A question of modesty

There are so many uses of the word modesty. One definition, of course, relates to personal humility, a la not Toad, as in the programme offered up for his house re-warming party ('Other songs will be sung during the evening by the Composer'), in anticipation of reading which I chortle over with glee, because I just received my very own copy for Christmas, and I'm now reading the delightful book aloud to Michael.

But another use, obviously, relates to clothing, and I was recently pondering whether there is any universal standard by which we can determine what is and is not appropriate wear. Even the most conservative dressers today would have been considered shockingly disreputable a hundred years ago, so we must grant some leeway for current culture, but we can't get too far down that path, or we end up with no standards at all, based on prevailing trends.

The most annoying standard of modesty, in my opinion, is the purely anatomical one, which measures certain landmarks on the body and dictates modesty according to the coverage. What makes this particularly irksome is the fact that different body sizes end up apportioning certain landmarks rather differently, and what may be passable for one person may look totally inappropriate on another. Or vice versa. The knees as the determining factor for hem length is of course the preferred measuring rod for skirts, and the knees' only saving grace, as far as I can see, is the geographical monopoly they have on the legs. A hem that hits just below the knee, to satisfy rigorous modesty requirements, smacks of drab Eighties business suits, and doesn't really flatter many figures. Yet without that rule, we're left with an arbitrary 'Not too short,' which can't get too specific without sounding ridiculous. ('Two inches above the knee' is a whole lot higher up the leg on a petite person than on a tall one.) What a bother. And yet, short skirts (within reason) can be worn very classily by the right person, while certain long skirts can push the envelope.

I wonder whether there is any final universal rule on what is modest. Probably not, since so much of what is appropriate depends on cultural connotations. So a real standard for modesty would probably consist of an individual custom fit rule, which combines the answers to the following questions, rather like a personality quiz, to deliver up a personally tailored rule for each person:

1) What is your intention in dressing like that? (i.e. What attitude do you hope to inspire in your on-lookers?)
2) What is your attitude as you wear that? (i.e. How well are you carrying it off?)
3) Do you realise what message that colour/style conveys in this society?

Of course, the trouble with that system is that it presupposes taste, discernment, intelligence, and good intentions on the part of the wearer. So I don't think they'll be reforming the dress code at strict places anytime soon.

A week of Sundays

The week between Christmas and New Year is just about the cosiest time to be alive. You drift along, basking in presents and eating chocolate and drinking hot cocoa and wearing casual clothes, with nothing pressing to accomplish and nothing on the calendar (unless it were parties). Even in my working days, I always enjoyed dead week at the office, when the kitchens were still full of goodies brought in by pre-Christmas cheer or sent by helpful vendors, and there was always a good chance of getting let out early.

This week has been no exception. We had a fabulous holiday weekend with my family, and there was good food in plenty, although I was absolutely astounded at the expanded appetites of my little brothers. I thought I could cook for ten people, and handily doubled and tripled every recipe, and they still asked for oatmeal after dinner. I guess it really is true what they say about teen boys' appetites.

After they left, we tidied things up and drifted around, enjoying Michael's time off work and glowing with the satisfaction of having all three extended LotR DVDs at last. We must watch those all in a row, perhaps on New Year's Eve. It took us the better part of three days to solve a Monster su-do-ku, rated Very Hard and far too hard for my taste. I'd rather spend ten minutes solving an easy one, and enjoy the satisfaction of feeling clever, even if it's cheaply earned. Somebody gave us a huge bag of the most luscious chocolate truffles, and those have been disappearing at an alarming rate. And I got the new Enya CD, so the house has been filled with airy, ethereal music every day. It's been such a pleasant week, I won't know what to do with another weekend.

Overheard late last night

Michael: Oh, by the way, we never did get each other anything for our anniversary.
Me: Wasn't it supposed to be clocks? I need a new battery for my watch.
Michael: I think it's cotton.
Me: Well, you bought that big box of cotton balls awhile ago. Does that count?
Michael: Maybe we can count the robe you got for Christmas.
Me: Do they even make cotton balls out of cotton any more?
Michael: Um, yeah, hence the name.
Me: So if you put them in the laundry, would they wrinkle? Ha, ha! Or if you put them in the dryer, would they shrink?
Michael: Go to sleep!

Merry Christmas!

God bless us, every one!

Happy shortest day of the year!

Darkest, too.

On the ongoing saga of the differences between men and women

Last night we were getting ready for bed, and I was fiddling with my hair in front of the mirror. I mentioned how one particular style turned out surprisingly well, considering that I used to think it was not at all flattering, and Michael commented that it looked nice. I went on to say how interesting it is that tastes change, faces change shape, how much I would have disliked it a few years ago, how unattractive I would have thought it would have looked, etc. Then there was a pause.

(Now, I am not one to let innuendos and hints litter the air, going off and sulking when my mind is not being read. One of my most despised female cliches is the classic 'If you don't know, then I'm certainly not going to tell you.' Silly! If he doesn't know, then all the more reason to tell him!)

Me: And the silence grows long as my statement remains uncontradicted.
Michael: Oh, did you want me to say something else? I already told you that you looked nice, so I didn't want to be redundant.
Me: Never mind that! Compliments are never redundant!
Michael: Is that what you wanted? Of course you look beautiful!

Mystery and guesswork are all very well, but a straight line is always the shortest distance between two points.

Babies are such fun

Bibliophilia

'If any man despises [books], for him I have no liking.' ~Martin Luther.

Okay, so Herr Luther originally said that about music (and I agree with him on that point too, actually), but it's an apt expression of my thoughts at the moment. I never feel so cosy and well-prepared to meet a dose of flu or snowbound-ness as when I have a stash of books in tow, as now. (Although even the stash of books did not make the cold and isolating ice storm of last week palatable.)

I was recently thinking about what made good books good, and decided that for the purposes of my immediate thought trail there were mainly two kinds of books: those with closure and those that were problematic.

In the former category fall all the happy endings, as well as the good solid tragedies such as A Tale of Two Cities or Les Miz. It may not necessarily end happily for all involved, but there's triumph and resonance and something that rings true.

Then there are the odd ducks that don't exactly coalesce, and that still have me puzzled and pondering, such as Till We Have Faces. Is it a good book? Perhaps. It's powerful and well-written, certainly. But what is the moral? Is it pagan? Is it allegorical? Is it worth reading? I find it useful for two reference points, at the very least: 1) the idea of Psyche growing up and imperceptibly moving past her sister's reach and sphere, so that suddenly she was older, wiser, and more mature; 2) the idea of the Queen and Bardia being fellow soldiers and strategists, and having so much in common that at the end of the day the Queen feels cheated and deflated when Bardia goes home to his wife and family and she realises that his life really tilts that direction despite his best efforts being spent for Queen and country. Is it ever possible to outgrow people through sheer life experience? Must home and work be forever in conflict, and must one inevitably drown the other one out? Ugh. Back to Ivanhoe and simple, elegant, understandable, predictable plots.

Narnia

So Michael and I went to see it last night. His company sponsored a movie night, and we all got discounted tickets and pizza beforehand. Very fun!

I love the movie. Beautiful scenery, beautiful clothes, lovely accents, excellent characters, great music. I'd love to see it again, and probably wouldn't mind owning it. Of course it did depart from the book in many (mostly minor) ways, but most of the time it wasn't jarring at all. I missed some good dialogue, but what they put in was excellent. I have two major complaints to make, and then I'll cease:

1) The witch wasn't nearly beautiful enough.

2) The children shouldn't have been so insistent on giving up and going back to their own world. That never came into the book, and it really didn't do anything for their characters or the development of the story. They could have been easily cast as reluctant heroes without seeming like cop-outs or cowards. Also Susan seemed a bit shrewish - a pity, as she was so very pretty.

A splendid movie!

Roughing it

It's been a long week and no mistake.

On Tuesday I had the girls from my Bible study over for a cookie bake. I discovered that I have managed to run a household for 2.5 years without ever using food colouring, which of course is essential if you're going to be frosting sugar cookies. (Sugar cookies' only function is to provide a nice backdrop for the frosting, since they taste pretty bland on their own. But we continue to make them, nonetheless. One instance where being pretty is all it takes.) Off to the store to buy food colouring. We had fun, and ended up with plates and plates of cookies. Couldn't possibly get through the Christmas season without at least one cookie bake!

On Wednesday the cable was down. We have VOIP, so this meant no internet connection and no phone line. I felt desolate and isolated without access to email or news, but fortunately I had a cell phone to call Michael just in case. He had cleverly set up the phone such that if the cable connection ever goes down, the home phone automatically forwards to his cell phone, so there was no risk of missing any calls. But it felt grueling to me.

Yesterday grew even more dire. Scarcely had I gotten up and admired the pretty trees, all covered with frost and icicles from the ice storm, than the lights flickered and went out. For five long hours Jane and I languished in a dark, quiet house, amidst the flickering light of candles (which, like Bob Cratchit's spark, did not heat the room much) while the temperature steadily dropped. I was afraid to open the fridge or run hot water, not sure how long we'd be without power. Of course there was no electricity for the internet, which meant, again, no phone. No way to heat up anything to eat, so I gnawed plain bread slices and drank tap water. I daren't open the door lest more precious heat escape, so no checking the mail or peering down the street to see whether lights were coming on in other neighbourhoods. I couldn't even escape to warmth and light because, with no internet or phone, I had no way of knowing how many other areas were affected. No guarantee the library offered a warm haven. And besides, the garage door opener runs on electricity anyway. Michael by cell phone was my only contact with the outside world, and he did walk me through the manual release on the garage door just in case, but I doubted I would be able to lift it or prop it up. And I had to ration my cell phone minutes lest the battery die, because the only way I could recharge it would be to plug it into the car charger, which I couldn't run without the garage door being open!

You don't realise how completely helpless and dependent on others you are until one of the props that you unconsciously rely on is pulled out from under you, and you didn't even know how much you took it for granted. How would I ever survive without all the trappings of civilisation? I thought we were well prepared to handle any moderately major crisis, with a pantry well-stocked with canned goods and a pile of wood in the back yard. But practically speaking, I've never built a fire in this fireplace before, fireplaces are no good at heating a house, and most of the cans contain vegetables, which would not be enough to sustain life for any length of time.

The worst of it was (and Michael laughed to think that this was my main worry) that I was supposed to make a dessert for him to bring to work today, and I couldn't do a thing without electricity! I couldn't bake anything, obviously, but I couldn't even make no-bakes on the stovetop! I couldn't even melt the ingredients in the microwave! I briefly considered trying to melt chocolates for fudge over a candle, but I didn't think that would work too well.

I could bundle up, and I bundled Jane up, but her little fingers were quite purple from the cold. Mostly I put her down for naps, since it was dark enough outside that she fell asleep readily and she could keep warm best under the covers.

Finally the electricity came back on, in late afternoon. And there was great rejoicing. And I don't think I will ever want to move to Alaska.

Gargling salt water

Yesterday I woke up with a scratchy throat, and today it has degenerated into misery and wretchedness. Jane, who ran a slight fever last week, probably fought it off herself and wonders why I bothered succumbing to something so obviously nasty and draggy. Ugh. I hate being sick.

Meanwhile I'm trying to console myself with a stack of books. I checked out Ivanhoe last week, and I mean to read through it, which will be only the second time for me. It's definitely from the romantic genre, and already I'm remembering how over the top it is ('[Lady Rowena's] complexion was exquisitely fair, but the noble cast of her head and features prevented the insipidity which sometimes attaches to fair beauties.' Oh, whew, you had me worried there for a moment. Beautiful, rich, good, noble, but not insipid. Because that would just be too cruel of Fate.)

Also I'm still sputtering over a series of book reviews I read last week, which have C. S. Lewis pigeon-holed as not Christian (because Mere Christianity is far too logical and intellectual to be a heart-felt apologetic of Christian zeal), Grandma's Attic labeled as not wholesome or edifying (because Mabel's parents often decide that the consequences of her actions are punishment enough for her sins, thus letting her off the hook and teaching bad moral behaviour to children), and Narnia described as occult. This irritated me so much that I went off and composed several mental diatribes about it, but decided not to post any of it after all. We all know what good writing is, and classic literature doesn't need us to defend it. Let the facts speak for themselves.

Splutter. Sniffle. But it's still a lovely day.

Give credit where credit is due

I love being married. More specifically, to Michael, who thinks of such clever things as requesting our free credit reports.

This is something that the government requires to be offered free of charge every year, which degree of interference I don't exactly hold truck with but from which I will gladly profit as long as it's there. Earlier Michael asked me to check into getting our credit reports, so I found out all about this. If this is not something you have done before or even regularly, take note. You should do it. It is free and helpful.

There are three major credit report companies - Experian, Equifax, and Transunion - each of which is required to give up to one free credit report a year. So theoretically, you could get three a year, if you plan it right. Getting your credit checked every four months should allow you a good handle on what's going on and enable you to monitor all your credit cards and make sure no one has stolen your identity.

Interesting note: You can also request credit checks on your children (although you have to jump through a few more hoops to establish identity). This is a good idea, since infant identity theft is rampant, and if you don't check up on this it's unlikely you'd notice anything until the child turns 18 and starts applying for credit, only to discover that his credit rating is trashed.

The best place to go is annualcreditreport.com, which has all the information you need and links to easy phone requests. This is the official site - no point in giving away personal information to a phony phisher.

It's amazing to see how closely they keep track of everything - every credit account I have ever held and the promptness of all payments. Michael's history has a lot of addresses, but I beat him in the alias department (getting married helped).

Faith of a child

As I sit here at the computer Jane sits on the bed nearby (safely blockaded in by pillows, ever since that little science experiment where she compared apples to little girls in their gravitational properties) and happily plays with the empty box in which the new office phone came. After Michael installed it, we tossed the box on the bed to remind us to fill out the warranty/product registration stuff, and Jane has had fun playing with it ever since. It's amazing to see the simplicity of the things that keep her happy: simple games, simple sounds, simple objects. Aside from the obvious hugely demanding physical needs for which she relies on us to keep alive, she is surprisingly contented and unspoiled. And within reason, I'd like to keep it that way.

I've given presents to greedy little kids before, and it's just so demoralising when the effort goes unappreciated because the little tots had their sights set on something much grander. Whatever. My brothers may jolly well be underprivileged, but it's so FUN to see their eyes light up with delight over the simplest things. Michael pretends to be horrified that, at current standing, my Christmas present to Joseph consists of a dead butterfly and a turkey wishbone. But he LIKES that stuff! And it makes him happy. And he really doesn't need any junk. And it's the thought that counts.

What I really want is for my kids to be able to appreciate the finer things in life (to actually develop a taste for champagne would be nice) without coming to expect that such things are owed to them. I want them to be delighted every time something nice happens their way, and perfectly content when it doesn't. There now.

Christmas party

Here we are on the way to Michael's office Christmas party, right before leaving Jane with Benjamin and Amanda for the evening. The party was very elegant and the food was delicious, although there were, alas, no skits.

Neither rain nor snow

I have never lived in a place where the mail was delivered in the morning.

I love getting the mail, just as I still hop up with eagerness to answer the phone whenever it rings, so it's a great hardship to have to defer this pleasure until late in the afternoon.

You'd think that with all their appointed rounds, the mailmen would get around to some neighbourhoods in the morning, if only to space out all the mail delivery in the postal district. But I have never been on the early side of that assignment. Is it just my bad luck, or do they actually not do anything in the mornings, and just let everyone think that whenever you don't see them, they're obviously off working some other neighbourhood?

I'm also pipped at the local post office for charging me in excess of $12 for mailing a Christmas package just because one of the sides was longer than 17 inches (it wasn't all that heavy). Plus I hear they're going to raise the rates for a first-class postage stamp yet again.

The most annoying thing is that since it's government subsidised and not reliant on turning any kind of a profit, there isn't even any point in trying to boycott the system.

Here is a new game

Last night we were watching Annie Get Your Gun (of 'Oh, you can't get a man with a gun' fame) when I started thinking about all the Indian names I could list off the top of my head. 'Hey!' I told Michael. 'How many Indian tribes can you list off the top of your head?' We were on the I'm an Indian Too song, which gave us Chippewa, Iroquois, Omaha, and Sioux right there. 'Let's have a contest! I'm telling you now, so you can start thinking, which won't give me any unfair advantages.'

So as soon as the movie was done, we grabbed two sheets of scratch paper from the recycling bin, set the microwave timer for two minutes, and started scribbling furiously. It was tremendously fun, and Michael ended up with more names than I did! I fully expected to win, since I had thought of it first, but I gave him the option of picking another topic to even the score anyway. We played for states, which actually relies more on fast-writing skills, since there are a finite number of states and either you know them or you don't. It was spontaneous, creative, educational, and fun, and I want to do it again, except the problem is that we have to drop everything and play a round as soon as either of us thinks of a category or else that person gets an unfair advantage from having more time to mull it over.

Afterwards, Michael, ever the thorough one, hopped online to look up Indians of North America. There were far more than either of us had ever heard of. So many Indian tribes have names that I recognise now as places, and so many of the funny place names in Oregon and Washington (Puyallup, Luckiamutte, Molalla, Skagit, Umatilla, Umpqua, Walla Walla) as well as not funny, totally normal place names (Klamath, Alsea, Clackamas, Columbia, Multnomah, Siuslaw, Tillamook) are Indian in origin!

I love bargains!

Last week the eggnog required 3 cups of milk and 3 cups of heavy cream. Now in my book, that works out to 6 cups total of half-&-half, which saves individual measuring, anyway. Well, what do you suppose I found at the store on Monday but marked-down half-&-half?? I was so excited that I bought 10 quarts of it, and barely squeezed it into the freezer for future eggnogs, ice creams, and the like.

We found that our DVD player can play musical CDs, so that shoves off having to buy a CD player for the living room for another year - and the house is still filled with Christmas music!

Here is a transcript of Jane's first typing lesson:

m ./ b v vvvvv v bgkb ,n b hhhhhb,mbbbbbb

Apparently she can mostly reach the space bar.

Back to reality

Finally, things settle down. It's been a lovely week-and-then-some, but we hobbits can't always live on the heights, bless my buttons. Last week we had Oma visiting for a few days, and that was very nice: she admired her great-granddaughter extensively (but of course! Doesn't everybody?), took us all out to dinner, and bought Jane a next-size-up carseat for Christmas. Not terribly sentimental or heartwarming, perhaps, but intensely practical, and besides Jane will never know the difference.

Then came Thanksgiving Day itself, our first time hosting it and cooking a turkey of our own. Michael actually stuffed the stuffing into the bird himself! We had Todd and Marcela over, and I made real honest-to-goodness eggnog, complete with real rum, from a tiny bottle that I had been saving from some plane flight long ago when I got a complimentary drink.

On Saturday we hosted an After-Thanksgiving party, to eat up leftovers, make fudge, and play games. It was terribly fun, and somewhat reminiscent of those Game Nights at the Halls from long ago. Ah, me. I don't play Blurt nearly often enough these days.

The four-day weekend was absolutely lovely, but it spoiled us for real life, and now it's back to getting up early in the mornings again and cooking real meals instead of just grazing on leftovers. Oh, well. Less than a month until Christmas, and we're now playing Christmas music!

Time to face the music

Last night Michael explained to me all sorts of interesting things about close order drill. Many of the rules and regulations were invented for Boot Camp only and have no use beyond, but were branded so deeply into the brains of the young recruits that he remembers it all to this day.

For instance, when the drill instructor wants to get your visual attention, he may call out, 'Eyes!' Then all the recruits have to say, 'Click, Sir!' Or, if he wants them to listen particularly, he may holler, 'Ears!' All the recruits must reply enthusiastically, 'Snap, Sir!'

All discussion must be done in third person - no first or second person talk aloud. A request to address the drill instructor must be made using titles and names; for example: 'Sir, Recruit Focht requests permission to speak to the Drill Instructor, Staff Sergeant Smith, Sir!'

Colours is played twice a day, at 8 a.m. and at sundown. No matter where you are or what you are doing, you must stop what you are doing and salute the flag while the music plays. If you cannot see the flag from where you are, then you face in the direction of the music.

During boot camp, permission must be asked for everything, including permission to go to the bathroom. 'Sir, Recruit Focht requests permission to make a head call, Sir!' This is clearly why, aside from any philosophical issues I might have with it, the military life is not for me, who can barely muster up the bluntness to ask where the bathroom is in a strange house and would rather go blundering about looking for it than risk broaching such a delicate topic. Michael thinks this is very funny. I think it is less than funny to have bathrooms with no doors on the stalls and group head calls with three to a urinal.

Me: Was that awkward at all?
Michael: Nah, you get used to it.
Me: But was it awkward at first?
Michael: I don't remember.

Apparently guys don't mind this sort of thing as much.

Wizardry in the kitchen

When I was in the store yesterday, I noticed a shopping cart laden with holiday baking supplies. 'Getting ready for holiday baking?' the friendly clerk remarked. Only, it dawned on me that most of the boxes, cans, and pre-baked pie shells required very little actual mixing and measuring. And while I'm all for convenience and efficiency, I still can't accept the notion that merely opening cans and setting a timer on an oven qualifies as baking. It's shortcut cookery!

Once, when in a hurry, I made brownies from a mix and brought them to a dinner where they received compliments. And while I appreciated the good reviews, it put me in a quandary as to how to respond. There were several competing codes of conduct dictating a possible response:

1) The Institute programming that dictates that you never, ever accept praise for anything, because that leads to pride and selfish vainglory. Instead, you deflect every compliment to others so that God gets the glory and others get the credit. This keeps you humble (but not always, alas, honest).

2) Miss Manners' ruling that you accept sincere compliments with a gracious and demure 'Thank you,' as any attempt to deny the praise quickly degenerates into apparent compliments-fishing and shameless self-promotion. The harder you try to convince people that it was really nothing, the more insecure you look and the sillier they feel in their attempts to press one little consoling bit of positive feedback on you.

3) The simple fact that in this case, it was really, truly, honestly nothing. I opened a box, dumped in eggs and milk, and stuck in the oven. No talent, no effort, no cleverness required. So why should I accept credit for praise unearned?

But, alas, if I try to explain how I really feel about it, then I look like I'm taking Option A. Most people are too good-hearted to care about the details, and therefore wouldn't catch the shades of nuance between the obligatory, 'Oh, it was really nothing,' and an earnest explanation along the lines of 'This? Ha! That's nothing. It takes no talent whatsoever to stagger to the cupboard and throw together this instant brownie mix, so I can't leave you under the impression that this dish reflects my level of talent. Now, last week I tried out this new recipe that was really complicated, and that, I daresay, would have merited approval if it had turned out. I'll make it for you sometime, and if it turns out, you can rave about that instead. But don't waste your appreciation on this cheap cop-out.' No, that wouldn't go over so well. So I just smiled and said, 'I'm glad you liked it.' But it's NOT real baking!!

Happy birthday...

...to the US Marine Corps, 230 years old today! On one of our early dates, Michael sang the Marine Corps Hymn to me. Unlike in the other branches of the military, Marines are required to learn all three verses of their hymn. And no wonder; it's grand enough for the few and the proud:

From the Halls of Montezuma
To the Shores of Tripoli;
We fight our country's battles
In the air, on land and sea;
First to fight for right and freedom
And to keep our honor clean;
We are proud to claim the title
Of United States Marine.

Our flag's unfurled to every breeze
From dawn to setting sun;
We have fought in ev'ry clime and place
Where we could take a gun;
In the snow of far-off Northern lands
And in sunny tropic scenes;
You will find us always on the job--
The United States Marines.

Here's health to you and to our Corps
Which we are proud to serve
In many a strife we've fought for life
And never lost our nerve;
If the Army and the Navy
Ever look on Heaven's scenes;
They will find the streets are guarded
By United States Marines.

Let's talk turkey

One Thanksgiving long ago, when my father was unemployed and money was tight, my mother prayed for a turkey. Our family required a big bird, and she didn't think the food budget could stand the prevailing prices. And through a series of miraculous events, God provided not one, but three, turkeys!

While our situation is not nearly so drastic, I've been fretting lately while facing the prospect of buying a whole turkey. We won't be traveling to VA this fall, and it's my first Thanksgiving on my own - ergo, the first time that the responsibility of providing a bird falls on me. And while I suppose I could just run out to the store and pay fair market value, I've been half-heartedly praying - not with much fervour, I confess, because our situation doesn't seem nearly dire enough to merit an answer - for a good bargain on a turkey.

Well, this morning I got an adventure and a ticket to my turkey all in one! We received a flyer from a local car dealership offering a free turkey if you test drive a car during their weekend event. I called for details and ascertained that there was no purchase necessary. So off I went to the Suzuki dealership and got to test-drive a 2006 Grand Vitara! I told them up front that we weren't in the market for a car right now, and while we might be interested in a minivan in a year or two, I was just there for the turkey. The salesman was very nice about it, affably showed off all the features with no pressure to buy, and gave me a certificate for a turkey at the end of it.

It was a fun experience, because I didn't feel the pressure of a hard-sell that usually comes with such freebies, and I was able to relax and enjoy the drive and, meanwhile, learn a whole lot of stuff about modern cars. For one thing, most cars now - the ones that aren't absolutely indestructible, like Volvo - are built to crash a certain way, so that in an accident the frame crumples up around the cabin, the transmission and the engine drop away beneath the car, the air bags deploy and force shrapnel outward, and the passengers are generally unharmed. Also, the vehicle had a smart key, which needed merely to be in the vicinity to unlock the doors and - get this! - start the engine! I placed the remote on the console and turned the ignition, and the car started just like that!

It was a very cool car, and I had a lot of fun with the bells and whistles, but most of all I'm thrilled about the certificate for the turkey. God works in mysterious ways!

Found in translation

I have been keeping up (albeit erratically) with many friends from Holland, whom we visited last March. Recently I received an email from one dear friend who had heard about the hurricane and was wondering whether we survived it all right.

(I am so bad about procrastinating, and only just now got around to replying. The problem with a proper correspondence is that I want to make it just so, so that I keep delaying until I have a good spot of time to do a reply proper justice, and that moment never comes. So, every so often I get seized with a burst of industry and feverish creativity, highly tempered with guilt, and dash off all the emails I have been owing to everyone, with apologies affixed for the belated and truncated nature of the email. It is not a good system, but it is the best I have been able to manage thus far.)

Back came a reply (in Dutch) that was clearly an automatic out-of-office reply. Out of curiosity I copied it and ran it through an online translation site, and deciphered the following message:

Of Monday 7 November till and with Friday 11 November I am absentee. In pressing cases, you can take up contact with my colleague M- (026, 8888888), or a message leave behind e-mail (06, 5555555) on my voice; I read and hear e-mail my c. q voice anyhow a time per day.
With kind greeting,
A-

Vanity and vexation

This is a matter which has puzzled me for some time.

Apparently there are obscure tribes out there containing people who do not wear, and have never worn, shoes of any kind. Their feet have toughened up and they are perfectly accustomed to running around barefoot all of their days. Accordingly, their feet have followed nature's course and end up growing far bigger than our 'civilised' feet, with the toes splayed wildly and the length quite beyond our average foot.

(I assume this is all true. It seems to be something I've heard many times and grew up believing. If this is not true, please enlighten me. At least it makes sense.)

So, it seems that by wearing shoes, our culture has imposed a certain limitation on nature, much like wearing corsets artificially (but how gracefully!) shaped the body in another era. This is so normal that we take it for granted. So why is it not wrong?

In China, foot-binding was part of the culture at one time, and very clearly involved mutilation and pain. Carried to excess, this obsession with a certain shape and size destroyed the health and greatly reduced the practical effectiveness of those on whom it was practised. Gladys Aylward, the famous missionary to China, was a heroine for rescuing little girls from this oppressive and destructive ritual.

So how does our modern culture differ? Merely in degree? How are we not practising some minor form of foot-binding simply by wearing shoes that contain and repress our feet?

I haven't worked it out yet. I am sure we're not intentionally doing anything wrong, but it's hard to see why not. Perhaps the motive has something to do with it, the fact that we wear shoes to protect our feet and get around and not solely to make our feet ridiculously small. After all, the smaller feet we end up with (as compared to the au natural obscure tribe's feet) are merely a side-effect and not a goal of wearing shoes. And yet, who hasn't at one time worn a shoe that wasn't quite the most efficient or practical in order to look good? See, vanity does have something to do with it.

When I wear my pink floppy hat, I feel as if I can fly!

Nicely put

I just stumbled across this delightful quote by the ever clever Miss Manners:

'The difference between teasing and taunting is like the difference between kissing and spitting. The ingredients are the same; it is the emotion that determines whether it is pleasing or repellent.'

Half a year

My half birthday last week and Jane's half birthday tomorrow (Hey! One week apart, just like our birthdays were! What are the odds of that??) made me think of all the things that come in halves:

Half a loaf
Half a lump (Ha, ha! A little Pooh humour there!)
Half a league

Although, technically, it was half a league, half a league, half a league onward, which makes - let's see - one and a half leagues. Oh, well. I'm not great at making lists, so it was only a half-hearted effort, anyway. So forget about lists. On to mulling and pondering.

A span of six months usually doesn't make that big a difference in real time. For a kid, it can seems like a really long time, but for most adults, six months is just business as usual. With a few exceptions, when a lot happened really fast and things changed very quickly for me, my life has not undergone that many drastic revisions in the short space of six months. I can generally look back to myself six months ago and find myself more or less the same person that I was then, with perhaps a little more wisdom and experience to show for the time spent, but nothing out of the ordinary.

For a baby, however, the change is marked. Jane is a very different person from who she was six months ago. Everything about her has changed: her size, her personality, her abilities, her tastes, her perception of the world around her. She was 20.5 inches at birth, and now is 26 inches long, which means that she's been growing at the rate of practically an inch a month. I do not observe that drastic kind of change in my life.

I'm sure it has to do with the time span viewed as a percentage of the whole life. Right now, six months represents 1/51 of my life, so it's not going to make as marked a difference in me as it does in her. But still, can you imagine what our lives would be like if we lived at that breathless pace, learning and absorbing and changing and growing on a weekly and even a daily basis? It reminds me of those studies that prove that the average human uses only about 2% of his brain, and makes me wonder what we could accomplish if only we could tap into the other 98%!

The Red Queen

I will shake you into a kitten, I will!

I can't believe...

...that culottes are making a comeback, only now they're actually calling themselves gauchos, as if a mere name change can disguise their intrinsic hideousness. Weren't the eighties styles bad enough the first time around, and shouldn't we be letting them cower in oblivion, instead of pretending that 'Career gauchos' can now present themselves in professional society?

The inevitable Jane post

Snapshots of thought

- This Sunday marks the return to Standard Time. Hurrah for sleeping in an extra hour! But alas, it's going to be powerful dark by suppertime.

- I'm staggered by the news of Harriet Miers' withdrawal. Can't decide whether it's a good thing or not. Probably easiest to step down gracefully now than to try to stick it out and be battered to pieces in the process and probably not win anyway, but it's got to be a setback for President Bush.

- I'm reading aloud Ella Enchanted to Michael. It's a delightful fairy tale that I enjoyed reading to my little brothers the summer before I left home, but I still can't figure out how to pronounce Ogrese. It's definitely not as linguistically complex a language as any of Tolkien's works, but it's still original how it uses random capital letters and punctuations to denote a completely foreign tongue.

- Michael's reading aloud War on the Eastern Front to me, chronicling the ill-fated Russian campaign by Germany in 1941-44. It feels very much like reading War and Peace, and I'm struck over and over again with the vast expanses of land and grand sweeps of destiny. Last night we read about how the Red Army would round up civilians from local villages and march them across minefields planted by Germans to clear a path for the army to advance. There were millions of peasants to spare, and the Soviets had absolutely no respect for human life.

- Suddenly this week we are using the heat instead of the A/C. That transition happened quickly. This is the third winter we've lived in this house and we have yet to light a fire in the fireplace.

Quality of life

It occurred to me, as I was rinsing off the dishes preparatory to dumping them in the dishwasher, how very grateful I am for running (hot) water, which enables me to live in a state of comparative cleanliness. I can't imagine eating food off of dishes which have merely been soaked in dishwater, and yet that is how people lived on a daily basis up until a hundred years ago or so, except for the very rich people, who were able to pay (or force) other people to use several tubs of water for the process, thus getting the dishes fairly clean.

But it got me to thinking about the standards of cleanliness to which we are accustomed, and which we take for granted. Now we assume that we can have running water on hand to bathe in every day, to wash our hands off with several times a day, to wash our clothes in whenever we want, to wash our linens and dishes in; and we have top-notch vacuum cleaners to whisk away every last particle of dust, and long-handled brushes with powerful chemicals to deal with microscopic filth. But if we didn't have these tools, we wouldn't know any better, and would just live with it. Just like the medieval castle people who ate soup off of pieces of bread and didn't wipe the tables down afterwards, because they didn't know any different. Or like the pioneers who bathed basically whenever they came across a river, and considered themselves lucky if the water wasn't too cold. Or like the 18th-century commoners who routinely ate the weevils and mouse droppings in their grains because they didn't know any other way of food storage.

We think we have it pretty good. But the nobles in the castles thought so too, suffering from cold and damp and smoke in the cold stone rooms and halls and relying on the servants to pick the lice and bedbugs off of them, turning up their noses at the peasants who had to muck around in the dirt.

Modern technology has made possible a whole new level of cleanliness, and I am so grateful for it! I can't imagine life any other way. But I wonder whether further advances will push the frontiers of cleanliness even farther, and if future generations are going to look at us and wrinkle up their noses at us for living in such conditions. Will modern science ever find a way to rid us of those microscopic eyelash spiders, or invent a silt-proof spray we can spray on all household surfaces to repel cobwebs and dust particles, or eradicate the little dust-mites that live in linens and feed off dead skin cells? Or is there some natural barrier to how far human ingenuity can go, some limiting factor on the amount of scrubbing up we can do to tidy up the nastiness of this world? Is it even possible to ever be totally, completely, thoroughly sanitary and hygienic in a fallen and dying world? Probably not. So I'm very glad to have come as far as we have. As long as I don't know about the grasshoppers in my ketchup, I'll be happy.

Smarter than dolphins??

Yesterday Jane was fiddling around with something. Usually anything within reach goes straight into her mouth, but sometimes when she gets intrigued she'll start working with her fingers as a look of profound concentration floods her face. I think it had to do with a fastening on her playmat.

Me: Look at that! She'll have that figured out any minute now.
Michael: She's a smart one, all right.
Me: She's figuring out how to work the latch, just like a raccoon! Five months old and she's almost as smart as a raccoon!
Michael: Well, she's a human. I think that ranks higher than raccoons.
Me: Oh, yeah, that's right.

More of the wonderful weekend

I had barely uploaded the pictures yesterday, and had not gotten so far as to format them nicely, when I heard a soft thump behind me and turned around to discover that Jane had rolled off the bed and landed on the floor. Fortunately she landed on her back and the floor is carpeted, so after an initial bout of crying to work off her surprise, she quieted down and seemed perfectly fine. The little dear has been such a trooper these last few days!

As the pictures will demonstrate, we had a fabulous time of meeting old friends, although somehow the pictures with the bride and groom ended up on a different camera. Jane and I flew up Friday morning and spent the afternoon circulating around HSLDA, and Jane was a paragon of smiles and laughter despite having awakened at five and getting only an hour's nap all day long. Sara very kindly drove out to see us, and we hung out trying to converse, although in the midst of three little children clamouring for attention we agreed that we probably could have covered more ground just talking on the telephone during nap time. =) It's the thought that counts. Cora had baked us two loaves of her famous banana bread, and got to feed Jane her bottle. We breezed through most of the entire building, noting all the changes and being absolutely astounded at the sea of new faces. I think Legal has turned over about three times since my day.

Saturday was a beautiful day: sunny and warm, as all wedding days should be. Michael very generously walked with Jane out in the hallway through the entire ceremony, which was absolutely gorgeous. The bridesmaids wore long, sleeveless wine-coloured dresses and carried a single long-stemmed white flower (the name of which temporarily escapes me), and there was Janice!! I sat behind a whole row of PHC students, too, so it was a real blast from the past. It was a beautiful ceremony, and Joanna was radiant. I must add that here and there floated out a subdued whimper or bleat from some young member of the audience, and I wished so ardently that there could be a subtle way to get the word out that 'That's not my baby! My baby is being quietly walked in the hallway, and has been a perfect angel all weekend, despite not having gotten nearly enough sleep!' I tell you, this Mama Bear stuff is wholly engrossing. The reception was a wonderful party in which I got the biggest scoop of the year, over which I am still bubbling.

Sunday we went to church and met yet more old friends, and got to tour the new church building, oh-so-close to completion. After a pleasantly relaxing lunch with my family, we up and left. And Monday night we watched an episode of The Avengers, per Sara's recommendation and lending. Very quirky.

And that's the weekend in a nutshell! I am no longer setting Jane down on the bed while I work on the computer, no matter how far away from the edge she starts out.

The whirlwind weekend

Christian charity

Somewhere between turning the other cheek and turning out the money-changers in the temple lies a right and respectable model of behaviour for those of us who wish to honour God in our daily walk. I don't have a one-size-fits-all guide for ascertaining exactly which course this is, but I do know two extremes it is not. One is the abuse of God's name for personal gain at the expense of others, as experienced recently by Sara. That form of godliness strikes me as a scam designed to take in credulous good-hearted and well-meaning people.
And the other is the let's-not-make-waves, they-will-know-we-are-Christians-by-our-niceness brand of meekness to a fault.

Case in point: A certain person (let's call him Caesar) was invited out to lunch. The restaurant advertised that lunch meals would be served within fifteen minutes or the meal was free. Caesar's lunch break being limited, he was naturally anxious to get back to work, and went so far as to time the arrival of the food. When it arrived a good twenty minutes after ordering, he attempted to bring the matter to the attention of the waitress, and was immediately voted down by his fellow diners, who were obviously uncomfortable with the idea of holding the restaurant to its word and were apparently more interested in not making a scene than in following up on a perfectly good policy.

My guess is that they were simply people who couldn't deal with confrontation in any form, and didn't want to come across as critical of the waitress. But it seems an insult to God to cloak such timidity in the guise of Christianity, as if being a Christian means never being able to point out error in others or to complain of a wrong suffered. This reminds me of situations when an item of defective merchandise was not returned because 'it would be such a bad testimony to complain.'

I think the misconception here arises from a careless mixing of the rules governing the secular and the sacred, the personal and the institutional, perhaps an audacious statement because of course I believe that our Christianity should transcend every aspect of our lives. I propound, however, that applying principles for Christian individuals wholesale to institutions, policies, or governing bodies, is not what God intended when He called us to a life of personal holiness and commitment.

That misapplication of principle is where we get criticism of capitalism as such a brutal, uncaring, unloving, and therefore, surely, un-Christian economic system. Yes, capitalism can be cut-throat. As Churchill said, it's the worst economic system, except for all the others. (A socialist economic system, run by evil fallen human beings, is ten times scarier than a capitalist economic system run by evil fallen human beings.) But it's not the point of the economic system to exemplify Christ's ideal kingdom; it's the job of the people in the system to model Christ's character. What does that entail? In the professional level, it should involve good stewardship of one's assets; living as prudently as possible; seeking out the best bargains (but not using unethical means to do so); and using the bounty to bless others. One should not attempt to coerce the system into shouldering the burden of demonstrating Christ's love to the masses; in fact, that's a cheap cop-out of one's own individual responsibilities to love one's neighbour.

Now we see it...

On Saturday we suddenly felt very much like watching a movie. After the LOTR binge of the past few weekends, we were absolutely dried up on the movies front, so we decided to run down to Blockbuster and check something out. The price of movie rentals, however, has become outrageous. It would have cost $4.55, with tax, to rent one new release DVD! So we decided to spend $9.99 - practically the cost of two movies - and sign up for their unlimited movies program, planning to cancel at the end of the month. We've done this before, and it's a great way to get all those movies-we've-always-wanted-to-see-but-would-never-spend-the-money-on-individual-rental out of our system.

So we came home with our 'throwaway' movie, which really was a bad choice and made me very happy that we hadn't wasted any money on it. Perhaps it's that movies are getting worse, or perhaps it's just that I'm getting older (both true, actually, but their bearing on the present case remains indeterminate), but I find bad language soooo jarring and disturbing in a movie. A certain vulgar word was gratuitously used so many times in this particular movie that I told Michael, 'If the inventor of that word had been collecting royalties, he'd have made a fortune off of this one.'

We have decided that Jane can no longer stay awake during movies. Her infant cluelessness has officially worn off, and we don't want her learning things even if she doesn't understand them. So no movies until after 8:00 PM in this household.

And I have a whole list of Irish movies I want to see now...

The ocean blue

I've always had a fondness for Columbus Day, not least because I worked for four years at a place - somewhere besides the federal government - that considered it a holiday.

Over Columbus Day weekend 2000 I bought two smashing hats from Kohls - using the $10 gift certificate I received for Secretaries Day - hugely on sale, with change left over. One of those hats I brought with me to England and wore the day we gadded about St. Ives.

It's amazing how faithful a record of history we have, to know to the day when it was that Christopher Columbus actually sighted land. After five hundred years, it's great enough that we know the exact year of his voyage, but to have preserved the date and the details of his incredible voyage is stupendously impressive! One of the best history books I have ever read, which has given me an unforgettable perspective on the how and why of major events and put the discovery of the New World into context like nothing else has, is The Story of Liberty, by Charles Coffin. This book takes the reader from the signing of the Magna Carta to the establishment of a colony in the New World, always tracing the growth of liberty throughout the centuries. From reading this book I learned about Henry VIII's six wives, Wat Tyler's rebellion, the partnership of Lawrence Coster and John Gutenberg, the St. Bartholomew's Day Massacre, Joan of Arc, Lucretia Borgia, Dr. Tetzel, Diet of Worms, the Field of the Cloth of Gold, and so much more.

The chapter on Columbus ends on a somber note, chronicling Columbus' ignoble end at the hands of a bloodthirsty country that gave us the Inquisition and the Armada: 'Columbus is rewarded for discovering a new world by being sent home in chains; and the man who discovered the Pacific Ocean is executed. That is the gratitude of Spain to her illustrious men.'

Still raining on Friday

It was only about three years ago that I found out what 'TGIF' stands for. And I still don't get that attitude. Except when I have big plans for the weekend, there would be no particular reason to look forward to it, and besides there's nothing to prevent me from having big plans on a weeknight. Generally my mentality has been that I love work. I always loved my job in Virginia, and though there were grueling days, I never really had a mentality of simply living for the weekend.

I've had three different jobs in Georgia, and each one I thoroughly enjoyed. Two were temporary assignments - the longest lasted three months - and one I worked at almost a year, right up until the week before Jane was born. Every single one had its tense moments, but overall they were extremely satisfying. I loved dressing professionally, driving to work, interacting with co-workers, talking with clients, solving problems, drinking water from the water cooler, and of course cashing my paycheck! There is no way I could have lived my life hating my job, or even just enduring it, living for the weekend, considering how much of my waking time I spent doing it.

Michael emailed me today with several questions on paperwork he has to fill out for HR. (SS #s, etc.) I love this kind of stuff. Filling out forms and going through orientation in a new situation is so fascinating to me that I wish I could do it for him, since he's not so crazy about it and views the paperwork as a necessary drag and the exciting adventure of the new horizon as a lesson to be patiently learned so that the thrill of the unknown can be compressed into the predictability of the familiar and therefore be more efficient to work with. I suppose there's something to be said for the comfort of a known quantity, and I definitely enjoy my job when I know what's expected of me and when I know my colleagues well enough to establish a rapport with them. But I so enjoy striking out for new adventure, reveling in the sensation of a clean slate, rising to the occasion and solving the problems of the world no matter how stressful it may seem. Especially now that I know that stress does not cause stomach ulcers.

Rainy Thursday

- Australian scientists win the Nobel prize in medicine for discovering that stomach ulcers are caused by bacteria, not stress. I don't know why, but this fascinates me. I guess it's helpful to know that I can hyper-stress over everything and not have to worry about contracting ulcers into the bargain.

- I used to have this really yummy recipe for microwave fudge. When I lived in Oregon (i.e. when I was a lot younger than I am now), I would mix up a batch of fudge whenever I felt like it and then eat the whole thing over a good book. Once I discovered a recipe for almond roca (or toffee, more precisely, since we never had chopped almonds), and I enjoyed several pans of that while perusing Sara's manuscript. For some odd reason, last night I was seized with a desire for toffee, so I whipped up a pan of it and, delicious as it was, felt very homesick for Archea. So I guess this post doubles as a personal email to you, Sara, asking you when I can get my story back.

- Rainy days always make me feel lazy.

- While backing out of the garage earlier this week, I whacked off the side-view mirror on the driver's side. Michael is always warning me about this, and I couldn't believe I had finally done it! I called him at work in great distress, much overcome with worry at the cost of repair and disbelief at having done something so patently silly and avoidable. His response was to laugh most heartily and tell me never to mind about it, we'd get it fixed and it was time to take the car in for a check-up anyway. Thus a great emotional outpouring of tears was avoided. Seen in that light, it doesn't seem so bad.

- The idea of laughter as a palliative against distress reminds me of a poem that I like very much, only I wish the moral could be adjusted to reprove whining and worry, as I tend to struggle with those emotions - in response to a catastrophe - rather than anger:

I wouldn't be cross, dear, it's never worthwhile;
Disarm the vexation by wearing a smile.
Let happen what may, dear, of trouble and loss-
I wouldn't be cross, love, I wouldn't be cross.

- My little brother Thomas (8) is quite the clever one. I called the other day to talk, and he was all excited about this poem he had learned.

Thomas: Shall I recite it to you?
Me: Umm...how many lines is it?
Benjamin: 36.
Me: Well, why don't you start reciting it and I'll tell you to stop when I get bored.
[He started reciting it. It turned out to be If, by Rudyard Kipling, one of my favourites, so I listened to the whole thing.]
Me: That was very good! Do you like poetry, or do you like to memorise things in general, or do you just like reciting?
Thomas: Well, all of that, but Mommy said she would give me a dollar if I could recite it to you.

Or was it Jamestown?

On Sunday, as we were driving home from church, Michael asked me, 'So can you list all five makes by GM?'

'Cheerios!' I said. 'Ha, ha!'

Michael proceeded to enlighten me by telling me all five makes. He has done this before, but apparently the lesson did not stick, or else I would have known the answer this time around, which is Buick, Oldsmobile, Chevrolet, etc. On we moved to the topic of Chrysler, despite its having sold out to the Germans and no longer being an American company. I did not know any of the makes, so Michael had to tell me the first one, which is Chrysler - which I think is cheating, to have a make named after the manufacturer.

Me: I don't know any of the others.
Michael: Sure you do. Think of the Pilgrims.
Me: The Chrysler Progress?
Michael: No, silly! Think of them landing.
Me: Ummm...the Chrysler Mayflower?
Michael: Boy, this is embarrassing. Think of where they landed.
Me: Oh, the Plymouth! I've seen those!

Sugar and spice

Jane Victoria is five months old today. A year ago we were aware of her existence (though not her identity) and now we can't imagine life without her. She smiles, giggles, and coos readily, and has just discovered her toes.










Her name means 'Gracious' or 'God is gracious,' she loves making plies when she stands, and to top it all off, she was born on a Tuesday! If that's not a recommendation for a career in ballet, then I don't know what is.

Somewhat mollified

Over the weekend we watched a few more hours of extras from Return of the King (which I DID like much better the second time around). It's so fun to see all the behind-the-scenes footage, and I love listening to all the native NZ accents. I still disagree with the necessity for certain departures from plot (Frodo sending Sam away; revealing Eowyn's identity before the battle) but I am more reconciled to them and like the movie better as a whole despite the changes, which seem far less glaring now in context of all the thought that went into them.

What impresses me so much about these movies is what incredible pains were taken with the details. There were no shortcuts or cutting corners - everything was done exactly right and with the utmost degree of painstaking thoroughness, like intricate hand-embroidery on the undergarments of a gown that was worn for one scene that was shot only from the shoulders up! The miniatures were carved on such a scale and with such an elaborate degree of intricate detail that they earned the nickname 'Bigatures' from the crew who worked on them. With this level of quality, no wonder it took so long and cost so much to film these movies, and no wonder the finished product looks so magnificent.

September days (soon to be no more)

This morning I observed a large bare patch of branches on the tree in our front yard. In years past we've had issues with tent caterpillars, so my first thought was, 'What a pity. They've struck again.' Then I noticed the gathering leaves underneath the tree and remembered that, hello, this was fall.

This is my third autumn down in Georgia. The first year, I was a newlywed. The second year, I was pregnant. Now I have a baby whose age in months I can still count on one hand, and I love the season more than ever. As we take our early morning walks together I am struck once again with the beauty of the world and the excitement of a crisp, clear autumn morning.

All right then, today's walk was only the second morning one I've taken this week and before that it's been ages since I hauled out the stroller and patrolled the neighbourhood, but it was so nice and refreshing that I've resolved to make a habit of it. Earlier this week I found myself imagining what this walk would be like in a few years when I can point things out to Jane, and it was simply fascinating to put myself in her place and visualise the future. I spent some time watching a caterpillar inch along the ground, and could just imagine talking through it with Jane, explaining why it crawls and what the deal is with coccoons and all that stuff. This parenting thing is going to be really fun!!

That is SO weird

Something must have been drastically wrong with my browser, because for the past two weeks or so I have not seen any updates on blogs. It's as if all my friends have fallen silent since about the second week in September. Suddenly all the blogs register scads of new posts that I've somehow missed, and I feel a bit like Rip Van Winkle as I scramble to catch up on current events. Rum...very rum.

Speaking of, Michael and I just recently discovered that for many years we had both been under the same childhood misconception. It took us both a long time to discover that the RIP on gravestones stood for Rest In Peace and not, as we had supposed for years on end, RIP [Van Winkle]. I had just always assumed that Rip Van Winkle must be a very famous fairy tale character, because it was always his tombstone that was featured whenever the topic came up.

The soul felt its worth

On Sunday, while we were driving to church, Michael began singing O Holy Night to Jane. (We've discovered that singing aloud soothes her during longish car rides.) I chimed in heartily at the familiar bits like 'Fall on your knees' and 'O night divine,' but got rather lost and wandery through the complicated parts. I was very much impressed at how well Michael knew it. (I always love admiring everything he does better than me.)

Me: How do you know it so well? It's way too complicated for me to remember.
Michael: We sang it quite a bit in chorale, so I've sung it often enough.
Me: A hymn should be simple and singable, with a basic memorable pattern like ABCB, as in I Sing The Mighty Power of God. O Holy Night is way too complex for a hymn.
Michael: Well, then, it must be a her.

New beginnings

Today is Michael's first day at his new job. He is working for InTouch Ministries, a wonderful ministry whose mission statement is a masterpiece of simplicity and believability: 'Our mission is to lead people worldwide into a growing relationship with Jesus Christ and to strengthen the local church.'

Because InTouch Ministries is connected to our church, I had always assumed it was just responsible for the editing and production of the Sunday sermon broadcasts, but it actually does so much more. As a company, it's a wonderful place to work in that it seems the perfect combination of ministry - meaning it's a good cause that one can whole-heartedly believe in - and professional - meaning that they believe in taking care of their employees. (In a way, it almost reminds me of HSLDA, down to the exploitation of local youngsters for volunteer work, thus employing good stewardship of resources and giving said youngsters a real thrill by serving them a free lunch.) =)

This new job process has happened incredibly quickly, but we are very excited at the new direction in which God is leading us - it has very clearly been entirely His doing, since we weren't out there career prospecting at all. It began with the Fiddler performances, when Michael was chatting with various fellow cast members about their jobs, and soon enough Michael was encouraged to submit his resume for a new position so freshly opened up that it wasn't even on the website. The interview process followed, and we had such fun one night running out to shop for a suit for his job interview; and the crowning touch (well, not quite the, but it was a great moment) came after he accepted the position and discovered that all employees receive a free lunch as served daily by the cafeteria (it sounds so weird to say that, but they actually call it a cafeteria; I have to keep catching myself from choking on it and wanting to say Dining Hall instead). So no more packing his lunches, which I've done fondly for the past two years. The end of an era indeed!

Tomorrow Jane and I are going to join him for lunch and explore the premises. I'm still learning new things about the ministry and the job perks every day, but I am so excited about this new adventure!

Ex libris

The other night Michael and I decided to be productive with our time and spend the evening going through boxes in the bonus room. These are random boxes stashed away there from various events, some left there since the move and some shoved up there to get them out of the way when guests have descended. We opened the first box and started unloading books. In the process of trying to determine whether these were books destined for giveaway or simply looking for space on the overflowing bookshelves, we started paging through the books. And, hang it all, rather than make any progress whatsoever toward de-cluttering our lives, we spent the whole evening on the floor of the bonus room reading our respective books.

I read Miss Manners' Complete Guide to Excruciatingly Correct Behavior, giggling repeatedly at the witticisms and reading occasional extracts aloud to Michael, who had heard of her but never read her writing ('She's kind of like a modern-day Jane Austen, without the British spelling'). Michael read a book on some particular WWII battle, occasionally pausing to show me interesting pictures or read some commentary. All in all, a thoroughly delightful evening. But not nearly as productive as intended.

You learn something new every day

Please tell me I'm not the last person on earth to discover that you are not supposed to put certain garments in the dryer, because the heat will damage the elastic. Hence the laughter in the scene from The Parent Trap (the original) when the dad discovers certain garments hanging over the shower rail, which I thought was simply due to the fact that dryers hadn't been invented yet.

Today is the most medium day of the year in terms of length, tying with spring equinox.

Music hath charms

To make room in the living room for the growing array of free Jane pictures which we haven't hung on the wall yet, I cleared off the top of the entertainment center, which necessitated moving the CD boombox elsewhere. What better place to put it than in Jane's room, where it can play Mozart music to her every night and nap time? The beauty of this plan is that the baby monitor sits on the dresser, too, which means that Mozart music is piped to us free and clear and we have the advantage of falling asleep to its soothing strains every night. Good for our intellects? You would think so.

The other night I made this delicious chicken and broccoli casserole, which someone brought to us after Jane was born and which I was eager to replicate. Michael took the first bite, as usual, and I waited anxiously for his good opinion.

Michael: The broccoli tastes a little crunchy. Did you cook it long enough?
Me: I should say so! The recipe said to cook it for four minutes, and I cooked it for ten!
Michael: Hmmm. Let me see the recipe. (Looks at recipe.) This is a microwave recipe! Didn't you take that casserole out of the oven?
Me: Yes, that made more sense.
Michael: It says to cook the broccoli four minutes in the microwave, which means that ten minutes in the oven wouldn't be enough. Why didn't you just follow the recipe?
Me: I didn't know you could bake things in the microwave. That seems too easy. I mean, if you really could bake things in the microwave, then why wouldn't we cook everything in the microwave? Why waste the electricity of a conventional oven at all?
Michael: Microwaves are a shortcut. Some things don't turn out the same way, but a lot of things do, and in a lot less time. Hence the recipe.
Me: Honestly, all I ever thought microwaves were good for was reheating leftovers and melting butter.
Michael: How about next time you want to not follow the recipe, you check with me first?

Apparently Mozart's music is not making me smart enough.

An afternoon at the mall

Yesterday Jane and I had the most delightful outing, making me realise all over again how glad I am to have a little girl and how much fun we shall have together. First we went to get her portrait taken at Picture People. Now I highly recommend, to everyone who has a child or two, signing up on Picture People's mailing list, because they are constantly coming out with free picture promotionals. At this point we have on display about four or five pictures of Jane, absolutely free. The disadvantage, of course, is that we have only the one copy on display, and had to exercise tremendous sales resistance not to spend a lot of money to buy the complete package, but at least one professional quality portrait is better than nothing! And I love dressing her up and taking her in to get her picture taken.

After the adorable little child smiled and laughed at the camera, we walked across the street and had lunch at Chik-fil-A. (Another place I highly recommend signing up on the mailing list for - we had a coupon for a free sandwich with purchase of drink.) While there I noticed a promotional on the cup for the Million Nugget Giveaway (www.millionnuggets.com), which has a lot of incomprehensible rules and prizes involving football, but which ends up giving away a coupon for a free Dr. Pepper if you enter to win. Not having a watch, I had no idea how quickly the time passed but I knew I had an hour to spend before the pictures were ready, so we wandered back through the mall, stopping at various stores to admire ourselves in the mirrors (Jane loves looking in the mirror, although I don't think it's dawned on her yet who that baby in the mirror actually is). It was such fun wandering through the mall with a happy little girl, who was cheerfully chewing away on her thumb and making soft gurgling noises while passers-by admired and complimented her, and contemplating all the bargains we were getting. Of course the pictures turned out beautifully, and it was sheer agony to choose just one for the free 10x13, but we made up our minds at last and came home well satisfied with our day.

I felt exactly like Merry and Pippin, having enjoyed a taste of the high and adventurous life but reveling in the simple pleasures of Old Toby and Stout. We don't last long on the heights, bless my buttons!

Diary of a good little girl, continued

Remind me again why I'm sitting in this roasting pan...













Why? Because Mama left it outside for two weeks in hopes that the rain would wash out the chicken grease and then she forgot about it and so you had to scrub it out and while you were drying it off you thought you would show her why roasting pans are useful to keep indoors? Oh, Papa, you are so funny! Did you hear that, Mama?








Very well, then, if you won't let me have my thumbs I shall suck on my lower lip.












Mmmmm...leather...

Diary of a good little girl

Look, Mama, no hands!













Let's pretend I'm pretending to talk on the telephone, instead of trying to eat it.












I like it when Papa makes funny faces at me!















Mama's funny faces aren't too bad, either.

Three is company

Recently we borrowed the complete LOTR DVD collection, the extended version with all the extras, from Benjamin and Amanda. I had seen Fellowship five times, Towers thrice, and Return once, which pretty much sums up my respective opinion of the deteriorating quality of the films, and had only seen the theatre cuts of them all. Michael had seen each one only once, also only the theatre cut. So we settled in for a long and enjoyable Fellowship spree last weekend.

Fellowship, it must be noted, is by far the best of the three and is a really good movie in its own right, being extremely well made as well as pretty faithful to the story overall. The extended version was even better than the original (unlike the new and updated Star Wars trilogy, re-released in 1997), and the only drawback to watching it was the mild distraction of constantly saying, 'That's new - that wasn't in the original, was it? No, wait, maybe it was...well, it was definitely in the book.' VERY well done and quite worth watching. The extras, of which there were hours and hours, were fascinating, and I am amazed by how much attention was given to every last little detail. No wonder the movie turned out so well - it simply reeks of quality. No cheap shots and shortcuts here. Or, as Aragorn himself would have said, 'My cuts, short or long, don't go wrong.'

Fast forward one weekend. So last night we watched Towers, which I didn't remember nearly as much of. In its defense, the extended version is much better than the original. And that's about all I can say for it. It is still much worse a movie than Fellowship, still diverges annoyingly from the plot, still casts Faramir as weak and Treebeard as unhelpful and Aragorn as having broken up with Arwen and being actually interested in Eowyn, and still has all the lame moments such as the horse-kissing scene, the indecent orc shot, and Gandalf's 'Hi-yo Silver!' moment at the end. Still, much of the stuff they cut out of the original version did clarify a lot of the plot and should have been left (even if it did make the movie exceed four hours), especially all the Merry and Pippin stuff, which was truly delightful. We have yet to watch any of the extras on this one, and I must say I want to see what the director has to say for himself, going off and making changes pell-mell to the story after spending so much time in the extras of Fellowship casting himself as this devoted Tolkien fan who holds the stories in such reverence and all that.

Where the sidewalk ends

With the price of gasoline so horrifically high these days and the burning holes in my pockets so notoriously absent, I have instituted a moratorium on frivolous gasoline burning, with car trips now being relegated to the strictly necessary. Thus my regular grocery run has been put off for more than a week as I've managed to make do with supplies from the pantry. There are two things we are constantly running out of, however, and that's bread and milk. I packed the last two slices of bread in Michael's lunch today and drank the last drop of milk this morning, leaving us potentially stranded, nutritionally speaking, for the weekend. Rather than break down and heigh-ho the car keys for anything less than an emergency would not be showing the proper Spartan spirit. So I decided that the friendly neighbourhood Kroger can't be more than a mile away, and hauled out the stroller. Jane and I set off on foot (and wheel).

It was a balmy sunny morning and the walk promised well. We headed merrily off toward the bend in the road and had gotten far enough away from home as to render any notion of turning back unthinkable when we ran up against a vintage Shel Silverstein situation. I mean to say that the sidewalk really ended, suddenly and abruptly, without any warning and no alternatives but the rugged grass or the side of the road. The street's not a highway by any means, but the speed limit must be all of 45, and the way cars - and even the occasional truck - whiz on past convinced me that this was no place for peds. There was virtually no shoulder, with maybe a foot of street between white stripe and gravel that fell off steeply toward the ditch, which certainly was not welcoming to strollers. I tried walking very quickly on the edge of the road, but the way oncoming traffic veered madly into the opposing lane convinced me that I was being a dashed nuisance to them. I eventually crossed the ditch and finished my journey to the store by cutting across front lawns (whose rough and rugged mountainous terrain should not be dignified by the term lawn), very likely trespassing but at least maintaining a steady distance of at least twenty feet from the road.

Shopping concluded, I embarked upon the return journey, only to notice that a gallon of milk and various other comestibles weighting down the storage space underneath the stroller (which was, quite literally, a strolling stroller, not a jogging or cross-country stroller) rendered the notion of traversing rough terrain laughable. Accordingly I laughed, but that did not address the issue at hand, so off we set on a spine-tingling sprint for home base. We started on the opposing side of the road, of course, looked both ways, and at the next lull in traffic hightailed it along the narrow strip of safety to the harbour of the next driveway, where we pulled off and paused, gasping for breath while cars whizzed past at dangerous speeds. And so it continued. Every time there was a momentary lull in traffic, we made a mad dash for the next driveway up, which in some cases were farther apart than you would expect from such a rapidly-developing area. At one point the next driveway seemed to recede like the fabled oasis in the desert while a huge truck loomed up over the brow of the next hill, and I felt exactly like the kid in the lame movie scene when the locomotive is steaming full tilt toward him as he runs in peril of his life to get off the railroad bridge in time. At last we got back to the place where the sidewalk inexplicably started up again, and it was all safe and happy from there.

That's our exercise for the day. Shall I be making the trip again? I think if I were a carefree young college student or something, short on money but high on dash and recklessness, I wouldn't even think twice before doing it again. But considering I have a baby to look out for--well, to quote Dr. Seuss,

By the light of the moon, by the light of a star
They walked all night, from near to far.
I would never walk. I would take a car.

Never say never

There are a lot of things I intended ('swore' is too strong a word) never to do, yet in the throes of parenting find myself doing after all. However, so far I have been able to document verifiably logical reasons for so doing:

-Talking to Baby in falsetto baby talk. I have always scoffed at this language as sounding patently silly, childish, and uneducated. Why set out to raise a person to talk like a baby?? No son por me! Yet when one has such a cute, cuddly, adorable wittle baby to play with and talk to, one finds out how absolutely irresistable speaking this language can be. The comfort, however, is an article I read recently that explains how infants have a highly developed sense of sound that is keenly attuned to the higher frequencies, such that speaking in a high register appeals very strongly to their senses. Aha! So we as mothers are only acting on the impulses God placed in our brains in order to wire us more securely to our babies!

-Writing or talking as if on behalf of my baby. Although this has been carried off with great success for Ben, Stuart, et al, I always assumed that if I tried it the effect would fall flat and sound far too kitschy and kutesy, like someone who (no offense to Barbara Bush, who is a fine and gracious lady) writes a memoir from the perspective of a dog! And yet, now that I actually have a baby of such demonstrable and obvious cleverness, it is imperative that her profound and wonderful thoughts be written down, as I'm sure she would do for herself if she could only reach the keyboard. Besides, it's really fun to imagine what she would say or think and try to project what her personality might be like.

-Taking nude pictures of my children. Disgraceful and tasteless, not to say causing great embarrassment in later life! However, I have discovered that with such a cute baby it was almost impossible not to take a couple of topless shots of her in her bath, and then from there it was a slippery slope as I rationalised away any potential angst by deciding that with a digital camera, I could always blur away any indiscreet angles later. See, as long as we don't print any immodest pictures, it doesn't count.

Good intentions and all that rot. But I beg you, stop me cold if you ever overhear me saying to my child, 'Because I'm the mother, that's why!' or 'You don't need to worry about it.'

Fan mail

Jane has gotten several pieces of mail in her lifetime, but despite all the attention remains calm and dignified in the midst of the frenzy. The first item was from the government acknowledging her existence, which was helpful. She got a couple of personal letters along with baby gifts from close friends, who despite their concern for her spiritual welfare chose not to go through her parents but bestow the loot directly on her. But by far the most overwhelming response has been from abroad, all from people who never met her and who simply can't stop showering her with tokens of their affection.

Today she received yet another package from Holland friends we met while over there in March, and it is so touching to see how excited they all are for her! Dutch little girl styles are distinctly different from American styles, but so very cute! And the sizing tags are hilarious and totally non-helpful - they consist of random numbers that have no relation to age, weight, or English sizes. It's pretty funny to get a package from Holland, because customs dictates that the identity and value of the item be declared on the postage, so of course we already know what's in the package and how much it cost before we even open it. So fun!

We are so blessed

I'm on the winning edge of a fight with a bad cold, feeling much better now that the worst is over and I can breathe lying down again. I spent much of last week feeling wretched, being glad that Jane was so easy to take care of and non-requiring of much energy/chasing down, trying not to sneeze or cough on her lest I transmit some deadly pneumococcal infection to her, and happily filling Michael in on the long-term life expectancies of cold virus germs trapped in moisture globules. ('So if I sneeze on the keyboard and you touch it any time within the next five weeks, you could still catch my cold, long after I've ceased being contagious!' Hence lots of warm soapy water.)

The long weekend has given us a bit of time to mull over the aftermath of the hurricane. At first we were concerned and solicitous. I remember last Wednesday talking very seriously about what we could do to help, and Michael stated that if he owned a boat, he'd take off work and go down there and pitch in. We talked about Dunkirk and the ability of the average citizen to pitch in and make things better, and how good deeds do not require an immediate organisation, even though massive-scale rescue endeavours like this really demand it: the first step is the good will and the industry of the participants. This is, or should be, the natural reaction to great human disasters like this.

After that I was just mad at the attitudes of the survivors and felt like, if all they were going to do was to hurl invectives and reproach at their would-be rescuers, then I'd gladly wash my hands of the whole sympathy business. Can you imagine treating a convoy of National Guardsmen - who are showing up to save your life - with contempt because they didn't get there sooner?? If that's how they respond to genuine and sincere attempts at help, then I'd just as soon leave the desperate people to their fate.

But, of course, that's not how God deals with us. He does not lightly declare that we've burned our bridges when we fail to show sufficient gratitude for His goodness. Plus there are a lot of innocent people trapped with the bad apples. Plus a bit more time of reflection convinces me that what I hear from New Orleans survivors is not vox populi, but the desperate attempts of the liberal media to manufacture a story where there is none. Apparently not so many people as they would like us to think are blaming Bush for the crisis.

Anyway we spent yesterday going through our closets and drawers and collecting all the extra clothes that we've been meaning to take to Goodwill eventually. We now have several bags to take to a local disaster relief center, which will distribute items directly to hurricane victims, many of whom have already begun arriving in our county. Somehow it's so much more motivating to give something that I know is going directly to help a basic need, like putting clothes on the back of someone who has lost everything, rather than to donate to a generic charity that will help raise money for a good cause.

And I can't help thinking how very blessed we are. We can easily spare so much stuff! Giving these bags away is a very small step toward helping those in need, and won't even feel painful, because we're not even going to miss this. How great of a sacrifice can this be? We could do so much more! But right now, on the very face of it, we have the opportunity to help people out through such a no-brainer as just giving away excess stuff, which was just cluttering up our lives anyway. (Note: a lot of it consisted of hand-me-downs that were given to us in the first place, and it's all nice, albeit used, stuff. I am not advocating giving away junk to charities just to feel good about yourself and to get rid of it.)

I don't think anyone would consider that we live a fancy lifestyle. I certainly don't feel that our living standard is by any means opulent or luxurious, and yet at times like these, when confronted with the image of destitute people who have literally nothing but the clothes on their backs, I realise just how good we really have it. Knowing that I have the ability to give from my abundance makes me feel wealthy. I always tend to be wary of giving money away, just because of the whole stewardship issue and the concern that the recipient may not use the money in the most prudent fashion; we make our charitable donations very cautiously and well-advisedly and only to organisations that we believe in and trust. But there is no reason not to give to basic needs. (Okay, I suppose someone could conceivably pawn or sell some of the clothing that we give and use it to buy drugs, but that's a long shot.) Food and clothing we all have, probably to spare, and these will always be needed and (I hope) appreciated.

Panic and pandemonium

As the news filters slowly back from New Orleans of the rampant devastation and danger, I am growing both more concerned for the innocent people caught up in the thick of all this and more irritated than ever at the people blaming President Bush for the disaster and his response to it, as if they expect him to wave a magic wand and make things better.

I've been reading the headlines all week, and it's still dawning on me just how bad the situation really is. First of all, we all breathed a sigh of relief on Monday when it appeared that the hurricane turned away and dropped to a Category 4, as it seemed that predictions of massive destruction were well overblown. It wasn't until the levees gave way that things got this dangerous, and the situation has been deteriorating since then. Again, it's been a gradual process, with the SOS's getting more and more desperate as the week wears on; it's understandably hard to absorb the scope of the aftermath if you're not there in the thick of things.

Second, since when is it the federal government's job to bail people out of bad situations? It's nice for disaster-stricken countries/communities that we have a generous federal government so willing to adopt the role of charitable organisation and divert billions of dollars in fixing problems, but that is not its job. It's a bonus - it's a gift - and the people of New Orleans should appreciate that instead of complaining that the federal and local governments are letting them down. The city had back-up plans - the Superdome and other relief shelters - which were touted up-front as being last resort contingencies, because of course the first order of business would have been for people to take responsibility for themselves and get out of there instead of expecting the city to make all their travel plans for them. Now conditions are worsening and it's somehow the government's fault for not coordinating these massive relief endeavors on a grander scale?

We saw this hurricane coming good and well. People were warned and then ordered all last week to evacuate, and I do recall reading articles over the weekend interviewing inhabitants sitting on their front porches who had decided to simply weather things out and take their chances. That's their prerogative, but are these the people now roaming the streets with guns, cracking open with forklifts the buildings left by responsible people who had the judgment to leave when the leaving was good? I know this sounds harsh, and I'm sure it takes guts to pack up what you can in a car and drive off, leaving everything behind and not knowing whether you'll have anything to return to or even if you'll be coming back next week when it's all blown over, the laughingstock of the neighborhood because it wasn't so bad as predicted. (I can only assume that's why people didn't leave last week, well before the interstates clogged up - because they refused to believe it would really get this bad.)

What's alarming to me is how easily the bad side of human nature is taking over. Crises like these always call out the best and the worst in people, but it seems as if usually the good tends to prevail with a bit more victory. On the Titanic, you had your occasional cads trying to squeeze onto a lifeboat with the women and children, but the decent men in the crowd were always plentiful enough to keep them in line. Now utter and complete anarchy prevails, and the mobs seems to have no good influences from any quarter. Is this a reflection on our times or simply on the character of the city?

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Michael called me on Wednesday to let me know that rumours of gas shortages had hit the airwaves and to advise me to get gas if I were low. So I ran out to the nearest gas station, figuring it could never hurt to take precautions. On the way there I noted a high volume of traffic, and thought to myself, 'Ha, ha, wouldn't it be funny if all these people were headed to the gas station in a panic to buy gas?' Ha, ha, indeed. The lines were incredible and the parking lot was overflowing; the price was ridiculously higher than it had been the day before, and the radio stations were all blaring the news of the gas shortages as if it were a real live crisis. I still had half a tank, so I turned right around and came home. The governor is assuring us that the pipelines will be back up by the weekend, so I shall simply conserve gasoline, as he admonishes us all to do, and not hoard.

When I visited Atlanta three years ago, Catherine told me how it was practically a state pastime to panic every time there was a winter storm brewing; so much as hint at possible snowfall and the news channels all carried reports on the lines forming in grocery stores to get bread and milk. Apparently it's a Georgia tradition to panic, lemming-like, early and often. To my knowledge a few individual gas stations have run out, but I'm sure that's due to the panic and not to any actual shortage. It's exactly like a run on the bank - and I, for one, refuse to participate in it. I may find myself stranded at home next week, but at least I'm not wasting any money on high-priced gasoline this week!

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I've been playing 'Down At The Twist And Shout' for Jane several times this week. It's our first attempt at unit studies.