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!