Catching up

So where have we been the last couple months? All over the place. Lots of interesting stuff happening… here’s the highlights.

First, I spent a couple weeks in Indiana visiting my folks. It was high party time in the Midwest- coyote hunting and ice fishing and dry goods shopping, oh, my! Seriously, I had a great time. I spent time with my dad fishing and hunting- well, I spent time bundled up shivering in the truck and ice shanty. A tiny ice shanty.

Just in case you don't know, my dad and I are pretty close to the same height. So... yeah, we were cozy.

Apparently I have become accustomed to the temperate Oregon winters.

(Note my Incredible Hulk gloves and- yes- my computer sitting next to me. I may not have completely grasped the entire concept of the great outdoors...)

In between hunting and fishing we thawed out by doing some shopping and antiquing and breaking in mom and dad’s new room. We are currently taking suggestions for names for this new room… it’s been in use for almost six months now and it’s still referred to as “the new room.” And there was lots of catching up with family and friends, of course, including the Rendinas who I haven’t seen for quite a while!

At the end of my time up north I drove down to southern Indiana to spend some long-overdue time with my buddy Kara and her family. It’s been about four years since we’ve seen each other and we had a rip-roaring time. Literally. I would go on and on about how fabulous those few days in Winslow were, but the written word would pale in comparison to the actual experience. Kara, Matt, Logan, and Noah, we will be spending much more time together in the future. Let’s leave it at that, because I’m sniveling with barely-suppressed joy at the memories. (This is one of the few times in my life that I’m not being sarcastic.)

(Oh, and everybody, don’t go see Avatar. It would be a shame if you didn’t enjoy yourselves as much as Kara and I did, and it’s well-nigh impossible that you ever could.)

Next, Andy met me at the airport in Indy and we drove to Bloomington to surprise his dad for his 60^th birthday. And surprise I believe we did! First I greeted Bill at the door as a balloon “delivery girl.” Once the shock of seeing me wore of (and we picked Bill up off the floor) Andy showed up “on the phone” and at the door. Once the shock of seeing him wore off (and we picked Bill back up off the floor) we commenced to having a lovely weekend. We broke in Bill’s new computer, Skyped with Lisa and Michael in New Zealand, had a mini-war with the squirrels, and of course ate lots of good food and had a great time. It was a great birthday for us- I hope Bill enjoyed it too!

We were very grateful to our friends Jason and Sara for waiting until we got back from Indiana to bless us with their new arrival, baby Levi! Of course there was a little bit of baby fever around our house for a few days as we were so excited to see their family expand. (Their family, not ours. Nobody get any funny ideas.) Andy had to distract me with a new toy, so he bought me an iPhone. It’s almost as though he thinks that gifts and trinkets will distract me from real life. I have no idea why he would think that. (It’s only been two months since my last blog post, I am OBVIOUSLY focused and in tune with the real world and the important stuff. And not spending every night installing new games on my phone. And virtual farming. On my phone. Where was I?)

Oh, yes, real life. Well, that seems to be the highlights. Of course we were obsessed with the Olympics with the rest of the country, and for the last week we’ve been fighting off a bug that Andy managed to get full force and I’m still trying to keep from grabbing hold. And that’s all we want to say about THAT! And of course, Caleb is enjoying himself immensely. It’s a rough dog’s life, eh?

All in a day's travel

Every once in a while, I have a day that is so unbelievable it appears to be the fantasy stuff of movies. Today was one such day. So in the lengthy tradition of March 18th, sit back, relax, and be ready to read all about the craziest day ever.

I suppose it all started last night, when I knew my airport call time and yet was up far too late to get there on time. Due to unforeseen circumstances, I found myself removed from my comfy bed and forced to remain awake for some unfinished business until approximately three hours before I was to rise the next morning. This was unpleasant. Even more unpleasant was the realization- three and one half hours later- that my alarm had inexplicably failed to go off and I was latelatelate getting up and going to be latelatelate for the airport and miss my flight!

After running around the house in the approximation of headless chickens, we somehow arrived at the airport early enough to nab some breakfast at Elephant’s before I had to board. Sweet. I guess there’s not a lot of airport traffic at 6 am. Yummy, yummy breakfast, travel not thwarted by lateness, looks like this day could turn around after all. I was ready to head off into the joyous land of coyotes and corn.

I’m on the plane. My seatmate is a surprisingly pleasant woman who shares my taste in books and handbags. We have a nice conversation, then she retreats into her novel and I into my audio book and stitching. Drinks are delivered. We rise above the cloud cover and I am thinking to myself, “this could turn out all right after all…” After all, what could possibly go wrong with Hector the sea otter hanging out on the wing with us? Sea otters are totally a good omen, right? I’m in. This is going to be a good day.

(Look closely. That’s a sea otter on the wing threatening to run up to my window, break it in, and chew my face off as I suffocate due to the deoxygenated cabin.)

About 20 minutes into the flight, I’m noticing some beautiful mountain peaks sticking out from beneath the clouds. Unwisely, I decide to take my attention off of my immediate surroundings and therefore lose my protective bubbleofnonannoyance. It is in this moment that THAT PERSON in the seat in front of me decides she needs to lower her seat and rearrange her entire person in one violent movement. Before I can say “slap-ass cold” my entire untouched glass of ice water has flung itself from my tray table into the air and ends up in my lap. And guess what? It’s slap-ass cold. And suddenly that phrase has a new, literal meaning. It’s not a good one.

Tears spring into my eyes, perhaps from last night’s frustrated-I-can’t-get-to-bed crying jag, or perhaps from the shock of the cold. For some reason my first instinct is to look at the back of THAT PERSON’S head. No reaction, she obviously has no idea what’s just happened. I grab at the upended cup and right it, because that’s going to help loads. I stare at my soaking jeans, my soaking cross-stitch, my soaking cross-stitch chart- MY CROSS STITCH CHART! Ink is running, the paper is already beginning to crinkle up in ice-water-induced devastation. I snatch at the chart, trying to rescue it from the water that is already soaking it. It has been stitched so many different times that it rips in half along the folds. It is at this point that I realize that my lap is FREEZING, why is it so COLD? Oh, right, there’s ice in my crotch. Awesome. My eyes dart wildly from my ruined stitching to the back of THAT PERSON’S head (still oblivious to the chaos behind her), to the floor under the seat upon which I’ve stored all of my electrical devices and onto which water is rapidly spreading, to my completely soaked jeans that are being frantically dabbed and wiped at with paper towels by my seatmate.

Wait a minute. Is this complete stranger blotting my lap with a paper towel? Uh, yes, she is. A new level of shock is beginning to register as I desperately try to remove said giant cluster of ice from the tippy top of my dripping lap before Ms. Extra Nice goes for it herself. She realizes that she hasn’t even bought me a drink yet and blushingly hands me the paper towels so I can finish this operation myself. (Because paper-thin airplane towels are doing a marvelous job of this, I can tell you.) Then, so as to make up for the drinkless faux pas, she asks the fairly unconcerned flight attendant for some more water for me.

I’m so interested in drinking right now.

“Sure,” says the ever-good-natured flight attendant, “now, this glass is for drinking. Try not to spill it all over yourself.”

I am the only person on the plane not surprised when he drops dead in the aisle. Apparently my saber-filled glare penetrated his heart on the very first try.

While other passengers and flight attendants remove the body from the aisle way- fire hazard, I guess- I continue to evaluate my situation. Water is soaking through to my previously un-facebook-disclosed turquoise diamond patterned undies and dripping down to my toes. The shivering is beginning, that uncontrollable quaking that eventually gives way to full-body thrashing if I don’t get warm pretty darn fast. Ms. Extra Nice and I abandon all pretense and begin mopping with a new fervor. We eventually realize we’ve gone as far as we can and hand over our giant wad of soaked paper towels to the new replacement flight attendant.

And THAT PERSON sleeps on.

Conveniently, a very, very unhappy child who has no toy other than an uber-amplified Tickle Me Elmo is sitting two or three rows behind me. I spend the rest of the flight sorting and laying out my water-soaked stitching threads to dry and listening to an alternating chorus of hysterical crying and maniacal laughter. My nerves are as calm as calm can be.

Upon landing in Denver, I count the hours until I will receive my luggage, and therefore a change of pants. Too many. I walked grudgingly down the aisle, realizing that I’m soaked all the way to the socks: with every step it’s squish, squish, squish. I disembark from the plane, causing a twelve-passenger pileup at the terminal tunnel entrance when the frigid Denver air flash-freezes my pants into solid ice. The jarring from behind chips me loose, and I retreat to the bathroom to see what I can do about this situation. Squish, squish, squish.

Whoever decided that airports should no longer install air hand dryers needs to be shot. With a new most-hated word (chafing) dancing through my head, I schlup from bathroom to bathroom, and finally on the fifth try I find a wall- sweet relief!- of hand dryers. It is then that I realize what fabulously interesting positions are required of me in order for the affected areas of my jeans to be dried. I look like a cross between those Chinese contortionist girls and a Tennessee Leghound. Luckily I’ve got good stationary balance, and I’m able to stand for long periods of time in numerous strategic positions… things are getting a little drier.

(I’d like pause here and apologize to Jim Irsay, Jim Caldwell, Peyton Manning, and the entire Indianapolis Colts franchise, because I happened to be wearing a Colts ball cap during this little fiasco. Nothing says classy fan like a woman bent over at the waist and backed up to a wall dryer.)

Needless to say, my antics clear out the restroom pretty darn fast. In the end, it is a maintenance worker that removes me from my dryer-lovin fun. She needs to clean the bathroom, it is going to “be close.”

Saber-charged stare. “Are you kidding me?”

“We close now, we clean.”

“Do you see how wet I am?”

“We close now, we clean.”

“Do you know that this is the only restroom with air dryers in the entire airport?”

“We close now, we clean.”

“Can you not just clean around me?”

“We close now, we clean.”

“Perhaps you’d like to just rub me all over the floor instead of wasting all that time with the mop? I’m sure that I could distribute quite a bit of water from the seat of my pants and save you a step.”

“We close now, we clean.”

“Is it possible that you don’t understand a word I’m saying?”

“We close now, we clean.”

“By the light of the purple moon the kumquats dance in the ocean.”

“We close now, we clean.”

I exit. Squish, squish.

I am now faced with a three-hour layover, during the entirety of which I cannot sit down because I will leave a little butt-shaped puddle on the seat when I stand up. Besides, I’m uncomfortable, cold, and wet, and I don’t want to sit. I want to dry. I contemplate running back to the bathroom, breaking down the “we close” sign, saber-glaring the worker until she’s immobilized, ripping off my pants and holding them under the dryer until they’re satisfyingly un-soaked, but decide this is not a wise decision. In the end, I find a tall table that I can stand at and place some reading material in front of me on the surface. At the table next to me is a mother and her three-year-old, whose only entertainment is- of course- a Tickle Me Elmo. They look familiar. Turns out they have a three hour layover, too. And the laughter carries on.

Somehow I manage to get a little work done during this layover. Somehow I also manage to lose the little cloth bag that stores and protects my computer mouse. I have no idea how this happened. I stood in one place the entire time. For three hours. I did not leave my table, I did not go to the bathroom, I did not throw anything away, I did not stitch the baggie into the leg of my jeans. I simply reached into my backpack, removed the mouse from it’s super-soft-super-protective bag, worked for a couple hours, and upon reaching back into the backpack discovered that said bag disappeared. I now created another spectacle by crawling around on the airport floor (displaying for one and all the large, still-soaked butt of my jeans) looking for the lost bag. It is, inexplicably, gone forever. I don’t know where it went or how it got out of my bag, but my money is on Elmo.

I head back to the gate for my connection- squish, squish- and hear that people behind me are laughing at the sight of my couldn’t-hold-it-hate-airplane-bathroom jeans. I cringe. My self-esteem is really thriving on this. I’m going to need lots… and lots… of therapy when I get back home. Then I realize that there’s only one person laughing, and it sounds suspiciously like Elmo. Yep, Elmo’s coming with me to Indy. Whee.

I’ve boarded the plane. I’m prepared for the worst. I see my seat- a window seat! In an empty row! Hope springs eternal. I know better than to hold out for that, though- I scurry to stash my bags before my new seatmates (who turn out to be lovely) arrive. Elmo and Demon Child mosey on past me. They settle in two rows behind me.

Of course they do.

For the two and a half hours from Denver to Indianapolis, Elonzo the Sea Turtle (who is hanging out on the wing this leg) and I are subjected to the music of what has to be the most ill-behaved child I’ve ever been a witness to in my entire life. Here’s what happens:

Cabin doors close.

Child begins screaming.

Plane taxis to runway.
Child continues screaming.

Plane takes off.

Child screams louder.

Plane flies.
Child screams.

Mother says to child, “We’re flying now, are you done yet?”

Child screams. First, “NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!” and then returns to unintelligible screeching.

For two and one half hours- yes, the entirety of the flight, no more, no less- this child screams. I don’t mean he cries, I don’t mean he whines, I don’t mean he yells, I don’t mean he plays loudly, I mean he screams. And screams. And screams some more. I don’t know how he does it. I figure for sure he’s going to lose his voice at some point, because this is a real honest to goodness screech. But no, he keeps going and going and going until I am about two frazzled nerves from going back to his seat myself and saber-glaring him into silence. About 20 minutes into this little party, I hear his mom say, “Here’s your Elmo, will you stop now?” and the child respond with another NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO and a higher-pitched, augmented-decible scream. Mom sets Elmo off into tickle-induced hysteria, and child raises it another notch. This happens every half hour. It’s unbelievable. I am in literal, absolute disbelief. I can not describe to you the horror, absolute horror of this flight. By the end of it, my seatmates and I have helped each other through the agony by braiding each others’ hair and then pulling said hairs out strand by strand.

As the plane touches down, I hear mom give it one more go. “We’ve landed. Are you happy now?” Elmo says “heeheeheeheeheehohohoho hahahahhaha," and the child says, “YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEESSSS!” And silence blankets the shocked aircraft. After a moment, the rest of the passengers and I break into simultaneous applause, as though we’ve just incapacitated some terrorists. The sound of our applause apparently does not make the child happy- it begins to scream again. Applause stops. Screaming does not.

As I leave the aircraft, I glance back at my seat. Yep, butt-shaped wet spot. Awesome.

Now I’m in the Indianapolis Airport- squish, squish, no rest for the weary- and there’s only one thing to do. I stop at the hokey-T-shirt kiosk and buy up myself a few with slogans that Kara and I will find hilaaaaaaaaarious but no one else will get. Who cares. Any T-shirt in John Deere/Northridge High School green and yellow is awesome by me. I wander through the halls of the airport and am greeted by my parents, who have done such a good job of hiding behind the furniture that I am nearly to the van before I realize they’re waiting inside the airport to surprise me. Joy of joys, I can put on some dry pants!!

We get in the van and decide it’s time for some good old-fashioned Indiana steak. So we head to Texas Roadhouse. Makes sense, right? I have a lovely meal and even though my undies are still wet, my dry pants are making my mini onion blossom so much more enjoyable. It’s truly comfort food. I’m ready, my vacation has begun. It’s going to be a great week. Never mind that we had to drive from Indianapolis to Middlebury at 20 miles an hour because the snow started and the roads were slick and it was 12 degrees outside… I’M ON VACATION!! WOO HOO!!

As I collapse into my for-the-next-week bed, my foot slips to the left and accidentally knocks over the glass of ice water that I have placed on the floor next to the bed. A rapidly spreading puddle of water aims for my luggage (still full of electronic devices) and spreads across the floor at an alarming speed. My socks are soaked.

Sigh. This is where I came in…

Why we don't have children

It's been a disturbing day. Today as I was watching A Christmas Story and taking the lights off the tree I suddenly realized, "Wait a minute. Tony the Tiger was a TIGER. And tigers say, "Grrrr." THAT'S why they used a tiger to turn the word "great" into "grrrrrrrrrr-EAT!" Wow, I never realized that word had a dual meaning. That's a great marketing plan."

This day is right up there in the annals of "I'm an idiot" that includes such doozies as, "Wait a minute, those items "not sold in stores" are not, in fact, available in restaurants," and "I don't think a bed should really just fall-through-the-boxspring-and-land-on-the-floor all by itself without some sort of stress causing it to do so..."

According to some very reputable free online tests, my IQ is 153. I believe it's time for the geniuses of the world to cower in fear lest they be overwhelmed by my Herculean intellect...

A Christmas list

Okay, it’s three days since Christmas and about 17 people have asked me so far, “So, what’d ya get?” There is a slight chance I may have been vocalizing my fascination with the tradition of holiday endowments. (Translation: I was whining because I wasn't getting any presents.) Well, those of you who know me best find my gift obsession one of my more endearing qualities… ahem… it’s endearing. Quit rolling your eyes.

Caleb agrees with me... I believe the caption for this is: "I want to open it NOW."

So first, let me say, we had a lovely Christmas. It was, of course, not quite the same being here in Oregon and not surrounded by family and snow, but we made do. We skyped and called everybody that we could hook up with, and we had a great day.

Next, we feel the need to point out that Caleb solidified our convictions once and for all that he has some quirky human installed in his little doggie brain. He outdid himself this year and performed that most human of Christmas activities: he went looking for his presents! Not kidding. At some point he saw me come home with a bag of bones that I stashed away for him to “open” on Christmas morning when he dug into his giant burlap doggie stocking. (Yep. You read that right.) Anyway, early one morning I heard a strange noise coming from the closet- I ran in to break up whatever party was going on in there and found Caleb digging through the clothes in the closet to unearth his giant bag of bones! He got that out but didn’t manage to break into the bag… brat. Proof positive… he’s more than just a dog. He’s a freak!

He looks as though he's remorseful...

But he's really just trying to dry himself off...

Because I punished him by giving him a bath. (We're going to be such good parents...)

And last, the answer you’ve all been waiting for. Well, nobody’s really been waiting for this answer, but I’m still tired of answering the question, so here it is- a (nearly) complete list of everything that entered our house this year- and a few things that (VERY SADLY) already went out! Why am I printing this list? Because 1. it illustrates just how much I had no right to whine, and 2. it looks a lot funnier when I list individually every single nut and bolt that was included, no matter how small. I love making lists. (We're not this materialistic. Don't judge us. Well... Andy probably isn't. Don't judge him. Try not to judge me too harshly, either, I am just having fun.) In no particular order, all those fabulous, wonderful, appreciated gifts bestowed on all three of us:

47 bones (one braid, one candy cane, two sticks, two flat slabs, and one bigger than Caleb’s head)

One stuffed Snoopy Christmas doghouse

One bag of party mix

One bag of kettle corn

Ten bags/containers of candy

3 oranges

One battery-powered swirly softball

One level

Three paw-print-covered tennis balls

2 purses

2 laser battle helicopters

2 nesting dolls (one snoopy, one nativity scene)

One soduku puzzle cube

One giant Snoopy comic book

One antique Snoopy coin bank

One loofah Santa that squeaks

One canvas octopus that squeaks

One stuffed pig that oinks

One stuffed duck that quacks

One unstuffed weasel that squeaks

7 cross stitch kits

One cross stitch booklet

One studfinder

One crescent wrench

One level

One convertible pliers

One tripod flashlight

2 nativity scenes

4 Advent calendars

One HD video camera

One afghan

One bag of flour

One cooking class voucher

One iPhone voucher

One DDR for PS2

One complete series box of The Brady Bunch

Two creepy balls of blobs

One Melting Pot dinner

2 Starbucks gift cards

One Mary Kay eye soother bag

2 sets of mp3 speakers

One USB fridge

One USB LED sign

One LED-lighted baseball cap

One digital voice recorder

One Bluetooth headset

3 Wii games (well, actually five, as one was a three-in-one)

One Blu-Ray disc

One necklace

One book stamp

Two kids’ books

One Kindle

One Amazon gift card (and consequently, one Kindle case, one Kindle Bible, and about 45 Kindle books)

One exotic cars DVD

2 lamborghinis

One big ol’ dog bed

Lots of cards and some generous cash

And a partridge in a pear tree.

As you can see, we are incredibly over-showered with gifts of love (and toys and gadgets). We know that we (and our families) were trying to spread a little love this year, and they sure succeeded!

Thank you, everyone- we love everybody and we are so grateful to you all for thinking of us this year! We know that it's not just the presents that we send each other or our presence in a certain geography that make this season, so we only hope your Christmas was as filled with love and joy as ours, and that you all were able to experience the joy and peace of celebrating our Savior’s birth!

(And I promise not to whine about gifts next year. But I can’t stop Caleb from begging for moretreatsmoretreatsmoretreats!!)

Happy Halloween

Ahhhh, Superdog. Here we are again. Everybody’s favorite holiday… except mine. I don’t hate it or anything… well, maybe I hate it… no, that’s not true, I don’t hate it. I’m just not that great at it. It just wasn’t that big of a holiday for us when we were kids so I never really got excited about it. Not that I’m really all that great at the holidays that WERE a big deal for us when I was a kid… I can’t make all that awesome Christmas candy, I’ve never stuffed a turkey, and I fill Easter baskets with Dollar Tree trinkets. But Halloween especially, I’m just not that great at preparing and/or participating in. Can’t carve pumpkins, not creative with costumes, hate all the sugar buzz.

That’s a lie.

I actually hate SHARING the candy with all the kids. That’s MY candy, I paid for it, mine, mine, mine!!

Okay, I’m a bad adult.

Anyway, I remember Halloweens as a kid. It was always more about the costume contest in school than it was about the trick-or-treating and candy. We lived way out in the country so it was a pretty complicated deal for us to get any trick-or-treating in. We had to drive all the way into town (three miles… whooooo...), and then there was the fact that this was the 80s and you never knew if there were going to be tacks in the M&Ms or razor blades in the KitKats, you get it. So trick-or-treating was usually not a part of the whole Halloween thing.

The costume contest, however- that was always a big deal. In second grade, because I wore glasses (and was the only one pretty much the whole school that did), we decided to dress me up as an old lady. So add a head scarf, a cane, and a long dress, and I was an old lady. Odd. Odder still, for some reason I thought that all old ladies were grumpy, so the real crux of my costume depended on me walking around hunched over with a very grumpy look on my face, waving my cane and croaking out, “I hate fill-in-the-blank!!” “I hate kitty cats!!” “I hate Halloween candy!!” “I hate standing in line!!” And since my grumpiness was considered part of my costume, nobody shut me up. Most memorable was the time I saw our principal walking down the hall, so in front of my teacher, God, and the entire second grade, I waved my cane triumphantly in the air and screeched, “I hate you, Mr. Stump!!” I think I was a bit of a classroom hero after that one, but not surprisingly, my teacher- one Mrs. Stump- put the kibosh on my bad mood after that one. I did not win the contest.

I don’t remember many other costumes, except for fifth grade. I was a pack of Extra Spearmint chewing gum. We took a big ol’ cardboard box, spray-painted it dark blue, and cut a couple eye holes out of it so I could walk around. This is most memorable for two reasons, the first being how late we stayed up on October 30^th putting all the finishing touches on the box. It was ridiculous how late I stayed up that night. Also, it was ridiculous that my parents didn’t notice what we were watching on TV as we were painting- one of those made-for-TV movies that happened to be a true story about a kid named David whose father kidnapped him, carted him off to a hotel room, doused him and the bed he was sleeping in in lighter fluid, and lit him up. Apparently David lived a horrible face-scarred life, or something… I don’t know, I was ten. I never really got over the picture of the little boy screaming in his bed. (Happy Halloween.) The other reason I remember this particular year is because that year the costume contest was an eerie harbinger of the high school Junior Miss pageant, where Michelle Irelan narrowly beat me out by wearing a spandex and doing gymnastics whilst my more artistic, deserving performance brought up a close second. In 5^th grade, Michelle Irelan dressed in spandex as a girl walking on her hands, while my more artistic, deserving box of gum brought up a close second. Who says history doesn’t repeat itself?

One time- and only one time- Mom took us trick-or-treating downtown. My brother was determined to trick-or-treat, and I, being all young and impressionable, was convinced to join his whining campaign until Mom agreed to take us. Erik put on his classic 80s Batman costume, and since we had bought one costume that meant I got the homemade one. Mom put a little red dress, lacy socks, and a white apron and one of those puffy little white caps on me, and I was Strawberry Shortcake. Tada. To add to the illusion, she drew little red freckles all over my cheeks with a lip liner pencil. This was a great idea, except that I was, well, four. And you know what happened. I was four! My face itched. I scratched. Freckles smeared. Mom repaired. This happened at least four times before we even left the house. Since it took, oh, say, an hour to even snap a picture without Strawberry Smearface showing up, mom’s nerves were a little more than frazzled by the time we drove off. A half a mile away, I scratched my face. Again. Mom pulled over and with some choice words fixed my freckles. Again. Her attitude during that facial repair session was enough to frighten my hands into a frozen position for the next half hour or so- just enough time to get us started knocking on doors, but not enough time to get it done. Apparently my face was awfully itchy that night because by the end of the candy-collecting session, thanks to the little white apron, the little white cap, and the little red freckles now smudged like rouge all over my cheeks, I looked a lot more like a little French whore than I did Strawberry Shortcake.

No more trick-or-treating for us.

Strawberry was another creepy little future- teller: in high school the only thing I could think of to do for a costume was to steal a color guard dress and put on a lot of makeup and go as a skease. (This was more a knock on color guard girls than it was a real costume.) Since then, this year is the first year that I can remember having to dress up in any way, shape, or form. (Except while I was working at the temp agency-I sometimes put the numbers 98.6 on my shirt and said I was dressed as a temp. I don’t think that counts, although it was big humor in the business, I swear.) But this year, Quarterhorse is playing a Halloween gig up in North Plains, so I had to do something to blend in to all the crazies that are coming out that night. The only idea I could come up with was some face paint.

It’s a four-hour gig.

Gets awful hot in there… I spend a lot of time wiping my face because I get hot during gigs.

This could be interesting. Keeping with my woman-of-the-night theme, I’ll probably have smeared all my face paint into some geisha-like mess by the end of the evening. I gotta go buy me a mask…

Fall in Oregon... Really.

This morning I took Caleb out for a walk. The sunrise was so beautiful that I just couldn’t resist. We are having one of those spectacular Falls out here in Oregon- the kind that is brisk, sunny, and colorful. Fall has always been my favorite time of year- growing up I loved watching the hills turn a patchwork of yellows and reds, and then as I got older I appreciated the fact that we were back to wearing long pants and layered clothes. (Let’s just say that the less of my skin bared to the world, the better.) And Fall brought leaf walks in the woods and back to school and marching band season and… think I’ve said too much. Um, I like Fall.

So anyway, because of the extended sunny weeks, this particular Fall is making me especially nostalgic for my Midwestern homeland. We don’t normally get a lot of Fall here- usually the rain comes mid-September and doesn’t stop until, oh, say, August, so we don’t see a lot of creation’s colors highlighted by the sun. However, Andy and I live just off of a particularly picturesque street lined with trees that every year turn amazingly bright colors, and that one week of sun that we get in the Fall lights them up like the Vegas strip. This year, the sun stuck around for a good two, almost three weeks of color. (That does mean that heavy rain is just around the corner. The first day of rain knocks all the leaves off the trees, leaving us with bare branches, overflowing gutters, and a deep seated longing for UV rays.) But for those glorious few days where we still have the sun, we are treated an array of colors that can only be found in God’s palette. It’s amazingly, breathtakingly beautiful.

Anyway, as we walked this morning, I was doing what I usually do when I’m walking with just Caleb and don’t think anyone can see me: I act about six years old. When there is something on the sidewalk to go around, we hop over it. On long stretches, we skip. When Caleb runs up the side of the hill to snoop under the fence, I run up behind him and we play ring-around-the-shrubbery. My particular favorite childish activity today was kicking my feet as I walked through the piles of leaves that had accumulated on the sidewalk- sort of a mini-leaf-blower move that makes the most satisfying swishy noise. I was in high heaven.

(I found this one on my way home. Coolest leaf ever.)

So anyway, as we strolled down a side street, I walked under some trees that had tiny yellow leaves on them. An unexpected breeze appeared out of nowhere. Little yellow leaves began to flutter down, surrounding me as I passed through this fantasy-like cloud of swirling foliage. I was immediately taken back to a time when I actually was six years old, the only other time in my life I can recollect nature smiling upon me in such a way. I was walking down by the river near my house, to the place where we always went swimming in the summer. There was a large patch of mud near the bank where we had to cross. This particular day the mud wasn’t brown, but yellow. I couldn’t figure out why until I was too close to stop walking: the ground was covered with little yellow butterflies. I took one step into their midst and suddenly every one of those butterflies lit into the air. I was standing there absolutely surrounded by this cloud of butterflies! All I could see were fluttering wings, and all I could feel were their tiny kisses as they brushed the skin of my arms and face. I held my arms out wide, threw my head back, spun around- for that one moment I was one with the cosmos, injected with absolute, nature-infused bliss. The sun shone on my face, birds began to sing, squirrels came out from their perches to gaze upon the beauty that was my ecstasy, and if I’m not mistaken, two little bluebirds flew up and placed a wreath of daisies on my head. Oh, the joy, the pure, unadulterated joy!

The leaves that surrounded me this morning immediately both transported me back to that beautiful moment twenty-five years ago and transformed me into the Disneyesque wood-goddess that I always pictured myself to be. Nothing could stop me. I had the world at my fingertips. The sun smiled upon me, the leaves kissed my face, water birds crooned from their lily ponds, woodpeckers carved my name into their tree trunks, two chipmunks were about to crown me with laurels… when Caleb saw a Chihuahua across the street and bolted for it, dislocating my shoulder and causing a minivan to careen through a chain link fence into the sandbox at the park where, thankfully, no children had yet begun their daily excavations.

Ah, bliss. Not surprisingly, it’s supposed to rain this afternoon.

Playing catchup

There’s a reason for my lapse in blogging: BUSY. Here’s the rundown:

We had a great visit with my parents who drove out to Oregon a couple weeks ago! They arrived just in time to help me baby sit Cutiepie Cox (that’s his new name) and watch Quarterhorse at our gig at Duke’s. I felt kind of sorry for mom and dad- the first day of their visit and I gave them babysitting duty whilst I got ready for the gig, and then they sat on the side of the bar all night watching Quarterhorse play four sets. My, my. We didn’t get home until almost 2 am. Needless to say, we all slept late the next day. (Except for poor Andy, who got up in the morning and went to work. What a provider. He’s the best.)

We filled the rest of their visit with all sorts of the usual Oregon-festing: food, shopping, food, beach, food, games, and one or two special restaurants where we got some awesome… uh… food. We had a blast. Of course, on the last day of their visit we remember about five other things that we wanted to do that we had forgotten- funny, there just wasn’t a lot of time between all the eating to do those things we wanted to. So seven days and five extra pounds later, Mom and Dad have promised to return and we will cover all those bases we missed this go-round.

Oh, and we forgot the camera EVERYWHERE we went! So we have no pictures. Boooo.

Since Mom and Dad left, the week has flown by catching up on work and all the other normalities of life- none of which we remembered the camera for, either. Sigh. So the only sign off I have is: GO COLTS! Woo hoo! (And even I felt a little sorry for the Titans.)

A Jozi by any other name...

I’ve been thinking a lot about names lately. Friends surrounding us on all sides just keep producing offspring, which of course leads to lots of talk about names for babies, weird names we’ve heard, funny names, bad names, etc, etc. Naturally all of this talk leads to the “What would you name your baby?” convo, which, as a girl, I am morally obligated to participate in. I would like to point out that as a girl who is not expecting any offspring anytime soon, I feel quite silly participating in these conversations. I start to share with my friends all the fantasy dog names I have accumulated, and they stare at me with that look I have grown used to. (That look says, “Your clock is ticking, your eggs are shriveling and you have no sympathy from us.”) Regardless, it’s still a very valuable conversation to be a part of, for multiple reasons:

1. You glean possibilities of what your friends may name their kids, so you know to steer clear of a name that they absolutely loooooove. I cite here the example of Ella Grace, a beautiful name that one of my friends had her heart set on naming her first daughter. She leaked the name to someone who, well, didn’t really care about her feelings that much, and now Ella Grace will forever be the name that said friend’s ex-boyfriend named HIS daughter. Yikes.
2. You are warned of possible nicknames that you may not have thought of. Herein lies the “Alistair incident”- one of Andy’s friends proudly announced to the room the name of his new son, Alistair. Pretty cool name. Except when Andy said, “But everybody will call him Alice…” and poor Andy’s friend turned a lovely shade of gray realizing that the birth certificate was already stamped, signed, and sealed.
3. You find out that everybody hates the name you were going to use for your kid. As in, “I like the name “Poobahjinks” and your husband says to you, “That was my ex-girlfriend’s name.” Poobahjinks, out.
4. Actually… I can’t think of a fourth reason. But a list just looks so silly with only three points.

One of my favorite things about my job is how often I come across really funny names. I present here a list of names that I have actually, truly, personally come across in my travels through life. I swear to you that every single one of these names I have personally verified:

1. Richard Head (ouch, this was a nickname waiting to happen)
2. Michael Hunt (awful when this kid got paged in school. He went by Mike.)
3. Gertrude Butterbottom (okay, I’m kidding about that one, that was for you, Craig)
4. Rungutai Dyar (this is only funny because to me it just sounds like the noise you made when you were “driving” a toy car. Rung, rung, ruunnnnnnnnggggg…)
5. Richard Shaver (again, people, project a nickname before you name!!)
6. Knowshon Moreno (I can hear it now. “I don’t care what you name that child, but I don’t want no Shawn in this house!”)
7. Pebbles Ritter (that’s just… sad)
8. Choua Moua (I have to give credit to whoever had the guts to do this)
9. Andrewetta Charles (we’ve been diligently searching for that female form of Andrew in case we have a girl… dilemma solved)
10. Art Dodger (one wonders if these parents were very well-read… or just perhaps never picked up a book at all)
11. Ghisline Harvey (I think this was a combination of a typo and somebody not reading the directions right, as in, “Put first name on ghis line…”)
12. Johnny Dingle (poor family…)
13. Scooter Berry (if this weren’t funny enough, don’t let those two sit next to each other: (like this picture)
14. Casper Pepperjammer (so… many… things…)
15. Humberto Trapero (you kill my father, prepare to die)
16. Jocelyn Rae Miller (NOT me, but the OTHER girl in my high school who had the exact same name as me, but was two years younger. Had quite the reputation. Really didn’t like hearing, “wow, that Jocelyn is a slut.” Thank heaven by that time I was already cemented in as Jozi.)
17. Aquoinette Cooper (you have to say this a few times to figure out her mom must have had really, really stiff hair)
18. Caprice Jones (This one is my favorite. Absolute favorite. I won an office bet on this one on the origin of her name. We asked her about it, and she said, “Well, my mom and dad went to a drive-in movie, and nine months later… there I was.” Guess what kind of car they drove?)

So then I started thinking about my name. Growing up, I considered myself a rather unfortunate name holder. Jocelyn was a very unusual name (1980s, Indiana, Mennonite, yes? Unusual) and I got a lot of comments on it. It was hard to spell and too long for those standardized test forms. I was always Jocely Miller. That always made me mad, because I got really, really good scores on those tests and I was ticked off that some Jocely out there was getting credit for it. And my friends couldn’t pronounce Jocelyn, so I was always Joc or Jocy or Jozlyn or Jozi- that’s actually how my nickname (which is basically my real name now) came about, because a certain friend of mine had a brain impediment and couldn’t pronounce the letter C. And my middle name was Rae… not TOO bad, but I thought it was boring, and it annoyed me that it was a “boy’s name”- I was named after my dad, Donald Ray. (Later, by the way, I realized that it was a privilege to be carrying my dad’s banner and I’m very glad that I do.)

I remember once saying to my mom, “I hate my name.” Only later did I realize how horrible that must have been for her to hear. She and my dad must have spent months searching for the perfect name for their perfect (sigh) little baby girl, and had to have been pleased when they came up with these beautiful syllables that had deeper meaning. (While the literal meaning of Jocelyn is “a member of the Gauts tribe” they were naming me Jocelyn as a derivative of Joyce, which means, of course, “joyful.” And I try to be.) But here I go just knifing her heart with my disapproval- I might as well have just told her she was a bad mother. (Not true, by the way.) We’re even, though, because as everybody knows, Jocelyn didn’t stick very long. Too long for a little girl, so it became Joc and Jocy, and later by those friends who couldn’t handle the pressure of “C”, Jozi. (That’s jah-zee, for those of you who have never met me, who, by the way, are reading this blog for no real good reason; aren’t you bored? You must have something better to do.) Oh, and for those few relatives who knew I was going to be named Joshua if I was a boy and never quite got their heads wrapped around that I was a girl, I’m still Josh. But the overwhelming majority called me Jozi, and Jozi I became, and Jozi I was, and Jozi I am. But after it really got officially confirmed that Jozi was my name forevermore and my real identity, that’s when mom told me that she hated it that everybody took such a beautiful name like Jocelyn and turned it into such an ugly “JAWzee.” She pronounced it in that Fran Drescher Nanny voice. Kind of funny. Had to be there.

As far as weird names go, I took the cake. There’s not a person that I meet that doesn’t look at me with fear and trepidation as they realize that have no idea what I just said my name was. It goes like this:

“Hi, I’m Jozi.”

(knit brows) “I’m sorry, what was that?”

“Jozi.”

(furrowed brows now, confusion in the eyes) “Can you spell that?”

“Oh, that doesn’t help much. It’s J-o-z-i.”

(relief) “Oh, Josie. Nice to meet you.”

“No, it’s jah-zee, you know, rhymes with Fozzie, the bear from the Muppets? Waka, waka, waka…”

(unmistakable horror- probably from the wakas) “Where does that come from?”

***I’d like to interject here that that, if you think about it, is a truly personal question. And a little insulting. It either means that there’s something ethnically questionable about your name or some weird story about it, neither of which may be first-conversation material. (See “rungutai” and “caprice” above.) Yet, everybody asks it.***

“Oh, it’s short for Jocelyn.”

(the eyes glaze over as they realize this is beyond their comprehensive capabilities) “Ah. It’s interesting.”

Interesting. Invariably the adjective I hear. I know what that is. It’s a neutral and an escape. It’s not good or bad, but incomprehensible, like quantum physics or Shakespeare or jihad. It means, “You have just presented me with information that I am not sure that I like, so I must remove myself from this conversation so that I am allowed to evaluate what I have just heard on my own time. And believe me, missy, I’m going to be working on this for quite a while.” So… whatever. I don’t think anybody really likes my name, but I don’t really care. I enjoy being different. I know that I am the only person in the entire world whose name is jozi-short-for-jocelyn. Oh, sure there are some trendy Josies out there who spell their name like mine so it looks different, but Jozi is just for me and that's all there is to it. It's like Beezus. Hear it... know it... love it (I hope). It makes me different. It makes me stand out. It makes me me.

I know that with a weird name like that, people have to spend a lot more time evaluating the person than the syllables. Hopefully they come up with a positive outcome. I have spent many years with this name, and I have spent many years trying to make my name synonymous with something positive. I mean, I’m no saint, let’s for sure put that out there. But I try to make general society’s interactions with “Jozi” into something good. I know the syllables garner a lot of attention, and at times the person does as well. But I really do work at making both something that people can look at and be pleased with in whatever role I’m placed. Of roles, I have many- Christian, wife, friend, daughter, sister, singer, musician, writer, cousin, niece, in-law, acquaintance, ex, fan, leader, follower, contributor, abstainer… um, I think I’m working too hard here, the point is, I’m seen in a LOT of different ways. All of us are. And I realize that not everybody who sees me is going to like me. But I can only try my best to make Jozi something that influences the rest of the world for good and not evil…as should all super powers.

Recently my cousin had a baby and named her Jocelyn. I thought to myself, “Hm, nice name. Interesting.” I mean, with all of us cousins floating around and a finite number of letters in the alphabet, names are bound to be recycled. I know there’s lots of Jocelyns in the world, and never once did I ever think that this child was named “after” me, since my cousin and I don’t have a huge amount of interaction. Jocelyn just happened to be a name that she liked. S’cool. Then, I saw that they had already nicknamed their new daughter “Jozi.”

Well, now, that’s different. After all, now this is me they’re talking about. Another jozi-short-for-jocelyn. How did that happen? Who looked at that baby and said what I have heard MANY times: “Yeah, you’re definitely a Jozi and not a Jocelyn!” Does this baby even know what it means to be a Jozi? Does she understand what it takes to give Jozi meaning rather than just being syllables? Has this baby earned Jozi? Or by some random stroke has she just snatched half of my identity away from me?

So… Jozi… them are some pretty interesting shoes to fill, you know? My cousin has given this baby quite a task.

All trailblazers must have felt this way at one time. It’s hard to pass the torch. Think about Einstein up in Heaven listening to us call anybody we think is smart an “Einstein.” I bet he’s thinking to himself, “Poser.” But at some point one of those generic Einsteins will show up some new theory of matter vs. electricity and he will live up to the name. And the self-fulfilling prophecy has done itself proud. So…

Go forth, baby Jozi. Make me proud.

Oh, and don’t screw this up. I’m watching you.