Yes, No, Maybe So??????

“SCRAAAAAPE.  PHISH PHISH PHISH.  WEREREREREISSHSHH.  SCCCRAAAAAAAAAPE…”

These were the sounds I awoke to last Thursday morning.  Yawning, I reached for my cell phone to check the time.   8:15 am.  Who was outside?  And why had they chosen to wake me up, in my opinion, waaaay too early, on my precious vacation day?  “SCREEEEEEEEEEEEPE.”  I threw on my slippers and padded down into the kitchen, where I saw a sight I had never sighted before and never wish to sight ever again.

A small, wiry figure was shoveling snow off of our mostly-already-shoveled driveway.  The hunched-over figure was wearing an old-lady scarf around her head and a hideously enveloping faded-plum colored winter coat.  Black clogs stuck out the bottom of the all-encompassing coat, which had to come from the 1980s or earlier.  Stringy grey-black hair peeked from under the scarf.  It was clear in spite of the coat that the individual in question couldn’t have weighed more than 85 pounds.  Mrs. Figg, the Squib from Harry Potter, was the first thought that flitted through my sleepy mind.  My eyes widened as I realized who was actually shoveling my driveway. 

“Janette—she’s literally going to keel over and die.  And it will be on OUR PROPERTY!”  (Janette found this amusing.  I was half serious.)

The mysterious snow-shoveler is an old professor of mine from my undergraduate days.  Now that I’m working at my alma mater once more, we have renewed communications.  This particular professor has been working for the school since, I don’t know, 1872, and looks older than that.  Her husband has also been at the school an equal length of time, and their years, added together, take us back to the early days of our great nation.  A month ago I, perhaps foolishly, volunteered the downstairs of our little red house to one of her classes for a finals-week Christmas party.  A party that was supposed to start at 10:45…not 8:15. 

This professor has worked 18 hour days for as long as she’s been at school and had been predicted by most to die mid-sentence during a lecture.  Apparently preparing for this party meant arriving close to three hours early.  Janette convinced me to let her shovel in peace, as the driveway really didn’t need it and her OCD shouldn’t spoil my morning off.  The doorbell rang close to 9 as she greeted me with an all-knowing smirk: “Well, I just got done shoveling your driveway.”  (This should be translated: “I shoveled your driveway because you weren’t up early enough and didn’t have enough foresight to take care of it already so somebody obviously had to do it and woe is me, an old woman, whom the job fell upon.”)  Refusing to give her the satisfaction, I informed her that we had been planning on shoveling (re-shoveling…) closer to when the students would arrive.  This merited no response.  After unloading mountains of food from her trunk, I watched and attempted to help her as she took over our downstairs, rearranged our furniture, and sent us on hunting expeditions for tablecloths and extra napkins.  The food that I cooked for the party, at her previous insistence, was put in the oven.  (VWH mysteriously disappeared within 10 minutes of her entry.  He is VW indeed.)  Again, keep in mind that all she originally asked for was our living room.   I had two alumni friends visiting as well, and by the time the party wrapped up after 2 in the afternoon, our respective wills to live had been completely sucked out.

I have written before about power struggles between me and my mother regarding cleanliness and organization in the house.  The next time my mom hosts a gathering and asks me for help, I will gladly offer it, thankful in my heart that all I have to do is set the table and vacuum.  She is absolutely tame compared to what I endured last week. 

I thought I had learned to say ‘no’ after a semi-breakdown following my junior year in college.  I started to figure out that A: the world could go on without me, B: it was OK not to do everything, and C: I’m a much nicer person when I get enough sleep at night.  I continued these improved habits through graduate school, but they have slipped drastically in the past month or so.  They should invent some kind of dog collar for humans that zaps you if you are getting ready to agree to something stupid. 

“Can you play piano for the early service in church tomorrow for free?  You can sight-read all the stuff, right?” 

“Well…I suppose I cou--<BRRRRZAAAAAAAAAPP>--YEEEEEEEOOOOOOWWW!  I’m dreadfully sorry but I’m afraid not this time.”

It’d be Jiminy Cricket taken to a whole new level…Jiminy Cricket combined with Stanley Milgram.

(...The height of irony: my phone just rang with a potential part-time job offer that pays diddly-squat, but would be a neat musical opportunity.  AND I DIDN’T SAY YES RIGHT AWAY.  I didn’t say no either, but that’s progress, right?)

Speaking of which...

I think they must have read my blog:

http://www.newsweek.com/2010/12/02/books-amish-romance-novels.html.

I don’t necessarily hold to the opinions of this article, but I find it curious that it was published only 3 days after my original post.  Apparently 'those dirty Amish books' are becoming more and more popular with the public at large.  More popular equals more money.  VWH is really on to something…  ;)

Oh the weather outside is frightful...

It’s SNOWING!  This morning I left the house and it was raining cats and dogs for the second day in a row.  Unfortunately, it was 20 degrees colder outside this morning compared with yesterday.  Needless to say, it was a pretty miserable drive and walk to work.  The rain switched over to snow around 9am and there are already snowplows and shovels emerging outside our building.  I can’t help but have a big, goofy grin on my face.  I know I’ll be sick of it in a few months (maybe not even that long), but right now it’s a beautiful sight.  Snow in NC was a rarity and when it did come, we had no property on which to enjoy it.    

It feels much more like the Christmas season when it’s snowing outside too.  North Carolinian Christmases were kind of lame.  VWH and I bought a very small, very fake tree from WalMart and set it up in our living area.  (I can’t really call it a room…)  We had a few ornaments and eventually placed some gifts and Christmas cards we received underneath.  It was fine.  But it wasn’t really Christmas.  Christmas means family and wonderful music and homemade cookies and game nights and SNOW.

Remember when you were little and waking up on Christmas morning was the most incredible feeling in the world?  Remember when you couldn’t wait to rip into your gifts and see what awesome stuff you got?  My overriding Christmas-morning emotion as an oldest child consisted largely of impatience.  Waiting to head downstairs took an eternity because Mom and Dad insisted on taking our picture beforehand, and then went ahead into the living room so they could capture our expressions when we saw the tree.  (The longer this took the less happy we looked at the other end.)  Then, once we finally made it downstairs we had to endure the yearly discussion as to whether we were going to open gifts first or eat breakfast.  Dad always wanted food first and the rest of us responded by saying, essentially, “Are you NUTS?!?  There are presents to open and you want to linger over the breakfast table?”  This group included my mother and also our dog.

By the time we convinced Dad, once again, that breakfast could wait and the presents absolutely could NOT, we launched into phase 3.  Phase 3 can be subtitled, “Oh boy!  Let’s open one gift at a time and take delight in each person’s individual happiness.”  When I was but a wee tyke, phase 3 proved to be very impractical.  I would assist in expediting the process by ‘helping’ my younger brothers with their gifts.  Seriously, if you're still too young to control your drool, you’re probably not going to be able to unwrap your new Tonka truck.  This reasoning was frowned upon by my parents, and we have a few too many Christmas video tapes illustrating my abundance of…excitement…in sharing the Christmas spirit with my brothers.  (In my defense, they didn’t seem to care too much.)

By the time we finished unwrapping gifts (“MO-OOOMM…you got me underwear again?!?”) and had our picture taken a zillion times and hugged everybody 5 times over we were pooped.  In hindsight, Mom and Dad must have been absolutely exhausted…and it wasn’t even 10AM yet.  We eventually got around to eating the delicious Christmas breakfast Mom made, satisfying my dad, who is patience personified.  Then we gathered as much of our new stuff as we were permitted and piled into the van for Christmas #2 at the grandparents’ abode. 

It’s funny how things change.  It’s still all well and good to receive nice presents for Christmas.  A small part of the excitement in getting new things remains when I awaken on Christmas morn.  But most of the joy I experience now is reflected in the faces of my family and friends.  It really is better to give then to receive.  And if you are too young to understand that now, give it some time.  You might come around yet.  If not, let’s at least all agree that the white, fluffy snow helps promote the festivities.  J

Girly girls vs. manly men

Two entries in one day you ask? This only illustrates the sheer volume of scintillating tasks that must be accomplished this afternoon.  I spent the hour before lunch folding hundreds of letters into perfect thirds. 

The other reason I thought I’d update is because I actually have an update!  The Pittsburgh-Buffalo game was this past Sunday and it was a doozy.  The week leading up to actual event was most enjoyable, as I taunted and teased my VWH and the in-laws about the impending blow-out.  This was probably a bad idea for several reasons:

1)    Pittsburgh tends to play at the level of whatever team they play.

2)    Buffalo had a two-game winning streak.  Now, granted, they were the only two games they’ve won, but it was still a streak of sorts.

3)    We were watching the game AT the in-laws’ house.

4)    They had food there that I wanted to eat.

And the most important reason:

5)    There was a bridal shower going on for my future sister-in-law during the game and I really wasn’t supposed to be watching football at all.

My brain worked overtime all weekend in an effort to sort out my priorities.  It was like a day from my college Philosophical Ethics class.  Pros and cons.  Deontology vs. utilitarianism.

Pros to watching the game:

1)    It’s a match-up we only get once every four years.

2)    I had hyped it up to the point where going to the shower instead was going to be embarrassing.

3)    We were originally supposed to GO to the game and that didn’t happen.

4)    The game started at 1 and the shower at 3 so I would only miss a little bit of the shower.  And hopefully it would be such a blow-out that it wouldn’t even be an issue.  I mean, comon’, it’s Pittsburgh!

5)    My manly in-laws would think I was cool.  (This actually proved to be true.)

Pros for attending the shower:

1)    It’s the only shower my future sis-in-law was ever going to have that I could attend.

2)    They changed the date so I could be there.  (Yeah…that’s a tough one to get around.)

3)    Every time I’ve watched Pittsburgh play on TV this year they’ve lost.

4)    The game started at 1 and the shower at 3 so I would only miss a little bit of the game.  And hopefully it would be such a blow-out that it wouldn’t even be an issue.  I mean, comon’, it’s Pittsburgh!

5)    My womanly in-laws would think I was cool.

The game started and the first half was everything I could have hoped for.  Pittsburgh led at the half 13-0 and controlled the ball for 24 minutes (out of 30).  We were dominating.  It was ugly.  It was sweet. 

Then the “law-of-arrogance” kicked in the third quarter.  The Bills got a field goal.  Then a touchdown.  Then Buffalo decided to tie the game precisely at 3PM.  It’s like they KNEW what I was going through.  As I watched aunts, grandmas, and cousins pull into the driveway (one especially elderly aunt backed right into a sturdy maple tree) I was torn in half.  What to do?  Why did it have to come down to this?

Still convincing myself that the game would be over soon I opted for football.  Well, those stinkin’ Bills had to send it to overtime.  (Really, the Steelers were looking pretty dismal…we’re lucky we pushed it that far.)  The NFL plays sudden-death overtime, which usually means it’s over quickly.  But this was no ordinary overtime.  This overtime consisted of several drives, back and forth.  There were fumbles at the ½ yard line and dropped catches that would have easily ended the growing misery. 

You can probably guess where this is headed.  By the time Pittsburgh finally scrapped together a drive ending in the game-winning field goal it was well after 4:30.  I let out a quick whoop and immediately left the bedroom just in time to see the aunts, grandmas, and cousins pulling out of the driveway.  Wrapping paper littered the floor of the living room and almost all the food was gone.  This was perhaps the worst way things could have ended for me: Pittsburgh wins the game but we really didn’t deserve to.  Bragging rights have been severely minimized.  And yet I still missed the entire shower, leaving my sister-in-law-to-be (SILTB?) less than happy with me.  (I don’t know this for sure, but I’m pretty sure it wasn’t the smoothest move.) 

I feel bad.  Things didn’t turn out the way they were supposed to.  If I had to go back and do it again I would choose differently.  Obviously, the moral of this story is: don’t schedule bridal events during football games.  I’m sure VWH will feel the same way when, in a few weeks, he’ll be the best man at the wedding, wishing he knew the score to the Bills game.

Pizza pizza daddio.

Good morning.  In an effort to avoid the computer EATING my blood, sweat, and tears toiling over blog entries, I’ve decided to type them up in a Word document and then copy/paste.  The real advantage of this is that I get to choose wacky, fun fonts that spark my imagination.  My current choice makes me appear as a 5^th grade male failing penmanship class.

Yesterday I worked on my entry off and on during the morning and then posted it shortly after lunch.  Today I may not make it that long as I am out of work and only one hour has passed.  Yesterday’s busyness was due to a number of student visits.  Among them was my brother-in-law.  He is the youngest guy in VWH’s family and, perhaps, the cleverest.  His reading choices, like VWH, include nutritional choices like Ovid, Socrates, and GK Chesterton.  My youngest brother’s literary sources around that age were more along the lines of “Big Noisy Truck Magazine,” “Cymbals and Other Noise-Makers of All Sizes,” and, if he was feeling especially sophisticated, “Calvin and Hobbes.”  So needless to say, brother-in-law made a very good impression yesterday at his admissions interview.  He really hopes to attend CS Lewis College in Massachusetts, a new institution opening in the fall of 2012.  I think he and VWH have visions of symposiums in dark, wooden rooms with pints of ale, pipes, and long academic robes.  They would do that now if it were the least bit socially acceptable.  However, since my mother-in-law works here too and gets free tuition it will be difficult for him to afford such an establishment.  If he did figure out a way to go, I’m sure all of his brothers would live vicariously through his experience.

It’s hard to feel Oxfordian when your font looks nothing of England or even adulthood.

I don’t usually feel Oxfordian anyway.  While my literary choices at the age of 17 did not include comic books, they also didn’t usually include manuscripts in foreign languages.  I liked to think that I read fairly advanced books for my age until I met VWH.  All of the sudden, if I hadn’t read the Brothers Karamazov in elementary school I was behind the times.  I thought I was a good reader when I was little—I got my name in the newspaper for being one of a very few individuals to finish the local library’s summer reading program.  (Don’t even get me started about what it was like to get the stomach flu and miss the end-of-summer pizza party.)  Apparently the VWH’s family had some kind of accelerated reading program in their elementary school.  Each subsequent brother set the new world record for that program, blowing the previous one out of the water.  This led to such accolades as designing your own school day, newspaper interviews, and visiting international dignitaries. 

VWH assures me that I am smart and make him a better person.  Then he sticks his nose back into the Illiad in the original Greek.  (You think I’m joking.) 

I take my revenge in the kitchen.  VWH may be able to take his Greek Bible to church and keep up with the rest of us and our plain ol’ NIVs, but his culinary successes are minimal.  Pizza dough is his downfall.  VWH loves pizza.  He would prefer to wearing a toga in the reclining position (again, you think I’m kidding), but he would still take pizza over the more authentic dates, honey, and pita bread.

VWH has attempted pizza dough on those days when I was either very late returning from the long day’s work (hee hee) or too tired to make something that time-consuming.  The results have been mixed.  To his credit, a couple of times it’s worked out just fine, but interspersed with the successes are batches of hard, clumpy mess or watery, unrisen goop.  These failed attempts, combined with questions like “how do you use this can opener?” encourage me and give me hope that my contributions DO matter to our marriage.  I may not know ancient languages, but I can open a can, daggone it!

Permissum nos planto pizza!

(VWH says it should be translated “pittam facemus.”  So much for my translation skills.)

The busy season is upon us. No, wait…strike that.

Ahh, Thanksgiving has passed.  Christmas is coming.  The hustle and bustle of the season—the mad rush in stores for bargain shopping, the decorating and baking, the family gatherings.  What delightful images on which to dwell.

…as I sit at my desk. 

Yes, that time of year so often crazed and crammed for the normal person is shaping up to be rather lacking here at work.  The “busy” season apparently ends in early November, leaving in its wake a quiet, lazy atmosphere.  This is all well and good if you’re quiet and lazy.  I hope not to be lumped in either of those categories.

I chatted with the VWH on the journey back from Thanksgiving celebrations and he offered the most unlikely of suggestions for an activity to fill my time.  I was expecting something along the lines of, “learn a new language,” or “improve your vocabulary,” or even “learn all the Bach cantatas aurally.”  His answer?  Write a Christian romance novel. 

You have to understand that the aforementioned books are the subject of much ridicule in our household.  My brother refers to them as “those dirty Amish books.”  He further clarified that the mere notion of kissing before the wedding day makes them evil…to which my Mennonite-raised grandmother retorted, “You think that’s dirty?  Haven’t you ever heard of bundling?!?” 

Those dirty Amish books have been the source of many jokes in my family.  The same brother came up with a number of Amish soap opera titles to reflect their dramatic effect.  These include and are not limited to:

As the Buggy Wheel Turns

General One-Room Schoolhouse

Guiding Gas-lit Lantern

All My Children (that one needed no editing)

The Young and the Pacifists

So when VWH, with all seriousness, informed me that this would be a beneficial way to pass the time, I immediately jumped to the following conclusions:

1.       VWH has no faith whatsoever in my intelligence.

2.       VWH had a wee bit too much food and beverage on Thanksgiving.

3.       VWH finally realized that if we pursue something other than music  performance we might actually make some money.

Turns out that number 3 was the closest.  “At the very least, you spend a few hours doodling around with some ideas and never come back to it.  At the very most, Zondervan publishes it and you make thousands of dollars!”  He has a point…

Still, it’s a compromise.  I mean, the last book I read of the Christian novel genre opened with the text message, “Emergency, Parker!  Come quickly!”  Seriously…when it’s an emergency, who uses capitalization and commas?

But I don’t intend this to be a bitter diatribe against all Christian novelists.  I shed me some good tears over quite a few of those books during my growing-up years, and I don’t mind saying that the average declaration of love in "Waiting for Love’s  Deliverance" (made-up title) is probably much easier for mothers of such weepy adolescent girls to swallow.  It’s just writing chapters and chapters of it that makes my head spin.

“Rebekah flew by Luke in a rage of unrequited love.  How could he ask Rachel home from the singing bee in his new, shiny buggy after all they had been through?  She collapsed in a heap under the largest maple tree beyond the eastern corn field and sobbed until her tears were gone.  Then, after splashing cool water on her face from the brook, she readjusted her apron and returned to the Yoder farmhouse, where she threw herself into canning tomatoes with her five sisters, Mary, Martha, Deborah, Elizabeth, and Dorcas.”

As you can see, I’m apparently a natural.

The eve of Thanksgiving eve

Dear Blog,

I just wrote a very forced, not very good entry and the computer ate it up.  I am not happy. 

I'm hungry Mother. Really I am.

I just had the most delicious lunch break.  And, ironically, it didn't involve food.  I'm not overly fond of using food words like 'delicious', 'scruptious', 'delectable', 'savory', etc to describe other areas of life.  I'm not even fond of using them to describe food...reading my Quick Cooking magazine is always a balance of searching for helpful recipes while dodging the gag-me-with-a-spoon, overly-flowery descriptions.  Still, delicious actually works in this instance.  I got to talk with my mom for a whole hour (while eating popcorn). 

Mom and I have had quite the interesting relationship.  She was my teacher for 13 years of homeschooling, my piano teacher for 9, plus all the other roles mothers have.  As the oldest child of an oldest child, she's a perfectionist to boot.  She's completely gorgeous (if I look half as good as she does when I'm her age I'll consider myself a lucky gal), good at just about everything she does, and has an incredible marriage with my dad.  She also has a willpower that defies anyone to tell her she can't do something.  Once, when I was little, she watched a bunch of us chillins attempting, unsuccessfully, to walk on stilts.  She teased us about our lack of ability, to which we retorted we were doing way better than she could.  (Bad move.)  She marched over, took the stilts, and proudly marched all around the backyard before returning, hopping off, and sticking out her tongue.  I later learned that she had never walked on stilts before in her life.  That memory still brings a smile to my face.

Still, we haven't always gotten along.  As the oldest of the oldest of the oldest, I am also a perfectionist.  The thing is, Mom and I could never quite agree on what we needed to be perfectionistic over.  So while I worked hard at acing homework assignments, sports, and AWANA verses, she emphasized the necessity of dusting, vacuuming, washing floors, cooking, and practicing my instruments.  Oh the Saturday afternoons when, once again, I had cut corners dusting and, once again, got caught...it wasn't pretty.

When I was really little (couldn't have been more than 5) I came to the conclusion that if I boldly declared that my life was totally unfair and ran out of the room, ala Marsha Brady, Mom would be forced to see my point.  This did not work...not even a little bit.  (It worked in the Brady Bunch and Little House on the Prairie--what went wrong??)  Now it's probably one of my most embarrassing moments...especially since I chose to pitch my fit with company in the house.

Now I'm married and living in another state.  Our conversations are becoming more rare as I work full-time.  She does much of her private teaching in the evening, so lining up our schedules is difficult.  When we are blessed with time to talk, I marvel at just how wise she is.  She sees things for how they are, how they actually work.  Mom looks for the good in people and seeks to build them up however she can.  We grow closer every year.  I depend on her for so much now, and no longer take for granted the hundreds of thousands of hours she took to raise us, train us, and slowly let us become independent adults.  Now that I'm independent, there are times when all I want is to be her little girl again. 

All of that to say, spending an hour with my mom is an incredible blessing, and I positively delight in being her daughter.

Freedom to blog

For the first time in 2 weeks I'm blogging!  We had a rush of work flood the office and, while it wasn't especially stimulating, it was time-consuming.  It was nice this afternoon to eat lunch at a normal pace, not have the phone ringing every 30 seconds, and chat with the office workers.  I realize, however, that the storm was a blessing...soon I will be back to writing in you once more, every day, dearest blog. 

Well, I figured out that in order to get all the practicing in that I feel my instruments need right now I'd need to put in 5 hours a day.  (Night, really, since I don't get back until after 5.)  I don't have 5 hours a night.  I haven't felt the need to practice this much since my freshman year in college, when I was balancing two instruments.  I chose the flute sophomore year to cut back on the load.  Well, the load was lightened temporarily, but it turns out that you can make way more money on piano as an accompanist than a free-lance flute gigger.  (I can't say I'm surprised.)  So the recital requests pour in and the literature I have to learn mounts.  Unfortunately, piano music takes four times as long to learn as flute music.  Maybe even longer.  I do love to practice piano though.

The answer to my time-crunching problems?  We need a piano so I don't have to drive somewhere to practice.  Oh VWH---are you listening???

In other news, my collection of Friends DVDs has become the hot commodity of the greater Rochester area.  Of the 10 seasons I think I have about 4 in my cabinet at home.  I might need to think about library fines...if the VWH were borrowing I'd make a killing!

Just kidding...sort of.

The days of yore...

This morning I arrived at the office to find that the network had ceased to function.  We were without internet, phone, printers, fax machines...basically everything that makes an office an office.  Having already completed my work for the rest of the week yesterday, I was already facing a pretty slow day.  Take away email and internet and there's quite literally nothing to do that can be considered "work." 

What was supposed to be fixed in 20 minutes turned into 3 hours.  I wished (aloud) to be able to head over to the music building and practice until the lines were working again.  They didn't take the hint(s)...  I watered the pathetic plant bequeathed to me upon my arrival and which I despise.  It truly is a miserable representation of flora.  Spindly, spiderly legs creep across the top of my work area and yet stay hidden enough that I forget it's thirsty.  Needless to say, I'm losing the war on maintaining it's health.  (Perhaps I should not ever get a dog.)  I also dusted some shelves that really didn't need to be dusted while catching up with my mom on my cell. 

Speaking of cell phones, it truly was comical watching people who obviously cared way more about their jobs than me running around with their personal phones clamped to their ears trying to be productive in spite of the technological blockade.  One of my less-fortunate co-workers was shipped downstairs to a tiny cubicle to answer the phone lest someone of great importance call our office and be shipped straight to voicemail.  Thankfully, I escaped the exile. 

In spite of the panic I witnessed, it actually ended up being a pretty cool morning.  I got caught up on my mom's week.  The students who were here enjoyed a relaxed conversation about topics other than data entry.  I looked at yearbooks of yesteryear with student workers and one of my superiors actually stopped by and pointed out some of her peers from a really old book from the '70s.  For a few minutes, we were all on the same level, in the same predicament, forced to make the best of the situation.  It was nice.  It was peaceful.  It was community.

But, of course, the "problem" was fixed and I returned to my desk at 11 AM.  As I heard a co-worker mutter "Praise the Lord" as she hurried back to her office I couldn't help but think that, just perhaps, the world didn't end and the real blessing was the chance to fellowship together.  Perhaps we need a little more of that and a little less slavery to technology...

Kenyan Communication

Yesterday I got a new email address.  And I won't tell you what it is because I only intend to use it for a solitary purpose...to chat with my dear friend who's spending a year in Kenya.  She left in August and being back in Rochester without her has been less than satisfactory.  North Chili and Rochester are our old stomping grounds.  We've raked leaves, climbed trees, performed all over, picked apples, cooked meals, spent nights, you-name-it-we've-probably-done-it here.  This is the first time since we became friends that we haven't lived in the same area and, let me tell you, it's not fun.  The added distance and time difference that Kenya brings to the equation makes it harder to communicate.  I write weekly letters and email often, but it's not the same as phone calls and face-to-face.  It's not LIVE.

Yesterday we happened to email each other at the same time.  And then we responded to the emails at the same time.  It was email-chatting (something VWH and I did for two years in NC when he was at his uber-slow job) at its finest.  But it was still slower than real time.  So I bit the bullet and got the same email provider as she did so we can chat.  (Kind of like switching to Verizon because you can call your friends who are also on Verizon for free.)  I made the account too late yesterday to use it initially, but had it open all today in the hopes of catching her.

I did!  Around 2PM I heard the most wonderful "ping" sound and saw a real-live greeting on my screen from Kenya.  We were able to talk for about 20 minutes and it was glorious.  Huzzah for technology and instant communication!  Next up: a web cam!  :)

The magic that is Curl Keeper

This morning I awoke to find my hair had done itself overnight.  I pinned in a little barrette and was set for the day.  (A new definition of, "Set it and forget it.")  The exciting, time-saving miracle?  Curl Keeper. 

I have many memories, few fond, of growing up with curly, thick hair.  One of my earliest is of feeling/watching my mom blow-dry it straight, then re-curl it (still not sure why this happened).  Another is the time Mom wasn't able to brush it one morning, so Dad offered instead.  Despite his best efforts I howled like a banshee.  I still remember the tugging and feeling like my head was going to rip in two.  Grandma, on the other hand, opted for another strategy entirely.  She chose to braid it in two plaits, yanking and stretching my scalp so that I probably looked like I was born on another continent.  We have Easter pictures of me in perfect Nellie Oleson curls (not my natural ones), cute braids, and one very unfortunate year when it looked like a brown bush exploded around my ears.  (I really do think the sides of that bush prevented me from walking straight through a door.)  Yes sirree, my hair has been a curse. 

A curse that everybody else seemed to be jealous of.  If I donated a curl to every person who asked for one I'd be balder than Daddy Warbucks.  My mom, who has pin-straight blonde hair, wants my hair and there are lots of days that I want hers.  It's impossible to get a good haircut (one that doesn't look uneven once it's washed and redried), hair products just leave it looking wet or weighed down, and it takes 2 days to dry if I don't blow-dry it, which causes the aforementioned explosion.

I mastered the twist-and-pin technique around the age of 15 and ever since, it's been the hairstyle of choice.  It takes less than 3 minutes, usually looks great, and keeps it out of the face.  But I've always wished to be able to wear it down and enjoy curls without fear of humidity, the slightest wind, or a poorly-aimed sneeze.  In North Carolina the humidity only exacerbated the problem.  (See VWH--I used that word correctly.  In my head I pronounced it the right way too.)  My frustration grew when I looked around during an orchestra rehearsal (flutists, contrary to popular opinion, do tacet) and saw a lovely gal with perfect curly hair.  Instead of starting flat against her scalp and then ballooning out into frizz-city, she had gorgeous bouncy curls that framed her face instead of making her look like a big isosceles triangle.  And, even better, her hair was short!  Miracle of miracles! 

I envied her hair for weeks, eventually catching her eye a few times.  Thankfully she interpreted those looks as "can you believe what the conductor just did?" or "14.37 minutes left before freedom" and we struck up a non-verbal friendship.  I sensed the kindred-spiritness even though we never uttered a word to each other.  This went on for a couple of months and eventually she sent me an email asking a question for a class I was TA-ing.  She identified herself as "the other curly-haired girl" and I knew the subject was safe to broach.  She launched into a bubbly soliloquy about the wonder of this hair product and "I knew you woud love it from the moment I saw you."  (Ouch?) 

A few weeks later the sample bottle arrived.  I followed her carefully-outlined instructions (wash, put in, go to bed) and, voile, perfect curls!  And, catch-me-now-lest-I-faint, they actually last for more than a few hours.  More like a few days!  This miracle is a little teensy bit expensive, but I have quickly learned how to make a bottle last way longer than anything else I've used on my hair.  Justificaton is very important in winning over the VWH. 

Now I've passed my secret on to others and will continue to proclaim it from the mountaintops.  You, too, can have a bit of say in what happens with your hair from day to day.  There is hope. 

Admissions equations

November 11=Veterans Day
Veterans Day does NOT=day off for college students  (I can't find the equal-sign-with-the-slash-through-it on my keyboard)
Veterans Day=day off for high schools
Day off for high schools = prospective student visits at college

Veterans Day = No admissions counselors until 11 AM
Veterans Day = Admissions luncheon at the President's house from 11:30-1

So...to sum up:
Veterans Day=student visits + admissions luncheon - admissions counselors=one very frazzled events coordinator

In other news, I directed a choir of 65+ year olds last night.  I was subbing for my VWH, who had a gig in PA.  I was definitely out of my element.  Flute choirs I can do.  Singers...I know nothing about diction.  (I still catch myself saying 'prolly' every day.)  And then when the pianist backed out I was faced with conducting, playing piano, and singing all at the same time.  I know women are supposed to be multi-taskers, but comon'!  (...see what I mean about diction...)  Thankfully they were all very sweet old people and one especially cheeky, elderly chap commented on how much nicer I was to look at than VWH.

Then I got home with time for a long, hot shower and a book before sleep claimed me.  VWH had a day off teaching today, which meant that all of the tasks that I've been dawdling on have gotten accomplished.  Paying bills--done!  Grocery shopping--vamoose!  And Janette cooked dinner so I don't even have to do that when I get back.  I am one spoiled woman.

VWH got back from the grocery store with everything except coarse salt.  We're having a party tomorrow night and making homemade soft pretzels, for which I need pretzel salt.  He called from the parking lot to inform me that he couldn't find the salt.  "Did you ask somebody for help?"  "...no...  Welp, I'm on my way home now--see you soon!"  Upon his return he offered the following explanation:  "Well, you see--it didn't even occur to me to ask for help.  I think this must be because I'm a hunter-gatherer, and in the ancient days the hunter-gatherers never asked a squirrel for help finding the large game."  (This declaration sent Janette into spasms of laughter.)  First off, what in the world is a hunter-gatherer?  Some kind of man/woman cross?  Secondly, I doubt Wegmans employees around the world would appreciate being likened to squirrels in the wilderness.

Here's a random thought (brought on by the annonying sensation reminding me that I need Chapstick): which is more gross--borrowing somebody else's lip balm or dipping your finger into a vat of Vaseline?  Originally I would have taken the Vaseline, but upon further reflection, I'm not sure.

Football Tuesday

I have other interests besides music and admissions.  (The latter of which isn't exactly a huge interest, other than the paycheck it offers.)  Growing up in a family of men (minus Mom and, later, the dog) has its perks, and one of the biggest was my NFL education.  In comparison to my female friends, namely the flautists, who shun manly team sports and opt for figure skating (which, coincidentally, I also like), there's nothing better in my mind than to plop down on the couch Sunday afternoon surrounded by warm blankets, snacks, and the CBS NFL theme. 

My Pennsylvanian heritage instilled in me an unshakeable love for the Pittsburgh Steelers and I have since discovered that Steeler fans are found throughout the country.  Steeler fans are blue-collar, hard-working, salt-of-the-earth people.  When you reflect on Pittsburgh you don't think of the ballet or art galleries.  You think coal mines and lumberjacks.  The mentality of Steeler fans reflects this determined, gritty work ethic.  I've also realized that there's a large faction of Steeler-haters who equate them with dirty, no-good, lousy teams like the Ravens, Cowboys, and <gasp> Patriots.  (Just writing that makes me want to take a shower.)  I, of course, do not join in the sentiment and prefer the honorific terms you've read earlier in this post.  When you see "cheap shot," I think "hard-hitting."  "Ref's favorite team," translates to "great reputation."  OK, so I might be biased, but probably just about all of it is factual.

My VWH is also a huge NFL fan, an interest that provided us much conversation fodder early on in our relationship.  He, unfortunately, is from the greater Buffalo area, which means he roots for the Bills.  Wholeheartedly.  For better or for WORSE.  The Bills haven't been to the playoffs in 10 years.  As of this post they haven't won a game yet this season.  Their team strategy appears to consist of hiring the cheapest players and hopefully salvaging a season that doesn't make the commissioner move the team to Toronto.  My VWH and I are far too cheap to have cable television, so our viewing options in Rochester are, of course, the Bills week in and week out.  I miss my Steelers, particularly because their games far more accurately represent the actual National Football League's standards of athleticism.  Bills games have progressively deteriorated recently, causing my VWH to literally end up in the fetal position on the floor groaning "It hurts, it hurts."

The Bills host the Steelers in another month, a game that we've discussed attending.  It would be my first NFL game in Buffalo, which the VWH warns me can become violent if you're not wearing the home team's colors.  I could probably be convinced not to wear my Steelers garb (at least not the outermost, visible layer), but I will not compromise to the point of wearing the opposing team's jersey.  Boo.  It should be a blow-out anyway, leading to inner satisfaction.  We'll see--Pittsburgh tends to blow out the good teams and eek out wins against the chaff of the league.  In any case, it will be a spousal adventure to remember.

55 minutes until lunch, AKA practicing

Yesterday I hit the finish line at 9:33 AM.  Today it's 12:06PM.  A significant improvement, even though most of the work this morning was created at the expense of a sick co-worker.  So now the office is quiet, my compadre in the cube is on her lunch, and I await my break shortly.

I've quickly realized that an office job is not something I can stomach for the long-term.  I miss my instruments and the joy of rehearsing, performing, and teaching.  Within 3 days of work I was eating lunch at my desk and using my hour break for practicing.  My old haunt, Cox Hall, is a one minute walk away and the memories that come from those beloved practice rooms are, for the most part, very happy ones.

Like when I was a freshman and high-pitched screams came from the room in the corner near the upstairs lounge.  It was Kristin, a senior flute player who embodied the term "flautist."  Very hard-working gal (graduated with a degree in music ed in 3 years--next to impossible!), but also pretty flaky.  "Ohhh...look at this painting---feel the texture."  (At the National Museum of Art.)  Anyhoo, she comes tearing out of her room, pale as a ghost.  The reason for her terror?  A small insect of some degree was discovered on a window, rendering her practice session impossible until it was annihilated.  Yours truly, who is NOT a 'flautist' (I prefer 'flutist' if you absolutely have to put me in a box.) took care of the problem with me, myself, and a New Balance sneaker. 

Or when that same unfortunate flautist was the prime target for a snowball ambush on a cold February night.  Two male friends were accompanying me to my dorm when we walked by Cox and saw Kristin practicing in a top-floor room.  The boys quickly decided that in order to demonstrate their manly strength they would throw snowballs and see if they could hit her window.  Several valiant attempts later, all they had to show for their efforts were frozen hands.  I reluctantly (...yeah, right) scooped together my own orb of slush and pitched it up, hitting the window square on the first shot.  The men looked at me, hung their heads, and I walked a little taller the rest of the way home. 

There's a particularly large practice room in the basement where small ensembles sometimes met.  I walked in for my first woodwind quintet rehearsal (totally honored to be asked as a freshman) and heard this girl complaining to the professor about how much she hated Roberts and didn't understand why she had to be there.  Turns out that this girl lived close to the school all her life, went to another college purposely to get away from it, and was sucked back when she changed majors.  Her apathy towards the school I was so completely thrilled to be at was unnerving.  Well, quintet rehearsals turned into performances.  Performances into dinners out with friends.  Dinners to hanging out in the dorms.  Ultimately, that unhappy girl in the practice room became my maid of honor and dearest friend.

I loved to practice in the auditorium in Cox, a coveted spot for its larger space and hall-like qualities.  It was difficult to reserve, but there were occasional times during the day when I could sneak in for an hour.  I've had a shouting match in the auditorium with a dear friend (I can't remember why), sobbed on a professor's shoulder when the stresses of life were overwhelming, prayed with friends, poked fun at faculty during annual "Unrecitals" (basically the musicians' best effort at mimicking Saturday Night Live/Whose Line is it Anyway), and enjoyed folk dances.  We've even played dodge ball in that auditorium on rolley chairs and a small ball. 

How about various rooms on the third floor, where late-night practice sessions were often held?  Over my sophomore year a particular individual kept poking his head in, asking questions that inevitably led into lengthy conversations.  These interruptions became a daily occurance.  Practice rooms equaled practicing for a while, but really talking with this guy, who was cute, extremely funny, and uber intelligent.  Those practice room conversations led to a first date.  The dates led to my first kiss on our wedding day.  You know the cute, funny, smart guy as my VWH. 

Yes indeed, very good memories.  :)

Surprised by sorrow

My VWH has done a commendable job of supporting me in my job transition.  Initially I was overwhelmed, quickly followed by boredom.  There have been times of frustration and I've even taken offense at how little I seem to matter to the inner workings of my office.  ("I have a title, for crying out loud!")  Well, of course, everybody has a title, and everybody has different levels of power and, of course, I'm at the low end of the totem pole.  I suppose I thought working at a Christian institution would be different, but it's really not.  My pride has taken lots of hits, which is probably a very good thing.  VWH reminds me to have a servant's heart and encourages me to find peace where I am.  (Not an easy thing for an overachieving perfectionist who wants to succeed NOW!)  :)

The big events that I plan are, in many ways, the highlights of my job.  To finally meet the attendees and show them around, answer questions, etc. is fulfilling to me at a level that easily exceeds emailing and paperwork.  Our first big event was held a few weeks ago and pushed me to the limits in finding humility.  My supervisor seemed to be especially power-hungry and unable to trust me to take care of my responsibilties.  Everything was questioned, changed, adjusted, and scolded.  She walked around grandly while I struggled to follow behind, invariably lugging heavy bins of materials for the visitors.  By the end of the day I was exhausted, frustrated, and angry.  I wanted nothing more than to be be vindicated by the VWH and hear a little righteous, protective, spousal anger.  "Nobody treats my wife that way..."  "I'm going to go over and give her a piece of my mind..."  "You should just quit."  (That one was probably too good to be true.)

Yeah--that didn't happen.  VWH challenged me again to pray and put into perspective and persist.  I found a gentle scolding in place of my anticipated cuddle and coddle.  It was a very good thing--one that I mulled over the weekend before returning a renewed woman.

Our second event was yesterday.  I went with fear and trepidation, but also reminded to do my best in my role, however insignificant.  The joy of the Lord was my strength.  :)  Check-in went beautifully and the group of 100+ people settled into their hour-long overview.  My supervisor collapsed next to me and we sat in silence for a few moments before she began speaking.  ("Oh no, here it comes.  What did I do wrong now...")  Instead, "Julie, I just want to let you know that our next event in November will be very difficult for me.  It's the anniversary of my daughter's death." 

Over the next hour she recounted, in great detail, the tragic day six years ago when her only daughter, a high schooler, committed suicide by standing in front of an oncoming train.  We both fought tears as she shared the grief and guilt she experienced and continues to deal with on a daily basis.  I marveled at her transparency with me, her underling, and the trust she demonstrated by sharing such painful details.  I was completely and totally humbled. 

Perspective is a surprising and extremely powerful thing.

"Lord, make me an instrument of your peace.  Let me find Your strength in quietness and strength.  Break down my foolishness and selfishness.  Put me where You want me...not where I want me.  Make me an instrument of Your peace."

Another time, same place...

Friday morning!  Ahh--freedom approacheth.  2 whole days of living it up in our new house.  ("Living it up" can roughly translate to reading, watching football, cooking, and sleeping.)  But to get to the party-heartying I must first survive 8 more hours (well, 7.6) of work.  Today we actually have seven individuals visiting the campus, which ties for the most in one day.  This means I will be up and down, greeting and escorting to the next stops on their schedules.  When I'm not I'll be back at my desk. 

But ENOUGH about work!  That's definitely not what this is for.  The act (or art?) of blogging is supposed to be an escape.  The fact that I've started today's post at 9:20 in the morning demonstrates the desperation in which I'm looking for distractions.

Last night we had our first Bible study meeting at our little red house.  The turn-out was better than I expected.  (Good enough that there were no left-over brownies, which is how I measure these things.)  I envisioned a quiet, taciturn group.  The young adult group through our church is just getting off the ground and everybody's tiptoeing around each other.  My picture was a peaceful meeting in my peaceful livingroom followed by quiet, polite conversation in the kitchen as light refreshments were consumed.  When I surveyed the actual group at 7:15 pm I had personalities ranging from older single man with slicked-back hair to young punk drummer to ancient Greek scholars to female Mennonite pastor (how does that even happen???).  Needless to say, the conversation was not boring.  Tom Sawyer would have never guessed the Beatitudes were that controversial.  The hour passed by in a flash, ultimately leading to a collective dragging of the heels through the mud to slow down the runaway train.  I'm afraid that our fearless leader got more than he bargained for.  It was obvious that he had spent hours digging through commentaries, and he had pages of notes and things to share.  He wanted to lead (AKA lecture) with a few opinions sprinkled throughout for flavor.  We wanted to discuss.  No...strike that.  Debate.  The evangelicals vs. historical context, round 1.  I offered a few smatterings of insight but mostly kept my mouth shut and tried to keep my teeth from clenching.  (What many see as a challenging, healthy argument usually gives me a tension headache as I tally the number of often-imaginary offended individuals.) 

Anyway, the train did stop.  The brownies were served.  And the last person left after 9:30...way too late for me to catch The Office.  (Minor bummer...we didn't have NBC in North Carolina...another plus about North Chili.)  But the scintillating, bordering-on-abrasive, conversation truly trumped any witticisms from Michael Scott.  And we look forward to next week and what it holds.

I just remembered I'm supposed to have an offertory prepared for Sunday.  Oops. 

Another time, another place...

It's 4:00 PM on the dot.  I'm sitting at my desk, staring into space, willing the next 60 minutes to go by.  The past month at my new job I've run out of work almost every day.  Sometimes at 3 in the afternoon and sometimes at 8:45 in the morning.  It's those days when I wish for a private office instead of an open cubicle (which is more like a cube with a person in each corner).  My husband recommended that I start a blog.  This will give me an outlet to pass time without looking unproductive.  My husband, as usual, is a very wise man.  So I'm here.  I'm lonely and wishing for purpose, but I'm here.

I'm not sure what this blog will look like yet.  If it centers around my job it likely won't do me (or other readers) any good except as a sedative.  My very wise husband suggested that I write about him.  My very wise husband is very wise most of the time, but I think he was fishing for compliments.  We just moved from his parents' home into our first house.  We're renting the house, but it's not part of a huge complex full of drunken adolescents or car alarms that go off and stay off for hours in the middle of the night, so I have no complaints.  I have 3 bedrooms, 2.5 bathrooms, and no longer have to worry about where guests will sleep.  As musicians, we can practice without fear of vandalism in retaliation for our hours of very high and very loud noises.  (We liked to think we brought a little culture to our previous residences.)  My life has drastically improved in the past 6 days since the move.  Unlike many woman-folk in today's society, I actually enjoy cooking dinner and taking care of my very wise husband.  (Perhaps I should abbreviate.)  Our friend Janette has moved in as well, learning recently that her current abode is scheduled for demolition at the end of the month.  Janette is just about the most laid-back, low stress, drama-free gal I've ever met.  She is a fabulous roommate and we delight in sharing our new independent riches with her.

Perhaps I'll write about life at home with my VWH and Janette.  Or perhaps I'll write about music.  I miss music.  Five months have passed since the completion of my masters degree and any chance to make music is already precious.  Offertory at church?  Done.  Play for the elderly across the street?  Name the time.  I'm just about ready to start busking...

Or maybe this blog will center on how much more enjoyable upstate New York is compared to the humid, isolated existence we endured in North Carolina for two years.  I can't count the number of shocked looks on peoples' faces when we express our unabashed joy in a return to the north.  "But North Carolina's where everybody wants to go."  "It's so warm there!"  It was warm.  Very warm.  Hot, in fact, most of the time.  We did enjoy watching the city scurry around and then promptly shut down for a few days at the mere threat of snow.  When it actually did put down 4 inches we didn't have school for a week.  Yes, North Carolina had its share of plusses.  But they pale in comparison to the family, friends, and, yes, snow that we find in North Chili. 

Whatever the topic, or if this just evolves into random musings, it already has worth in that it's helped 20 minutes to pass by.

The title, by the way, is thus named because even though I'm 25, I feel very young compared to most of my peers, who are having babies and decorating their very own houses that they're paying for with their very own mortgages.  Even though I'm now a full-fledged adult who can vote, smoke, drink, and rent a car (my newest achievement), the span of time and wisdom between me and my parents seems to be lengthening.  But working at a college makes me feel old and wrinkled in comparison with the students who are full of giggly gossip and delighting in the sheer drama that exists at a small college.  So I'm caught in between, with the VWH and Janette, and we're trying to figure out where exactly we fit.  What exactly we're supposed to be doing.  And who we're supposed to be doing it with.