Beware already

I give you a few random quotes in honour of the Ides of March.

Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears;
I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him.
The evil that men do lives after them;
The good is oft interred with their bones;
So let it be with Caesar....

~from Julius Caesar, by William Shakespeare


Claudius: What'll ya have?
Flavius: Give me a Martinus.
Claudius: Don't you mean a MartiNI?
Flavius: If I wanted two, I'd ask for it. By the way, could I have a bite to eat?
Claudius: Sure thing. What'll ya have?
Flavius: I could do with some pizzum.
Claudius: Don't you mean pizza?
Flavius: If I wanted more than one, I'd say so.

~from Rinse the Blood off My Toga, by Wayne and Schuster.


"The first date in English History is 55 B.C. in which year Julius Caesar (the memorable Roman Emperor) landed, like all other successful invaders of these islands, at Thanet. This was in the Olden Days, when the Romans were top nation on account of their classical education, etc....
"Julius Caesar was therefore compelled to invade Britain again the following year (54 B.C., not 56, owing to the peculiar Roman method of counting), and having defeated the Ancient Britons by unfair means, such as battering-rams, tortoises, hippocausts, centipedes, axes and bundles, set the memorable Latin sentence, 'Veni, Vidi, Vici,' which the Romans, who were all very well educated, construed correctly.
"The Britons, however, who of course still used the old pronunciation, understanding him to have called them 'Weeny, Weedy, and Weaky,' lost heart and gave up the struggle, thinking that he had already divided them All into Three Parts."

~from 1066 And All That.


A Pict Song

Rome never looks where she treads.
Always her heavy hooves fall
On our stomachs, our hearts or our heads;
And Rome never heeds when we bawl.
Her sentries pass on -- that is all,
And we gather behind them in hordes,
And plot to reconquer the Wall,
With only our tongues for our swords.

We are the Little Folk -- we!
Too little to love or to hate.
Leave us alone and you'll see
How we can drag down the State!
We are the worm in the wood!
We are the rot at the root!
We are the taint in the blood!
We are the thorn in the foot!

Mistletoe killing an oak --
Rats gnawing cables in two --
Moths making holes in a cloak --
How they must love what they do!
Yes -- and we Little Folk too,
We are busy as they --
Working our works out of view --
Watch, and you'll see it some day!

No indeed! We are not strong,
But we know Peoples that are.
Yes, and we'll guide them along
To smash and destroy you in War!
We shall be slaves just the same?
Yes, we have always been slaves,
But you -- you will die of the shame,
And then we shall dance on your graves!

~by Rudyard Kipling

Give me a sign

Last night Michael was telling me about this book his boss had mentioned, which advocates teaching your babies to sign so you can communicate with them before they can even speak. It's a fascinating idea, and I know I just heard about this recently, maybe chatting with someone at church, so I was already intrigued with the idea.

He brought the book by this morning, and I read it with great interest. Apparently infants' manual motor skills develop far sooner than the speech capacity, and babies as young as six months can be taught to sign! Jane is ten months old, so she should pick it up in no time. Today we learned three signs ('We' as in me, with Jane very soon to follow) and are going to rehearse them until Jane is fluent.

Part of why this fascinates me so much is that sign language actually counts as another language. Infants who sign are already bilingual when they begin to speak, and therefore have an advantage in learning another spoken language. This book uses the symbols of American Sign Language, which is something I want my kids to know anyway. This way, we get a head start on the learning and can actually have conversations meanwhile!

I am very excited about this. Will keep you posted as to whether or not it works.

A quick post

Busy times make few blog posts. We had houseguests this past weekend, which means that the fridge is satisfyingly full of leftovers that will probably last the whole week. We went to Kennesaw Mountain on Saturday, where we had a picnic, toured the museum and Civil War battlefield, and climbed to the top and back. Babies who hate being trapped in backpacks will gladly cheer up as long as you stop at every tree and let them pat the trunk and try to eat a few leaves. Two water bottles do not contain enough water to keep you hydrated for a mile-long hike.

On Sunday Michael sang in the church choir for the first time. We've started going to church on Wednesday nights, which is when choir practice is held, and even though it makes for a very long Wednesday, I've really enjoyed it. I think mid-week service must just be a southern thing.

Jane is officially crawling now (previously it was just a very adept scoot) and has a new friend: Ethan John Owens, born to Benjamin and Amanda last Friday.

The other 6:00

Ever since Michael started his new job six months ago, he's been getting up earlier to compensate for an hour-long commute. Fortunately, there are several other co-workers who live at our exit with whom he can carpool, which saves on gas, time (HOV lane), and stress in only having to drive once a week or so. Plus he has more time now to read on the drive.

Last week, one of his fellow carpoolers, who also happens to be his boss, offered the challenge that they all start getting up at 5:00 and spending that extra hour in prayer. Previously, I slept right through the alarm and only got up when it was time to get ready for my day and feed Jane, around 7:30-8. I do need more sleep than Michael, but switching to that wide of a divergence would probably not be a good idea, as if I'm too caught up on sleep I might be likely to stay up late talking and thus hijack Michael's resolve on early rising. The only solution is to make sure I'm as sleepy as he is when it's time to sleep.

So for this past week, Michael has gotten up at five, and then awakened me at six, and I have fixed breakfast for him, which we eat together. It's been very nice to have breakfast together and to be able to serve him a hot meal, and then I have a bit of quiet time after he leaves and before Jane wakes up.

What I'm most struck with is how long the morning is when it starts that early. I'm hungry long before lunch time, and I have to be careful, when running errands, to make sure that the stores are actually open. Apparently only grocery stores and pharmacies are usually open before 8:00 am.

Here it is 10:00, and I've already been awake for four hours. Jane is already down for her morning nap, and I've gotten groceries, cleaned the kitchen, de-boned the chicken from last night, and read a good bit. One can certainly accomplish a good bit with an early start. Even if I have to compensate with a nap this afternoon, I'll still feel ahead.

We'll see how long it lasts. I really hate the new system during the first ten minutes of the day. But after that, the advantages are manifold and glorious.

Let's try this again...

The abundant life

Now, I am usually not one for kicks or programs, especially on the Christian scene, so it may come as a surprise that I am as of this week enthusiastically embarked upon Dr. Charles Stanley's 49-day Abundant Life Challenge. But this is not so surprising when one discovers that this program (for so I must resort to calling this collection of books and the study guide, including a thorough online assessment) was given free to all employees of InTouch Ministries.

The course starts with an online assessment to gauge one's fitness in the spiritual, financial, and physical arenas. (It is a very thorough, comprehensive personality/behaviour-type assessment quiz, which I find particularly irresistible, as I love answering questions about how I think or feel.) The study guide directs one's progress through the assigned books, which are Dr. Stanley's Living The Extraordinary Life, Dave Ramsey's Total Money Makeover, and Jordan Rubin's The Great Physician's Rx for Health and Wellness.

I must say that this whole challenge is an excellent and fascinating idea. There is something very powerful in the agreement of a body of believers to commit themselves corporately to seeking God's will, like the weekly prayer times at HSLDA, and I'm very glad that Michael works for a place that encourages employees to spend time in pursuit of excellence. Now for the subject material itself, which is so enthralling that I feel as if I'm simply bursting with new ideas and insights (Ugh! What a pity 'Insight' is such a loaded word to my subconscious!)

Dave Ramsey is a popular money advice guru, though I hadn't heard of him before; I read his book on Monday (very easy reading) and am quite impressed with the way he combines sound financial advice with strong scriptural principles. The premise of his book is that you want to build wealth to have money to give away. Very good point. Much of his total money makeover seems directed at people who are in financial straits, and he has a solid strategy for digging out of holes. That doesn't seem to apply to my situation so much, although I gather that it would be a lifesaver for most Americans, who are according to the statistics drowning in consumer debt. Some of the stuff he says just makes sense, and some of it was rather eye-opening. All in all, it gave me a lot to think about. I always enjoy expanding my horizons and learning about everything I can, so I was glad to learn his recommendations on retirement savings, at which point to concentrate on retirement v. paying off the house, etc.

Jordan Rubin, who also wrote The Maker's Diet, is also a strong Christian who approaches his topic from the perspective that the body is a temple of the Holy Spirit and his mission is to encourage Christians to be vibrant, healthy witnesses to the power of God, like Daniel and his companions. Why don't people look at Christians and say, 'Wow, he is so strong and healthy and glowing! What is his secret? How can I have what he has?' Instead, Christians are just as plagued by obesity, cholesterol, heart disease, and other problems, much as divorce runs as rampantly through the Church as through the secular world.

I just finished the introduction and the first chapter, so I haven't much to report beyond the fact that I am simply brimming over with new ideas. I am not about to make any drastic changes to my diet, of course, but he has such harsh things to say about pork, catfish, shrimp, and lobster (filthy, polluted, corrupt bottom-feeders living off the waste of other creatures - nature's toxic waste dump) that I may just find myself naturally avoiding them in the future, much as I gradually and without any internal conviction weaned myself of ever eating hot dogs again just by virtue of learning exactly how nasty they were.

The biggest drawback to eating natural and organic foods, of course, is not convenience, preference, taste, or habit - it is cost. Most people are hooked on junk food because they're addicted to the cheap pleasures of hamburgers and pizza. I'd gladly trade in my canola oil and peanut butter and homogenized cow's milk for a Mediterranean diet of olive oil, feta cheese, and alfalfa sprouts if it didn't mean my grocery budget would triple. I'd happily buy tilapia and mahi-mahi if my local Super Walmart ran sales on that instead of catfish. Some whole grains and fresh, organic foods simply aren't available most places, and the ones that are are prohibitively expensive. So for now, I'll muddle along as best I can and slip as much whole wheat flour into my muffins as I can get away with and plant LOTS of blueberry bushes in the meantime.

That was odd

For some reason, Blogspot didn't like the last batch of pictures I posted, the really cute ones of Jane in the sand wearing a swimsuit. The internet would crash and send an error report every time I tried to log in, and I was on the brink of asking Michael to fix the computer for me when a call to a friend confirmed that this was a universal problem with the blog site, not my individual computer. What a pity.

Saints alive

Recently I heard that an old family friend, an elderly lady in Oregon, had died. She had always told us, 'When you hear I'm gone, don't be sad - be happy for me! I know I'll be happy!' I almost forgot to mention it to Michael, and just remembered before falling asleep, at which the following conversation (if you can call it a conversation, as one-sided as it was) took place:

'Oh, by the way, I heard that Blanche B- died....You remember her? We visited her last time we were in Oregon, in that red farmhouse....She was quite elderly, so it was to be expected, and she always told us not to be sorrowful at her death....Her husband was quite the inventor...patented lots of useful things, I believe, and was a very brilliant man - he died a few years ago...so she's with him now...not that she cares....he's just another saint to her.'

That's the one drawback of heaven: the universal specialness of everyone. As far as my mortal mind can comprehend, I don't want to be so ubiquitous, nor do I want everyone to be so equally special to me.

As requested

We're baaaaaack!

Vacations are wonderful things, but they absolutely ruin you for real life. I feel so ripped off now that I have to put my own dishes in the sink again.

We had a fabulous time visiting with family, and everyone doted on Jane, who really was a model child. ('I think I could be a model child if only I were invited to tea at the manse every day.') She took everything in stride, and we got some adorable shots of her on the beach, in a very cute swimsuit, playing with sand.

Yes, Janice, I did do the acrobat thingy, but only a few times. Brother Benjamin and cousin Walter were the stars of the show, meaning they actually performed in the flying trapeze show one night. Which meant that they got to wear tight, shiny pants and do tricks under bright lights with loud music. We were very proud of them.

We went sailing, played putt-putt golf (thank goodness for the rule that you max out at six shots per hole!), went roller-blading, played tennis, and ate lots of good food. I always mean to weigh myself at the beginning and the end of the week to see if I gain weight (lots of good food) or lose weight (lots of exercise) or gain weight (because muscle weighs more than fat). But once again I forgot until nearly halfway through the week.

Today we will slowly ease ourselves back into our normal routines. It is very cold and cloudy out. We are glad that we live no farther north than we do.

Tally ho - and away we go!

Tomorrow we're leaving to spend a week with family in sunny Florida. Well, in Florida, at any rate. I've decided that traveling with a baby is just about as much of a bother whether you're going for a week or a weekend; this is our first long trip with her, and it seems like I'm packing just about as much as I've packed for her during our two other weekend trips. So it's a good thing it's worth our while.

Bad things about Florida:

- Fire ants
- Alligators
- Jellyfish
- Closer to the West Nile virus
- More UV

Did you know that UV actually shoots tiny holes into your body? That's exactly how x-rays work. And you're body is constantly at work repairing the damage, but eventually your skin loses the battle. Eek. And yet I'm still excited about going. Adios, everyone! Have a happy week while we're gone!

The day is not sunny...and teether am I

By Jane Victoria

Cutting teeth is not nearly as wonderful as the baby book made it out to be. Oh, sure, fresh sharp teeth can provide hours of amusement for an idle tongue, but I think I'd just as soon go back to scooting around and licking the carpet for fun. Mama says that cutting teeth is not so bad, but that is not true. It is terrible. It is the worst thing that has happened to me in my entire life.

The one advantage, you would think, is that now I can gnash my teeth. But the irony of it is that, with no teeth on top, I simply end up biting my gum. Ow! Hence the wailing.

Apparently teeth are supposed to help me eat my food, but I can't see that I need any help. I've been eating food for three months now just fine. Why couldn't things just stay the way they were??

More on aging

Sometimes I try to catalogue all the things in the world to decide if I fall over or under the average age of stuff. For instance, all products of anything that was invented in my lifetime are going to be younger than I am. That means that I am automatically older than every single VCR, DVD, DVD player, microwave, and MP3 in the universe. Then, of course, there's all the stuff that has been around for awhile but whose individual lifespan is less than mine, so it's likely that I am older than most light bulbs, SUVs, hamsters, etc.

It comes down, of course, to whether you count the recycling of materials into something new as the date of origin, since all matter is constant, and whether you count things in terms of numbers of items or absolute mass. So in terms of absolute mass, I am probably toward the young side of things, considering the earth's molten core; but if you count all that as one object, and factor in the trillions of insects that have lived and died since I was born, then I'm probably on the aged end.

A merry heart

I've read in many places of the documented health benefits of laughter, even forced and unspontaneous, and for a time (usually concurrent with my other Being Good kicks of exercising and flossing) I practised the discipline of daily laughter. It is surprisingly hard to laugh voluntarily: you pretty much have to be in private to feel uninhibited enough, and even then you usually end up feeling a bit silly at first. I used to try for at least two minutes of laughter on my drive to work every morning.

But now I've found the perfect outlet for this very healthy and desirable pursuit: make a baby laugh. Laughter is so contagious that you feel right at home, and the silliness of breaking out into sudden, maniacal laughter isn't nearly so potent when you're already doing silly stuff like making funny faces and using funny voices around said baby anyway.

On aging

Michael remarked that this was a very pleasant birthday, although nothing spectacular. We've pulled off surprise parties for each other for the last couple of years, and I think we both sensed that it was time to end that genre, since we can't possibly top every masterpiece. Better quit while we're ahead. So no more surprise parties, and the major milestones only come around every five or ten years at this point (Twenty-one is, I think, the last major non-divisible-by-five milestone birthday).

But that's all right. We decided that the antidote to not-so-special birthdays anymore is the more special everyday existence. Sure, the cards only come from family and the obligatory co-workers now. But what's a bit of fleeting recognition compared with overall quality of life? I couldn't buy Michael anything that spectacular because he doesn't really need anything. Which means, by implication, that everything he needs/wants has come along throughout the year, instead of having to save up all year hoping and waiting, like the bike on a tenth birthday or something. I did bake a layer cake for him, which was special, as I've never done an actual layer cake before, with frosting between the layers, but not that spectacular, as I bake fresh yummies every week anyway. I cooked his favourite meal and set the table nicely with all the silverware and candles - but I've been setting out all place settings at every meal anyway for the last few months. That doesn't make his birthday seem any more special by contrast, but it does make our everyday living style more elegant.

So I guess the moral of the story is, birthdays for kids are really grand because the rest of the year is miserable enough to provide a sufficient contrast. Adults, by comparison, can have a nice enough life that birthdays are only marginally more exciting.

Octophobia

What is it about spiders, giant squid, and octopus that makes them so universally horrible? At first glance one might think that it must be their eight-leggedness. But that can't be the only factor, because the 50-foot squid arm they found in the stomach of a sperm whale means that there's a seven-legged giant squid swimming around out there, and that's just as bad.

Tag time

So Sara is passing the torch to me, and I, nothing loath, am happy for the opportunity to toss off another list.

Four Jobs I Have Had in My Life:
1) Pig-sty swiller
2) Ball chaperone and greeter
3) Office mover
4) Proofreader

Movies I Could Watch Over and Over Again:
1) Princess Bride (of course!)
2) Ever After
3) Mary Poppins
4) Star Wars Trilogy (at least I think so; I watched it 37 times the first summer I saw it) (but that may just be a sixteen-year-old thing)

Four Places I Have Lived:
1) Dallas, OR
2) Alexandria, Egypt
3) Leesburg, VA
4) Atlanta, GA

Four TV Shows I Love to Watch:
Love? That's a bit strong of a word for the occasional Frasier re-run and the Alias kick we were on a few months back

Four Places I Have Been on Vacation:
1) Cyprus
2) Holland
3) England!
4) Florida

Four Websites I Visit Daily (or at least weekly):
1) Amy's blog (because she has the links to all the other blogs I like to read)
2) The Wondering Minstrels (not quite every day, but it's a wonderful website)
3) Modesty Zone
4) The Daily Su-do-ku (we'll see how long this kick keeps up)

Four of My Favourite Foods:
1) Ice cream, of course
2) Pineapple pizza
3) Lasagne
4) Oreos

Four Singers I Can't Live Without:
1) Enya
2) ABBA
3) Pat Benatar
4) The Beatles

Four Places I'd Rather Be:
1) England!!
2) Scotland (because then I could hitchhike to England)
3) Italy
4) Heaven

Four Bloggers I Am Tagging:
See, well, now, that's the tricky part. Tagging someone is kind of like a Tupperware party: I'm always eager to go, but I'm reluctant to invite anyone because it may not be their cup of tea, and besides this little quiz has been circulating for long enough that it's likely most people have already had the opportunity to play. I'd tag the Queen of Carrots, who's such a good sport and so up for tagging that she even went out of her way to tag herself recently, but for the fact that I think it might have been this very quiz she answered. So I'll throw in this twist: O Queen, answer as if written by D1 and/or D2. Hee, hee! Won't that be cute?

Many happy returns...

...to Michael, the love of my life, who celebrates yet another birthday today!

Things We Still Like To Say And Think Are Clever, No Matter How Often We Say Them:

Michael: I'm afraid that's the last one.
Me: Oh, don't be afraid! Everything's going to be all right!

Michael: Well, to be honest-
Me: I want you to be honest with me, Michael.

Me (coming home from church or something): Well, I think I'm going to go change.
Michael: Oh, don't change, Love! I like you just the way you are!

A-pun my word

Recently we were trying to eat our meal in peace and quiet, and Jane simply would not settle down. She had been fractious all day, and I was writing her off as tired, but I feared that her peevishness would adversely affect Michael, who, like most men, tends not to tune out the sounds of a baby's crying so well. I apologised for her behaviour. 'I don't know why she's being so cantankerous,' I said, and went on to make such excuses for her that he finally assured me such excuses were unnecessary, adding, 'I hope you don't think I'm being cantankerous.'

'Well, no,' I admitted, 'but you were looking so tense that I figured you were getting a bit can't-take-her-ous.'

*************************************************************

For a very long time, puns were considered strictly lowbrow humour. Their obvious play on well-known words guaranteed a wide and appreciative audience, and a form of humour that was readily enjoyed by people of all education and literacy was not considered highbrow or subtle enough to entertain those of refinement. Any self-held wit could transform himself into a punster, and cheap puns appeared en masse in the daily papers for the guffaws and amusement of the common readership. High-class society entertained itself with such dainties as the double-entendre, which we already know must be far cleverer and more refined because it has a foreign name. Those who did venture a pun were quick to disavow their wit, insisting 'No pun intended,' which became quickly seized upon as a humble form of saying, 'Did you catch that? You may be too thick-headed to notice that I just made a pun, but I simply cannot let this example of my cleverness get by without acknowledgement.'

I am glad that in our less class-conscious society, puns are making a respectable comeback, because I think they can evince such cleverness of word tricks and give us an opportunity to play with the language. Tom Swifties are among my favourites of the genre. I think I may have mentioned these before:

'That's my gold mine,' Tom claimed.
'But that used to be my gold mine!' Tom exclaimed.
'I used to be a pilot,' Tom explained.
'I dropped the toothpaste,' said Tom, crestfallen.
'I lost a fight with a lion,' Tom said off-handedly.

Tooth and consequences

Yesterday Jane sprouted her very first tooth, a sharp spar protruding from the bottom gum. Henceforward no inflatable toy shall be safe from her. I discovered it while she was chewing on my finger yesterday morning, and all last evening as we fed her a practise cup of water we could hear the chink of tooth on glass. It's the end of an era...and the beginning of a new one.

For his birthday, Michael is teaching me how to play Axis and Allies. At first I asked him to teach me as a splendid gesture on my part, because I thought it would be such an incredible Good Wife thing to do. But I find I'm not doing any martyristic favours, because the game is really riveting in its own right. It's very hard to learn, and very difficult to pry one's mind away from; I'm seeing East Front maneuvers in my mind's eye as I fall asleep. I just wish it weren't so intense and so absolutely emotionally draining. (No! No! You can't sink my transport! I'm on an island - I need that transport to move my troops!)

An interesting article about blogging

Miss Manners has such a delightful way of putting things:

'[B]logs have served as an outlet for those unable to book their confessions on television. Whatever this does for the general tone of society, etiquette has no rule against people spreading unflattering gossip about themselves.'

The article also berates those using blogs to betray confidences of others, something I try to avoid doing by referencing friends anonymously, as in the following anecdote:

Once, I decided to call a friend. She answered the phone with a rather suggestive greeting, which took me so much by surprise that I could only manage a feeble 'Who, me?' Obviously she was expecting the call to be from her husband, and it is hard to say which of us was more thrown for a loop. We both got a hearty laugh from it, and I still feel inclined to giggle whenever I think of it.

Note: this trick doesn't work so well when trying to relate an anecdote about one's spouse. That kind of anonymity is a little harder to pull off. I suppose one could try the old third-person dodge, a la Once I had a friend who was so delighted to find what appeared to be a great sale on toilet tissue that she stocked up and bought dozens of rolls, only to find that it was of such cheap quality that her husband insisted it was not allowed in the house, and she ended up giving it all away to her family on their next visit, because her five little brothers didn't care about such niceties as double-ply toilet tissue. Ha! How's that for subterfuge and discretion??

Undeck the halls and untrim the tree

On Saturday we took down the Christmas lights, a thunderstorm having prevented this activity last weekend. I was secretly glad for the delay, because I love to revel in the Christmas spirit as long as possible. Anyway, Michael was up on the ladder unthreading the lights from the clips and tossing them down to me, and I was shivering in the chill wind, wearing a sweater with the hood pulled tightly around my face.

Michael: It's so nice that you're not vain.
Me: What? Are you saying that I don't look pretty?
Michael: No! It's just good that you care more for practicality.
Me: I'd rather be pretty than practical!
Michael: Well, lucky for me that you're both.

That was a very diplomatic reply.

Reverent and relevant Christianity

Last night as we were reading the Bible together, Michael started laughing. We were in the last chapter of Ezekiel, involving dimensions for the city, and I am afraid that I was not being quite as attentive as I ought. I asked what was so funny, and Michael replied that he had suddenly imagined what would happen - and if I would even notice - if he read some outrageous number. 'Like a gazillion cubits to the eastward! But then I thought you would notice a number like a gazillion, and anyway, it's the Bible.' We both agreed that the Bible is too revered to be treated lightly in that manner, misquoting deliberately for frivolous amusement, but couldn't quite put our finger on the determining factor for what degree of levity is allowable. We don't have a problem making word plays or jokes about Bible facts or characters (such as Bildad the Shoe-height). I suppose it's an individual conviction.

I was recently reflecting on what degree of importance I accord to my faith, and decided that it's either a very good sign or a very bad sign how intrinsic it is to my life. It's a good thing that my faith is so central and assured, but it might be a bad thing to take it for granted. This comes up in any sort of question about important decisions or books, where a qualifier is always required. 'List the three books that have had the most impact on your life - excepting the Bible, of course.' 'Marriage is the most important decision you'll ever make - after salvation, of course.'

It occurred to me that, in some ways, I really don't feel that scale all too keenly. I felt clearly that the decision to marry Michael was the most important decision of my life - maybe because the salvation question was resolved so long before, and is not a matter open to debate? I was scribbling a mental note to Michael the other day, and thought of saying, 'You're the best thing that's ever happened to me,' when it occurred to me that Christ's love and redemption is actually the best thing that has ever happened to me, or can ever happen. But of course, that's a given. As Michael soberly pointed out when I mentioned this all to him, 'If the Bible really were our favourite book, we'd read it a lot more often.' Of course we read it every day. But did I really want to know all that about the temple and the tribes? Hmmm. Is puzzlement.

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.