Okay, so we've had something simmering away on the back burner for the past year and I don't think I've mentioned a word about it here.
The time has come.
I'm not going to include all the details which is a favor to you because it'd probably make for some very dull reading, but here's the gist:
We LOVE the Pacific Northwest. We've been there several times and each time we leave loving it more.
This time last year, two days into our family vacation, Jeff turned to me and said, "Life is too short to not live here."
It was as if he was reading my mind.
Immediately, we began looking into various job opportunities for Jeff. Within two months, we were back up there so he could take a written and physical test. If he did well then he would be eligible to apply for various law enforcement positions in our beloved region.
We also took time to peruse several communities where we could afford homes to see if they would be a good fit for our family.
Well, Jeff did very well on his test, the results of which were sent out to multiple agencies. We were told that the agencies might contact him over the next year and a half to invite him to send them an application. Or, they might not. So we waited...
Several sent-in-apps later we started fielding calls for invitations to oral board interviews. He turned the first few down for various reasons.
Many months passed with virtually nothing happening in regards to us uprooting our well established lives and staking a claim elsewhere. Jeff and I were both at peace with that. In fact, when asked how serious we were about doing so, my reply was, "We don't want to go unless we get a green light and all the cars behind us are honking."
Last March, we took our vacation up there again and the verdant stretches of landscape rekindled our desires. Still, we knew we wanted to have no part in an actual move unless we were very confident that it would be the best thing for our family and the parts we're playing in God's kingdom. (In case you're wondering what that last bit means, it's this: We know that God has put us on this earth for a limited time and we want to make the most of that span, not concerned primarily with whatever whims we have to please ourselves but to actually serve God's purposes which are often mysterious, indeed.)
Well, in late June, Jeff received a letter inviting him to take part in an oral board interview in an area we love and where we could afford more than a garden shed in which to live. We had been scrimping and saving money for just this situation, so the only thing left was for Jeff to get the time off of work.
This wasn't likely because time off is hard to come by at his work. In fact, workers are supposed to request summer time off in February and he already had a week approved off for August.
We prayed for God to open doors He wanted open and close doors He wanted closed and were soon delighted to hear that Jeff's time off was granted. :)
Thus, the shopping trip which resulted in the ridiculously cheap suit . (You didn't think we did that just for kicks, did you?)
Then something really fun happened. I came home from running errands one day to find a message on our voice mail from another agency in a great area inviting Jeff to an oral board during the time we would already be up there!!!
A blessed twofer!
So, five flight legs, three days and two oral boards later, we arrived home, tired but very pleased with our little venture. Although Jeff wishes he had said a few things differently in the interviews, he felt satisfied that he had represented himself well and accurately. A couple of interviewers told him afterward that he had done well. That was encouraging because it's not as if they had to go out of their way to say so. They could have just said, "Have a nice day" or nothing at all.
We drove home from the airport with a sense of peace, believing that the way we've pursued this dream is pleasing to our God and knowing that He is a Father Who will continue to lead and care for us wherever we are.
*titter titter*
Sorry, I'm just thinking of what happened next...
When we arrived home, it was 11:30pm and we were exhausted, but Jeff wanted to check our email. In doing so, he discovered that he was being invited to an oral board with a third agency during the week that he already had off in August!!! So much for sleeping that night!
*hardy guffaw*
Obviously we have no idea how this will all end, but we do know that we're in the hands of the One who does. :) There's great peace in that.
Monday, July 25, 2011
Sunday, July 24, 2011
Huh?
Tonight, as he sat at the kitchen table, spooning chocolate pudding from a Snack-Pack cup into his mouth, Tobias said, "I wonder how the world would be different today if Trotsky had triumphed over Stalin."
???
I love how weird my kids are.
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
The Idiot's Guide to Men's Wear
We tried something new recently.
It's called:
Buying a suit.
We won't be making a hobby of it. In fact, we hope to never have to do it again.
After lunch at Chipotle, Jeff, Delaney and I drove over to Kohl's (I had a 30% off coupon) and wandered into foreign territory. Naively, I really wasn't nervous at the start.
Hmmm...
What's with the numbers? They're obviously a measurement of something, but what? Although, who thinks to bring a tape measure? But even if I had, I wouldn't know what part to hold it up to. Is this number from shoulder to shoulder? Is this one around the neck? And what about this one? Is it from inner thigh to armpit? Thumbnail to eyebrow?
There was no poster on the wall with multiple photos and captions entitled, "Info on Measuring for the as of Yet Unsuited". (That would have been very helpful.)
Unfortunately, this guy wasn't there either:
So the only thing to do was to just start trying things on.
First, a shirt. However, the shirt Jeff picked up was heavily packaged. It included cardboard, several pieces of plastic, pins, a twist tie or two and a bit of tissue paper (I assume to dry away one's tears of frustration). It was tediously similar to unpackaging the super duper GI Joe campsite set for your kid on Christmas morning.
We hoped fervently the whole time that the thing would actually fit him once it was freed from its restraints because there was no way we would be able to wrestle it back into its former confines.
Of course there was no trash can nearby, so Jeff just piled all the debris on top of a display of shirts.
(We don't normally leave piles of trash in our wake, honestly.)
I'm overjoyed to report that the shirt did fit (and so are the workers at Kohl's since that's fewer bits of garbage for them to carry off to the dumpster out back).
At this point, we overheard some poor soul who had just wandered in tell his wife, forlornly, "I don't even know where to start."
A kindred spirit! Jeff almost walked past a couple of racks to give the guy a high-five.
Delaney quickly found a great tie. All three of us liked it right away so we didn't even bother looking in that section anymore. The jacket and trouser sections were looming forebodingly nearby.
We gingerly ventured into the dark underworld and began to lift hangers heavily laden with garments from racks, peering at them with innocent eyes, silently begging them to give up their secrets.
Almost immediately, I could tell that this place had old man suits for people who would normally wear bowling shirts and khakis and young man suits for those who don skinny jeans and body piercings. So where were the suits for guys who are pushing 40 and wear band t-shirts and cargo shorts?
Thus, our search began.
About an hour and a half later, we were standing in the checkout line with the most suitable selection we could find draped over our arms.
This slightly creepy looking guy is not Jeff in his new suit:
Nor is this one:
Sorry, they just made me laugh.
Another thing that made me laugh giddily was staring at the receipt as we were exiting the store. You see, everything was on sale for 30%-50% off, so that combined with the amazing aforementioned coupon resulted in...ONE RIDICULOUSLY CHEAP SUIT!
(Not Jeff's suit.)Ahhh, here he is...
(A pitiable plea to those of you who are well-versed in the world of men's wear: Please do not inform us of any fashion faux-pas we may have committed in pairing this jacket with these trousers or that tie with the shirt, etc. Just pat us on our ignorant backs and nod, saying, "Good job, suit pickers." People with discriminating taste could probably pick the above ensemble to scorned pieces in seconds, but it's what we ended up with after a couple of very uncomfortable hours of searching, and honestly...
...fashion blunders and all, I think my man looks HOT!)
Saturday, July 9, 2011
Saving Lives, One Cookie at a Time
I have an unusual ministry.
It involves needles, cookies and packets of blood.
The perks include...
...a tasty snack:
...an armband in the color (the brighter the better to scream out to the world, "I did a noble deed today!") of your choice:
...and awesome entertainment on a flat screen TV:
Being O- and CMV-, my blood is in high demand for babies. The blood bank calls me regularly to tell me, "Aimee, there are three little newborns at the hospital who need your blood type. Please make time today to go donate."
Keeping babies alive? Hmmmm...that's a pretty big perk.
I'm happy to say that my son is now old enough to donate. What's even better is that he was recently willing to do so.
Look at these veins. (Or don't because this is a pretty nasty picture.) They're enough to make any phlebotomist swoon.
His arm doesn't always look like this, just when he cuts off the circulation at the elbow.
I warned him about the awkward questions. You know, when they ask you if you've ever injected bovine hormones, had a dura matter brain graft and all the really weird queries involving sexual encounters, drugs and money.
However, I said nothing to him about the needle. I've never looked at it before its insertion, but he did the first chance he got. He described it as being the size of a slide on a children's playground.
The better to bleed you with, my dear.
My view while "ministering":
Did you know that every time you donate blood, you give three people at least one more day with their families?
For some it's a day toward healing.
For others it may be their very last day.
If your blood is given out to babies then it goes even further since babies only need about a teaspoon each.
When all was said and done, I asked Tobias how his experience was overall. He said it was physically unpleasant, but he knew the sacrifice was worth it.
It involves needles, cookies and packets of blood.
The perks include......a tasty snack:
...an armband in the color (the brighter the better to scream out to the world, "I did a noble deed today!") of your choice:
...and awesome entertainment on a flat screen TV:
Being O- and CMV-, my blood is in high demand for babies. The blood bank calls me regularly to tell me, "Aimee, there are three little newborns at the hospital who need your blood type. Please make time today to go donate."
Keeping babies alive? Hmmmm...that's a pretty big perk.
I'm happy to say that my son is now old enough to donate. What's even better is that he was recently willing to do so.
Look at these veins. (Or don't because this is a pretty nasty picture.) They're enough to make any phlebotomist swoon.
His arm doesn't always look like this, just when he cuts off the circulation at the elbow.
I warned him about the awkward questions. You know, when they ask you if you've ever injected bovine hormones, had a dura matter brain graft and all the really weird queries involving sexual encounters, drugs and money.
However, I said nothing to him about the needle. I've never looked at it before its insertion, but he did the first chance he got. He described it as being the size of a slide on a children's playground.
The better to bleed you with, my dear.
My view while "ministering":
Did you know that every time you donate blood, you give three people at least one more day with their families?
For some it's a day toward healing.
For others it may be their very last day.
If your blood is given out to babies then it goes even further since babies only need about a teaspoon each.
When all was said and done, I asked Tobias how his experience was overall. He said it was physically unpleasant, but he knew the sacrifice was worth it.
Friday, July 1, 2011
A Rhetorical Question
Don't you love it when you're just about to climb into bed so you slip off your flops and you notice that your carpet is wet, but nothing was recently spilled and your neighbor's sprinkler is not spraying into your house, so you start to look around and you realize that there must be a leak inside your wall behind your bathroom sink and the water is wicking throughout the length of your bathroom and bedroom, perhaps even underneath the tile floor that you just had put in a few months ago because this may mean that you have to replace your carpet or even the wall itself or various other parts of your house when all you wanted to do was go to bed since you only got about four hours of sleep on the previous night?
Me neither.
Me neither.
Saturday, June 25, 2011
Random Memories: Circa 1990
The house I grew up in was long. My and my sister's bedrooms were at one end and my parents' room was at the other.
Once my sis and I became talkative teens, my parents had the bright idea to get us our own phone line so that they, too, could actually get some time on the phone.
After my sister went off to college, the phone was pretty much mine. (Yes, these dull details are relevant.)
One night at about 2 in the morning, the phone rang. I stumbled out of bed and grabbed the receiver.
I don't recall the first words that passed between myself and the person on the other end, but whatever they were, it was clear that it was a wrong number.
I just wanted to go back to sleep. He, however, was intrigued at his dialing mistake and decided it was time to make a new friend.
Okay, here's the really stupid part: I thought it would be rude to just hang up.
Yeah.
Duh.
So there I was, exhausted, sitting across the room from my nice warm bed (this is pre-cordless and cell phone days, friends), shooting the midnight breeze with some completely socially backward stranger.
I remember a few things from the conversation. He had an accent and I soon discovered that he was calling from New Zealand (or so he said), he claimed to be an excellent tennis player and at one point he referred to NZ mailmen as "posties" which I thought was funny.
Then he asked me a thought provoking, meaningful question.
"So...are you fat?"
Charming, no?
(What weirdo doesn't ponder the appearance of the sleepy teenage girl he has managed to keep on the phone for far too long?)
"No," I responded. "But presently my hair is a rat's nest and the smell of my breath could fell a rhino."
Okay, so I didn't actually say that. I have no idea what I did say 'cause what teenage girl doesn't think she is fat?
Finally, he tired of our conversation and we said goodbye.
Ahhh...back to bed.
However, a few nights later, he decided to while away a few more minutes by calling me again. Somehow, he didn't even have the decency to figure out when would be a convenient time for me. Again, it's 2 in the morning and my phone is ringing.
Grrr...
I will point out the completely obvious which is that I had the power to squelch this whole unchivalrous situation and yet I didn't. Again, I thought it would be rude to tell this asinine stranger who deemed it appropriate to call me in the middle of the night because he was bored and wanted to chat.
What was wrong with me?
That brings me to why I bother sharing this story at all--I want my daughter to be polite and sweet, characteristics which she naturally exhibits, but I only want her to be polite and sweet to good people who won't use those attributes against her.
There are people out there whose morality ranges from whatever's-convenient-to-me (like the aforementioned oaf of a Kiwi) to those whose sole desire is to commit horrific acts against others.
We need to teach our girls to protect themselves, but how do we do that without scaring the crap out of them?
My own folly wasn't the fault of my parents. I don't think they left out some vital element when teaching me about dealing with strangers. I just had an over-active-must-be-polite-at-all-costs mentality.
Actually, when I was a young kid, my parents were of the it's-important-to-let-your-kid-express-herself mindset. In other words, I was, at times, a brat. (Once, when I was about seven, I basically told one of our family friends that he was a loser because he smoked. Nice, huh? Poor guy probably wanted to express himself by throwing me over his knee and spanking my butt. Sorry, Leonard. We were both victimized by a pop-psychology theory from the 70s.)
Looking back, I don't think my drive to be super-sweet-in-all-situations began until I became a Christian at the age of 12. In my naivety, I interpreted Jesus's commandment to "love others as myself" to mean that I needed to behave unwisely and too trustingly.
Now I know that God doesn't want me to be stupid in hopes of "winning others into the kingdom". If that means I'll be misinterpreted occasionally, then so be it. God knows my intentions and His Spirit is the One who does the truly effective work in others anyway.
There's peace in that realization.
So what happened to my "friend" on the other side of the world?
Well, he called back a third time, but I wasn't home that night. I don't know if he let the phone ring and ring and ring or what, but somehow my dad woke up and answered my phone. As you can imagine, Dad went off on the heavily-accented guy who was asking to speak to his teenage daughter at dumb o'clock in the morning.
And that was that.
Since both of my random memories thus far have focused on my interactions with foreign men, I may as well complete the trilogy with the following tale--
A few months after my phone calls from that Place-East-of-the-Land-Down-Under, I had the pleasure of being a foreign exchange student to England.
One day, our group of about thirty went into London to take in the sights. At lunchtime, we made our way to Covent Garden to eat.
It is now that I must confess to yet another of my failings: my natural tendency to not pay attention to important information whilst others are imparting it to me. (Since this experience, actually hugely due to this experience, I have made huge strides in improving in this area.)
Therefore when the meet-up time and place were announced to the group, I was apparently not paying attention because when I turned around, I suddenly realized that I was all alone and had no idea where to find anyone in my group. (Remember, these were pre-cell phone days.)
Lost in London.
It was not as titillating as it may sound.
Trying not to panic, I attempted to look around the general area without getting too far away from the last spot at which I had been surrounded by familiar faces.
It was at this time that a man approached me. He introduced himself and informed me that he was from France.
(No, not an actual photo.)
"Are you alright?" he asked, his voice thick with his accent.
"Yes," I lied, suddenly suspicious of everyone.
"You look sad. Are you sure you are alright?"
Sad? I look sad? I'm not sad! I'm freaked out 'cause I'm lost and scared of weird men like you!
"No, I'm fine."
He then invited me to join him and his friends who were sitting at a table on the sidewalk nearby.
I thanked him, but declined, just wanting to get away from him.
"Well, perhaps we can meet up later, then. Take in a show?"
It was time to get blunt with this creepy fellow, show him the error of his ways.
"Ummm...I'm only 16."
His eyes lit up. "Oh, then you are a woman, old enough to make decisions for yourself and...live life."
WHAT???
I think I literally snorted in my aggravated-amused-verging-on-panic disgust and walked away.
I may not have been the smartest lost girl in London but I wasn't a complete moron. I knew when some guy was behaving inappropriately toward me.
Unless, perhaps he did so over the phone...
Once my sis and I became talkative teens, my parents had the bright idea to get us our own phone line so that they, too, could actually get some time on the phone.
After my sister went off to college, the phone was pretty much mine. (Yes, these dull details are relevant.)
One night at about 2 in the morning, the phone rang. I stumbled out of bed and grabbed the receiver.
I don't recall the first words that passed between myself and the person on the other end, but whatever they were, it was clear that it was a wrong number.
I just wanted to go back to sleep. He, however, was intrigued at his dialing mistake and decided it was time to make a new friend.
Okay, here's the really stupid part: I thought it would be rude to just hang up.
Yeah.
Duh.
So there I was, exhausted, sitting across the room from my nice warm bed (this is pre-cordless and cell phone days, friends), shooting the midnight breeze with some completely socially backward stranger.
I remember a few things from the conversation. He had an accent and I soon discovered that he was calling from New Zealand (or so he said), he claimed to be an excellent tennis player and at one point he referred to NZ mailmen as "posties" which I thought was funny.
Then he asked me a thought provoking, meaningful question.
"So...are you fat?"
Charming, no?
(What weirdo doesn't ponder the appearance of the sleepy teenage girl he has managed to keep on the phone for far too long?)
"No," I responded. "But presently my hair is a rat's nest and the smell of my breath could fell a rhino."
Okay, so I didn't actually say that. I have no idea what I did say 'cause what teenage girl doesn't think she is fat?
Finally, he tired of our conversation and we said goodbye.
Ahhh...back to bed.
However, a few nights later, he decided to while away a few more minutes by calling me again. Somehow, he didn't even have the decency to figure out when would be a convenient time for me. Again, it's 2 in the morning and my phone is ringing.
Grrr...
I will point out the completely obvious which is that I had the power to squelch this whole unchivalrous situation and yet I didn't. Again, I thought it would be rude to tell this asinine stranger who deemed it appropriate to call me in the middle of the night because he was bored and wanted to chat.
What was wrong with me?
That brings me to why I bother sharing this story at all--I want my daughter to be polite and sweet, characteristics which she naturally exhibits, but I only want her to be polite and sweet to good people who won't use those attributes against her.
There are people out there whose morality ranges from whatever's-convenient-to-me (like the aforementioned oaf of a Kiwi) to those whose sole desire is to commit horrific acts against others.
We need to teach our girls to protect themselves, but how do we do that without scaring the crap out of them?
My own folly wasn't the fault of my parents. I don't think they left out some vital element when teaching me about dealing with strangers. I just had an over-active-must-be-polite-at-all-costs mentality.
Actually, when I was a young kid, my parents were of the it's-important-to-let-your-kid-express-herself mindset. In other words, I was, at times, a brat. (Once, when I was about seven, I basically told one of our family friends that he was a loser because he smoked. Nice, huh? Poor guy probably wanted to express himself by throwing me over his knee and spanking my butt. Sorry, Leonard. We were both victimized by a pop-psychology theory from the 70s.)
Looking back, I don't think my drive to be super-sweet-in-all-situations began until I became a Christian at the age of 12. In my naivety, I interpreted Jesus's commandment to "love others as myself" to mean that I needed to behave unwisely and too trustingly.
Now I know that God doesn't want me to be stupid in hopes of "winning others into the kingdom". If that means I'll be misinterpreted occasionally, then so be it. God knows my intentions and His Spirit is the One who does the truly effective work in others anyway.
There's peace in that realization.
So what happened to my "friend" on the other side of the world?
Well, he called back a third time, but I wasn't home that night. I don't know if he let the phone ring and ring and ring or what, but somehow my dad woke up and answered my phone. As you can imagine, Dad went off on the heavily-accented guy who was asking to speak to his teenage daughter at dumb o'clock in the morning.
And that was that.
Since both of my random memories thus far have focused on my interactions with foreign men, I may as well complete the trilogy with the following tale--
A few months after my phone calls from that Place-East-of-the-Land-Down-Under, I had the pleasure of being a foreign exchange student to England.
One day, our group of about thirty went into London to take in the sights. At lunchtime, we made our way to Covent Garden to eat.
It is now that I must confess to yet another of my failings: my natural tendency to not pay attention to important information whilst others are imparting it to me. (Since this experience, actually hugely due to this experience, I have made huge strides in improving in this area.)
Therefore when the meet-up time and place were announced to the group, I was apparently not paying attention because when I turned around, I suddenly realized that I was all alone and had no idea where to find anyone in my group. (Remember, these were pre-cell phone days.)
Lost in London.
It was not as titillating as it may sound.
Trying not to panic, I attempted to look around the general area without getting too far away from the last spot at which I had been surrounded by familiar faces.
It was at this time that a man approached me. He introduced himself and informed me that he was from France.
(No, not an actual photo.)"Are you alright?" he asked, his voice thick with his accent.
"Yes," I lied, suddenly suspicious of everyone.
"You look sad. Are you sure you are alright?"
Sad? I look sad? I'm not sad! I'm freaked out 'cause I'm lost and scared of weird men like you!
"No, I'm fine."
He then invited me to join him and his friends who were sitting at a table on the sidewalk nearby.
I thanked him, but declined, just wanting to get away from him.
"Well, perhaps we can meet up later, then. Take in a show?"
It was time to get blunt with this creepy fellow, show him the error of his ways.
"Ummm...I'm only 16."
His eyes lit up. "Oh, then you are a woman, old enough to make decisions for yourself and...live life."
WHAT???
I think I literally snorted in my aggravated-amused-verging-on-panic disgust and walked away.
I may not have been the smartest lost girl in London but I wasn't a complete moron. I knew when some guy was behaving inappropriately toward me.
Unless, perhaps he did so over the phone...
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Poor Old Man
This is Bruiser.
He is 12 years old which, if you're doing your canine math, equals completely geriatric.
It's beginning to show.
You see, he wants to keep up with this spry 2 year old fellow, Duncan, who...
...can leap several feet high and streak after a frisbee as if his very tail depends on it.But keep up, he can not.
*sigh*
He's got a little vim and vigor left in him. Check out this action shot:
However, we're beginning to wonder if he should go on daily walks anymore since they sometimes leave him hobbling around the backyard.But this is what we see when the boys sense a walk is about to begin:
How can we resist?And the eyes! Oh those eyes...
*another sigh*Poor dear, furry, drooling old man...
Friday, June 17, 2011
Random Memory: Circa 1993
When I was in college, I worked at a sub sandwich shop that was just across the street from campus. Not only did I work there, but it was also there that I ate nearly every lunch and dinner for about nine months. (Delectable sandwiches for half-price? Who can argue with that?)
Unfortunately, I was not the best "subber".
There are some things that I'm just not good at and remembering that there are to be NO onions on the double cheese pastrami, but EXTRA onions on the turkey/avocado (even when the instructions are written down right in front of my eyes) is one of them, especially at lunch hour when the line is out the door and the pile of order slips begins to resemble a stack of flyers.
My ineptitude resulted in me being an irritant to the competent sandwich makers, a couple of whom could be rather nasty even when they weren't having to fix my dumb mistakes.
I can laugh about it now, but back then I'd spend several minutes in the bathroom before leaving my apartment to go to work (my nerves have often manifested themselves in my digestive system; there will be no more details on that point) and once I returned home, my hands would often tremble for about 15 minutes afterward.
My roommate at the time (who happened to be my sister) saw my shaking, vinegar-and-onions-reeking hands and declared, "You should quit."
Surprisingly, that had never occurred to me! I entertained the notion for about three seconds and then dismissed it. Loose bowels or no, I would not be beaten by this menial job.
I would become a savvy subber.
I would! I would!
Or...I wouldn't.
Due to my sub standard sub skills, I was usually appointed to man the register, taking orders and making change. After awhile, this demotion was fine by me because I noticed a cessation of the pre-work sludge and the post-work tremors.
I learned a few things whilst employed at the sub shop. One was that toaster ovens melt cheese on sandwiches delightfully (thus the reason I have owned one ever since) and another was that although tears can earn one comfort and care from parents and teachers, they will likely only get you eye rolls and stern lectures from coworkers and bosses.
However, none of this is what I intended to write about today. On with the memory...
There was a large population of foreign students at my university who would flock to our shop to sample the American delicacy known as sub sandwiches.
One particular student seemed to take a liking to me.
(This is amazing to me as I look at pictures of myself from that era. What about my denim-overalls-clad, retainer-sporting, acne-sprouting-chinned self could attract any member of the opposite sex? However, it was at this same time that Jeff proposed to me so apparently I had it going on, though how that is possible remains a mystery.)
When he would order, he would choose my line in which to stand. When he needed more napkins, he would seek me out to make his request. Once when I took my break, he sat near me to chat. After that occurrence, the coworker who had taken her break with me burst into the backroom, laughing and announcing to all the other subbers, "Some guy has the hots for Aimee!"
Yeah, I didn't get it either, but I didn't find it amusing.
There was nothing appealing about his attention, even if I hadn't been engaged elsewhere. Instead of fun and appreciative, it was patronizing and weird.
I did nothing to encourage this fellow who came again and again to buy sandwiches throughout his several week stay. I mean I'm an outgoing person, but I know when a guy is watching for those subtle hints that a gal is interested and trust me, I was sending him none of them.
There's a delicate balance that a worker must find between being a friendly and helpful representative of an establishment and someone who is letting a guy know that he ought to fish elsewhere. As time wore on, I became less of the former and more of the latter.
One day, I saw my opportunity to free myself of the would-be suitor and I seized it with both hands.
(I have no desire to slam an entire nation, so I won't say from where this student hailed, but I believe it is perfectly fair to say that in his culture, women do not enjoy the same level of equality that we do here in the US. This explains the weird turn of events.)
On this momentous occasion, I was behind the counter, busily doing something (besides making sandwiches, of course) when said student stormed into the shop from the outdoor eating area.
"You!" he said, shaking his finger at me. "You...ruin...my shirt!"
His tirade was riddled with pauses because apparently his English fluency level wasn't on par with his anger level.
"Excuse me?" I said, my own ire rising.
"You...not clean table and...is messy. Now is...on my shirt!"
(Our delicious subs dripped with oil and vinegar.)
"You! You...clean table now!"
Realizing that he assumed our "relationship" had developed to the point that he could treat me like an unappreciated, perhaps even abused, female, I shot him my steeliest deadpan expression and told him, "Say please."
"What?" he looked like I had just spat in his sandwich.
My coworkers, too, were shocked, all stopping whatever they were doing to watch this novel worker-customer interaction.
"Say please," I repeated slowly, calmly and ever so seriously.
It worked better than I even imagined. He completely deflated and mumbled, "Please...clean table."
I deliberately grabbed the spray bottle and towel and sauntered out to wipe down the offensive eating surface.
He stood by, watching and once I was finished, he meekly said, "Thank you."
"You're welcome." I said, brightly and returned to my non-sandwich-making duties.
As I reentered the shop, a girl named Kristen told me, "Good job, Aimee."
As you can imagine, over the years I haven't kept up with the foreign exchange chauvinist, but I hope that wherever he is, he still knows that not all females are eager for his fawning, creepy flirtations nor are they willing to put up with his ridiculous allegations.
Not even those of us who can't make sandwiches worth crap.
Sunday, June 12, 2011
Operation Sock Puppet
I've never claimed to have "normal" children. In fact, I've consistently declared otherwise. (I mean with parents as odd as Jeff and myself, our offspring had no chance at making it anywhere on the Scale of Normalcy.)
Therefore, when I asked Delaney what she wanted her 13th birthday party to include, I knew it wouldn't involve Justin Bieber, a marathon viewing of the entire Twilight saga or makeovers of any sort. However, I wasn't expecting the answer I got which was:
"I want to make sock puppets."
Ummm...okay...
Now being the good steward I am (or should that read cheapskate?) I immediately looked around the house to find socks which had been widowed by the clothes dryer. However, one glance let me know that I couldn't possibly hand out that pile of threadbare and stained garments saying, "Here, girls! Cuten these up."
So off to Target and Michael's we went to purchase a bunch of supplies which you see below, littering the table:
I made a sample one before the girls arrived so that I'd have an idea of what they'd be dealing with as they plotted and stitched.
Yes, I know it's hideous. Hey, I'm not the one who requested this activity.
My experience made me fearful that the girls would get frustrated. (It's hard getting a needle back and forth through a long tube.)
However, they all seemed to do just fine. Here's Delaney's:
Sock puppetry was not all in which they partook. They also played Mafia (a card game), Fishbowl (a game that is nearly impossible to explain) and of course there was a bit of food on hand.
Welcome to the world of teenagery, Delaney. You, my girl, are a genuine delight.
<----Prismacolor markers for the artist.
And as for the boy...
Most young men experiment with their burgeoning allotment of facial hair by growing out a mustache or a goatee.
Not our boy. No, that would be far too normal.
Tobias's experimentation over the past few months has centered on the hairs pushing their gruesome way out of his neck.
No, really.
As I began to see the stubble grow into a festering force to be reckoned with, I asked why he wasn't shaving it off.
"I'm Neckbeard the Pirate, Mom."
Here's an upclose shot of his namesake:
See what I'm dealing with here, friends? It's like he had the skin from one of his armpits grafted onto his neck.
Well, it grew and grew and by the time I began to wonder if his throat embellishment was braidable I carefully suggested (so as not to bruise his ego) that it was completely vile and thoroughly disgusting.
"It's supposed to be, Mom," he said. "It's girl repellant."
His words stuck in my brain. Visions (scenarios similar to Axe commercials) ran through my head, looping, day after horrible day of my son being chased by girls...
...girls scantily clad and steadfast on vice and impurity.
I instantly developed an appreciation for said neck hair which was apparently safeguarding my son from utter ruination...a chastity belt of sorts.
He did finally shave it off a week ago after about three months. It was with a sense of trepidation that I viewed his newly-shorn throat, but after 24 hours with no girls trying to bust through our doors and windows like the zombies from 28 Days Later I began to relax.
You, my boy, are an anomaly.
And a remarkable one at that. ;)
Therefore, when I asked Delaney what she wanted her 13th birthday party to include, I knew it wouldn't involve Justin Bieber, a marathon viewing of the entire Twilight saga or makeovers of any sort. However, I wasn't expecting the answer I got which was:
"I want to make sock puppets."
Ummm...okay...
Now being the good steward I am (or should that read cheapskate?) I immediately looked around the house to find socks which had been widowed by the clothes dryer. However, one glance let me know that I couldn't possibly hand out that pile of threadbare and stained garments saying, "Here, girls! Cuten these up."
So off to Target and Michael's we went to purchase a bunch of supplies which you see below, littering the table:
I made a sample one before the girls arrived so that I'd have an idea of what they'd be dealing with as they plotted and stitched.
Yes, I know it's hideous. Hey, I'm not the one who requested this activity.
My experience made me fearful that the girls would get frustrated. (It's hard getting a needle back and forth through a long tube.)
However, they all seemed to do just fine. Here's Delaney's:
Sock puppetry was not all in which they partook. They also played Mafia (a card game), Fishbowl (a game that is nearly impossible to explain) and of course there was a bit of food on hand.
Welcome to the world of teenagery, Delaney. You, my girl, are a genuine delight.
<----Prismacolor markers for the artist.
And as for the boy...
Most young men experiment with their burgeoning allotment of facial hair by growing out a mustache or a goatee.
Not our boy. No, that would be far too normal.
Tobias's experimentation over the past few months has centered on the hairs pushing their gruesome way out of his neck.
No, really.
As I began to see the stubble grow into a festering force to be reckoned with, I asked why he wasn't shaving it off.
"I'm Neckbeard the Pirate, Mom."
Here's an upclose shot of his namesake:
See what I'm dealing with here, friends? It's like he had the skin from one of his armpits grafted onto his neck.
Well, it grew and grew and by the time I began to wonder if his throat embellishment was braidable I carefully suggested (so as not to bruise his ego) that it was completely vile and thoroughly disgusting.
"It's supposed to be, Mom," he said. "It's girl repellant."
His words stuck in my brain. Visions (scenarios similar to Axe commercials) ran through my head, looping, day after horrible day of my son being chased by girls...
...girls scantily clad and steadfast on vice and impurity.
I instantly developed an appreciation for said neck hair which was apparently safeguarding my son from utter ruination...a chastity belt of sorts.
He did finally shave it off a week ago after about three months. It was with a sense of trepidation that I viewed his newly-shorn throat, but after 24 hours with no girls trying to bust through our doors and windows like the zombies from 28 Days Later I began to relax.
You, my boy, are an anomaly.
And a remarkable one at that. ;)
Thursday, May 19, 2011
To Buy or Not to Buy
My grandma used to tell the following story about her friend, Maude:
One day, as Maude was liberally applying lotion to her face, her 6 year old grandson was watching.
"What is that stuff, Grandma?" the little boy asked.
"It's anti-aging cream. It's supposed to keep me from getting wrinkles."
Upon hearing this, the boy's face took on an expression of pity and incredulity and he declared emphatically, "Grandma! It's NOT working!"
Poor Maude.
I don't believe in anti-wrinkle cream.
However...
...I use it everyday.
Isn't that lame? I'm one of the sheeple fueling the bonfire of superfluous marketing with my hard earned dollars.
Every time I find that there are only a couple of squirts left in my little tube of Oil of Ol' Lady, I ask myself, "Am I really going to spend another $18 on youthful wishes? Why don't I just flush the money and wish upon a star? It'll be just as effective. "
Well, until now, I have just gone out and purchased a new tube of fake-fountain-of-youth (aka "chump cream"), but this time, I decided to do a little experiment before I spend any money.
For the past couple of weeks, I've been applying the remnant of my ointment to the area around only my right eye. Around my left eye, I've just been slathering on some regular old face cream. You know, the cheap stuff.
Here you see the results:
Yeah, I know.
Dumb.
Sorry.
But seriously, what if I stop using anti-aging "serum" (they try to make it sound all scientific) and in a few years I look like this:
I suppose I could invest in a really good iron.
One day, as Maude was liberally applying lotion to her face, her 6 year old grandson was watching.
"What is that stuff, Grandma?" the little boy asked.
"It's anti-aging cream. It's supposed to keep me from getting wrinkles."
Upon hearing this, the boy's face took on an expression of pity and incredulity and he declared emphatically, "Grandma! It's NOT working!"
Poor Maude.
I don't believe in anti-wrinkle cream.
However...
...I use it everyday.
Isn't that lame? I'm one of the sheeple fueling the bonfire of superfluous marketing with my hard earned dollars.
Every time I find that there are only a couple of squirts left in my little tube of Oil of Ol' Lady, I ask myself, "Am I really going to spend another $18 on youthful wishes? Why don't I just flush the money and wish upon a star? It'll be just as effective. "
Well, until now, I have just gone out and purchased a new tube of fake-fountain-of-youth (aka "chump cream"), but this time, I decided to do a little experiment before I spend any money.
For the past couple of weeks, I've been applying the remnant of my ointment to the area around only my right eye. Around my left eye, I've just been slathering on some regular old face cream. You know, the cheap stuff.
Here you see the results:
Yeah, I know.
Dumb.
Sorry.
But seriously, what if I stop using anti-aging "serum" (they try to make it sound all scientific) and in a few years I look like this:
I suppose I could invest in a really good iron.
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Thus the State of the Furniture...
I just found out that the hotel I mentioned in my last post is going out of business.
Gee, there's a big surprise.
Gee, there's a big surprise.
Monday, May 9, 2011
Relay Madness
See this guy?
He may be good looking, but he's slightly crazy.
I know this because he recently chose to run 10.7 miles...
...nine of which were up a steep grade...
...at midnight...
...through the desert...
...for fun.
He wasn't always this way.
*sigh*
The following is the story of my husband's descent into madness:
About eight months ago, Jeff started running to train for a work-related physical test. The resultant loss of 20 pounds pleased him to no end, so even once he had passed the test, he continued to jog.
One thing led to another and suddenly he had signed up to compete on his work's team in a statewide relay race held near Las Vegas.
Jeff requested that I accompany him (in the driving portion of the trip), so we had ourselves a little adventure.
Now, I know there are a number of fun experiences to be had in LV and that a lot of great people live there or have lived there. (Rhonda, Esther and Brooke all come to mind.) However, when I'm walking down the street, minding my own business and some guy tries to force a porno postcard into my hand or I'm eating breakfast at an unassuming diner and some lady walks in wearing what can only be described as super-skanky-lingerie, it doesn't exactly endear me to the locale, but that is where the race was being run, so off we went.
Unfortunately, my choice of hotels was rather lame.
We got off to a poor start at check-in. The concierge informed me that I needed to pay a "resort fee" in addition to the charge for the room. I told her that we wouldn't be using the resort facilities. She said that all guests pay the resort fee regardless of their utilization of said facilities. It was only six dollars so I just ponied up but with a snarl in my heart. If everybody has to pay it, why not just include it in the room fee? Argh...
Looking around the lobby, I saw multiple posters of classical celebrities whose photos were taken with this hotel's sign visible in the background. It was as if they were trying to say, "This was the hot spot back in the 50s!" Well, just glancing around the shabby lobby I could tell that if Elvis was alive today, he would certainly not be staying there. Not even in his overweight, gospel-singing days.
When we got up to our room, it only got better (worse?). The furniture was misshapen and bubbled, not in a hip artsy sort of a way, but in a hey-y'all-he'p-me-git-this-here-roadside-wonder-up-yonder-into-the-back-of-the-pickup-truck sort of a way.
And the beds? Not so comfy.
Oh, well. We didn't spend much time in the room anyway because Jeff needed to get to his staging area to be ready to start his leg of the run. We hung out there for about two hours before he was passed the baton. Then, as he ran, I drove to the staging area where he would end his leg.
There were hundreds of people there, some of whom were rather interesting. Since it was night time and they were running alongside a highway, they all wore reflective vests equipped with little flashing lights. Jeff called his a "Christmas tree vest".
There was one intimidating looking guy who was big, burly and covered with hair but the most remarkable thing about him was his attire. Imagine a viking in nylon short shorts. The abbreviated length of his shorts afforded us all a view of his rippling thigh muscles, rubbing against each other as he walked. Yeah, I know...I tried not to look but when you're behind someone who is so tall that the oddity is practically at eye level, it's hard not to notice such things.
The most memorable person, however, was the guy who, upon finishing his leg of the race, promptly began to puke all over the finish line. The nurses on hand braced him to keep him from falling face first into his filth and then moved him over to a cot where he proceeded to unload the rest of his stomach's contents.
Good times...good times.
Jeff plowed through the finish line 92 minutes and forty seconds after he began. That's 8 minutes and thirty-nine seconds per mile! My fastest miles are a minute slower than that on flat ground, so I must say that I was impressed.
He said that his brain seemed to switch teams during the last half mile, screaming at his body, "Stop!" (I've felt that in the first half mile of a run!)
I took some pics but they didn't turn out very well with all that rapid movement and the darkness, but here's one about half an hour after he finished:
(That's dust flying through the air, not snow.)
By the time we got back to our hotel room, it was almost 3:00 in the morning. Jeff promptly showered and fell into bed, asleep as his head hit the pillow.
I didn't sleep as soundly. In fact, I had the misfortune of experiencing a night terror about an hour after going to bed. I awoke, screaming, thinking that someone was leaning over me. The person was dressed like this:
(Yeah, apparently, my daughter's latest alter ego is antagonizing my subconscious.) I laid there, my heart racing, expecting to hear footsteps running down the hallway to our room's door and the pounding of security guards' fists, their voices calling out for proof that all was well.
Well...that didn't happen. I guess everyone who heard my scream just chalked it up to being in Vegas.
Even scarier than my wild imagination were these:
(No, those are not MY feet!) By morning, two of Jeff's toenails were turning black and felt "spongy" (whatever that means!). As I write this, they are completely black but still attached. He wondered for days if he'd pull off his sock and find the nails in the toe of it, clinking against each other like coins in a pocket.
Before leaving Vegas, we met Steve, Sweetwater and Evelyn for breakfast:
With our dose of cuteness for the day, we headed home, Jeff saying that he would run the race again, but not that particular leg.
Yeah, right. The horrors of that last half mile will fade and he'll be chomping at the bit to go do it all over again.
Mark my words, this time next year I'll be posting a very similar entry. I'm sure of it. :)
He may be good looking, but he's slightly crazy.
I know this because he recently chose to run 10.7 miles...
...nine of which were up a steep grade...
...at midnight...
...through the desert...
...for fun.
He wasn't always this way.
*sigh*
The following is the story of my husband's descent into madness:
About eight months ago, Jeff started running to train for a work-related physical test. The resultant loss of 20 pounds pleased him to no end, so even once he had passed the test, he continued to jog.
One thing led to another and suddenly he had signed up to compete on his work's team in a statewide relay race held near Las Vegas.
Jeff requested that I accompany him (in the driving portion of the trip), so we had ourselves a little adventure.
Now, I know there are a number of fun experiences to be had in LV and that a lot of great people live there or have lived there. (Rhonda, Esther and Brooke all come to mind.) However, when I'm walking down the street, minding my own business and some guy tries to force a porno postcard into my hand or I'm eating breakfast at an unassuming diner and some lady walks in wearing what can only be described as super-skanky-lingerie, it doesn't exactly endear me to the locale, but that is where the race was being run, so off we went.
Unfortunately, my choice of hotels was rather lame.
We got off to a poor start at check-in. The concierge informed me that I needed to pay a "resort fee" in addition to the charge for the room. I told her that we wouldn't be using the resort facilities. She said that all guests pay the resort fee regardless of their utilization of said facilities. It was only six dollars so I just ponied up but with a snarl in my heart. If everybody has to pay it, why not just include it in the room fee? Argh...
Looking around the lobby, I saw multiple posters of classical celebrities whose photos were taken with this hotel's sign visible in the background. It was as if they were trying to say, "This was the hot spot back in the 50s!" Well, just glancing around the shabby lobby I could tell that if Elvis was alive today, he would certainly not be staying there. Not even in his overweight, gospel-singing days.
When we got up to our room, it only got better (worse?). The furniture was misshapen and bubbled, not in a hip artsy sort of a way, but in a hey-y'all-he'p-me-git-this-here-roadside-wonder-up-yonder-into-the-back-of-the-pickup-truck sort of a way.
And the beds? Not so comfy.
Oh, well. We didn't spend much time in the room anyway because Jeff needed to get to his staging area to be ready to start his leg of the run. We hung out there for about two hours before he was passed the baton. Then, as he ran, I drove to the staging area where he would end his leg.
There were hundreds of people there, some of whom were rather interesting. Since it was night time and they were running alongside a highway, they all wore reflective vests equipped with little flashing lights. Jeff called his a "Christmas tree vest".
There was one intimidating looking guy who was big, burly and covered with hair but the most remarkable thing about him was his attire. Imagine a viking in nylon short shorts. The abbreviated length of his shorts afforded us all a view of his rippling thigh muscles, rubbing against each other as he walked. Yeah, I know...I tried not to look but when you're behind someone who is so tall that the oddity is practically at eye level, it's hard not to notice such things.
The most memorable person, however, was the guy who, upon finishing his leg of the race, promptly began to puke all over the finish line. The nurses on hand braced him to keep him from falling face first into his filth and then moved him over to a cot where he proceeded to unload the rest of his stomach's contents.
Good times...good times.
Jeff plowed through the finish line 92 minutes and forty seconds after he began. That's 8 minutes and thirty-nine seconds per mile! My fastest miles are a minute slower than that on flat ground, so I must say that I was impressed.
He said that his brain seemed to switch teams during the last half mile, screaming at his body, "Stop!" (I've felt that in the first half mile of a run!)
I took some pics but they didn't turn out very well with all that rapid movement and the darkness, but here's one about half an hour after he finished:
(That's dust flying through the air, not snow.)
By the time we got back to our hotel room, it was almost 3:00 in the morning. Jeff promptly showered and fell into bed, asleep as his head hit the pillow.
I didn't sleep as soundly. In fact, I had the misfortune of experiencing a night terror about an hour after going to bed. I awoke, screaming, thinking that someone was leaning over me. The person was dressed like this:
(Yeah, apparently, my daughter's latest alter ego is antagonizing my subconscious.) I laid there, my heart racing, expecting to hear footsteps running down the hallway to our room's door and the pounding of security guards' fists, their voices calling out for proof that all was well.
Well...that didn't happen. I guess everyone who heard my scream just chalked it up to being in Vegas.
Even scarier than my wild imagination were these:
(No, those are not MY feet!) By morning, two of Jeff's toenails were turning black and felt "spongy" (whatever that means!). As I write this, they are completely black but still attached. He wondered for days if he'd pull off his sock and find the nails in the toe of it, clinking against each other like coins in a pocket.
Before leaving Vegas, we met Steve, Sweetwater and Evelyn for breakfast:
With our dose of cuteness for the day, we headed home, Jeff saying that he would run the race again, but not that particular leg.
Yeah, right. The horrors of that last half mile will fade and he'll be chomping at the bit to go do it all over again.
Mark my words, this time next year I'll be posting a very similar entry. I'm sure of it. :)
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