moment, the way I heard music changed. Once I knew about this other kind of singing, I always heard it when music played. Whether I sang it or not, I heard it. Chords, playing in my mind. Sometimes I have trouble knowing which of the notes is the melody, because the harmony lines play so loudly in my mind.
When I sing harmony, it's like I'm dancing. Like dancing with my voice.
Melody...it's ok, too. But it's so straight-laced. When you sing melody, you have very little room for creativity. Like you're dancing inside of a metal, body-shaped cage. It moves to allow you to follow the steps, but you can't really improvise much.
But harmony? If harmony is a dance, it's freestyle. Like dancing freestyle in a weightless environment. It's not learned steps; it's a feeling. It's going higher...a third, a fifth...or lower...or moving back and forth, circling the melody and coming back.
And when you get a second harmonic part? Oh man. Tight, three-part harmony? I'm pretty sure that's what we'll be hearing when we stand in the presence of the Father one day. Singin' harmony with the angels. A vocal dance of praise and joy and beauty.
And so. I am thankful for the teachers in my life. I am thankful to you, Grandpa Foster, for introducing me to harmony, and simply letting me know that I did it well.
Friday, February 10, 2012
Monday, February 6, 2012
So today I found a C. S. Lewis quote on a friend's facebook page that is EXACTLY what I have tried to tell people on multiple occassions, but always with far less efficiency of speech. I love this quote SO MUCH that I decided to post it. Ready?
"We're not doubting that God will do what's best for us. We're wondering how painful the best will turn out to be." -C.S. Lewis
This is what I was trying to say in this blog post (link here). Just so you know.
Also, I think my second article for Inspired By Family Magazine will go live in the next couple days, in case you want to keep an eye out for it.
"We're not doubting that God will do what's best for us. We're wondering how painful the best will turn out to be." -C.S. Lewis
This is what I was trying to say in this blog post (link here). Just so you know.
Also, I think my second article for Inspired By Family Magazine will go live in the next couple days, in case you want to keep an eye out for it.
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
Inspired Magazine
Hi Everyone!
Recently, a friend asked me if I would be a contributing author for an online magazine that she's involved with. I agreed, and my first article for Inspired By Family went live a couple days ago. If you want to check it out, click on the link on the right. My article is about New Year's Resolutions.
Recently, a friend asked me if I would be a contributing author for an online magazine that she's involved with. I agreed, and my first article for Inspired By Family went live a couple days ago. If you want to check it out, click on the link on the right. My article is about New Year's Resolutions.
Sunday, January 8, 2012
Feelings
Warning: This post is about my feelings. If you're male, you may opt to abort now. Even if you're ok with feelings, if you're into logic, this may not be the post for you, either. Fair warning. What I'm about to say doesn't make a lot of sense. Read at your own risk.
So here it is. I've been here for 4.5 months. But it's really only week one of being committed to being here. (and by that I mean admitting that I don't have anything in the works to help me escape) But I haven't found any other job yet, and there's not really anything on the horizon, so I'm working toward being here. Or maybe I should say, Being Here.
I'm trying to focus on the positive and not complain. A problem I'm finding, though, is that I seem to be hesitant to acknowledge the good stuff. And I think it's because I don't want to be happy here. I don't want to be here very long, and when I leave I want it to be easy. It won't be easy if I'm attached, either to people or things here. And so, though I'm miserable here because I'm not attached to anyone or anything, I seem to want to push away anything that seems good, in some sort of weird, premature self-protecting and yet self-destructive technique.
I believe I feel this way because I'm still so close to saying goodbye to my life in Quito. It's not that I've never gone through the saying goodbye process. But it was only a few months ago. And I had been there for three years, so I had real friendships and my own niche.
Ah, the niche. Niches are good, but they're hard to walk away from. And so I find myself trapped in this place, unable to leave, afraid to really STAY, and uncertain about what might be to come, either way.
Before you say it, let me clarify that it's not because I don't trust God. People say that to me a lot: God's in control. God has a plan. YES! I know! But I also know that God's plan may or may not be what I want. Maybe His plan is not that I get to go home, or have a reliable job, or find someone who loves me, or get to raise a family. Maybe His plan is for me to be alone. Do something hard. Be far from my family. I get that He could want that for me, and I get that those things could further the Kingdom and make me stronger and other good things.
But it takes a certain amount of strength to be ok with that possibility, you know? Selflessness and internal strength and, mmm, something else that I can't identify and that I have sometimes, but not now. Right now, I don't have it in me to be that person. The good Christian who's sacrificial, and ok with giving up what she wants in order for God to use her. I've been that person before. I imagine I'll get there again someday. But right now, I'm far, far away from that place. I just want to be safe. Emotionally safe. Close enough to my family to feel like I'm part of a family again, instead of alone. Surrounded by people who know me and love me anyway, without the hard work of getting to that place in a new relationship. That is what I want, for what it's worth. The End.
So here it is. I've been here for 4.5 months. But it's really only week one of being committed to being here. (and by that I mean admitting that I don't have anything in the works to help me escape) But I haven't found any other job yet, and there's not really anything on the horizon, so I'm working toward being here. Or maybe I should say, Being Here.
I'm trying to focus on the positive and not complain. A problem I'm finding, though, is that I seem to be hesitant to acknowledge the good stuff. And I think it's because I don't want to be happy here. I don't want to be here very long, and when I leave I want it to be easy. It won't be easy if I'm attached, either to people or things here. And so, though I'm miserable here because I'm not attached to anyone or anything, I seem to want to push away anything that seems good, in some sort of weird, premature self-protecting and yet self-destructive technique.
I believe I feel this way because I'm still so close to saying goodbye to my life in Quito. It's not that I've never gone through the saying goodbye process. But it was only a few months ago. And I had been there for three years, so I had real friendships and my own niche.
Ah, the niche. Niches are good, but they're hard to walk away from. And so I find myself trapped in this place, unable to leave, afraid to really STAY, and uncertain about what might be to come, either way.
Before you say it, let me clarify that it's not because I don't trust God. People say that to me a lot: God's in control. God has a plan. YES! I know! But I also know that God's plan may or may not be what I want. Maybe His plan is not that I get to go home, or have a reliable job, or find someone who loves me, or get to raise a family. Maybe His plan is for me to be alone. Do something hard. Be far from my family. I get that He could want that for me, and I get that those things could further the Kingdom and make me stronger and other good things.
But it takes a certain amount of strength to be ok with that possibility, you know? Selflessness and internal strength and, mmm, something else that I can't identify and that I have sometimes, but not now. Right now, I don't have it in me to be that person. The good Christian who's sacrificial, and ok with giving up what she wants in order for God to use her. I've been that person before. I imagine I'll get there again someday. But right now, I'm far, far away from that place. I just want to be safe. Emotionally safe. Close enough to my family to feel like I'm part of a family again, instead of alone. Surrounded by people who know me and love me anyway, without the hard work of getting to that place in a new relationship. That is what I want, for what it's worth. The End.
Friday, January 6, 2012
Car Talk, Part 1
For those who are not familiar with the delightful NPR program, Car Talk, please go here to check it out. I don't like talk shows or car stuff, but I like Car Talk. And so will you. I promise.
But this post is not about Car Talk, the show. It's about my car, Estelle, the 2005 Honda CR-V that I bought in August.
I love Estelle. She's red, and I named her Estelle because she is "old lady red" (as opposed to fire engine red, like my first CR-V, Lily) and Estelle is indisputably an old lady name. I challenge you to name someone under the age of 70 named Estelle. It seemed appropriate.
Though we have only been together a few months, Estelle has served me well. Last weekend, while I was home for New Years, my dad replaced the left headlight bulb for me. Then last night I noticed that now the right headlight bulb is burnt out. Dangit. I don't plan to go home again until Easter, and that's a long time to drive around without a headlight.
And so. I should fix it myself. That makes a smidgen nervous. Not like, get-an-ulcer nervous, just a little unsure and hesitant.
It's funny, you know. I'm 30-wonderful years old. I'm reasonably intelligent and generally fairly competent. I have a high school diploma, a BA, and a masters degree. I've lived, alone, on four continents, in six different countries, and have survived life in five different languages. I can change a poopy diaper without flinching. I know CPR and the heimlich. I can de-clog the sink and bathroom drains or fix the vacuum or any number of other, small fix-it projects. I have my own electric drill and Leatherman tool (both of which I use regularly). And as we know from a previous post (which you can read here), I have plenty of wrenches. I taught MIDDLE SCHOOL, for crying out loud! But I don't know how to change the bulb in my headlamp.
But it's ok. No one needs to know how to do everything. All you need to know is who is the right person to help you.
And so I called my dad. I find that quite often in life, Dad is the right person to call.
Dad hesitantly told me I could probably figure it out (not gonna lie- he didn't sound too confident). I called Autozone, and they assured me that they had the part for $7.99, plus tax. The Honda service center told me it'd be about $30 for them to do it. But where's the challenge in that? Besides, I have more time than money right now. So here's the plan:
Plan A: Get the bulb and ask nicely for the nice Autozone man to help me install it (batting eyelashes and looking forlorn and pitiful only if absolutely necessary)
Plan B: Get the bulb and try to put it in myself, cold turkey
Plan C: Get the bulb and call Dad, who will try to walk me through the process on the phone.
Plan D: Suck it up and go to the Honda service center.
[time lapse: approximately 3 hours]
And so I'm back. I'm happy to report that Estelle now has two working headlights again, and I am only about $10 poorer for it. In the end, we went with plan A, with a little plan C mixed in. The Autozone guy had a little trouble getting the old bulb out, and Dad graciously helped him a bit on the phone. No eyelash batting was required.
So, when it's all said and done, I still don't know how to replace the bulb in my car's headlamp. But I know how to get it done next time, and Estelle is happy to not be lopsided anymore. All's well that ends well.
[Editor's Note: The author would like to thank Tom Foster and Autozone guy for their assistance and expertise related to the events in this blog post.]
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