Amsterdam
Ian McEwan
I see a lot of McEwan books in the used marketplace, so I picked one up to see if he was any good. The answer is yes, he is, though I'm not going to start seeking him out. The book was short, funny, and said true things about human nature, but it did not knock my socks off.
And this is what happens if I wait until the end of the month to write down what I thought about a book I read at the beginning of the month.
Christian Caregiving: A Way of Life
Kenneth C. Haugk and William J. McKay
My Stephen Ministry training involves a lot of reading. Between this and the book we are reading in Sunday School, I have a lot of dang church homework. For Stephen classes, we have two workbooks, which have pre-class reading and then in-class activities. We also have three other books, this being the first one. It's about how caring for someone is different when it's from a Christian standpoint. Spoiler alert: the answer is love. Christians are called to love everyone, and so our motivations as Stephen Ministers is following that.
To be honest, the thing that I am most nervous about this whole Stephen Minister thing is the churchy part. Yes, I have much church homework, but I am not in the habit of talking about faith, and I am generally kinda cagey on theological specifics. I'm even a little nervous about working with people who are outside my church - while we are very accepting of different takes on Christianity, I'm not sure that's true of the other congregations. I will be expected to pray with people, which I find terrifying. I'm just waiting for a greiving widow to ask me whether her husband is in heaven now, and...I mean, geez, lady, how should I know? I'm just a peer helper!
But most of this book and the whole program is about doing what Jesus said to do, that whole loving each other stuff, rather than knowing answers to the universe. I think I can handle that.
Picking Cotton: Our Memoir of Injustice and Redemption
Jennifer Thompson-Cannino, Ronald Cotton, Erin Torneo
Our book club selection this month is about wrongful convictions. A lady is raped, and with her testimony, a man is put behind bars for the crime. Except it turns out he didn't do it, and eleven years later, he is finally released. The lady and the falsely convicted dude later become friends. The book raises a lot of questions about the reliability of memory and eyewitness evidence.
Interesting story, and it all took place in Burlington, NC, which is about an hour from Raleigh. The writing was sort of ho-hum, a straight-forward retelling of facts. But I am always happy for some light to be shed on the issues of incarceration.
A Room with a View
E.M. Forster
I read this as part of an online book club. Remember how I complain all the time about book club, because we never pick anything challenging to read? I joined the online book club partly because they pick two books a month, one of which is in the public domain. So it's old and has stood the test of time and chances are, either Josh and I already own in our extensive library. That's actually why I read Great Expectations last month. I read it and then did not participate in any of the discussions, which was still better than the month before, when I got the book off the shelf and then did not read it.
All that, yet I was not very excited about A Room With a View. I read Howard's End by the same author a few years ago. I do not remember very much about it, except that it was about high class society and how much it sucks to be a woman. I am always happy to see some feminism injected into literature, but honestly, those books can be pretty depressing.
This one also deals with high class society people and their high class rules, which I found occasionally frustrating. There was a lot of drama about people not following the high class rules, but the rules are so fussy and subtle that I wasn't always sure what all the tension was about. Part of that is the joke. For instance, there is a scene where a group of women are scandalized by the fact that a man used the word "stomach" around them. However, they can't even tell the story and use the scandalous word because there is a man in the room.
Isn't it wonderful to live in the 21st century, where we can refer to our innards around men? STOMACH! PANCREAS! SPLEEN!
The book associates different people with either rooms or views, with the clear message being that it's better to be a view. There is a theme of honesty - not just being truthful, but being open as well. The main character, Lucy, has a problem, but she lies about it to everyone as a way of lying to herself. She's not really even lying outright, but avoiding the real truth and running away to Greece (which is what you can do when you're high class). Luckily, she finds someone she can't bear to lie to, the truth comes all stumbling out, and she is saved from a lifetime of being a room. Being a view is about light and truth, while being a room is about darkness and deceit.
I found this book to be incredibly relevant to my Stephen training. While the Christian Caregiving book was sort of an instruction manual, this was a literary take on very similar subject matter. It's not at all explicitly Christian, in fact it's a bit humanist, but the lessons for life are pretty much the same: love! I wrote down a quote about an old man who does not fit into society because he is kind. Lucy remarks that we all try to be kind, and the response is that we do that "because we think it improves our characters. But he is kind to people because he loves them; and they find him out and are offended, or frightened."
I feel like I am in the state where I try to be kind because it improves my character, because I want to be a kind person. It's still about what I want to be, not about how I actually feel about other people. I generally like people, which has not always been the case (progress!), but I don't think I can say that I love people yet. I really want to, if that counts for anything.
The Master and Margarita
Mikhail Bulgakov
I saw people all over the internet talking about how awesome this book is, and it really sounded like something I'd love. Russian - I love foreign writing. Magical realism - what fun! Retelling of Faust and Jesus - supernatural stuff is awesome!
And yet, I kinda wish that I had waited and read it later. I enjoyed it, because it's vivid and interesting, but I felt the whole time that there was something I wasn't appreciating, just out of my reach. Also, based on the commentary in the back, I would've benefited a lot by reading Faust first. It makes me a bit sad when this happens, because I may never go back and read it again. But still, how can one know when one is ready for a piece of literature? Sometimes things hit at just the right time, and sometimes it's too soon. Ah well, better too soon than not at all.
But let's talk about it, rather than just saying I maybe wasn't ready yet. So! We start out in Moscow, when the Soviets have outlawed Jesus. A couple of writers are sitting on a bench at a park, talking about the best way to write a poem about the non-existence of God when the Devil comes and sits with them. He predicts one of their deaths and tells a story about Pontius Pilate. Chaos ensues. There are parallel chapters throughout the book describing the death of Jesus (well, a Jesus, but not That Jesus), while events in Moscow often match tales from the gospels.
The thing that struck me about the Devil is that he seems to be more about mischief than evil. He has a reason for being in town, but it is never clear what the goal is or how it helps his ultimate ends. While he is there, the various members of his entourage cause a great deal of trouble, and many people go mad from trying to resolve what they are experiencing (which is frequently magical and impossible) with reality. A couple of people die, some fires get started, and fake money gets passed about, but it really seems like he's just spreading chaos. I feel like I don't understand who the Devil really is in this story. It's a Faust story, so he makes a deal with someone, but it seems to be a pretty reasonable deal. Bad things happen to people, but a lot of times it's due to their own actions - in this case, the Devil is more punishing people for evil they've done, rather than trying to coerce them into doing it. In the end, a lot of them are forgiven.
So, yeah, there is a lot going on in this book, and I didn't even mention the slams on the Soviet government. There are some truly magnificent scenes, and I definitely enjoyed it. I had to read more slowly than usual, and I was happy to do so. Just felt like I was missing something.
Unrelated note: Before I read the book, I looked up info about various translations. Some of them apparently miss the humor of the book. One disparaging comment about a particular translation says that "the cat doesn't even handle the firearms!" I mean, wouldn't you like to read a book where a cat handles fireamrs? Turns out he's a terrible shot.
2.28.2014
2.24.2014
coats of many colors.
For years, I have worn dark wool coats. A couple of years ago, I decided that I wanted something with a little more personality, you know, so people could see me coming from far off and leave if they needed to. I started looking for a brightly colored wool coat.
Most people, when they decide that a brightly colored wool coat is their heart's wish, go to the store and buy one. If their heart's wish is discovered during the summer, then they might have to wait a few months until the stores put out their winter stock again. When you shop at the thrift stores, however, you can't count on there being any wool coats at all, much less the bright purple one you've always secretly wanted. As it happened, there were a fair amount of brightly colored wool coats, but they were always shin-length and frequently stuck in the 1980s. For two or three years now, I've been hopefully looking through racks of coats, pulling out the colorful wool ones and then putting them back, disappointed.
Ah, but it's been a good winter for outerwear. I have acquired three, three!, exciting coats with lots of personality.
Coat 1: Upholstery
Here is the coat I'd be searching for! Well, it turned out to be the coat I bought.
Josh makes fun of this coat regularly, saying it looks like 70s upholstery. I tolerate his comments, and then smile triumphantly at him whenever I get complimented on it. Lots of people have recognized that while they may have seen this fabric on an unfortunate couch once, it clearly makes for a nice coat. I adorned it with a flower brooch I picked up at another thrift store.
Coat 2: Navy
One morning, Josh went out and hit a few thrift stores. He called me on the way home, obviously excited about some good finds. I cheekily asked him if he'd bought me any presents. He replied that he had.
What he bought was a black pea coat. I know, not brightly colored at all. But, it was formerly owned by someone in the Navy, and the arm patch makes up for the sensibility of the color.
I tried it on, and it fits just right, though it is rather masculine. I wore it a few times, Josh tried it out a few times, and then a few days later, Josh announced that I could have it. Apparently, he'd bought it, maybe with the idea of keeping it for himself, though noting my preference for pea coats. Then, when I'd asked about a present, he said yes and locked himself in.
The moral is to always ask if he's bought me a present. Or the moral is that when you're married, close to the same size, and you've both got like four coats, you can share the newest one.
It is seriously the nicest coat I've ever owned. The lining is thick and soft. It's just altogether sturdy, well-made, and warm. When the weather outside is too frightful for my upholstery coat, I wear this one. The lining is stamped at the bottom with the name "ROBERTS," who I assume was the original owner. According to the patch, he was a machinist's mate, petty officer, first class.
Coat 3: Cape
You know, I should not have even been in the coat section. I already fulfilled my need for interesting outerwear, so there was no need for me to even go to that rack and start poking through the selection. And it was completely unnecessary for me to see the bright royal blue wool fabric and then go pulling out the hanger.
But I did. And it wasn't a coat! It was a cape, with an attached scarf. I bought it, like immediately. I felt the need to hurry up and make the purchase before I came to my senses, because this right here is pretty ridiculous, even for someone who wears dated upholstery.
Having bought a cape, I need to wear it. I have several silly items of clothing in my closet that never get worn, but I only paid a dollar or so for each of them. I paid fifteen whole dollars for this cape, which means I need to make the price-per-wear cost worth it. At least, that's the kind of silly justification math I did while standing impatiently in line at the Goodwill.
I have been wearing my cape to the only place where that kind of fanciness is at all appropriate - church. And since I can't wear just any old outfit with a nice wool cape, my outfits have gotten snazzier, too. Josh usually makes me feel like a slouch at church, because while I put on pants and a sweater and call it done, he's going all out with a jacket and bowtie. He's even been talking about suspenders lately.
I dug deep into my closet and found some neglected skirts. Then I dug deeper and found a box of tights from my business casual days. With my cape and my coordinating tights, I AM THE FANCIEST. I've gotten several appreciative comments, but the best response I've gotten has been from Josh himself, who apparently loves his wife in a cape. He said I looked like a beautiful detective.
Just in case you ever see a be-caped woman out in public, and you think to yourself that she is wearing a ridiculous garment, I assure you, she knows. I feel like a Grade-A Crazy Person in that cape, even as I admire the lovely blue wool and the purple satin lining. Josh told me that his Mom once owned a winter cape, but she ended up getting rid of it because she did not like getting so much attention.
Now, I do not really care for public attention. However, I do wear things that get attention, for example, my penguin hat and now my cape. I do not wear these things because I want the attention, but because I like the thing itself. After buying my penguin hat, I was surprised and a little dismayed at how much notice it attracted, but I sure as heck was not going to stop wearing it. I can't argue with people who want to come up and tell me what a great hat I'm wearing. They are right, it is a fantastic penguin hat. So far, I can say that a cape gets less attention than a penguin hat. I think the only difference is that while I often forget that I have a penguin on my head, I am acutely aware of the cape at all times.
But I take it as a challenge. By having the social courage to wear my most excellent cape, I can encourage others to wear the capes languishing in their closets. Life is short, be fancy.
And now I will really stop looking for a coat. Promise.
Most people, when they decide that a brightly colored wool coat is their heart's wish, go to the store and buy one. If their heart's wish is discovered during the summer, then they might have to wait a few months until the stores put out their winter stock again. When you shop at the thrift stores, however, you can't count on there being any wool coats at all, much less the bright purple one you've always secretly wanted. As it happened, there were a fair amount of brightly colored wool coats, but they were always shin-length and frequently stuck in the 1980s. For two or three years now, I've been hopefully looking through racks of coats, pulling out the colorful wool ones and then putting them back, disappointed.
Ah, but it's been a good winter for outerwear. I have acquired three, three!, exciting coats with lots of personality.
Coat 1: Upholstery
Here is the coat I'd be searching for! Well, it turned out to be the coat I bought.
Josh makes fun of this coat regularly, saying it looks like 70s upholstery. I tolerate his comments, and then smile triumphantly at him whenever I get complimented on it. Lots of people have recognized that while they may have seen this fabric on an unfortunate couch once, it clearly makes for a nice coat. I adorned it with a flower brooch I picked up at another thrift store.
Coat 2: Navy
One morning, Josh went out and hit a few thrift stores. He called me on the way home, obviously excited about some good finds. I cheekily asked him if he'd bought me any presents. He replied that he had.
What he bought was a black pea coat. I know, not brightly colored at all. But, it was formerly owned by someone in the Navy, and the arm patch makes up for the sensibility of the color.
I tried it on, and it fits just right, though it is rather masculine. I wore it a few times, Josh tried it out a few times, and then a few days later, Josh announced that I could have it. Apparently, he'd bought it, maybe with the idea of keeping it for himself, though noting my preference for pea coats. Then, when I'd asked about a present, he said yes and locked himself in.
The moral is to always ask if he's bought me a present. Or the moral is that when you're married, close to the same size, and you've both got like four coats, you can share the newest one.
It is seriously the nicest coat I've ever owned. The lining is thick and soft. It's just altogether sturdy, well-made, and warm. When the weather outside is too frightful for my upholstery coat, I wear this one. The lining is stamped at the bottom with the name "ROBERTS," who I assume was the original owner. According to the patch, he was a machinist's mate, petty officer, first class.
Coat 3: Cape
You know, I should not have even been in the coat section. I already fulfilled my need for interesting outerwear, so there was no need for me to even go to that rack and start poking through the selection. And it was completely unnecessary for me to see the bright royal blue wool fabric and then go pulling out the hanger.
But I did. And it wasn't a coat! It was a cape, with an attached scarf. I bought it, like immediately. I felt the need to hurry up and make the purchase before I came to my senses, because this right here is pretty ridiculous, even for someone who wears dated upholstery.
Having bought a cape, I need to wear it. I have several silly items of clothing in my closet that never get worn, but I only paid a dollar or so for each of them. I paid fifteen whole dollars for this cape, which means I need to make the price-per-wear cost worth it. At least, that's the kind of silly justification math I did while standing impatiently in line at the Goodwill.
I have been wearing my cape to the only place where that kind of fanciness is at all appropriate - church. And since I can't wear just any old outfit with a nice wool cape, my outfits have gotten snazzier, too. Josh usually makes me feel like a slouch at church, because while I put on pants and a sweater and call it done, he's going all out with a jacket and bowtie. He's even been talking about suspenders lately.
I dug deep into my closet and found some neglected skirts. Then I dug deeper and found a box of tights from my business casual days. With my cape and my coordinating tights, I AM THE FANCIEST. I've gotten several appreciative comments, but the best response I've gotten has been from Josh himself, who apparently loves his wife in a cape. He said I looked like a beautiful detective.
Just in case you ever see a be-caped woman out in public, and you think to yourself that she is wearing a ridiculous garment, I assure you, she knows. I feel like a Grade-A Crazy Person in that cape, even as I admire the lovely blue wool and the purple satin lining. Josh told me that his Mom once owned a winter cape, but she ended up getting rid of it because she did not like getting so much attention.
Now, I do not really care for public attention. However, I do wear things that get attention, for example, my penguin hat and now my cape. I do not wear these things because I want the attention, but because I like the thing itself. After buying my penguin hat, I was surprised and a little dismayed at how much notice it attracted, but I sure as heck was not going to stop wearing it. I can't argue with people who want to come up and tell me what a great hat I'm wearing. They are right, it is a fantastic penguin hat. So far, I can say that a cape gets less attention than a penguin hat. I think the only difference is that while I often forget that I have a penguin on my head, I am acutely aware of the cape at all times.
But I take it as a challenge. By having the social courage to wear my most excellent cape, I can encourage others to wear the capes languishing in their closets. Life is short, be fancy.
And now I will really stop looking for a coat. Promise.
2.22.2014
sorry, ruth.
Today, driving back home a bit after noon, Josh asked what we should have for lunch. It was a marvelous day, and marvelous days make us want to use the grill. We've had several marvelous days this week, which is why Josh had grilled burgers for lunch on Wednesday and grilled chicken wings on Friday. This afternoon, he suggested burgers. The only problem was that we ran out of ground beef on the marvelous day that was Wednesday. I try to stock up on hamburger meat when it's on sale so we don't have to pay the regular price in case of a marvelous day.
"We're out of ground beef."
"Oh yeah."
"How about we make pimento cheese and have that on sandwiches with fries?"
"Okay."
We continued on down the road, with me feeling smug about having talked him into a cheaper option. We pulled into the parking lot of the Harris Teeter to pick up some potatoes for the fries.
"What if we grilled burgers and made pimento cheese? Pimento cheeseburgers!"
Clearly my optimism came too soon, though on the bright side, I would be enjoying pimento cheeseburgers very soon. I sighed and said that we could do whatever he wanted. But it was my lucky day, too - ground beef was on sale! Bring on the pimento cheeseburgers!
Anyway, this humdrum tale of marital compromise is just to tell you about my recipe for pimento cheese. Any readers from parts other than the American South may not even be familiar with this wonderful gloppy spread, but today is your lucky day. Round here, you can buy pimento cheese in a clear plastic container in the deli section of your local grocery store, and I seem to remember the prominent brand was Ruth's. The thing about Ruth's pimento cheese (and any other store-bought brand) is that it is sort of mysterious. Looking at it, you can tell that there are both pimento and cheese involved, but the rest of it is up in the air. There are questionable lumps. Your best bet is to encase it in a sandwich, where you don't really have to look at it and wonder what you're even eating.
The nice thing about making your own version is that you know what the lumps are. Not only is my version is less mysterious-looking, it also tastes fifty million times better. Sorry, Ruth. Aside from eating by itself on a plain sandwich or crackers, it's delicious on burgers or as the center of a grilled cheese sandwich. I have served it to many Southerners and heard nothing but happy eating noises.
A final note: I do not used pimentos in my pimento cheese. I used diced roasted red peppers, which makes a huge improvement in the flavor. And sometimes the peppers sort of smush in with everything else and turn the whole thing a bit pink.
Roasted Red Pepper Cheese
8 oz cheddar, grated
8 oz cream cheese
1/3 c mayonnaise
1/4 t onion powder
1/4 t garlic powder
1/4 t cayenne pepper
4 oz roasted red peppers, diced
Mix it all up real good. Eat on everything.
"We're out of ground beef."
"Oh yeah."
"How about we make pimento cheese and have that on sandwiches with fries?"
"Okay."
We continued on down the road, with me feeling smug about having talked him into a cheaper option. We pulled into the parking lot of the Harris Teeter to pick up some potatoes for the fries.
"What if we grilled burgers and made pimento cheese? Pimento cheeseburgers!"
Clearly my optimism came too soon, though on the bright side, I would be enjoying pimento cheeseburgers very soon. I sighed and said that we could do whatever he wanted. But it was my lucky day, too - ground beef was on sale! Bring on the pimento cheeseburgers!
Anyway, this humdrum tale of marital compromise is just to tell you about my recipe for pimento cheese. Any readers from parts other than the American South may not even be familiar with this wonderful gloppy spread, but today is your lucky day. Round here, you can buy pimento cheese in a clear plastic container in the deli section of your local grocery store, and I seem to remember the prominent brand was Ruth's. The thing about Ruth's pimento cheese (and any other store-bought brand) is that it is sort of mysterious. Looking at it, you can tell that there are both pimento and cheese involved, but the rest of it is up in the air. There are questionable lumps. Your best bet is to encase it in a sandwich, where you don't really have to look at it and wonder what you're even eating.
The nice thing about making your own version is that you know what the lumps are. Not only is my version is less mysterious-looking, it also tastes fifty million times better. Sorry, Ruth. Aside from eating by itself on a plain sandwich or crackers, it's delicious on burgers or as the center of a grilled cheese sandwich. I have served it to many Southerners and heard nothing but happy eating noises.
A final note: I do not used pimentos in my pimento cheese. I used diced roasted red peppers, which makes a huge improvement in the flavor. And sometimes the peppers sort of smush in with everything else and turn the whole thing a bit pink.
Roasted Red Pepper Cheese
8 oz cheddar, grated
8 oz cream cheese
1/3 c mayonnaise
1/4 t onion powder
1/4 t garlic powder
1/4 t cayenne pepper
4 oz roasted red peppers, diced
Mix it all up real good. Eat on everything.
2.19.2014
stephen ministry.
I have a friend who has been having a rough time of it recently. What is interesting to me is that we would not ordinarily be more than acquaintances, because we really don't have all that much in common. But she was having a crisis one day, and I was there. So I made use of my Peer Helper training, and we became friends. I've discovered that she does not have very many others to just listen to her. Her family members are not interested in providing emotional support. She has friends, but from what I gather, they are friends that you go out and have fun with, not ones who sit with you after a bad day.
It seemed like she had no one, except me, and I felt like an accident in the first place. Me, I don't have very many problems in my life, and I don't really talk about the ones I do have. But I know that if I wanted to, I have a long list of people I could call up. Which of us is the exception and who is the rule?
I found it amazing that something that was so simple for me to do was so helpful to her. I wondered how many other people are out there who need someone to listen to them. I tried to think of ways that I could do this for more people, like being a counselor but without having to get a degree. Maybe some kind of texting or instant messaging service? How could I find people who needed a shoulder and then volunteer to be that shoulder?
The answer was at church. Which sorta answered another question I had been noodling - where could I serve in the church? Josh joined everything that anyone asked him to, but I held back, waiting for something that was a better fit. I volunteered for the nursery a couple of times and hated it. I bake cookies once a month, which I like, but I wanted something a little more intensive.
Then I found out about Stephen Ministry, and it sounded exactly right.
Stephen Ministry is a nationwide program, active at 11,000 churches across the country. When a person is going through a difficult time, they ask for a Stephen Minister, who then visits with them weekly and just lets them talk. Okay, the Stephen Minister speaks a bit, too, but it's pretty funny how much of our training is about not talking. Most of what we say is meant to encourage the other person to talk more. We are encouraged to use open-ended questions and to never see a silence as awkward. During one class, one of my fellow trainees asked how long we should wait after a person finishes speaking before we say something. The response? "I don't think you can wait too long."
You can always tell a Stephen Minister. They're the ones sitting silently with a friendly expression and open body language.
Right now, I am just in training. I go to weekly classes that run through May, at which point I decide whether to commit at least two years to being a Stephen Minister. There are ten people in our class, mostly older women, but with one man and one eighteen-year-old young lady. Our church is not big enough to support its own program, so we share with local Presbyterian and Methodist churches. In the course of our classes, I expect to become close with my fellow trainees. Already, a couple of people have shared personal stories as they related to the material we were going through. Similar to my unexpected friendship, it feels sort of surreal to know how much will be shared between us, people who might not have much more in common than being interested in listening. Already I have shared things I wouldn't have otherwise. Not secrets, really, just regular daily stuff that I would have kept to myself ordinarily. It's a little scary.
The material so far is simple to understand, if challenging to always put into practice. Since I'm not yet a Stephen Minister, I don't have anyone assigned to me. But these are skills that can be applied to any relationship, and I'm frequently surprised at how relevant the information is to my daily life. I'm working on reading non-verbal communication and resisting the urge to respond to one thing when the other person wants to talk more about something else. It is hard, but now that I am aware of it, I can practice, and practice makes better.
I feel like this is the start of something new in my life, or maybe a continuation of what got started years ago in Peer Helpers. I am nervous and excited about where it will take me next.
It seemed like she had no one, except me, and I felt like an accident in the first place. Me, I don't have very many problems in my life, and I don't really talk about the ones I do have. But I know that if I wanted to, I have a long list of people I could call up. Which of us is the exception and who is the rule?
I found it amazing that something that was so simple for me to do was so helpful to her. I wondered how many other people are out there who need someone to listen to them. I tried to think of ways that I could do this for more people, like being a counselor but without having to get a degree. Maybe some kind of texting or instant messaging service? How could I find people who needed a shoulder and then volunteer to be that shoulder?
The answer was at church. Which sorta answered another question I had been noodling - where could I serve in the church? Josh joined everything that anyone asked him to, but I held back, waiting for something that was a better fit. I volunteered for the nursery a couple of times and hated it. I bake cookies once a month, which I like, but I wanted something a little more intensive.
Then I found out about Stephen Ministry, and it sounded exactly right.
Stephen Ministry is a nationwide program, active at 11,000 churches across the country. When a person is going through a difficult time, they ask for a Stephen Minister, who then visits with them weekly and just lets them talk. Okay, the Stephen Minister speaks a bit, too, but it's pretty funny how much of our training is about not talking. Most of what we say is meant to encourage the other person to talk more. We are encouraged to use open-ended questions and to never see a silence as awkward. During one class, one of my fellow trainees asked how long we should wait after a person finishes speaking before we say something. The response? "I don't think you can wait too long."
You can always tell a Stephen Minister. They're the ones sitting silently with a friendly expression and open body language.
Right now, I am just in training. I go to weekly classes that run through May, at which point I decide whether to commit at least two years to being a Stephen Minister. There are ten people in our class, mostly older women, but with one man and one eighteen-year-old young lady. Our church is not big enough to support its own program, so we share with local Presbyterian and Methodist churches. In the course of our classes, I expect to become close with my fellow trainees. Already, a couple of people have shared personal stories as they related to the material we were going through. Similar to my unexpected friendship, it feels sort of surreal to know how much will be shared between us, people who might not have much more in common than being interested in listening. Already I have shared things I wouldn't have otherwise. Not secrets, really, just regular daily stuff that I would have kept to myself ordinarily. It's a little scary.
The material so far is simple to understand, if challenging to always put into practice. Since I'm not yet a Stephen Minister, I don't have anyone assigned to me. But these are skills that can be applied to any relationship, and I'm frequently surprised at how relevant the information is to my daily life. I'm working on reading non-verbal communication and resisting the urge to respond to one thing when the other person wants to talk more about something else. It is hard, but now that I am aware of it, I can practice, and practice makes better.
I feel like this is the start of something new in my life, or maybe a continuation of what got started years ago in Peer Helpers. I am nervous and excited about where it will take me next.
2.11.2014
dame peer helper.
When I was in high school, I was part of a club called Peer Helpers. To be in the club, you had to be nominated by other students as being a good person to talk to about problems. I was in a lot of clubs, because it was important to appear over-committed well-rounded to scholarship committees, but Peer Helpers was the only one I actually cared about. My reluctance to share seems to have made me ideal for listening. It turns out that other people really like to be listened to. Sometimes they like it so much that they nominate you for a club.
At the beginning of the school year, we peer helpers would go on a weekend retreat to the mountains, where we'd be trained in helping our peers. I am not an official Peer Helper Trainer™, but I'll give you the little of what I remember of my training.
First, listen listen listen. Do not give advice. Instead, ask questions that encourage the person to think out loud about their issue.
Peer talks about problem.
Peer Helper: What do you think you might do about it?
Peer talks about possible action.
Peer Helper: What do you think might happen if you did that?
Peer talks out the results of said action.
(Repeat until Peer has a workable course of action)
Peer Helper: Let me know how it goes.
(Later)
Peer Helper: What happened with <your problem>?
This concludes your training. Now, go out and help your peers!
For the retreat, we were told to bring an object that was significant to us. One evening, we'd sit in a circle and talk about our significant item. A lot of kids brought pictures of pets or loved ones, one kid brought a shotgun shell from his grandfather's 21-gun salute, another kid apparently forgot the assignment and ended up talking a lot about his stick of deodorant. And then we'd keep going around the circle and whoever wanted to say something, about themselves or in response to something another person said, would talk. There was much crying, but it was the good, cleansing type of cry. It was strange to be so open and honest with people you might not ordinarily hang out with. There were popular kids and not-so-popular kids in there, but for one weekend, we were all just peer helpers.
We did not do much in the way of outreach. I remember helping with a bulletin board in the hall once, but who looks at those? The training was good, but I suspect that it was mostly used in the same way we'd gotten into the club in the first place - one of our existing friends would talk to us about a problem. Nothing wrong with that, of course, and the skills certainly can go beyond high school. Maybe the other Peer Helpers were consoling crying strangers in the bathrooms left and right, and it was just me that never reached out to anyone new.
I am oddly proud of being a Peer Helper, more proud than anyone should be of membership in a high school club. And just so you know, I was actually the President of the Peer Helpers during my senior year. I attribute my election to having made a bunch of sarcastic quips during the training retreat. But the pride is about being seen as caring and trustworthy and objective by some peer, possibly even multiple peers! I never tell anyone anything, so when someone shares with me, it's pretty much like being knighted. I dub thee Dame Peer Helper!
At the beginning of the school year, we peer helpers would go on a weekend retreat to the mountains, where we'd be trained in helping our peers. I am not an official Peer Helper Trainer™, but I'll give you the little of what I remember of my training.
First, listen listen listen. Do not give advice. Instead, ask questions that encourage the person to think out loud about their issue.
Peer talks about problem.
Peer Helper: What do you think you might do about it?
Peer talks about possible action.
Peer Helper: What do you think might happen if you did that?
Peer talks out the results of said action.
(Repeat until Peer has a workable course of action)
Peer Helper: Let me know how it goes.
(Later)
Peer Helper: What happened with <your problem>?
This concludes your training. Now, go out and help your peers!
For the retreat, we were told to bring an object that was significant to us. One evening, we'd sit in a circle and talk about our significant item. A lot of kids brought pictures of pets or loved ones, one kid brought a shotgun shell from his grandfather's 21-gun salute, another kid apparently forgot the assignment and ended up talking a lot about his stick of deodorant. And then we'd keep going around the circle and whoever wanted to say something, about themselves or in response to something another person said, would talk. There was much crying, but it was the good, cleansing type of cry. It was strange to be so open and honest with people you might not ordinarily hang out with. There were popular kids and not-so-popular kids in there, but for one weekend, we were all just peer helpers.
We did not do much in the way of outreach. I remember helping with a bulletin board in the hall once, but who looks at those? The training was good, but I suspect that it was mostly used in the same way we'd gotten into the club in the first place - one of our existing friends would talk to us about a problem. Nothing wrong with that, of course, and the skills certainly can go beyond high school. Maybe the other Peer Helpers were consoling crying strangers in the bathrooms left and right, and it was just me that never reached out to anyone new.
I am oddly proud of being a Peer Helper, more proud than anyone should be of membership in a high school club. And just so you know, I was actually the President of the Peer Helpers during my senior year. I attribute my election to having made a bunch of sarcastic quips during the training retreat. But the pride is about being seen as caring and trustworthy and objective by some peer, possibly even multiple peers! I never tell anyone anything, so when someone shares with me, it's pretty much like being knighted. I dub thee Dame Peer Helper!
2.01.2014
share and share alike.
A friend of mine sent me some funny internet list, 25 Frustrating Things About Being An Extrovert. She sent it as a joke and seemed to think that me and my fellow introverts see extroverted qualities as mildly annoying but generally lovable. I can't speak for others, but I find extroverts incomprehensible. To me, the list might as well have been titled 25 Things That Prove That Extroverts Are Just The Worst, For Real, Why Won't They Shut Up.
However, the list gave me a realization about something that happened years ago.
In college, I worked the breakfast shift at a restaurant on the weekends. In terms of making money, it was not a great job. There was a lot of downtime, sitting on the back patio in the foggy morning with the cooks and the manager, waiting for customers. One morning, I was doing just that with a coworker named Elisha. She was one of my favorite people that worked there. She was smart, funny, offbeat and cool, and just genuinely warm to everyone. She was having man problems and was telling me about the relationship drama that was going on in her life. It was juicy stuff. I felt really happy and flattered that she chose to confide in me. I was sure that it was a new era in our friendship, a step down the road to BFF-hood.
Throughout the rest of the shift, more of our coworkers came in and better yet, customers too. Elisha was working as hostess. I noticed that as I walked back and forth between my tables and the kitchen, I would pass by Elisha telling the same story to another coworker, in fact it seemed to be everyone working that day. After the fourth or fifth person, I'm pretty sure I started rolling my eyes, and at one point, I even said something about how she tells everyone her business. She looked startled and hurt.
I had not meant to hurt her. I never apologized, and our friendship was not the same afterwards. You'll never read this, but I am sorry, Elisha.
The thing is, I was truly hurt. I'd thought we shared some kind of moment, that she and I had a special intimacy. Then I realized that it was only special to me, that it was apparently just standard conversation for her.
Then ten years later, I read a stupid internet list and found out that this is an extrovert/introvert difference. Extroverts apparently tend to share their feelings with lots of people. That's how they process things. Did you know this? I did not know this.
I am not an open person. This blog is about the most open you will ever find me, and I'm doing it in a controlled environment, where I have ample time to compose what I want to say. I generally don't talk about something until it's over, and I've had time to process it. There are few comments, partly because I don't advertise that I even do this. There are people close to me who would be shocked to find out that I've been putting feelings on the internet for over ten years.
For a long time, I had a sense that I had learned to keep my secrets to myself from hard experience. When I think about those hard experiences now, I realize that it was more misunderstanding than malice. I would tell someone something, and because I shared so infrequently, it was a Big Deal to me. But there would be nothing in my manner or in the information itself that would indicate to the other person that it was anything important at all. And so when they would mention it to someone else or fail to react as if they were receiving a treasured gift, I would be hurt. I would think to myself that this is why I never share, because people can't be trusted or they don't even care. But really, just like with Elisha, it was a disconnect between us in the significance of the moment.
For me, it has been hard to realize that this is just a difference in the way people are, and not a moral difference. My tendency is to see openness almost as a form of promiscuity. Sometimes, it can seem like an overt play for attention, which I find distasteful. Neither of these impressions are accurate or fair. In fact, to be hurt when someone shares their own secrets is just dumb. It is not superior to be closed off, and it is just as bad to be too private as it is to be too free. Be prudent and mindful of who you trust, yes, but sharing our experiences and our feelings is one of the most important things we do as humans. Every relationship, from friendships to marriages to foreign policy, would be improved if we were all more honest and open with each other. One of the most wonderful results of the internet is the realization that we are not alone, that there are thousands, maybe millions of people out there who feel exactly the way we do. Look how it's helped me realize that extroverts aren't all shallow, attention-starved morons! Look what a poor job I'm doing of proving that introverts aren't repressed, antisocial jerks!
For me, sharing on the blog can close the significance gap that I feel when sharing in person. When someone does comment, either here or in person, it is only because it spoke to them, because they connected with me in the significance. If no one responds, then, whatever, it was just like writing in my journal. Yet I know that someone may have felt the connection without responding, and they felt special because I shared with them. The medium is such that it feels like a personal share, as if I had told you everything when we were sitting on the back patio at work waiting for customers in the morning fog.
However, the list gave me a realization about something that happened years ago.
In college, I worked the breakfast shift at a restaurant on the weekends. In terms of making money, it was not a great job. There was a lot of downtime, sitting on the back patio in the foggy morning with the cooks and the manager, waiting for customers. One morning, I was doing just that with a coworker named Elisha. She was one of my favorite people that worked there. She was smart, funny, offbeat and cool, and just genuinely warm to everyone. She was having man problems and was telling me about the relationship drama that was going on in her life. It was juicy stuff. I felt really happy and flattered that she chose to confide in me. I was sure that it was a new era in our friendship, a step down the road to BFF-hood.
Throughout the rest of the shift, more of our coworkers came in and better yet, customers too. Elisha was working as hostess. I noticed that as I walked back and forth between my tables and the kitchen, I would pass by Elisha telling the same story to another coworker, in fact it seemed to be everyone working that day. After the fourth or fifth person, I'm pretty sure I started rolling my eyes, and at one point, I even said something about how she tells everyone her business. She looked startled and hurt.
I had not meant to hurt her. I never apologized, and our friendship was not the same afterwards. You'll never read this, but I am sorry, Elisha.
The thing is, I was truly hurt. I'd thought we shared some kind of moment, that she and I had a special intimacy. Then I realized that it was only special to me, that it was apparently just standard conversation for her.
Then ten years later, I read a stupid internet list and found out that this is an extrovert/introvert difference. Extroverts apparently tend to share their feelings with lots of people. That's how they process things. Did you know this? I did not know this.
I am not an open person. This blog is about the most open you will ever find me, and I'm doing it in a controlled environment, where I have ample time to compose what I want to say. I generally don't talk about something until it's over, and I've had time to process it. There are few comments, partly because I don't advertise that I even do this. There are people close to me who would be shocked to find out that I've been putting feelings on the internet for over ten years.
For a long time, I had a sense that I had learned to keep my secrets to myself from hard experience. When I think about those hard experiences now, I realize that it was more misunderstanding than malice. I would tell someone something, and because I shared so infrequently, it was a Big Deal to me. But there would be nothing in my manner or in the information itself that would indicate to the other person that it was anything important at all. And so when they would mention it to someone else or fail to react as if they were receiving a treasured gift, I would be hurt. I would think to myself that this is why I never share, because people can't be trusted or they don't even care. But really, just like with Elisha, it was a disconnect between us in the significance of the moment.
For me, it has been hard to realize that this is just a difference in the way people are, and not a moral difference. My tendency is to see openness almost as a form of promiscuity. Sometimes, it can seem like an overt play for attention, which I find distasteful. Neither of these impressions are accurate or fair. In fact, to be hurt when someone shares their own secrets is just dumb. It is not superior to be closed off, and it is just as bad to be too private as it is to be too free. Be prudent and mindful of who you trust, yes, but sharing our experiences and our feelings is one of the most important things we do as humans. Every relationship, from friendships to marriages to foreign policy, would be improved if we were all more honest and open with each other. One of the most wonderful results of the internet is the realization that we are not alone, that there are thousands, maybe millions of people out there who feel exactly the way we do. Look how it's helped me realize that extroverts aren't all shallow, attention-starved morons! Look what a poor job I'm doing of proving that introverts aren't repressed, antisocial jerks!
For me, sharing on the blog can close the significance gap that I feel when sharing in person. When someone does comment, either here or in person, it is only because it spoke to them, because they connected with me in the significance. If no one responds, then, whatever, it was just like writing in my journal. Yet I know that someone may have felt the connection without responding, and they felt special because I shared with them. The medium is such that it feels like a personal share, as if I had told you everything when we were sitting on the back patio at work waiting for customers in the morning fog.
1.31.2014
december 2013 and january 2014 books.
I never posted a rundown of books from last month. I only read two books in December, and I could feel it, too. I missed reading. I looked at books on my shelf and at the store longingly, wanting to stuff them into my brain. So this month, I stuffed some books into my brain and felt better.
A Year of Biblical Womanhood: How a Liberated Woman Found Herself Sitting on Her Roof, Covering Her Head, and Calling Her Husband "Master"
Rachel Held Evans
Rachel is a blogger who writes very openly and honestly about faith. She is an Evangelical Christian, but frequently features the writing of people of other faiths or who have a specific viewpoint about a religious matter (for example, the afterlife or predestination). I really like her approach that we are all on a journey for truth, rather than speaking from a position of knowing all the answers.
She writes a lot about gender and the role of women in the church. This book was a year-long project in which she strived to achieve biblical womanhood - following the rules set forth for women in the Bible. As it turns out, there is not a general consensus of biblical womanhood due to varying interpretations of scripture. In general, she researched and tried to follow whatever someone somewhere said something was a bibical rule. She also investigated other ways of approaching the same text, which frequently meant that she found someone who said it meant the exact opposite. She made friends with a Jewish woman in Israel who was often surprised at the ways the Old Testament is interpreted by people here. She also pointed out how the few women whose stories are told and who are lauded in the Bible are generally not following the rules.
The writing was frequently funny and relateable. I especially liked when she was frustrated by not meeting up to certain standards of femininity - not being able to cook for instance. She did learn to cook, but there was a ruined meal and a good pout session in the middle of the kitchen floor. She did make a go at sewing but found that it did not come easily to her at all. I definitely relate tocrying in the kitchen floor feeling like a double failure when I can't do something considered feminine. It's not just that I can't sew, it's that I'm not a real woman somehow. There is a feeling that not only are we supposed to be naturally good at all those things, but we are supposed to be inclined to them.
Orange is the New Black: My Year in a Women's Prison
Piper Kerman
Last month in book club, a woman said I never liked anything. She admitted that the books were not great pieces of literature, but she rated them based on how she enjoyed the experience of reading them. I find that approach does not work for me. It's not that I expect great literature, and there is great literature that I do not enjoy. It's just that when I am reading something that is, at best, completely forgettable, I am all too aware that I could have been reading something worthwhile. I read for enlargement and expansion. Someday, I will die, and it makes me mad that I spent time reading crap when there was another book that I did not get to. At another point in my life, I may not have the mental energy to process hard books, and I want to take advantage of it now.
She is right, though, that this outlook is only making me miserable, and I ought to lighten up. Anyway, this month, I came in and told her, "Hey, I liked this one!"
The author had a misspent youth, and then ten years later, finally went to prison for it. Being an educated, middle-class white woman, she was a little out of place. The book is an account of her experience in the prison system. It is a humiliating and dehumanizing experience. There is little support for people once they leave, and little preparation while they are there for any sort of normal life outside. People are wrenched from their lives and their families for non-violent crimes, do not have adequate legal resources, and are then put in prison for terms disproportionate for their crimes.
Kerman, who was arrested for being a drug mule, comes to feel real remorse for her crime when she sees the impact that drugs have on the lives of her cellmates. She has harsh criticism for the War on Drugs, and says that we should be helping people get off drugs without ripping them away from their lives. Also, it turns out you can often get drugs in prison.
There is a TV show based on the book, which I have heard nothing but great things about. I have not watched it yet, but will, though I hear it is very different from the book. I do think more exposure for the problems of the prison system is a good thing, because most people are completely removed from it. Before visiting Eastern State Penitentiary, it never even occured to me to wonder why we put people in prison. To punish them? If so, does the punishment discourage others from crime or make the incarcerated less likely to commit crimes in the future? Or do we do it to get them away from us? If so, is that necessary when their crimes hurt only themselves?
See, this is the type of thing we should read in book club.
Still Alice
Lisa Genova
This book was rough. It is about a woman developing early onset Alzheimers. You go with her and her family from her diagnosis at age fifty through a couple of years until she is basically not there anymore. Formerly, she was a professor at Harvard, living the life of the mind. In the end, she is completely dependent on caretakers, though she seems to be well-loved.
This book tied me in knots. As I was reading it, any sort of memory lapse would freak me out, as if I was losing my mind. The hardest for me was seeing the reactions of her family. Her husband couldn't really deal with it and used his work as an escape. It was easy to be angry at him, but it would be gut-wrenching to watch your spouse deteriorate into someone else.
Great Expectations
Charles Dickens
I was surprised to find that the South Park episode that tells this story is pretty faithful to the book, at least up until the robots. It sort of veers off course at that point.
This book is the story of Pip, an orphan who is being raised by his shrewish sister and her gentle husband. A mysterious benefactor pays for him to move to London to learn how to be a gentleman. The story mostly concerns his development from a meek poor kid into a haughty gentleman and finally a good man (uh, spoilers, but c'mon, this is from the man who gave us Ebenezer Scrooge).
That sounds pretty simple, but the plot is fairly intricate and complicated. There are escaped convicts, a beautiful young woman with a heart of ice, an aged parent, and lots of mysteries. Everything comes together nicely in the end. The characters are really wonderful, too. I feel obvious saying hey, Dickens was pretty good, but, well, hey, Dickens was pretty good. And funny! I mean, sure there is child abuse and terribly poverty, but I did get quite a few chuckles out of it.
I had an easier time of this one than Tale of Two Cities. This is one of only two books that he wrote in the first person, so maybe the point of view cut down on the really long descriptive passages with key plot points hidden in them that I struggled with in Two Cities. However, as I was writing up this review, I looked up a plot summary and realized that I seriously misread the ending. It appears that I still cannot get away with skimming Dickens. I really shouldn't anyway, because his writing is frequently beautiful, and I'll miss all the good stuff if I'm just going for the plot.
The Reason I Jump: The Inner Voice of a Thirteen Year Old Boy with Autism
Naoki Higashida
This was our book club selection for January. I was really excited to see it come up, because I had seen a glowing endorsement of it on The Daily Show.
It is an odd little book. It is laid out as a series of questions about what it is like to be autistic and why this particular kid behaves the way he does. And the kid answers, using a special keyboard that he and his mother developed. It is very thoughtful and lucid, not at all the impression one has of someone with autism.
He mentions never feeling in control of his body, and not always being aware of where his arms and legs are. Speech, being a body function, is limited. He can speak, but he doesn't always say the things he wants. It's not just not getting his body to do what he wants, it seems as if his body just goes and does things without him telling it to.
He also has problems with memory, in that, his memories are not organized, like at all. So while you and I can think back to yesterday and go down the list of things we did, a person with autism cannot. That's really hard for me to even imagine. His memories are connected to each other, so that something that is happening now will remind him of something that happened previously, as with us. Apparently these memories can be forcefully strong, such that the emotions associated with the memory will cause the person to relive it, along with the physical response to the emotion (laughter or tears or whatever).
The common idea is that autism is a defect of empathy, but this kid indicates otherwise. He can tell when he has let other people down, and he can tell that they are frustrated with him. He aches that he has caused them pain. I learned that doctors used to blame autism on "refrigerator mothers," meaning mothers who were cold to their children. Eventually they realized that having a child that you can't interact with and who may be resistant to touch, would probably go a long way to making a mother standoffish. And I wonder if they may decide that's the case with autism itself. The person is not standoffish, but unable to communicate. They don't prefer to be alone, but they have had to get used to it because no one wants to be around them.
It's really hard to know what to think. There was considerable skepticism at book club that the kid wrote it on his own. I thought that was unfair. The whole premise of the book is that people with autism do understand what is going on around them, but that they are trapped by physical limitations. This world was not made for them. He mentions feeling at ease and calm in nature.
For me, the big impression that I got was of frustration. It seems to be a very stressful condition. Never being able to do what you want to do and constantly doing things you did not want to do, while the people you love are hurt by your actions. He mentioned the emotional outbursts he sometimes has over very minor grievances. If I had to live like he does, trapped in an uncooperative body, anytime I had some sort of minor setback, I'd lose it, too.
In the end, it doesn't really matter whether the kid wrote it or whether he is typical of autistic people. Over and over, he asks the reader to just be patient and treat him kindly. That's the basic advice of how to be with anyone, so that's all we need to do.
Harvest of Empire: A History of Latinos in America
Juan Gonzalez
My enjoyment of this book was mixed. It is, as the title states, a history of Latinos. The first part was history up until 1800, starting with pre-Columbian peoples and then the colonization period. Interesting to me was the comparison of the Spanish colonies to the others, particularly the British, and how that has affected the descendents of the natives and the colonizers. The Spanish were coming into areas with much denser native populations, and they were also more in a holy warrior mode, having been recently working on kicking the Muslims out for the past 800 years. There was a lot more intermingling between the natives and the Spaniards, some in marriage and some in just love-making. Throw in the slaves, and you get a rich spectrum of new races.
And then there was just a lot of exploiting, of the land and of the people. First it was the colonial powers, and then it was the gringos, both businesses and governments. The people would elect someone who would pass some laws that the foreign-owned businesses would not like, and so we'd send in the marines. Basically, in the end, the reason the Latinos come here is because we did a great job of making their countries crappy places to live in order to make our country super awesome. The book takes care to not lump all Latinos together, explaining what was going on in the various countries of origin. That all sort of ran together for me, since it was mostly exploitation and propped-up dictators.
Memento Mori
Muriel Spark
Ah, this one was fun. It's about a social group of people in their seventies and eighties, who are all getting an anonymous phone caller who only says "Remember that you will die." Everyone identifies the caller as sounding different - older or younger, lisping or crude or educated, male or female. The police have been unable to trace the call. People react to the caller differently. Some call the police, while others pause and say, "Thank you, that is good advice."
It is pretty good advice, although that advice is what keeps me from enjoying crappy books in book club.
In the meantime, there is lots of intrigue about affairs, secret marriages, blackmail, and an old ladies ward at the hospital. It could have been a book about any set of rich people with nothing better to do than annoy each other, with the exception that there were a lot of complaints about old bodies. And there were a lot of deaths. Someone died nearly every chapter, which created more intrique, because then there would be fighting over the will.
I picked this up because I read a article somewhere about Muriel Spark. I will be sure to pick up her books when I see them. The writing is simple and funny, and the social commentary pointed. She creates characters that I recognize from real life.
Incompleteness: The Proof and Paradox of Kurt Gödel
Rebecca Goldstein
When I was in college, as part of a physics class, we had to do papers and presentations on physics topics. Once, I picked for my topic Richard Feynman. My teacher, looked a bit skeptical and said that it wasn't just a biography, I had to understand and explain the concepts of his contributions to physics. I said, Bah! no problem. And then like a week later, I came back and said I was doing my report on Marie Curie instead. I like to think that my teacher was saying that Feynman's work was really hard, rather than that I was an idiot. Although, physics does make me feel like an idiot.
All that is to say that this book, which I expected to mostly be a biography of Kurt Gödel, actually explained his contributions to mathematics. It was a much harder read than I expected, because Gödel's Incompleteness Theorems are advanced math and have philosophical implications. I read slow, and I took notes, but I think I got it, because I am much better at math than physics.
Back in the start of the 20th century, formal systems were all the rage. A formal system is one that is completely reasoned out. Arithmetic is not a formal system, because we rely on our intuition of the counting numbers. A formal system is totally abstract - there are no numbers, only variables. The mathematicians wanted to redefine arithmetic such that it did not rely on silly things like reality. They'd already proved that other branches of math, like geometry, could be formalized, on the condition that arithmetic could. The ultimate goal seemed to be to prove that we could reduce all of reality to abstract concepts. Whatever man could not measure was therefore meaningless. It was like the Math Tower of Babel.
Gödel proved that any formal system which describes something as complicated as arithmetic would be incomplete - meaning there would be things in it that we would know to be true by intuition, but which we could not prove within the system. The philosophical implication is that we are not able to prove using our own designed language what we know to be true just by looking at it. It shows the limits of a language (specifically mathematics, but more generally, any language), which is in the end a limit of our reason. Some say that the theorems show the limits of AI - computers run on formal systems; they can only follow the rules that are given to them.
And that all came from a mathematical proof! Whole new areas of math were started based on things in his proof, which does crazy things like turn theorems into numbers and then do arithmetic on them. The book goes through a simplified version of the proof, because the real version is just too intense.
Gödel was brilliant, but in a way not made for this world. He as always a hypochondriac, but he grew increasingly paranoid as he aged. In the end, he died of starvation because he was worried someone was trying to poison him.
A long time ago, I wrote an overwrought blog entry about Gödel's Incompleteness Theorems. It is a little embarrassing to read now, and I hate to even link to it, but it looks like I basically got the idea right, and my metaphor holds up. My thoughts about what made Gödel crazy are off, and from this book, I now know that Gödel never believed in formal systemsfaith (or as I put it a decade ago, the shoeboxes), so his proofs did not give him a crisis of faith. I don't think intense math or the repercussions of his results made Gödel crazy. He was probably unstable from the beginning and was increasingly isolated in his old age, partly because was off-putting and strange in person and partly because he was so unbelieveably smart that no one could follow him. Seriously, after Einstein died, there was nobody to talk to. I don't know that I'd even want to be that smart.
A Year of Biblical Womanhood: How a Liberated Woman Found Herself Sitting on Her Roof, Covering Her Head, and Calling Her Husband "Master"
Rachel Held Evans
Rachel is a blogger who writes very openly and honestly about faith. She is an Evangelical Christian, but frequently features the writing of people of other faiths or who have a specific viewpoint about a religious matter (for example, the afterlife or predestination). I really like her approach that we are all on a journey for truth, rather than speaking from a position of knowing all the answers.
She writes a lot about gender and the role of women in the church. This book was a year-long project in which she strived to achieve biblical womanhood - following the rules set forth for women in the Bible. As it turns out, there is not a general consensus of biblical womanhood due to varying interpretations of scripture. In general, she researched and tried to follow whatever someone somewhere said something was a bibical rule. She also investigated other ways of approaching the same text, which frequently meant that she found someone who said it meant the exact opposite. She made friends with a Jewish woman in Israel who was often surprised at the ways the Old Testament is interpreted by people here. She also pointed out how the few women whose stories are told and who are lauded in the Bible are generally not following the rules.
The writing was frequently funny and relateable. I especially liked when she was frustrated by not meeting up to certain standards of femininity - not being able to cook for instance. She did learn to cook, but there was a ruined meal and a good pout session in the middle of the kitchen floor. She did make a go at sewing but found that it did not come easily to her at all. I definitely relate to
Orange is the New Black: My Year in a Women's Prison
Piper Kerman
Last month in book club, a woman said I never liked anything. She admitted that the books were not great pieces of literature, but she rated them based on how she enjoyed the experience of reading them. I find that approach does not work for me. It's not that I expect great literature, and there is great literature that I do not enjoy. It's just that when I am reading something that is, at best, completely forgettable, I am all too aware that I could have been reading something worthwhile. I read for enlargement and expansion. Someday, I will die, and it makes me mad that I spent time reading crap when there was another book that I did not get to. At another point in my life, I may not have the mental energy to process hard books, and I want to take advantage of it now.
She is right, though, that this outlook is only making me miserable, and I ought to lighten up. Anyway, this month, I came in and told her, "Hey, I liked this one!"
The author had a misspent youth, and then ten years later, finally went to prison for it. Being an educated, middle-class white woman, she was a little out of place. The book is an account of her experience in the prison system. It is a humiliating and dehumanizing experience. There is little support for people once they leave, and little preparation while they are there for any sort of normal life outside. People are wrenched from their lives and their families for non-violent crimes, do not have adequate legal resources, and are then put in prison for terms disproportionate for their crimes.
Kerman, who was arrested for being a drug mule, comes to feel real remorse for her crime when she sees the impact that drugs have on the lives of her cellmates. She has harsh criticism for the War on Drugs, and says that we should be helping people get off drugs without ripping them away from their lives. Also, it turns out you can often get drugs in prison.
There is a TV show based on the book, which I have heard nothing but great things about. I have not watched it yet, but will, though I hear it is very different from the book. I do think more exposure for the problems of the prison system is a good thing, because most people are completely removed from it. Before visiting Eastern State Penitentiary, it never even occured to me to wonder why we put people in prison. To punish them? If so, does the punishment discourage others from crime or make the incarcerated less likely to commit crimes in the future? Or do we do it to get them away from us? If so, is that necessary when their crimes hurt only themselves?
See, this is the type of thing we should read in book club.
Still Alice
Lisa Genova
This book was rough. It is about a woman developing early onset Alzheimers. You go with her and her family from her diagnosis at age fifty through a couple of years until she is basically not there anymore. Formerly, she was a professor at Harvard, living the life of the mind. In the end, she is completely dependent on caretakers, though she seems to be well-loved.
This book tied me in knots. As I was reading it, any sort of memory lapse would freak me out, as if I was losing my mind. The hardest for me was seeing the reactions of her family. Her husband couldn't really deal with it and used his work as an escape. It was easy to be angry at him, but it would be gut-wrenching to watch your spouse deteriorate into someone else.
Great Expectations
Charles Dickens
I was surprised to find that the South Park episode that tells this story is pretty faithful to the book, at least up until the robots. It sort of veers off course at that point.
This book is the story of Pip, an orphan who is being raised by his shrewish sister and her gentle husband. A mysterious benefactor pays for him to move to London to learn how to be a gentleman. The story mostly concerns his development from a meek poor kid into a haughty gentleman and finally a good man (uh, spoilers, but c'mon, this is from the man who gave us Ebenezer Scrooge).
That sounds pretty simple, but the plot is fairly intricate and complicated. There are escaped convicts, a beautiful young woman with a heart of ice, an aged parent, and lots of mysteries. Everything comes together nicely in the end. The characters are really wonderful, too. I feel obvious saying hey, Dickens was pretty good, but, well, hey, Dickens was pretty good. And funny! I mean, sure there is child abuse and terribly poverty, but I did get quite a few chuckles out of it.
I had an easier time of this one than Tale of Two Cities. This is one of only two books that he wrote in the first person, so maybe the point of view cut down on the really long descriptive passages with key plot points hidden in them that I struggled with in Two Cities. However, as I was writing up this review, I looked up a plot summary and realized that I seriously misread the ending. It appears that I still cannot get away with skimming Dickens. I really shouldn't anyway, because his writing is frequently beautiful, and I'll miss all the good stuff if I'm just going for the plot.
The Reason I Jump: The Inner Voice of a Thirteen Year Old Boy with Autism
Naoki Higashida
This was our book club selection for January. I was really excited to see it come up, because I had seen a glowing endorsement of it on The Daily Show.
It is an odd little book. It is laid out as a series of questions about what it is like to be autistic and why this particular kid behaves the way he does. And the kid answers, using a special keyboard that he and his mother developed. It is very thoughtful and lucid, not at all the impression one has of someone with autism.
He mentions never feeling in control of his body, and not always being aware of where his arms and legs are. Speech, being a body function, is limited. He can speak, but he doesn't always say the things he wants. It's not just not getting his body to do what he wants, it seems as if his body just goes and does things without him telling it to.
He also has problems with memory, in that, his memories are not organized, like at all. So while you and I can think back to yesterday and go down the list of things we did, a person with autism cannot. That's really hard for me to even imagine. His memories are connected to each other, so that something that is happening now will remind him of something that happened previously, as with us. Apparently these memories can be forcefully strong, such that the emotions associated with the memory will cause the person to relive it, along with the physical response to the emotion (laughter or tears or whatever).
The common idea is that autism is a defect of empathy, but this kid indicates otherwise. He can tell when he has let other people down, and he can tell that they are frustrated with him. He aches that he has caused them pain. I learned that doctors used to blame autism on "refrigerator mothers," meaning mothers who were cold to their children. Eventually they realized that having a child that you can't interact with and who may be resistant to touch, would probably go a long way to making a mother standoffish. And I wonder if they may decide that's the case with autism itself. The person is not standoffish, but unable to communicate. They don't prefer to be alone, but they have had to get used to it because no one wants to be around them.
It's really hard to know what to think. There was considerable skepticism at book club that the kid wrote it on his own. I thought that was unfair. The whole premise of the book is that people with autism do understand what is going on around them, but that they are trapped by physical limitations. This world was not made for them. He mentions feeling at ease and calm in nature.
For me, the big impression that I got was of frustration. It seems to be a very stressful condition. Never being able to do what you want to do and constantly doing things you did not want to do, while the people you love are hurt by your actions. He mentioned the emotional outbursts he sometimes has over very minor grievances. If I had to live like he does, trapped in an uncooperative body, anytime I had some sort of minor setback, I'd lose it, too.
In the end, it doesn't really matter whether the kid wrote it or whether he is typical of autistic people. Over and over, he asks the reader to just be patient and treat him kindly. That's the basic advice of how to be with anyone, so that's all we need to do.
Harvest of Empire: A History of Latinos in America
Juan Gonzalez
My enjoyment of this book was mixed. It is, as the title states, a history of Latinos. The first part was history up until 1800, starting with pre-Columbian peoples and then the colonization period. Interesting to me was the comparison of the Spanish colonies to the others, particularly the British, and how that has affected the descendents of the natives and the colonizers. The Spanish were coming into areas with much denser native populations, and they were also more in a holy warrior mode, having been recently working on kicking the Muslims out for the past 800 years. There was a lot more intermingling between the natives and the Spaniards, some in marriage and some in just love-making. Throw in the slaves, and you get a rich spectrum of new races.
And then there was just a lot of exploiting, of the land and of the people. First it was the colonial powers, and then it was the gringos, both businesses and governments. The people would elect someone who would pass some laws that the foreign-owned businesses would not like, and so we'd send in the marines. Basically, in the end, the reason the Latinos come here is because we did a great job of making their countries crappy places to live in order to make our country super awesome. The book takes care to not lump all Latinos together, explaining what was going on in the various countries of origin. That all sort of ran together for me, since it was mostly exploitation and propped-up dictators.
Memento Mori
Muriel Spark
Ah, this one was fun. It's about a social group of people in their seventies and eighties, who are all getting an anonymous phone caller who only says "Remember that you will die." Everyone identifies the caller as sounding different - older or younger, lisping or crude or educated, male or female. The police have been unable to trace the call. People react to the caller differently. Some call the police, while others pause and say, "Thank you, that is good advice."
It is pretty good advice, although that advice is what keeps me from enjoying crappy books in book club.
In the meantime, there is lots of intrigue about affairs, secret marriages, blackmail, and an old ladies ward at the hospital. It could have been a book about any set of rich people with nothing better to do than annoy each other, with the exception that there were a lot of complaints about old bodies. And there were a lot of deaths. Someone died nearly every chapter, which created more intrique, because then there would be fighting over the will.
I picked this up because I read a article somewhere about Muriel Spark. I will be sure to pick up her books when I see them. The writing is simple and funny, and the social commentary pointed. She creates characters that I recognize from real life.
Incompleteness: The Proof and Paradox of Kurt Gödel
Rebecca Goldstein
When I was in college, as part of a physics class, we had to do papers and presentations on physics topics. Once, I picked for my topic Richard Feynman. My teacher, looked a bit skeptical and said that it wasn't just a biography, I had to understand and explain the concepts of his contributions to physics. I said, Bah! no problem. And then like a week later, I came back and said I was doing my report on Marie Curie instead. I like to think that my teacher was saying that Feynman's work was really hard, rather than that I was an idiot. Although, physics does make me feel like an idiot.
All that is to say that this book, which I expected to mostly be a biography of Kurt Gödel, actually explained his contributions to mathematics. It was a much harder read than I expected, because Gödel's Incompleteness Theorems are advanced math and have philosophical implications. I read slow, and I took notes, but I think I got it, because I am much better at math than physics.
Back in the start of the 20th century, formal systems were all the rage. A formal system is one that is completely reasoned out. Arithmetic is not a formal system, because we rely on our intuition of the counting numbers. A formal system is totally abstract - there are no numbers, only variables. The mathematicians wanted to redefine arithmetic such that it did not rely on silly things like reality. They'd already proved that other branches of math, like geometry, could be formalized, on the condition that arithmetic could. The ultimate goal seemed to be to prove that we could reduce all of reality to abstract concepts. Whatever man could not measure was therefore meaningless. It was like the Math Tower of Babel.
Gödel proved that any formal system which describes something as complicated as arithmetic would be incomplete - meaning there would be things in it that we would know to be true by intuition, but which we could not prove within the system. The philosophical implication is that we are not able to prove using our own designed language what we know to be true just by looking at it. It shows the limits of a language (specifically mathematics, but more generally, any language), which is in the end a limit of our reason. Some say that the theorems show the limits of AI - computers run on formal systems; they can only follow the rules that are given to them.
And that all came from a mathematical proof! Whole new areas of math were started based on things in his proof, which does crazy things like turn theorems into numbers and then do arithmetic on them. The book goes through a simplified version of the proof, because the real version is just too intense.
Gödel was brilliant, but in a way not made for this world. He as always a hypochondriac, but he grew increasingly paranoid as he aged. In the end, he died of starvation because he was worried someone was trying to poison him.
A long time ago, I wrote an overwrought blog entry about Gödel's Incompleteness Theorems. It is a little embarrassing to read now, and I hate to even link to it, but it looks like I basically got the idea right, and my metaphor holds up. My thoughts about what made Gödel crazy are off, and from this book, I now know that Gödel never believed in formal systemsfaith (or as I put it a decade ago, the shoeboxes), so his proofs did not give him a crisis of faith. I don't think intense math or the repercussions of his results made Gödel crazy. He was probably unstable from the beginning and was increasingly isolated in his old age, partly because was off-putting and strange in person and partly because he was so unbelieveably smart that no one could follow him. Seriously, after Einstein died, there was nobody to talk to. I don't know that I'd even want to be that smart.
1.20.2014
chalazia.
At the tail end of the sinus infection I picked up in France, my left eye started to swell up. Ever since living for two years in a basement apartment in college, I've become quite the connoisseur of sinus infections, but this was new on me. It started when I noticed a tender spot in my lower eyelid. Naturally, I resorted to the first diagnostic test of any body ailment: I poked it. Yup, that hurt, so I stopped poking it. Good thing, too, because the next day, it was swollen. Like most body parts, the eyelid is one I forget all about until something is wrong with it. And now it was pressing against my eyeball, which made me poke at it, which caused it to swell more. I finally broke the vicious cycle by not poking it.
But the swelling didn't really go away. I no longer felt pressure on my eyelid, but I clearly had a bump in my eyelid. Luckily, it's not really that noticeable because of my glasses. If I told you it was there, you'd look and see it, but otherwise, no one has recoiled in horror. Josh, who is a hypochondriac, told me to go to the doctor immediately, because anything that is going on near your eye means you're going to be struck blind at any second. I shrugged, made jokes about those crazy Paris sinus infections, and figured it would go away.
It has not gone away. It has been nearly four months, and I still have a bump on my eyelid. I continue to be able to see out of both eyes.
At some point, even I got kinda worried, so I decided to consult the internet. Josh said, NO! Do not look it up on the internet because there will be all kinds of horrible misinformation and gruesome pictures and you'll get freaked out and think you're going to die or go blind or go blind and then die because you walked into traffic and I wouldn't even know where to send the mortgage check every month!
Uh huh, I said, typing as he gesticulated wildly. Hey, look, it's called a chalazion. They go away on their own, usually.
Oh, he said. You just looked it up and picked the most likely thing, rather than the worst thing. Huh.
A chalazion is a cyst caused by a block gland in the eyelid. Did you know you have glands in your eyelids? You do. They produce meibum, which keeps your eyes moist and makes your closed eyes airtight. A chalazion is similar to a stye, though a stye is an infection of different set of glands (the glands of Zeis or the glands of Moll, I kid you not) and usually clears up more quickly (though I think they look more gross). Chalazia usually go away on their on within a couple of years, though in rare cases they are surgically removed.
Anyway, one thing you can do to reduce chalazia is to put a hot compress on them. The blockage is basically oil, and the heat will serve to liquefy it, so it can be secreted out. I made my own little compress by putting a scoop of white rice into a sock that had lost its mate and then securing it with a rubber band. I heat the rice sock in the microwave for about a minute and then hold it on my eye. Of course, you can buy a hot compress for your eyes that doesn't make you look like a cheap pirate or smell like rice, but that I'm willing to look stupid in the comfort of my own home to save $25. I had grand plans to sew up a custom hot rice eye patch, complete with an adjustable headband, but I haven't gotten around to it.
The compress seems to be working, though. After I take it off, my vision is very hazy, because I have a film in my eye - all that stored up meibum, I guess. Sometimes, if I use the compress right before bed, I can't even open my eye in the morning without scraping away the ferocious eye booger patch that formed in the night.
So that's the update on my left lower eyelid. I hope you all learned something today, about chalazia and meibum, and of course, the glands of Zeis and Moll.
But the swelling didn't really go away. I no longer felt pressure on my eyelid, but I clearly had a bump in my eyelid. Luckily, it's not really that noticeable because of my glasses. If I told you it was there, you'd look and see it, but otherwise, no one has recoiled in horror. Josh, who is a hypochondriac, told me to go to the doctor immediately, because anything that is going on near your eye means you're going to be struck blind at any second. I shrugged, made jokes about those crazy Paris sinus infections, and figured it would go away.
It has not gone away. It has been nearly four months, and I still have a bump on my eyelid. I continue to be able to see out of both eyes.
At some point, even I got kinda worried, so I decided to consult the internet. Josh said, NO! Do not look it up on the internet because there will be all kinds of horrible misinformation and gruesome pictures and you'll get freaked out and think you're going to die or go blind or go blind and then die because you walked into traffic and I wouldn't even know where to send the mortgage check every month!
Uh huh, I said, typing as he gesticulated wildly. Hey, look, it's called a chalazion. They go away on their own, usually.
Oh, he said. You just looked it up and picked the most likely thing, rather than the worst thing. Huh.
A chalazion is a cyst caused by a block gland in the eyelid. Did you know you have glands in your eyelids? You do. They produce meibum, which keeps your eyes moist and makes your closed eyes airtight. A chalazion is similar to a stye, though a stye is an infection of different set of glands (the glands of Zeis or the glands of Moll, I kid you not) and usually clears up more quickly (though I think they look more gross). Chalazia usually go away on their on within a couple of years, though in rare cases they are surgically removed.
Anyway, one thing you can do to reduce chalazia is to put a hot compress on them. The blockage is basically oil, and the heat will serve to liquefy it, so it can be secreted out. I made my own little compress by putting a scoop of white rice into a sock that had lost its mate and then securing it with a rubber band. I heat the rice sock in the microwave for about a minute and then hold it on my eye. Of course, you can buy a hot compress for your eyes that doesn't make you look like a cheap pirate or smell like rice, but that I'm willing to look stupid in the comfort of my own home to save $25. I had grand plans to sew up a custom hot rice eye patch, complete with an adjustable headband, but I haven't gotten around to it.
The compress seems to be working, though. After I take it off, my vision is very hazy, because I have a film in my eye - all that stored up meibum, I guess. Sometimes, if I use the compress right before bed, I can't even open my eye in the morning without scraping away the ferocious eye booger patch that formed in the night.
So that's the update on my left lower eyelid. I hope you all learned something today, about chalazia and meibum, and of course, the glands of Zeis and Moll.
1.18.2014
change for good.
On our last day in Paris, we did our best to spend the rest of the cash we had on hand. Luckily, Charles de Gaulle Airport was nice enough to help us out by charging an arm and a leg for our breakfast and a souvenir magnet. Airports are considerate like that. We got on the plain back home with pockets of change.
As we were nearing New York, an announcement was made that the stewardesses would be collecting our spare foreign cash for UNICEF. Josh and I pooled our change and then I selected the most interesting coin in each denomination to keep as a souvenir (Euros have different countries on each piece, sorta like the state quarters). I have an old wooden pencil box once owned by my Uncle Johnny where I keep foreign currency picked up on trips. Sorry, UNICEF, my little box doesn't have any euros, so the children will just have to do without these few coins. Way to make me feel like a jerk, UNICEF, just because I can afford to spend two weeks in France while children all over the world die of preventable and treatable diseases.
Even so, we ended up handing in a few euros worth in change as the collection bags jingled their way up the aisle. I imagine they really rake in the dough this way. As much as the airports do their job to take every last cent, people end up with pockets of change that they can't spend at home but isn't enough to exchange. According to the website, this program was started in 1987, but this was the first time I'd ever heard of it. I think it's absolutely brilliant. It makes it easy and convenient to give, and it even sort of seems like they're doing you a favor by taking some of that useless coinage off your hands. Well done.
As we were nearing New York, an announcement was made that the stewardesses would be collecting our spare foreign cash for UNICEF. Josh and I pooled our change and then I selected the most interesting coin in each denomination to keep as a souvenir (Euros have different countries on each piece, sorta like the state quarters). I have an old wooden pencil box once owned by my Uncle Johnny where I keep foreign currency picked up on trips. Sorry, UNICEF, my little box doesn't have any euros, so the children will just have to do without these few coins. Way to make me feel like a jerk, UNICEF, just because I can afford to spend two weeks in France while children all over the world die of preventable and treatable diseases.
Even so, we ended up handing in a few euros worth in change as the collection bags jingled their way up the aisle. I imagine they really rake in the dough this way. As much as the airports do their job to take every last cent, people end up with pockets of change that they can't spend at home but isn't enough to exchange. According to the website, this program was started in 1987, but this was the first time I'd ever heard of it. I think it's absolutely brilliant. It makes it easy and convenient to give, and it even sort of seems like they're doing you a favor by taking some of that useless coinage off your hands. Well done.
1.17.2014
none of my business.
Dear Wells Fargo,
I have noticed that you want my business. Technically, we already do business, as you are the holder of my mortgage. So every month, I send you some money to pay off a giant loan, and you agree to not take away my house. I do this through your website. Every time I sign on to your website, I have to decline an offer of some kind or another. It's usually for a credit card with points, I think. I don't really read the offer, because I'm pretty sure I don't want it. Maybe that's close-minded of me.
Last year, I got married. Thank you for your congratulations. I finally got around to changing my name last month, and I did my due diligance and went to one of your branch offices to change my name on the mortgage. Upon entering the building, I was immediately greeted on both sides by friendly and helpful employees. See, Wells Fargo wants my business.
I was not trying to do any business that day, really. I just wanted to change my name. I decided to do it in person, because otherwise I would have had to fax in my marriage certificate, and I use the fax machine so rarely at my office that I have to ask someone how to use it each and every time. It's sort of embarrassing, really, so I thought a face-to-face meeting would be quicker and easier for everyone.
The process of changing a name on a Wells Fargo Mortgage account was pretty simple. I provided my ID and my marriage certificate, just like I did at the credit union and the DMV. However, your agent wanted my business. She really, really wanted my business. She asked me if I was interested in opening a checking account today.
"No, thank you, I have a bank that I am happy with."
"Yes, but most people use multiple banks."
"Really?" No, really? Is this true? Why do they do that? I find it baffling. Maybe they have two crappy banks and it adds up to one okay bank. They should just get a good bank, like the credit union.
"Yes, and with a Wells Fargo checking account, you can easily pay your mortgage."
"I am already able to pay my mortgage." Obviously, or you would've taken my house away already.
"You can even set up your direct deposit so that you can have a percentage of your paycheck deposited here and then the rest at your credit union."
"I don't really have a need for that." I'm still wondering about those two-bank people and their split direct deposits. What is the possible advantage of this? Why would I want to deal with two banks? It sounds like double the hassle. Just think if you had to change your name at each one!
"Well, you came here for your mortgage, though. You could have gone to the credit union, but you came here."
"No, Wells Fargo bought my mortgage." HA!
"Oh, well you can still have a checking account here. And because you already have a mortgage account, we waive the fees!"
"No, thank you."
This went on a while, with her pausing every once in a while in her sales onslaught to do something on the computer that had to do with my name change. Finally, finally, I escaped the clutches of your employee, though not before being given a brochure and being told that I should return soon to begin my banking relationship with Wells Fargo. I was fairly irritated by this point. I spent the whole drive home arguing with the sales lady and thinking up witty comebacks that I could write on my blog and pretend that I actually said. I really stuck it to you, Wells Fargo.
The next day, I received a call from an unfamiliar number and let it go to voicemail. It was your friend and mine, the woman who apparently gets commission on checking accounts. She mentioned how it was good to see me and reiterated that we really ought to get together to start my banking relationship. She also mentioned that I should probably double-check my next month's statement to make sure the name change went through.
A day after that, I got an email, asking if I would be willing to take a survey about my recent experience in one of your branch locations. Would I! However, the survey was a bunch of questions about whether the person I talked to made me feel as if Wells Fargo wanted my business. And well, I had to rate her highly on that point. I got the impression that the employee would hunt my business down in the jungle. It's too bad you did not ask me whether the visit left me with a good impression of your organization (1: strongly disagree) or whether I would tell my friends and family what a frustrating time I had there (5: strongly agree). But I guess this tactic must work out for you, because of all the people out there who are bullied into having multiple banks because they just want to make a stupid name change on their mortgage.
The next month, I followed the lady's advice and checked my latest statement to make sure that my new name was reflected. I was surprised to find that I had a new name, but it was the wrong one. Somehow, you'd replaced my middle name with my new last name, Sandra LastName MaidenName. So you badgered me about opening a checking account I did not need or want, and then failed to do the one bit of customer service I came in for. You know, my husband is a cynical fellow, and he says that the sales lady botched the name on purpose so that I'd have to come back. I, however, think the more likely culprit is your company's overall incompetence, coupled with a focus on profits rather than customer service. But it's possible your employees are petty and underhanded, too.
I, for one, can't wait to pay off my mortgage and never have to deal with you again. For now, I will just have to go to your office and change my name again. I think I'll go to a different office this time.
Your disgruntled customer,
Sandra LastName MaidenName
I have noticed that you want my business. Technically, we already do business, as you are the holder of my mortgage. So every month, I send you some money to pay off a giant loan, and you agree to not take away my house. I do this through your website. Every time I sign on to your website, I have to decline an offer of some kind or another. It's usually for a credit card with points, I think. I don't really read the offer, because I'm pretty sure I don't want it. Maybe that's close-minded of me.
Last year, I got married. Thank you for your congratulations. I finally got around to changing my name last month, and I did my due diligance and went to one of your branch offices to change my name on the mortgage. Upon entering the building, I was immediately greeted on both sides by friendly and helpful employees. See, Wells Fargo wants my business.
I was not trying to do any business that day, really. I just wanted to change my name. I decided to do it in person, because otherwise I would have had to fax in my marriage certificate, and I use the fax machine so rarely at my office that I have to ask someone how to use it each and every time. It's sort of embarrassing, really, so I thought a face-to-face meeting would be quicker and easier for everyone.
The process of changing a name on a Wells Fargo Mortgage account was pretty simple. I provided my ID and my marriage certificate, just like I did at the credit union and the DMV. However, your agent wanted my business. She really, really wanted my business. She asked me if I was interested in opening a checking account today.
"No, thank you, I have a bank that I am happy with."
"Yes, but most people use multiple banks."
"Really?" No, really? Is this true? Why do they do that? I find it baffling. Maybe they have two crappy banks and it adds up to one okay bank. They should just get a good bank, like the credit union.
"Yes, and with a Wells Fargo checking account, you can easily pay your mortgage."
"I am already able to pay my mortgage." Obviously, or you would've taken my house away already.
"You can even set up your direct deposit so that you can have a percentage of your paycheck deposited here and then the rest at your credit union."
"I don't really have a need for that." I'm still wondering about those two-bank people and their split direct deposits. What is the possible advantage of this? Why would I want to deal with two banks? It sounds like double the hassle. Just think if you had to change your name at each one!
"Well, you came here for your mortgage, though. You could have gone to the credit union, but you came here."
"No, Wells Fargo bought my mortgage." HA!
"Oh, well you can still have a checking account here. And because you already have a mortgage account, we waive the fees!"
"No, thank you."
This went on a while, with her pausing every once in a while in her sales onslaught to do something on the computer that had to do with my name change. Finally, finally, I escaped the clutches of your employee, though not before being given a brochure and being told that I should return soon to begin my banking relationship with Wells Fargo. I was fairly irritated by this point. I spent the whole drive home arguing with the sales lady and thinking up witty comebacks that I could write on my blog and pretend that I actually said. I really stuck it to you, Wells Fargo.
The next day, I received a call from an unfamiliar number and let it go to voicemail. It was your friend and mine, the woman who apparently gets commission on checking accounts. She mentioned how it was good to see me and reiterated that we really ought to get together to start my banking relationship. She also mentioned that I should probably double-check my next month's statement to make sure the name change went through.
A day after that, I got an email, asking if I would be willing to take a survey about my recent experience in one of your branch locations. Would I! However, the survey was a bunch of questions about whether the person I talked to made me feel as if Wells Fargo wanted my business. And well, I had to rate her highly on that point. I got the impression that the employee would hunt my business down in the jungle. It's too bad you did not ask me whether the visit left me with a good impression of your organization (1: strongly disagree) or whether I would tell my friends and family what a frustrating time I had there (5: strongly agree). But I guess this tactic must work out for you, because of all the people out there who are bullied into having multiple banks because they just want to make a stupid name change on their mortgage.
The next month, I followed the lady's advice and checked my latest statement to make sure that my new name was reflected. I was surprised to find that I had a new name, but it was the wrong one. Somehow, you'd replaced my middle name with my new last name, Sandra LastName MaidenName. So you badgered me about opening a checking account I did not need or want, and then failed to do the one bit of customer service I came in for. You know, my husband is a cynical fellow, and he says that the sales lady botched the name on purpose so that I'd have to come back. I, however, think the more likely culprit is your company's overall incompetence, coupled with a focus on profits rather than customer service. But it's possible your employees are petty and underhanded, too.
I, for one, can't wait to pay off my mortgage and never have to deal with you again. For now, I will just have to go to your office and change my name again. I think I'll go to a different office this time.
Your disgruntled customer,
Sandra LastName MaidenName
1.12.2014
deja vu.
We had just gotten to the craft store when I heard a weird noise. I thought it was some kind of store alarm and wished they'd turned it off. It was the kind of sound that is meant to be annoying, and the fact that it was quiet enough that I couldn't quite tell where it was coming from somehow irritated me more.
It was coming from my purse. It was also coming from Josh's pocket. It might've been coming from other pockets and purses all around us, as the National Weather Service sent out a tornado warning in our area. Huh. That's a little scary. A warning means a tornado has already been spotted, right? Just how big is our area? Why didn't we check the weather before we left home to get craft supplies? Well, we were already there, so I went ahead and picked out what I needed.
In line at the register a few minutes later, the power flickered and the crowd of people murmured in apprehension. Out the front store window, the parking lot was getting drenched. A lady in line next to me started muttering, "Not now, I don't need this, I don't have time for this," like she was experiencing a crafting emergency. Lady, no one has time for a tornado. I looked around at the other people who had not checked the weather before going to the craft store on a Saturday afternoon and wondered whether these were the people I was going to die with. They were not the ones I would've picked.
The power flickered a few more times as customers ahead of us continued to check out. I guess the registers had a backup power source. I looked around the store, trying to figure out the safest place to be in a tornado. The building did not inspire confidence, but I figured there had to be a bathroom where we could all cower somewhere in the back. Finally, it was my turn to check out. The cashier rung up two of my items before the register lost power. The register behind me stayed on a couple minutes more, just long enough to allow the lady who did not have time for this to finish up and scurry out.
With nothing else to do, I looked out the windows on the parking lot. The rain was coming down harder and at an ever-increasing angle. It was harder to see anything. It was almost like a fog that rolled in, except that as it thickened, it turned whiter and whiter. People gathered in the front of the store and watched the outdoor displays blow across the lot. I looked for the tornado and wondered whether it would come from behind us.
Within five minutes, we were back to just a regular rainy day. The wind was a breeze, and the air was clear. Josh got a phone call. I looked at the craft books while the registers rebooted. I started to think maybe I would not die with Josh and forty strangers in the bathroom of a craft store.
Josh rejoined me and said, "A tree just crushed my car."
What? Seriously? I felt like the lady who did not have time for a tornado.
A year and a half ago, a tree fell over and crushed Josh's car, which had brand new tires on it. Yesterday, the air turned white and the wind broke a pine tree off, where it landed on Josh's car, which he'd had for about six weeks. the weather outside had cleared, but I was downright stormy. Josh tried to cheer me up, but I had a ball of anger in my stomach and a yoke of dread on my shoulders. The cashier told me there was nothing she could do about the power going out. I managed a weak smile as I told her that I knew, and I did not tell her that I had other things going on in my life besides this extended transaction.
You know what? There is a unused and barely driveable band van in my driveway. The tree was perfectly welcome to hit that, if it was so intent on crushing a vehicle. The first time a tree lands on your car it is a bummer, but the second time just feels personal.
But then we got home, and I saw that if we hadn't gone to the craft store, the tree would've taken out both cars. I also saw that if the wind had sent it in a different direction, it could've hit the house. And unlike last time, we have comprehensive insurance on this car.
I sighed. I got out the phone to call the insurance company. Josh got out the axe.
It was coming from my purse. It was also coming from Josh's pocket. It might've been coming from other pockets and purses all around us, as the National Weather Service sent out a tornado warning in our area. Huh. That's a little scary. A warning means a tornado has already been spotted, right? Just how big is our area? Why didn't we check the weather before we left home to get craft supplies? Well, we were already there, so I went ahead and picked out what I needed.
In line at the register a few minutes later, the power flickered and the crowd of people murmured in apprehension. Out the front store window, the parking lot was getting drenched. A lady in line next to me started muttering, "Not now, I don't need this, I don't have time for this," like she was experiencing a crafting emergency. Lady, no one has time for a tornado. I looked around at the other people who had not checked the weather before going to the craft store on a Saturday afternoon and wondered whether these were the people I was going to die with. They were not the ones I would've picked.
The power flickered a few more times as customers ahead of us continued to check out. I guess the registers had a backup power source. I looked around the store, trying to figure out the safest place to be in a tornado. The building did not inspire confidence, but I figured there had to be a bathroom where we could all cower somewhere in the back. Finally, it was my turn to check out. The cashier rung up two of my items before the register lost power. The register behind me stayed on a couple minutes more, just long enough to allow the lady who did not have time for this to finish up and scurry out.
With nothing else to do, I looked out the windows on the parking lot. The rain was coming down harder and at an ever-increasing angle. It was harder to see anything. It was almost like a fog that rolled in, except that as it thickened, it turned whiter and whiter. People gathered in the front of the store and watched the outdoor displays blow across the lot. I looked for the tornado and wondered whether it would come from behind us.
Within five minutes, we were back to just a regular rainy day. The wind was a breeze, and the air was clear. Josh got a phone call. I looked at the craft books while the registers rebooted. I started to think maybe I would not die with Josh and forty strangers in the bathroom of a craft store.
Josh rejoined me and said, "A tree just crushed my car."
What? Seriously? I felt like the lady who did not have time for a tornado.
A year and a half ago, a tree fell over and crushed Josh's car, which had brand new tires on it. Yesterday, the air turned white and the wind broke a pine tree off, where it landed on Josh's car, which he'd had for about six weeks. the weather outside had cleared, but I was downright stormy. Josh tried to cheer me up, but I had a ball of anger in my stomach and a yoke of dread on my shoulders. The cashier told me there was nothing she could do about the power going out. I managed a weak smile as I told her that I knew, and I did not tell her that I had other things going on in my life besides this extended transaction.
You know what? There is a unused and barely driveable band van in my driveway. The tree was perfectly welcome to hit that, if it was so intent on crushing a vehicle. The first time a tree lands on your car it is a bummer, but the second time just feels personal.
But then we got home, and I saw that if we hadn't gone to the craft store, the tree would've taken out both cars. I also saw that if the wind had sent it in a different direction, it could've hit the house. And unlike last time, we have comprehensive insurance on this car.
I sighed. I got out the phone to call the insurance company. Josh got out the axe.
 |
| The second piece in my series of photographs entitled "Trees on Toyotas" |
1.06.2014
first christmas.
I left you hanging about Christmas and my terrible yuletide fever. I know that you were so worried that you were unable to even enjoy your own celebrations. Your assorted friends and family kept asking, "What is it? Whatever is wrong?" but you did not tell them because you didn't want to ruin their merriment. You were unable to even eat pie, because your stomach was just in knots.
I'll tell you how it went. Approximately four hours after I whined on the internet, Josh burst into the house, a grocery bag full of soup and soda, declaring "I'm sick." The meanie I'd picked up wasted no time in jumping to another host.
We spent the next four days in bed. It was a very whiny Christmas. When I'm sick, I like to moan and groan, and I like indulgence, sympathy, and bedside service. Josh is similar. We were a fussy, fussy pair. Josh spent the day declaring that he was dying, he was sure of it, this right here was his last day on this mortal coil. The next morning, he woke up and immediately expressed surprise that he was still alive. I would've rolled my eyes at him, but they hurt.
We had lots of plans, and we missed them all. Josh was supposed to work Christmas Eve and then sing in the choir that night, but instead we watched Christmas movies on the futon. We were supposed to go to his mom's on Christmas morning, but instead we watched crappy Christmas movies. And we were supposed to be at his dad's place in the mountains the day after Christmas, but we watched sitcoms that had Christmas episodes. And we were supposed to be in Winston-Salem for Josh's show two days after Christmas. We made it to that, but we spent the day watching some really terrible and frequently inexplicable Christmas cartoons. We officially exhausted the Netflix holiday catalog, and we even rented Miracle on 34th Street from Amazon.
Around 3 PM on Christmas Eve, Josh announced, "HAM."
No context, just the word. The thing is, I was pretty sure what he wanted, but I didn't want to be right. So I mumbled, "Huh?"
"HAM."
To be clear, it was about three hours before the grocery store would close, and Josh wanted a Christmas ham. Since we'd been planning to spend the holidays with his family, we did not have any of the traditional foods. It looked like a Campbell's condensed kind of Christmas. I was totally okay with that, because the very thought of the grocery store exhausted me. It became a whining match, with him saying HAM and me just groaning.
But he won. We went to the grocery store, and then we stomped out and went to another grocery store because seriously, Harris Teeter, I am not going to pay $30 for a stupid ham, I don't care how nice your hardwood floors are. We got one at Food Lion for $9. The thirty minute excursion depleted us completely, and we came home even whinier than when we left. But after a couple of hours and some instructions from the Pioneer Woman, we had our Christmas dinner: ham and baked sweet potatoes. Of course, we didn't actually end up eating much of it because our appetites were poor. But hey, Christmas. I told him the ham had been a good idea, and he thanked me up and down for making his request come true.
At some point, maybe it was while finding out that Jingle All the Way was just as bad a movie as I'd always suspected, I realized that this was our first married Christmas. While it was not ideal, I think that being sick together was actually better than being sick alone. When one person is sick, the other person is still forced to endure their whining and has to decide whether to stay home with their invalid. This way, there really was no question of either of us going anywhere, and I think we were each able to be more sympathetic to the other's prodigious moanings. So it was feverish and full of groaning and snot, but there is no one I'd rather spend a miserable Christmas with.
I'll tell you how it went. Approximately four hours after I whined on the internet, Josh burst into the house, a grocery bag full of soup and soda, declaring "I'm sick." The meanie I'd picked up wasted no time in jumping to another host.
We spent the next four days in bed. It was a very whiny Christmas. When I'm sick, I like to moan and groan, and I like indulgence, sympathy, and bedside service. Josh is similar. We were a fussy, fussy pair. Josh spent the day declaring that he was dying, he was sure of it, this right here was his last day on this mortal coil. The next morning, he woke up and immediately expressed surprise that he was still alive. I would've rolled my eyes at him, but they hurt.
We had lots of plans, and we missed them all. Josh was supposed to work Christmas Eve and then sing in the choir that night, but instead we watched Christmas movies on the futon. We were supposed to go to his mom's on Christmas morning, but instead we watched crappy Christmas movies. And we were supposed to be at his dad's place in the mountains the day after Christmas, but we watched sitcoms that had Christmas episodes. And we were supposed to be in Winston-Salem for Josh's show two days after Christmas. We made it to that, but we spent the day watching some really terrible and frequently inexplicable Christmas cartoons. We officially exhausted the Netflix holiday catalog, and we even rented Miracle on 34th Street from Amazon.
Around 3 PM on Christmas Eve, Josh announced, "HAM."
No context, just the word. The thing is, I was pretty sure what he wanted, but I didn't want to be right. So I mumbled, "Huh?"
"HAM."
To be clear, it was about three hours before the grocery store would close, and Josh wanted a Christmas ham. Since we'd been planning to spend the holidays with his family, we did not have any of the traditional foods. It looked like a Campbell's condensed kind of Christmas. I was totally okay with that, because the very thought of the grocery store exhausted me. It became a whining match, with him saying HAM and me just groaning.
But he won. We went to the grocery store, and then we stomped out and went to another grocery store because seriously, Harris Teeter, I am not going to pay $30 for a stupid ham, I don't care how nice your hardwood floors are. We got one at Food Lion for $9. The thirty minute excursion depleted us completely, and we came home even whinier than when we left. But after a couple of hours and some instructions from the Pioneer Woman, we had our Christmas dinner: ham and baked sweet potatoes. Of course, we didn't actually end up eating much of it because our appetites were poor. But hey, Christmas. I told him the ham had been a good idea, and he thanked me up and down for making his request come true.
At some point, maybe it was while finding out that Jingle All the Way was just as bad a movie as I'd always suspected, I realized that this was our first married Christmas. While it was not ideal, I think that being sick together was actually better than being sick alone. When one person is sick, the other person is still forced to endure their whining and has to decide whether to stay home with their invalid. This way, there really was no question of either of us going anywhere, and I think we were each able to be more sympathetic to the other's prodigious moanings. So it was feverish and full of groaning and snot, but there is no one I'd rather spend a miserable Christmas with.
1.05.2014
lucky soup.
I like holidays with food. I think it's the combination of a special tradition with eating. In fact, I think we need more. We should pull out our calendars and find every obscure observance and start some kind of delicious tradition. Stephen Foster Memorial Day is coming up next week, folks, and I think we should honor him with buckwheat cake. Maybe we'll skip Groundhog Day.
On New Year's, you're supposed to eat black-eyed peas for luck and collard greens for money. During my childhood, my parents grew turnip greens, and so I could have all I wanted during the summer. I didn't want any of them no matter what time of year it was, because they were nasty. No one liked them but my dad, and I wonder if that was maybe the way he cooked them. My dad is a real fine fellow and knows a lot of corny jokes, but his cooking led me to believe that I did not like some foods that later turned out to be delicious. His turnip greens made the whole house smell terrible. I think he just boiled them. Turns out, the secret to greens is boiling them with a ham hock. Ham hocks are available at your local grocery store, and they are magical, even if I don't really know what they are.
Last year, for New Year's, I just made Hoppin' John and greens, which required two magical hocks of ham. This year, I was lazy and wanted one dish. I also had a ton of leftover Christmas ham to make use of. So I looked around for a soup recipe.
Over the years that I've been learning to cook, I've discovered that I am not the kind of person who goes into the kitchen, throws things together and comes out later with a new recipe. I have a friend who is constantly broke, and so she is forced to take everything in her sparse pantry and make magic happen. I rely on having a pantry fully stocked with staples and an internet full of recipes. Maybe someday I will have the skill and confidence to just make something up. And then I'll come out with a cookbook. I'll call it I Totally Just Made This Stuff Up!
One thing I have figured out how to do is to combine multiple recipes. When I decide I want to make a thing, I go looking for a bunch of recipes. I generally have an idea of how I want it to be, and I skip most things that have a lot of convenience foods in them. I like to taste the inconvenience. It's sort of like going on Allrecipes and then picking out the various suggestions you find in the comments under each recipe.
Anyhow, I did that with our New Year's dish, and it turned out really well. I wrote everything down as I was figuring out the ultimate recipe, just so I could have the piece of paper in the kitchen as I cooked. But then I was so impressed with the results that I was glad I had it on paper, ready to put into my recipe binder. Josh also heartily approved, eating 2 bowls that day, though maybe that was just for the extra luck.
New Year's Soup
2 T olive oil
1 onion, chopped
2 cloves garlic, minced
2 stalks celery, chopped
1 1/2 c ham, diced
2 c dried black eyed peas, soaked for at least 8 hours and then drained and rinsed OR 1 can black eyed peas, drained and rinsed
6 c broth (I used turkey stock)
1 T basil
1 T oregano
1 bunch collard greens, stems removed, thinly sliced
2 carrots, sliced
2 potatoes, chopped
salt, black pepper, and cayenne to taste
1 T apple cider vinegar
Heat olive oil over medium heat. Add onion, garlic, celery, and ham. Cook until onion is translucent.
If using uncooked peas: Add black eyed peas, broth, basil and oregano. Bring to a boil. Skim off and discard any foam on the surface. Reduce heat and simmer, partially covered, until peas are tender, about 45 minutes.
If using canned peas: Add broth, basil and oregano. Bring to a boil.
Mix in collards, carrots, and potatoes, and simmer until tender.
If using canned peas, add them now. Add vinegar and salt, pepper, and cayenne to taste. Eat on New Year's for luck and money. Results not guaranteed, but the soup's pretty good.
On New Year's, you're supposed to eat black-eyed peas for luck and collard greens for money. During my childhood, my parents grew turnip greens, and so I could have all I wanted during the summer. I didn't want any of them no matter what time of year it was, because they were nasty. No one liked them but my dad, and I wonder if that was maybe the way he cooked them. My dad is a real fine fellow and knows a lot of corny jokes, but his cooking led me to believe that I did not like some foods that later turned out to be delicious. His turnip greens made the whole house smell terrible. I think he just boiled them. Turns out, the secret to greens is boiling them with a ham hock. Ham hocks are available at your local grocery store, and they are magical, even if I don't really know what they are.
Last year, for New Year's, I just made Hoppin' John and greens, which required two magical hocks of ham. This year, I was lazy and wanted one dish. I also had a ton of leftover Christmas ham to make use of. So I looked around for a soup recipe.
Over the years that I've been learning to cook, I've discovered that I am not the kind of person who goes into the kitchen, throws things together and comes out later with a new recipe. I have a friend who is constantly broke, and so she is forced to take everything in her sparse pantry and make magic happen. I rely on having a pantry fully stocked with staples and an internet full of recipes. Maybe someday I will have the skill and confidence to just make something up. And then I'll come out with a cookbook. I'll call it I Totally Just Made This Stuff Up!
One thing I have figured out how to do is to combine multiple recipes. When I decide I want to make a thing, I go looking for a bunch of recipes. I generally have an idea of how I want it to be, and I skip most things that have a lot of convenience foods in them. I like to taste the inconvenience. It's sort of like going on Allrecipes and then picking out the various suggestions you find in the comments under each recipe.
Anyhow, I did that with our New Year's dish, and it turned out really well. I wrote everything down as I was figuring out the ultimate recipe, just so I could have the piece of paper in the kitchen as I cooked. But then I was so impressed with the results that I was glad I had it on paper, ready to put into my recipe binder. Josh also heartily approved, eating 2 bowls that day, though maybe that was just for the extra luck.
New Year's Soup
2 T olive oil
1 onion, chopped
2 cloves garlic, minced
2 stalks celery, chopped
1 1/2 c ham, diced
2 c dried black eyed peas, soaked for at least 8 hours and then drained and rinsed OR 1 can black eyed peas, drained and rinsed
6 c broth (I used turkey stock)
1 T basil
1 T oregano
1 bunch collard greens, stems removed, thinly sliced
2 carrots, sliced
2 potatoes, chopped
salt, black pepper, and cayenne to taste
1 T apple cider vinegar
Heat olive oil over medium heat. Add onion, garlic, celery, and ham. Cook until onion is translucent.
If using uncooked peas: Add black eyed peas, broth, basil and oregano. Bring to a boil. Skim off and discard any foam on the surface. Reduce heat and simmer, partially covered, until peas are tender, about 45 minutes.
If using canned peas: Add broth, basil and oregano. Bring to a boil.
Mix in collards, carrots, and potatoes, and simmer until tender.
If using canned peas, add them now. Add vinegar and salt, pepper, and cayenne to taste. Eat on New Year's for luck and money. Results not guaranteed, but the soup's pretty good.
1.03.2014
darn.
Upstairs in the bedroom is a laundry basket where we put things that need to be dry-cleaned. Cheap and lazy people that we are, the basket is full and has been for quite some time. It is entirely filled with wool sweaters. Some people like sweatshirts, others like to layer t-shirt and long johns, but my husband is a sweater man. You might think that with a basket full of sweaters permanently in the dirty laundry, he'd be going around cold. You'd be mistaken. He has plenty of other wool sweaters. Since they too are dry-clean only and have been worn multiple times, you couldn't really call them clean, but they have not yet taken on enough body funk to qualify them for the basket. Honestly, we could probably just take the dirty sweaters to the thrift store, and he would continue to buy more used sweaters to replace the ones that gradually become dirty enough to be classified as such. I think in that case, he would be likely to buy back his own sweaters from the thrift store. I sorta doubt that the thrift store washes dry-clean only goods before putting them out on the sales floor, so they wouldn't actually be any cleaner. But he would think they were clean, for only $3.50 plus tax, which is a heck a lot cheaper than our dry-cleaners bill would ever be if we ever stopped being so lazy.
The thing they say about married people looking alike is true to a point, in that I wear a lot more sweaters than I used to. I used to be more the type to layer shirts, though I have sweatshirts, too. Now, I layer t-shirts and sweaters.
Once, Josh got a hole in the sleeve one of his favorite sweaters. He consulted the internet, and using some yarn I had that didn't quite match, he darned up the hole. I was impressed. For one thing, I didn't even know exactly what "darning" was, other than it was something that women in little houses on prairies did to socks. For all I knew, it meant to make puppets. Sadly, it does not. It means to take yarn and weave a patch over a hole, possibly in a sock, but also maybe in a sweater. He did a reasonable job - the patch was in an out-of-the-way spot, and really the most noticeable thing was that the yarn was a different color. What was even cuter than a man darning a sweater was how proud he was of himself afterwards. He was wearing his rehabilitated sweater, and every five minutes or so, I would catch him looking at his handiwork and grinning, which was another impressive feat, since looking at it required contortions similar to kissing your elbow.
This afternoon, while wearing a t-shirt and sweater combo, I noticed that my elbow felt oddly cold. It did not feel warm and comforted by the snuggly softness of my very nice, orange, cashmere cardigan, inherited from Josh's grandfather. I looked, and there was a hole, about an inch round. Darn!
Well, that's okay. I know what to do. I stopped at the craft store on my way home, and used the sweater to pick out some matching embroidery thread. I looked up a tutorial, and I fixed the hole. And then for good measure, I fixed another tiny one that I found nearby, figuring that big holes came from ignoring little holes. Unsurprisingly, the little patch is hardly noticeable, while the big patch, well, looks like a patch. But the color match is pretty good, and I think it adds a certain hobo chic. I find myself admiring my own work over and over, and of course I also went online and wrote a whole stupid essay about it. Makes me feel kinda bad for teasing Josh about the million times he looked at his own mending. I may even apologize...after I show off my own needlework, of course.
The thing they say about married people looking alike is true to a point, in that I wear a lot more sweaters than I used to. I used to be more the type to layer shirts, though I have sweatshirts, too. Now, I layer t-shirts and sweaters.
Once, Josh got a hole in the sleeve one of his favorite sweaters. He consulted the internet, and using some yarn I had that didn't quite match, he darned up the hole. I was impressed. For one thing, I didn't even know exactly what "darning" was, other than it was something that women in little houses on prairies did to socks. For all I knew, it meant to make puppets. Sadly, it does not. It means to take yarn and weave a patch over a hole, possibly in a sock, but also maybe in a sweater. He did a reasonable job - the patch was in an out-of-the-way spot, and really the most noticeable thing was that the yarn was a different color. What was even cuter than a man darning a sweater was how proud he was of himself afterwards. He was wearing his rehabilitated sweater, and every five minutes or so, I would catch him looking at his handiwork and grinning, which was another impressive feat, since looking at it required contortions similar to kissing your elbow.
This afternoon, while wearing a t-shirt and sweater combo, I noticed that my elbow felt oddly cold. It did not feel warm and comforted by the snuggly softness of my very nice, orange, cashmere cardigan, inherited from Josh's grandfather. I looked, and there was a hole, about an inch round. Darn!
Well, that's okay. I know what to do. I stopped at the craft store on my way home, and used the sweater to pick out some matching embroidery thread. I looked up a tutorial, and I fixed the hole. And then for good measure, I fixed another tiny one that I found nearby, figuring that big holes came from ignoring little holes. Unsurprisingly, the little patch is hardly noticeable, while the big patch, well, looks like a patch. But the color match is pretty good, and I think it adds a certain hobo chic. I find myself admiring my own work over and over, and of course I also went online and wrote a whole stupid essay about it. Makes me feel kinda bad for teasing Josh about the million times he looked at his own mending. I may even apologize...after I show off my own needlework, of course.
12.23.2013
you give me fever.
Once, as a kid, I woke up in the middle of the night, shivering uncontrollably. I was curled up in one corner of my bed. I wanted my mom. But her bedroom was across the hall, which was a long walk outside my blankets and across a floor that in my mind might as well have been made of pure ice. If I was this cold huddled up in my bed, I couldn't bear the thought of leaving it. I don't know how long I stayed there, shivering and miserable. I don't even remember if I finally found the courage to run into my parents' bedroom, or if I finally decided to try calling out.
I realize now that I had a fever. I was thinking about that night, scary and alone and cold, at around 2 AM last night. And also at 3 and 4 and 5. I was in my bed, far far away from my mom, again shivering despite the unseasonably warm night and the down blanket. Josh made an effort to warm me with his body, but gave up quickly. We are snugglers, which means that every night, a half of our king-sized bed goes to waste. But last night, he could not get far enough away from me and my radiating heat. Half asleep, he muttered at me, "No, point that away from me!" and I tried to figure out how to position my body such that my skin would not be facing him.
I did not get much sleep. Once the chills subsided, I could concentrate more fully on the aches. No position was comfortable, because the pain was inside me somewhere. I craved sleep, for its restorative and time-travelling powers. If I could just fall asleep, I would wake up all better. Did I sleep? I think I did, between 5 and 7 AM, and maybe there were micro-naps between the tosses and turns.
I read up on home remedies to reduce fever, and they all sounded cold. Cold baths, cold food, cold air, and fluids. Josh kept telling me to drink lots of fluids, as if I hadn't already put away a two liter of cherry 7-Up. He just didn't know what else to suggest, and a sympathetic snuggle was still out of the question. I know the only cure is time. The fever is my body fighting something off, some tiny meanie that got inside and has to be removed. I thought back to try and figure out where I had picked up my meanie, as if I were going to remember that I'd been licking doorknobs in public restrooms, that must be it. I imagined the meanie baking in my heat, maybe with a glass of cherry 7-Up.
I also thought about Christmas, which is a crappy time to be sick. I thought about the line of family visits we had scheduled, and wondered whether I was going to make them at all, or if I'd go and sit in a corner with a blanket. Or maybe I'll get better in time, but by then the meanie will have jumped over to Josh's body.
Anyway, I'm sick. It sucks. I'll get over it.
I realize now that I had a fever. I was thinking about that night, scary and alone and cold, at around 2 AM last night. And also at 3 and 4 and 5. I was in my bed, far far away from my mom, again shivering despite the unseasonably warm night and the down blanket. Josh made an effort to warm me with his body, but gave up quickly. We are snugglers, which means that every night, a half of our king-sized bed goes to waste. But last night, he could not get far enough away from me and my radiating heat. Half asleep, he muttered at me, "No, point that away from me!" and I tried to figure out how to position my body such that my skin would not be facing him.
I did not get much sleep. Once the chills subsided, I could concentrate more fully on the aches. No position was comfortable, because the pain was inside me somewhere. I craved sleep, for its restorative and time-travelling powers. If I could just fall asleep, I would wake up all better. Did I sleep? I think I did, between 5 and 7 AM, and maybe there were micro-naps between the tosses and turns.
I read up on home remedies to reduce fever, and they all sounded cold. Cold baths, cold food, cold air, and fluids. Josh kept telling me to drink lots of fluids, as if I hadn't already put away a two liter of cherry 7-Up. He just didn't know what else to suggest, and a sympathetic snuggle was still out of the question. I know the only cure is time. The fever is my body fighting something off, some tiny meanie that got inside and has to be removed. I thought back to try and figure out where I had picked up my meanie, as if I were going to remember that I'd been licking doorknobs in public restrooms, that must be it. I imagined the meanie baking in my heat, maybe with a glass of cherry 7-Up.
I also thought about Christmas, which is a crappy time to be sick. I thought about the line of family visits we had scheduled, and wondered whether I was going to make them at all, or if I'd go and sit in a corner with a blanket. Or maybe I'll get better in time, but by then the meanie will have jumped over to Josh's body.
Anyway, I'm sick. It sucks. I'll get over it.
12.18.2013
new old car.
Josh and I have been sharing one car between us so long that I had to go back and look up when we lost the last car. It was seventeen months ago. We were planning on replacing it, really, but it seemed like expensive things kept happening. There was the wedding, and then the HVAC broke, and then we went to France. I haven't even told you about encapsulating the crawlspace or the water pressure tank, but those things happened, too. 2013 was expensive.
Sharing the car was a pain, but it was the kind of pain that you sorta get used to after a while. Josh and I work close together, so we were able to manage our schedules such that we both got to where we needed to be. It was a bit complicated. He would drop me off at work at 9. Then he would do whatever until he had to go to work at 11. When he got off his lunch shift in the early afternoon, he'd go home. Then, when he had to come back in for his dinner shift, he would pick me up at the office and then we'd ride over to the restaurant. I would then go back to the office and finish out my day, then go home for a bit until I came to pick him up at 9 or 10.
It was a lot of back and forth, and it wouldn't have worked at all if our places of work were not close together and reasonably close to the house. Every once in a while, there would be an actual conflict, where we had to be at different places at the same time. Also, sometimes Josh would get off work early, but I wouldn't hear the phone ring and then he would be very angry about it. But mostly, we spent a lot of time together driving back and forth.
During the spring, my mom told me that my dad wanted to get rid of their Camry, for no real reason. It did make a mysterious clicking noise at certain speeds, but they'd taken it to a mechanic who couldn't find anything wrong with it. The car is eight years old, but only has about 109k miles on it. For a Toyota, that's barely middle-aged. My dad would gripe about it, because he's the kind of guy who gets an idea in his head and won't let go of it. But maybe he is suited for my mom in this way, because she was equally determined to keep it, also for no good reason. They had three vehicles, and while there are three people in the household, only one of them drives.
Now, as soon as she'd told me about Daddy's grumblings, I saw an in. They did not really need that car, and we could really use one. I casually mentioned that if they did decide to let it go, we'd like to be first in line to buy. Mama hemmed and hawed and about wanting to keep it as a backup. A backup of the new car they'd already bought, with the old truck being a backup to the backup, I guess. I did not push it, because I was focused on getting our heat fixed, and my brain couldn't deal with multiple major purchases at once. But I put a pin in the idea.
A month or two ago, Mama mentioned again how Daddy kept talking about selling that old car with the clicking noise. With no major home repairs on the horizon, I decided to make my play.
See, I had a trump card. You know that old trick where you ask one parent, and if they say no, you ask the other? If I mentioned to my dad that we sure would like to buy that old Camry, he would up his griping from merely irritating to downright insufferable. Actually, he would probably just try to sign over the papers to us on the spot, maybe mentioning it to Mama sometime the next week. But that is a nasty trick, and I did not do that. However, I might have commented to my mom that I could. She said she'd discuss it with Daddy and let me know.
She called the next day with the good news that they would sell us the car, and for very generous terms. We hadn't talked about the price at all, but her offer was one I couldn't refuse. In fact, I felt kinda bad about it, and I said I'd buy her a case of wine to go with it. After she'd agreed to do it, she seemed really happy about being able to help us out.
The car was delivered on the day before Thanksgiving. It apparently had not been getting driven much lately, as there were cobwebs on the dashboard. It was also full of the kind of random stuff that gets left in a vehicle - CDs, an umbrella, a VHS tape, a can of tuna (unopened, thankfully). Mama cleaned most of it out, taking the can of tuna, but leaving a Scott Joplin CD.
And then holy moly, we were a two-car household again. All the little things I'd forgotten were possible came back. Suddenly, I was able to change my name, because I had a car during government office hours. I was able to be the driver when coworkers and I went out for mid-afternoon coffee. I no longer had to wait for Josh to get ready in the mornings. Best of all, when I got home from work, I could change into my sleepy pants and have a beer, because I did not have to go back and pick up my husband from his work. I could even plan on having dinner ready when he got home, rather than trying to do prep work beforehand and finish it up after we got back. The possibilities are endless; it's like being sixteen again.
Thanks, Mama and Daddy.
Sharing the car was a pain, but it was the kind of pain that you sorta get used to after a while. Josh and I work close together, so we were able to manage our schedules such that we both got to where we needed to be. It was a bit complicated. He would drop me off at work at 9. Then he would do whatever until he had to go to work at 11. When he got off his lunch shift in the early afternoon, he'd go home. Then, when he had to come back in for his dinner shift, he would pick me up at the office and then we'd ride over to the restaurant. I would then go back to the office and finish out my day, then go home for a bit until I came to pick him up at 9 or 10.
It was a lot of back and forth, and it wouldn't have worked at all if our places of work were not close together and reasonably close to the house. Every once in a while, there would be an actual conflict, where we had to be at different places at the same time. Also, sometimes Josh would get off work early, but I wouldn't hear the phone ring and then he would be very angry about it. But mostly, we spent a lot of time together driving back and forth.
During the spring, my mom told me that my dad wanted to get rid of their Camry, for no real reason. It did make a mysterious clicking noise at certain speeds, but they'd taken it to a mechanic who couldn't find anything wrong with it. The car is eight years old, but only has about 109k miles on it. For a Toyota, that's barely middle-aged. My dad would gripe about it, because he's the kind of guy who gets an idea in his head and won't let go of it. But maybe he is suited for my mom in this way, because she was equally determined to keep it, also for no good reason. They had three vehicles, and while there are three people in the household, only one of them drives.
Now, as soon as she'd told me about Daddy's grumblings, I saw an in. They did not really need that car, and we could really use one. I casually mentioned that if they did decide to let it go, we'd like to be first in line to buy. Mama hemmed and hawed and about wanting to keep it as a backup. A backup of the new car they'd already bought, with the old truck being a backup to the backup, I guess. I did not push it, because I was focused on getting our heat fixed, and my brain couldn't deal with multiple major purchases at once. But I put a pin in the idea.
A month or two ago, Mama mentioned again how Daddy kept talking about selling that old car with the clicking noise. With no major home repairs on the horizon, I decided to make my play.
See, I had a trump card. You know that old trick where you ask one parent, and if they say no, you ask the other? If I mentioned to my dad that we sure would like to buy that old Camry, he would up his griping from merely irritating to downright insufferable. Actually, he would probably just try to sign over the papers to us on the spot, maybe mentioning it to Mama sometime the next week. But that is a nasty trick, and I did not do that. However, I might have commented to my mom that I could. She said she'd discuss it with Daddy and let me know.
She called the next day with the good news that they would sell us the car, and for very generous terms. We hadn't talked about the price at all, but her offer was one I couldn't refuse. In fact, I felt kinda bad about it, and I said I'd buy her a case of wine to go with it. After she'd agreed to do it, she seemed really happy about being able to help us out.
The car was delivered on the day before Thanksgiving. It apparently had not been getting driven much lately, as there were cobwebs on the dashboard. It was also full of the kind of random stuff that gets left in a vehicle - CDs, an umbrella, a VHS tape, a can of tuna (unopened, thankfully). Mama cleaned most of it out, taking the can of tuna, but leaving a Scott Joplin CD.
And then holy moly, we were a two-car household again. All the little things I'd forgotten were possible came back. Suddenly, I was able to change my name, because I had a car during government office hours. I was able to be the driver when coworkers and I went out for mid-afternoon coffee. I no longer had to wait for Josh to get ready in the mornings. Best of all, when I got home from work, I could change into my sleepy pants and have a beer, because I did not have to go back and pick up my husband from his work. I could even plan on having dinner ready when he got home, rather than trying to do prep work beforehand and finish it up after we got back. The possibilities are endless; it's like being sixteen again.
Thanks, Mama and Daddy.
12.11.2013
star power.
Until this year, we didn't have a Christmas tree topper. Our ornaments are mostly picked up at yard sales and thrift stores, but somehow we never found a topper. I tried making an angel once, but never finished the project and then the dog ate the pieces. I could've gone to any old store and bought one, but I have the feeling I would've just grumbled about the prices and then left without buying anything. Our topper-less tree has never bothered us all that much anyway.
I guess all the Christmas spirit got to me, because I decided that we needed a topper this year. So I did an image search for DIY Christmas tree topper. There are lots of neat and thrifty ideas out there, like using twigs or bows or pine cones. I saw and fell in love with the idea of a Star Power topper. This star is in Super Mario Brothers, where if you get it, you're invincible! I imagined our lovely Star Power at the top of the tree, and then trying to jump up and grab it. Then I imagined sort of falling into the tree and knocking the whole thing over, but I still wanted Star Power.
I was ready to go, too. I had yellow and black felt, embroidery thread, a needle, and stuffing, so I was set. All I needed was a pattern of the star to cut out my felt. Our printer does not work, so I asked my husband to draw me a star. He said sure.
A few minutes later, he abandoned the task, saying that he didn't want Star Power, because it was a pentagram. He wanted a Moravian star instead. In fact, he refused to even draw the Star Power for me.
I thought the pentagram argument was a pretty stupid reason, and I found it hurtful that he wasn't even willing to help me by drawing a dumb star. I retreated to the other room to pout for a minute, then stomped back to say FINE, I can draw my own star if you don't want to help.
Turns out, the real reason he was suddenly against five-pointed stars was because he couldn't draw one, but he didn't want to admit that. And then when I tried, I realized it was kinda hard, which is why I'd asked him in the first place. I'm not sure why I assumed he could just pop out a perfectly drawn star. I teased him that he'd had me fooled into thinking he was an excellent star-drawer for years now. Too late, I already married him.
Since no one in the house could draw a star, we went to plan B.
I did another search for DIY Moravian stars. And we found this tutorial. I went hunting again through my stash of craft supplies and came up with a roll of plain white paper. We each cut off a square piece and made the two halves of the star. Like many paper-folding projects, this one is pretty forgiving. Our pieces of paper were not perfect squares, and we got a little confused with the instructions and made a couple of wrong folds. But! After only about a half hour's work (not including the fifteen minutes we spent arguing about drawing skills and pentagrams), we ended up with a pretty good looking star. We left one of the sides open so we could stick the tree tip in there, and Josh rigged up the tree lights so that the star was lit.
And then he was just so happy. He would wander into the living room just to admire our lovely tree with its great big star, then come back and hug me because I made his wish happen. Since the star is paper, it may not survive until next year, so he wants to make the star-folding a Christmas tradition. It's a sweet idea, but I think I might just go to the office and print off a Star Power pattern.
I guess all the Christmas spirit got to me, because I decided that we needed a topper this year. So I did an image search for DIY Christmas tree topper. There are lots of neat and thrifty ideas out there, like using twigs or bows or pine cones. I saw and fell in love with the idea of a Star Power topper. This star is in Super Mario Brothers, where if you get it, you're invincible! I imagined our lovely Star Power at the top of the tree, and then trying to jump up and grab it. Then I imagined sort of falling into the tree and knocking the whole thing over, but I still wanted Star Power.
I was ready to go, too. I had yellow and black felt, embroidery thread, a needle, and stuffing, so I was set. All I needed was a pattern of the star to cut out my felt. Our printer does not work, so I asked my husband to draw me a star. He said sure.
A few minutes later, he abandoned the task, saying that he didn't want Star Power, because it was a pentagram. He wanted a Moravian star instead. In fact, he refused to even draw the Star Power for me.
I thought the pentagram argument was a pretty stupid reason, and I found it hurtful that he wasn't even willing to help me by drawing a dumb star. I retreated to the other room to pout for a minute, then stomped back to say FINE, I can draw my own star if you don't want to help.
Turns out, the real reason he was suddenly against five-pointed stars was because he couldn't draw one, but he didn't want to admit that. And then when I tried, I realized it was kinda hard, which is why I'd asked him in the first place. I'm not sure why I assumed he could just pop out a perfectly drawn star. I teased him that he'd had me fooled into thinking he was an excellent star-drawer for years now. Too late, I already married him.
Since no one in the house could draw a star, we went to plan B.
I did another search for DIY Moravian stars. And we found this tutorial. I went hunting again through my stash of craft supplies and came up with a roll of plain white paper. We each cut off a square piece and made the two halves of the star. Like many paper-folding projects, this one is pretty forgiving. Our pieces of paper were not perfect squares, and we got a little confused with the instructions and made a couple of wrong folds. But! After only about a half hour's work (not including the fifteen minutes we spent arguing about drawing skills and pentagrams), we ended up with a pretty good looking star. We left one of the sides open so we could stick the tree tip in there, and Josh rigged up the tree lights so that the star was lit.
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