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!