Very happy

So I was thinking about Spirit Week stuff the other day, for various reasons, mainly because I'm hearing bits and pieces about the Bibleschool underclassmen back home in the chilly North doing it. And then I felt very depressed. I wish I could do Spirit Week. Life is so unfair, they get to do fun things while I'm away. They're supposed to stay miserable! And how come I never get to do Spirit Week?

And then, the light dawned.

I can do Spirit Week whenever I want!!! Laaaaaaaaaaaa!!!! (picture angels singing in heaven, please) Ah, the beauties of homeschooling! Now I can't wait to get home and do it. Actually, better yet, it also occurred to me that I can do it with Klara when I go out for a week or two to the Hills after I get back. Better and better! And so I am very happy.

Florida is great, by the way; sorry I don't feel like writing much more than that. We wandered around on three different beaches yesterday, and we went to Krispy Kreme!!! I was so psyched, especially when as we were ordering the donuts the hot light went on! There was a mad rush as I ran out to the van to make sure all the students had noticed and they all came leaping out to come crowd around the viewing window and watch the amazing process. Then we all put on Krispy Kreme hats and had our group picture taken next to the hot light sign. We would make Craig proud. I even had this awful moment when I was afraid that I had left my Red Sox visor from Craig at Krispy Kreme, and even though it turned out that I hadn't, some people pointed out that if I had to lose it that would be the best place, which is true, since I would remain in my brother's good graces much more easily if I had left such a sacred item at such a sacred place. :)

So yes, we would make Craig proud.

A Southern Journey

I am alive. I may be in GA, but I am alive. I'm not quite sure what this post is going to contain, but I felt like writing something while I can because we don't have internet access where we're staying.

Sooo, we left a week ago Wednesday. It was chilly, and the snow was on the ground (I forget how much). We scrambled into the gray 15 passenger van, waving and blowing kisses to the many smiling faces who were there to see us rumble off.

"They look so happy to see us go," someone commented, and we were inclined to agree. But we didn't care. We were going South. And they were not. And thus began our journey.

And so we watched to snow melt little by little as we covered the miles, and when our chance came we would leap out of the van expecting it to have suddenly turned balmy outdoors. It never really did.

In a nutshell, we went to PA, where I got to see my favorite 22-year-old basketball and volleyball player. I even got to hang around his college for an hour or two, watching his volleyball practice, reading David Copperfield, watching students waltz by me as they came in or out of the dorm, or listening to some girls mope around waiting for they're guy friends to come out from rearranging the furniture in their dorm room ("Have you ever counted the tiles on the ceiling?" Later, the other one answered, "There are 87 of them." "Did you just count them? You're a loser. You're the biggest loser I ever knew.") A couple people were even watching The Office, which I caught bits and pieces of, but mostly I just heard this one guy chortle like a girl.

In a lull, one of the bored guys watching the above said movie moaned. "There's nothing to do. There's nothing to do . . . . . . . Well, there's homework, but that's not due until . . . . . yet." And thus you can see why I form this opinion: that a lot of time is wasted in college.

So much for the nutshell.

Well, the next day the nine of us (six third-years, my parents, and me) drove on down to D.C. and stopped for awhile in the National Cathedral to do some praying, before heading on down to the Lackies in VA. And here I will just put in that if you haven't been the National Cathedral, you should sometime. I'm sure there are many better cathedrals in the world, but it's still worth going to if only just once in you're life. Also, I love stained glass.

Finally, on Friday we got up early-ish and set out for the aprox. ten-hour drive on down to GA. And while I'm talking about traveling the car, we indulged ourselves in fantastic games such as Old Maid and Phase Ten, which as proved to be a never ending saga since we've played it in at least four sessions and still haven't quite managed to get to the end (Dave just barely reached phase ten today).

And since we've got here (I have to go shortly so that Vanlora can get her computer back to work on her resume), we've done all kinds of great things. I've had the joy of shooting my first 22 pistol, getting creamed in Draw One by my mom, Bria, and Mrs. A, blowing the shofar, hanging out at Claire's, watching Andrew blow bubbles with bubble soap in his mouth, going to Last Chance on its half price sale, playing ultimate football, basketball, plus around the world, and I've even brushed my teeth from the balcony and spat it into the kitchen sink one story below. That all may not have been grammatically correct, but you'll understand that I'm stuffing in lots right now (never know when I'll do this again!). Of course I've also gotten to do lots of school and I'd nearly forgotten what it's like to live with bibleschool students and see them so much you're practically but sick of them (just kidding!!! I love the third year class so much, but you'll understand if we're not buddy buddy every minute). So far a fabulous time. Can't wait to play games at the Turners tomorrow and climb Stone Mountain on Saturday!

p.s. this post has had little to no editing, so forgive any typos.:)

Three Random Moments

1. Crawling into bed and trying to figure out why I had peanut butter on
my toes.

2. Grabbing for my new shower puff and it practically melting in my
hands. Now instead of a neat, compact ball, I found to my bewilderment
that I was holding about eleven feet of blue stuff.

(and finally, today)

3. Trying to be safe by cracking an egg over the sink and realizing just
as it disappeared down the drain that I hadn't meant to do it quite that
way. (That was as I was in the middle of a conversation with my mom I'll
have you know!)

Flipping over weekends

Well, once again I've been wanting to post something fresh for awhile, but sometimes the computer just seems like a big waste of time. So I'm going to waste more of it by writing something now.

 

 

Hmm . . . highlights from my life lately. Well, I went sledding with the bibleschool at the golf course a couple weeks ago, which was kind of exciting, and oh yeah, Ben found out that his appendix burst some time ago, but naturally that's old news by now (pardon me as I say that so casually). Poor Ben.  He drove himself to the emergency room (of course no one knew anything was seriously wrong with him at the time, but his parents wanted him to get checked out) and had to get a tube put in his stomach to drain the poison out. Actually, if it weren't so drattedly scary and serious, it was kind of funny to see him walking around with a Target back dangling from his side after he got back from the hospital. We also made a welcome home sign for him. Craig outlined it and filled in the "W," but Ben came back earlier than expected, and since all the guys wanted to be with him it was up to the girls (including me and Kimberly) to finish it. It was a pretty cool sign, too. One letter was decorated with camou, another was made to look like a frosted donut, and a third was a picture of the radio station way up in the woods with a snow mobile. I endeavored (and I still can hardly believe I did this) to follow up on a combination of my and (mostly) other's ideas by making a "C" look like a pink large intestine, with a swollen (and very red) appendix at the end of it, which had blotches of dark green oozing out of it, and from it led a tube filled with this same unpleasant color to the following letter "O," which was half full of the sinister (and disgusting) looking poison, with some very fake-looking yellow bubbles popping towards the surface. Unlike many of the other girls, I did NOT sign my name with this--it was all so gross that I wasn't sure I wanted myself to be identified with it. To make up for it, however, I decorated the "N" (in Ben's name) with a Spiderman theme, and since it turned out kind of well, I signed my name next to that.

 

 

Flipping onto the next weekend (my weeks go by in a sort of blur), most of the men at Fairwood were gone to Florida for a men's retreat, so my mom ruled the roost while on duty, with lots of moral support from Gerry of course. So anyway, Friday night we had some intense games of Maufia. And I've decided that I'm not very good at that game. Well, sometimes I had people (like Bria) fooled when I was in the Maufia, but I pretty much failed to be on the winning side every single game, even when I was the sheriff. Sometimes I was astonished at how good people were at lying though. All these people, who are perfectly honest Christians every day, can be remarkably deceiving when they need to be. Which makes me thankful that these people are honest in real life, or I would never know whether or not to trust them. Dave and Bria had me especially scared when I was the sheriff. I had found out in the night that Dave was in the Maufia (after I had thought that he wasn't) and when I accused him, he so sincerely seemed to think that the moderator (who was Diane) had made a mistake that I almost began to doubt myself. And even Bria was very crafty, teaming up with Aaron (who was innocent) in trying to figure out who the Maufia were and staunchly wanting to protect the citizens.

 

 

In one game, however, a particular quote sticks in my mind. We were trying to figure out whether or not Kate S. was in the Maufia, and if so why didn't she vote to kill so-and-so in this situation?

 

 

"That's because she's a vegetarian," Josh said. Hmm. Yep, I'm sure the Maufia are cannibals.

 

 

I also had a privilege to re-watch Wives and Daughters with some of the bibleschool girls. What is Wives and Daughters? Just one of the sweetest movies in the world, that's all. If you're a Jane Austen fan, you'll love it, even though she didn't write it. Anyway, watching it this time was a little bit different. For one thing, it was a little noisy. You see, my family does very little talking while we watch movies. I discovered as a kid amongst practically grown-up siblings that many questions and comments were not appreciated, so I learned to shut up, keeping my confusion to myself and just filling in the blanks as best I could, saving my questions (if I could remember them) until after the movie. And that's how I've mostly grown up, with some exceptions here and there, as I gradually learned that my siblings sometimes didn't catch whole phrases either and it was okay to ask what someone had just said as long as I didn't do it too often. Not that we never talk or have fun while watching movies, but just not very much.

 

 

With all that in my background, I watched Wives and Daughers with a few of the bibleschool girls. Kate S, Vanlora, Virginia, and Rachel were among those who sat in our living room to imbibe this wonderful tale with kicking chuckles (one of them did have the odd habit of kicking her dangling feet whenever she laughed). I would say they were watching in breathless silence, but that would not quite be true.

 

 

"I LOVE her dress," one would say.

 

"Ugh, I hate her dress."

 

"Oh, I'm so excited!" (this was as the hero came back on the scene)

 

"Scum!" Vanlora would cry whenever Mr. Preston was around.

 

"She's such a brat," (or words to that effect).

 

"Aw, he can't die!"

 

"I love that actress."

 

"Scum!"

 

"Isn't that the short guy from Pirates of the Caribbean?"

 

"Yeah, and he's also in _____ as _____" (I can't remember what random movie it was)

 

"Oh my word! Their hair is so ridiculous! Why would they want it that way?"

 

"He's a snob," (right after someone had barely entered the scene, and who, in my opinion, is not a snob)

 

"Scum!"

 

"Someone definitely has a problem with gluttony."

 

Etc., etc., etc. You get the picture.

 

 

And on we go to this weekend. My brother is playing volleyball!!! Clyde's recent dream has now come true.

 

 

"Eh?" you may say. "I thought he was playing basketball." And you're right. The fact is, my dear reader, he's doing both. Crazy, crazy. He actually had thought fondly of the idea of seeing if the basketball coach would let him go so he could just play volleyball, but, like the good sport he is, he decided he didn't want to be a quitter, so he chose not to. But, as if God was rewarding him for his diligence, God spiked the volleyball option right into his lap as well. (and that was the dumbest pun ever) Apparently, from what I've gathered, a couple of volleyball players on the team at his college dropped out, leaving just a measly number of five guys on the team. Here was a problem. They couldn't play with just five guys, and their first game was in less than a week! Knowing that Clyde was a pretty decent volleyball player, the coach came to appeal to my 22-year-old sibling. And what did he do? Say, "Sure, coach, this is the perfect excuse I've been looking for to quit anyway." No way! My brother told him that he'd like to but he didn't want to quit the basketball team. In reply, the volleyball coach told him that he didn't need to look at it that way, and then struck up a deal with the basketball coach. Hence, Clyde is doing both.

 

 

And what does that have to do with this weekend, which is now practically behind us? Clyde had his first volleyball game yesterday in Cambridge, Massachusetts--just two hours away from us.

 

 

Of course we went to it.

 

 

So, getting up early (for a Saturday morning) at around seven o'clock, Mom, Craig, and I set out, picking up Cara along the way. We drove an hour and forty minutes or so, took the T, the bus, and the icy sidewalk the rest of the way. Actually, it took quite awhile to get to where we wanted to go, because after we left we found out that the game wasn't at the college we had thought it was at, but at a highschool, since Leslie University doesn't have a gym. So, by stopping to look at maps on the walls of the T station and asking for directions multiple times, we eventually managed to get there.

 

 

CLYDE'S TEAM WON ALL SIX GAMES IN A ROW!!!! The closest game they played was only 30-23. One would have thought that the team had been practicing together for weeks instead of less than one, and they all seemed to have such great attitudes (though maybe it helped that they were ahead most of the time) and were so put together that I loved them all on the spot. Well, maybe. The only time I had been to a volleyball game outside of the Fairwood gym was in Australia, so this was a new experience for me. And because of it, I have to be careful when I say how talented the guys might have been, because I really haven't seen very many volleyball games to know for sure. Still, for such a small college, they were very impressive indeed. And Clyde was awesome (blocking, spiking, serving, faking), but I'm more than a little biased. Sure, he made mistakes, but then so did the other guys.

 

 

So now I'm all inspired about volleyball. And I learned some new things, too. Like about faking. I was trying to figure out why Clyde, who was often in the front middle in order to block (he towers above the other guys), kept jumping during a set to one of his teammates. Um, Clyde, we know it's not going to you, so why are you jumping? I suspected it was more than just to look stupid or because he was ignorant ("rats, I jumped up and discovered that the ball wasn't close enough for me to spike!"), and when I asked Craig to confirm these suspicions, he told me that he was "faking." That way the other team might be stupid enough to think that he was the one hitting it and expect the ball to come from his direction. Sounds dumb, but it's not a bad strategy. Also I enjoyed watching the guys leaping about to block, and well, I guess I enjoyed everything else about it to. And when the game was over, my favorite part was when each team jogged up the side lines and down both sides of the net to slap five underneath it. This is probably done by all real volleyball teams for all I know, but I'd never seen it before so it was cool to me.

 

 

Afterwards we hung around, chatting with Clyde and meeting his coach and his teammates as they waited for their pizza to arrive. Then they were gone, and we were on our way to trek it home. It was made easier by a mom at the game who offered to give us a ride to Harvard Square, so we piled gratefully into her car and hopped on the T. Interestingly enough, the last time I was on one was in Melbourne, so it brought back a wave of memories. I even scrutinized the people around me and imagined them talking with Australian accents, but it wasn't quite the same. But the sights and sounds excited me still, as I caught a whiff of someone's breakfast or coffee, or listened to a guitar playing Pachabel, or laughed as a clarinet played When Johnny Comes Marching Home, changing the ending to some nearly unrecognizable minor ditty, or trying to play the Star Spangled Banner and having to start over again. The large Goth person blasting his ears out, the friendly blonde woman with the large sleek dog, a couple of people chattering in Spanish, the old man who accidentally pulled one of my hairs as he gathered up his bags, the guy with the tennis racket sticking out of his backpack between his knees while he read The Intellectual Devotional, and many others made people watching very engaging. Though of course you had to do it covertly, hoping that no one would notice and trying to look as innocent as possible. That's the T.

 

 

I leave for the South in three days!

B-A-B-Y-S-I-T-T-I-N-G

In my last post (which you probably haven't read yet, so get moving!) I mentioned that I had my first real non-Fairwood babysitting job. Who was the lucky kid? Um, the third cousin of a town friend who helped get Uncle Sterling elected as a selectman. Or at least, the lady told me that the girl (yes, I babysat a six-year-old girl) was her third cousin, but she also told me that the girl's mother was her second cousin. Automatically I was tempted to protest ("Hey, that's not how it works!"), I who have to keep such things straight like so many of my readers, who are privileged to keep track of their fourth cousins or second cousins once removed, and so forth. But wisely, I refrained. I didn't need to point out the dear lady's ignorance.

 

Anyway, with very minor tremors of trepidation I set forth, and drove myself to the site of my first real babysitting job. Actually, most of you have probably been by the house many times, so I'll tell you that it's right next to Carr's store, and if you know where that is, great, if not, oh well. I'm not about to hand out other people's addresses. Well, if I was nervous, I shouldn't have been. To tell the truth, the whole thing was disgustingly easy. Basically I spent the whole time watching The Santa Claus with the girl, and then her mother came by after an hour and a half or so and picked her up. Then it was over. And people get paid for doing this?

 

But the girl herself was a character. Right away I could tell she was going to be interesting. A dark eyed, slightly Hispanic-looking girl waved at me from the window, and as soon as she had opened the door and had gotten my name straight, she began  jumping up and down asking me to guess how to spell her name. It was Jessica, and my mind flipped through the spelling, trying to figure out what was so tricky about it. Obviously there was some deviation from the normal, but I decided to play along, and spelled it just the way she was hoping I would.

 

"Nope, it's J-E-S-I-C-A. There's only one S. You see my mother's name is Melisa, and hers is spelled with only one S too. Her mother was a Spanish teacher. That's how it all got started!"

       

The girl's third cousin's husband, or whatever relation he was to her, proceeded to give me directions and began to recall an interesting history of the house, which used to be a school house,  and the work they'd done to it. In the meantime she kept jumping up and down, trying to catch my attention.

 

"Oh, oh, I know how to spell your age!" was the next thing she told me. "It's S-I-X-T-E-E-N!"

 

"Very impressive," I told her (or words to that effect). "And you're six, right?"

 

"Y-E-S."

 

Later, when we were alone, she started bouncing up and down on the couch saying my name over and over again, as if she were a chearleader trying to get on my nerves. Once out of breath, she told me, "You're nice. Nice like mice."

 

I wasn't sure this was a compliment, but since she seemed to think so, I decided to take it as one.

 

She asked me if I had ever had snow icecream. I hadn't, so she asked me if I wanted to see some. Taking me to the freezer, she pointed it out to me and then told me she was allowed to eat a little, so could I give her some? I wasn't sure whether or not to believe her, but I decided to take her word for it, and a little while later she was licking her fingers as we watched The Santa Claus.

 

"Mmm, I'm eating the blood on my fingers," she informed me.

 

"You're gross," I told her.

 

"Have you ever had it? It's good! It tastes like a dark chocolate and white chocolate mix!" Then she told me that she was painting the couch with her blood. Perhaps I should have been more alarmed, but she was just the sort of girl who would have told me that just to get a reaction out of me, and since she didn't want a bandaid and so far I hadn't seen a drop of blood about her, I decided not to be too concerned, beyond telling her to stop.

 

Her mother came soon, and then I locked up the house drove home. And thus ends my little babysitting story.

To sum it all up

So the Christmas season is over. Ugh, those words reek of despondency!
However, life is still great, and I refuse to let blothpickness conquer
me! I'm not quite sure what my favorite part of the season was. Could it
have been stuffing my face with desserts at the Dessert Banquet! I think
not (poof!). No, but it could have been a combination of any of the
following things:

~Watching the bibleschool students' powerpoint presentations.

~Making a gingerbread houses with the bibleschool (Craig and I painted
ours purple and gave it an outhouse)

~Sneaking up to people's houses to carol to the inhabitants.

~Swapping fun stories in the girls' van during the above said caroling
venture (like how Kendra got locked out on a baby sitting job by the
Maguire boys, and how she got Craig to call them and scare them into
letting her in; or how Clyde and Bria were arguing about whether Cara or
I should get a tricycle, and how Clyde tried to spank Cara)

~Coming in from caroling to sip hot chocolate and eat cookies,
culminating in a spontaneous, a cappella song of the Carol of the Bells
in the kitchen (and I loved singing tenor with Aaron and Bobby:)

~The Bibleschool Christmas Tree time--and taking pictures of it with
Clyde's camera

~Wasting ages of time trying to figure out which student was the most
tactful to ask Dan if the students could play outside in the
snow--ironically, it was Bobby, the least tactful, who finally procured
the permission.

~Playing Monster with almost the whole bibleschool out in the dark and
snowy wonderland around the Maine House

~Christmas shopping (e.g. yay, Kendra ended up loving the pink winter Red
Sox hat I gave her!)

~Going outside with my dad and cutting down our very own Christmas tree
from the woods like all cool people do in books (something I'd never
experienced before!)

~Decorating and trimming our angular, but beautiful Christmas tree (it's
got loads of character, let me tell you!)

~Seeing God answer prayer.

~Having Kimberly and Andrea around.

~Getting an e-mail from Amanda, my Aussie friend.

~Having my first real non-Fairwood babysitting job!

~Thinking about what the world would be like if Jesus hadn't come.

~Having lots of snow, and getting church cancelled one time because of
it.

~Singing the Twelve Days of Christmas for the home church service that we
couldn't get out of (this was after watching Dave's powerpoint
presentation on how each of the gifts were a symbolic representation of
something that God gave to us)

~Going to my first Conval basketball game of the season.

~Having my family home.

~Having a frosting party with my family when I needed help decorating the
eleven dozen cookies that I had spent all afternoon making.

~Singing and reading through a fun old Christmas program at my Aunt
Lori's with her, three keyboards, Aaron, Kimberly, Craig, Kendra, and
Clyde.

~Seeing the shy little Post boys singing up front for our church
Christmas program.

~Stealing toe socks from Chad at our church's Yankee Gift Swap.

~Reading the Best Christmas Pageant Ever out loud on our radio station.

~Going to Pizza Hut for Clyde's birthday

~Having the presents I ordered arrive on time, when I wasn't sure they
were going to.

~Missing my Grammie on Christmas Eve, since it's the first one in ages
that we haven't spent with her. (that probably wasn't my favorite moment
this season, but it was bittersweet)

~Caroling around Fairwood with my family all decked out in Santa hats
(even those who didn't want to).

~Playing games and watching movies with my family.

~Surprises on Christmas Day--like my new papasan chair! Or better yet,
hearing about Claire's baby!!!

~Watching Kristin Chenoweth sing "Taylor the Latte Boy" on Utube.

~Having dessert and a Yankee book swap with my dad's side of the family.

And so much more that made this season special! Hope yours was as
wonderful!!!

Mr. H's latest

You've heard about the whole issue with Beethoven, haven't you? Well I
guess lately there was some sort of dispute about whether or not some
music was really written by him. To settle the problem, investigators
decided to get a DNA sample from him to find out. But when they went to
dig up his grave (or his tomb, or vault, or whatever it was that he was
in), they found Beethoven sitting there scribbling away on on sheets of
music!

"Beethoven, what are you doing?" they cried.

Undisturbed, he replied, "I'm decomposing."

That's my chemistry teacher's (Mr. H's) latest from this very morning.
Hope it amused you as much is it did me! ;)

Weak attempts at sparkle

Okay, I've decided that my previous depressing post has been sitting alone for way too long. I'm well over it now (thank you so much for the encouraging comments!), and now how about some sparkle? Sorry, I'm too impatient to describe the Messiah Sing for you eager readers out there. It would take far more time than I'm interested in spending, and besides, the only thing that made this year very different from most years is that a girl in the front row threw up right before the concert. But perhaps I shouldn't be dwelling on that. Still, she did run out, but she left a trail behind her (poor thing), and it was enough to make you feel sick if you are the least bit squeamish. Fortunately the lady in front of us had some Calvin Klein perfume, and it was passed around freely so that many of the sopranos reeked of a scent which, ironically, was called "Escape." Some people in the orchestra even passed out cinnamon toothpicks to stick up their noses. Such ideas may sound unpleasant, but they were alternatives much more favorable than the more unpleasant smells that uh, wafted, or um, assailed those not far away. No sparkle in that story I assure you, though it's interesting in the telling.

Should I talk about the gingerbread house making this year? Craig was going to make one with the bibleschool students, but when he arrived late and realized how dull making a gingerbread house by yourself can be, he invited me to join him. And how freely the creative juices flowed! ("freely, freely, freely, and he that is thirsty let him come . . . ") While Bria and Jane beautifully furnished the inside of their house (including a deer head over the fire place), Vanlora and Katie K. produced a quaint church with stained glass windows. Some made dump trucks in their front yard (what makes me think that was Stephen's idea?:), or just trees, or even a backyard barbecue that very much resembled a bunch of cows sacrificing another cow. But Dave said it was a barbecue, so a barbecue it was.

Although at first Craig and I were at a loss for ideas, our gingerbread house was inspired by the purple house with green trim that you see in Marlborough, and it was complete with a fire pit, a duck pond, and a roofless outhouse (roofless so you could see inside, where the dear little candy toilet and toilet paper were). Actually, we did put plastic wrap over our purple outhouse just so people would stop asking why there wasn't a roof, so now we have an outhouse with a sunroof, which is very convenient if one like star-gazing. However, despite the ideals of such a construction, some students claimed that they would never want to use our facilities. After all, what would they do if an airplane came by? But what I want to know is, what kind of airplane comes low enough to be dangerous anyway?

On town trip on Thursday I told some of the students about NASA's new plan. Have you heard about it? They're going to take a bunch of cows, put them in a space shuttle, and send them to a space station so they can be orbiting the earth. They'll call them the herd shot 'round the world.

"Are you serious?" Bobby asked (or he uttered incredulous words to that effect).

Katherine laughed. "You're not serious, Kayla, right?"

Of course I wasn't. I had heard it that very morning from my wonderful chemistry teacher and thought it was so delightful I wanted to share it. But only one person seemed to think it was funny, and that was Katherine. But then Uncle Tim asked me to repeat it (I was near the back and he hadn't quite caught it) and he laughed quite heartily and asked me if I had made it up. I told him I hadn't, and he informed me that actually that joke was around in his day, only they said the Russians were going to do it. I was rather pleased that someone else besides myself could laugh about my joke, but at the same time I was a little put out that nobody else seemed to think it was funny. I just assumed that my sense of humor must be different. However, later I told it to Craig and when he chuckled sincerely I began to wonder if there was another reason. He suggested that people might not have laughed because of their ignorance of the phrase "the shot heard 'round the world," and I would rather believe that than deny the humorous wit of my joke. So there you have it, most of the bibleschool is ignorant and therefore can't laugh at my jokes because they're so beyond them.

Actually, pretty much everything I say is so beyond people that they just don't get it, unless they also have a higher mind that appreciates puns and other such simple pleasures. Or maybe my first theory is more accurate in that some people just don't appreciate me and my sense of humor. *sigh* But at least I appreciate my sense of humor, which my bursts of laughter at odd moments when I'm by myself can testify. Maybe that's why I get along so well with people like Klara, whose clever jokes more than match my own (which aren't even clever, just random), and who sometimes seems unappreciated just as I am unappreciated. At least we appreciate our own wit (at least I do), and we appreciate the other's, so what more can we ask for?

All right, maybe my vague jesting concerning my sense of humor (which obviously isn't as clever as I'm pretending) isn't exactly sparkle, but at least it's something new, and it's the best I can do for now.

no more suspense

The only problem with having now told everyone that I tried out for All-state is that now everyone is going to kindly be interested whether or not I made it. I knew that might be a problem but I decided that I didn't really care, because after all, this was a big thing on my mind, so why not let people know what I've been dealing with? When I finally had that silly audition behind me, I was very uncertain how I did. For one thing, I tend to be quite self-critical. Part of me thought I did all right for some of it, but I was pretty sure I did a terrible job at sight reading that ridiculous (and rather high) piece. So I settled down to wait for the results, telling myself fiercely that I should pretend that I hadn't made it so I would be pleasantly surprised if I did. This worked in a fashion, but I couldn't quite quench that one small hope.

 

 

I won't leave you in suspense any longer.

 

 

I never got to be pleasantly surprised.  The list came out right before Thanksgiving, and my name wasn't on it. I didn't make it into the All-State Orchestra. Eighty violinists tried out, and only thirty-six made it. Okay, now you all can know what a loser I am and can surmise about my awful violin skills.

 

 

Though I felt (and still feel) a little deflated, I wasn't altogether disappointed. For one thing, it's just less hard music that I have to work on. And even though I'd been interested in doing All-State, it was really my teacher's idea, and I didn't have much choice in the matter. And since I think I tried my best, there really isn't anything else I should worry about. After all, once the audition was over, it was God's call, not mine.

 

 

(I figured that I better post this so people wouldn't have to feel bad when they asked me if I made it and I told them NO. But don't feel too bad for me--picture me saying most of this post in a fairly cheerful voice, which is probably how I would have responded if you had asked me in person. This is just for those of you who would feel awkward because you don't know how to sound sympathetic.:)

Free!!!

Well, lades and gents, guess what? I am a free person!!!!!!!! My audition
is done with, completed, finished, history, past, and behind me
forever!!! And I also want to say that if any of you prayed for me, a
thousand thanks! I believe it made a big difference. Instead of a
paralyzing fear, I felt surprisingly calm, instead of sweaty fingers that
go sliding all over the strings, they remained almost cool and dry, and
instead of an oppressive headache from stress, my head remained clear and
painless. I guess trusting God really works!

Now even after I've said that, it doesn't mean I didn't make mistakes.

First of all, my dad and I arrived at Memorial Highschool in Manchester
an hour before my audition. After obtaining directions from a 6'4"
athletic director of sorts (okay I didn't really ask him his height but
that's what he looked like to me), we managed to find the registration
desk, and after finding good old Mr. Sweeney who was coming to look for
us, I found myself in a room full of chaotic music. I heard Mozart in
this corner and in that corner, and scales near and far, cellos rumbling,
violins squeaking, and people chatting. Every once in awhile someone
would come walking in with an official-looking air, and a girl at the
front of the room would lean toward the mic. and the room would get
really quiet. Who was to be the victim this time? All would wonder. Then
the name and school would be pronounced over the mic, and the said person
would come forward solemnly with his or her instrument, often accompanied
by the cheers of encouragement from their fellow classmates. Ten or
fifteen minutes later they would return to be plagued with questions
about how it went and how they thought they did. Some seemed okay with
it, others felt it was a disaster. No one seemed too confident.

Finally it was my turn. All of my friends (a violinist, a violist, and
two cellists) had already gone before me and the clock had gradually
ticked closer to 5:55 p.m.: the time of my own audition. It seemed like
the room was gradually emptying of people; I think I was near the end of
a group of auditions before the judges would take a brief break and take
in a new group. More people were now talking than playing, and once when
I noticed that I was the only one playing in a rather quiet room of
people, I loudly spluttered and told them they should keep playing. A few
people chuckled. But now it was time. "Is there a Kayla _______ in the
room?" I heard the girl at the front of the room ask. I came forward. I
had been "called up."

The walk to my fate seemed long. We passed through the cafeteria of many
waiting students who had finished their auditions, winding through the
long halls until the sound of chatter had died away. I was accompanied by
a girl about my own age, who asked me questions like if this was my first
time and if I felt I knew my piece well, etc. I asked her some questions
in return, and I discovered that she had been going to try out for
All-State chorus, but she had been too freaked out to turn in the
paperwork. "But next year I'll have to try out, because I'll be singing
in chamber choir," she told me, a little grimly.

We had arrived at the room. I stepped inside, and found two very quiet,
solemn ladies within. One was given my paper; she never said a word. The
other told me in a still, whispery sort of voice what scales I was to
play. I played them without much ado, amazed at how something that you've
been working on for a year can suddenly flit past you in a flimsy
representation of playing it just once. A couple of the scales were just
fine, as close to perfection as can be expected in the circumstances,
while some of the others were more iffy. Thus I went through G major, A
major, B flat major, g minor, and c minor. In one of the minor scales I
had a moment of panic. As I was coming down my haze was broken by a
strange sounding note. I kept going, but I had the odd feeling that I had
changed key by accident, but the scale seemed to end fine so I wondered
if it was just my imagination and the sound of the melodic minor had just
taken me by surprise. When I had finished it I resisted the temptation to
ask if I could play it again, because for all I knew I could have played
it exactly as I should have. So I hoped for the best.

With the scales behind me, the whispery voiced lady came over and told me
to play from B to C on the piece of music that was already on my stand.
Here I blanked out. As I looked at the music, it didn't look anything
like the Mozart piece I'd been practicing. Had I been practicing the
wrong piece??? Quickly my mind ruled that idea out as absurd, but my mind
wasn't thinking clearly enough to stop myself from saying something like,
"I've never played this before." At least I think I said that out loud.
Did the lady laugh and say, "Yes?" No, she patiently told me that I was
sight-reading. Light dawned on marble head. Of course. I knew that. In
fact this all happened so quickly I can't remember what I actually
figured out on my own and what she told me, but I felt a little idiotic.
But letting it pass, I finally took a good look at the music. Craig had
told me that I could take my time and play when I was ready, but the lady
hadn't said anything about taking my time, and as I looked long and hard
at the music, I was afraid that their silence was growing uncomfortable.
So I decided to wing it.

A few painful minutes later, during which I wasn't wholly convinced I'd
been playing the right notes at all (my teacher tells me I'm a good
sight-reader but here I was bit skeptical), I was done. "That was
painful," I said with a little laugh, and for what seemed like the first
time, the lady smiled, if not a little vaguely. The lady handed me my
scale book (which I had only brought because I thought I was supposed to,
not because I got to use it) and told me I was going to be playing my
piece now. She started to move for the door. Once again I was met by
confusion. She had told me I was going to play my piece, so I prepared to
open my music where I was, but now she was implying that it was time to
leave? Of course I knew that my teacher had told me that I would probably
play the scales in a different room than my piece, but with Craig it was
different and as you must recall my brain was too fuzzy to remember
anything clearly. Once more the lady said something to remind me of my
stupidity by informing me that I was to move to another room. I laughed
as good-naturedly as I could, apologizing and explaining that I had never
done this before. She laughed, though it sounded like a tentative laugh
to me.

Out in the hall again I started to turn in the wrong direction, but was
called over to another room that was almost just across the room I had
just left. Here a friendly young man greeted me, a refreshing change from
the nervous lady I had spoken with previously. Inside an older, bearded
man with a rather red face awaited me. His chin rested in his hand in a
tired sort of way, and I realized how exhausting it must be to have to
listen to person after person after person playing the same exact piece.
Later my dad told me that there were 80 violinists in all trying out,
which helped me give the other two ladies some grace after their rather
cold reception of me. But not to be dissuaded by this man's look of
slight boredom, I greeted him cheerfully and he answered back cheerfully
enough. He was given my paper and the young man told me what I was to
play. I was told to start whenever I felt ready. At last, I didn't need
to feel like I was injuring them and their precious time while I caught
my breath. So I snatched the time to send up a short, wordless prayer and
then began. To be honest, I don't remember much. My body went on
auto-pilot, and I can only hope that I remembered to do dynamics. My
opening start strong like I wanted it to, though it faltered slightly in
the second or third measure. My very high runs were okay, some of my
accented notes sounded weak, and the really high trilly part right after
the page-turn was a little wimpy but not a disaster. Other than that I
don't really remember. Before I knew it I was done, and I almost asked if
that was really it. But the young man was kindly telling me I did a good
job and asking me if I needed someone to show me the way back. I could
hardly believe it, but I knew it had to be because he wouldn't tell me to
keep playing after he'd sent me out of the room would he? No, of course
not. So in a happy dream I walked back to put my instrument away, talking
with some friends along the way. I looked at my watch and found that only
ten or fifteen minutes had gone by! Who would have thought that so much
work and effort would have to culminate and be presented in a tiny period
of time before it's all over and you have no idea what hit you? It was
just mind-boggling.

I left in a stupor, but a very grateful one. It is over. And God is good.

Mixing Metaphors

Okay, here I am.

here I am

here I am

here I am.


I don't suppose anyone out there still perseveres in checking my blog anymore, but I'll still talk and at least enjoy hearing my echoes in a room all to myself.

to myself

to myself

I might say some serious stuff in a meaningless way, but it's okay to laugh--you and I will probably forget about it soon afterward. After all, sometimes it seems like I can never retain anything! It just goes in one head and out the other!

I've actually had very good reasons for not writing. Well, sort of. I've done plenty of interesting things, but none that sound interesting when you write about them. Could it be that I've been kind of busy?

You hit the nail right between the eyes!

Ever since the Feast ended I've felt as thought my life has pretty much been a whirl of school catch-up, tests, and practicing my violin--punctuated by second-hand clothes scavenging, bibleschool sports, driving, having weekend visits from my brothers, apple sauce day, sleeping at Fairwood for a weekend, the harvest party, youth group, listening to or watching Red Sox games, and going to PA for a long weekend. See what I mean by interesting, yet not interesting enough? And full, very full. I pretty much have had my ear to the grindstone for over a month, hopping from one hurdle of stress to the next.

For one thing, I decided to bite the bull by the horns and sign up to audition for the all-state orchestra. I sure opened up Pandora's box of worms! And if you're a bit puzzled at how I'm writing, from now on you'd better watch me with a fine tooth comb. It's only going to get worse. So anyway, as we all know, Rome wasn't burned in a day. Therefore I've grabbed the bull by the tail and faced the problem squarely. Practice, practice, practice. For an hour. Or two. Or three. Well, to be honest, some days there just isn't enough time (Fridays seem especially crowded), and going on trips doesn't necessarily help the issue either. But whenever I'm not practicing I'm wondering if I should be, and then when I think about auditioning I feel like I have a frog in my stomach. That really gets under my goat. It seems a lot more stressful now than it did just a few weeks ago, mostly because my time is running thin (auditions are a little over a week away) and I haven't felt prepared. I'm right down to brass knuckles now, since I'm skating on borrowed time. However, the grass is always greener on the other side of the rainbow, and pretty soon it'll be over. Thankfully in just the last day or so God has really given me a remarkable amount of peace about the whole issue. And since God is so willing to help me out, I remember that you shouldn't bite the hand that lays the golden egg. God is fully capable of helping me, and all I need to do is to "cease striving" to do it on my own, remember that He is God, and give Him the glory for whatever He does through me. Hey, it's no skin off my teeth to trust Him! And after all, there's no need to fret over something that's still a week away. I'll burn that bridge when I come to it.

The sister of a history teacher

I was doing some research yesterday for a history project when I stumbled upon an unthinkable fact. Did you know that in 1659 the celebration of Christmas was outlawed in Massachusetts?! Apparently it was according to Puritan custom in England or something. But still! It wasn't until about 22 years later that the law was repealed, and can you imagine being forbidden all that time not to celebrate Christmas? Next thing you know we'll discover that in the mean time it was always winter. And it's crazy! What ever happened to "freedom of religion" and our constitutional rights? Oh yeah. They hadn't happened yet.

Hey, and do you happen to know what the term "spooning" means? Why, it's the Welsh term for courting of course! I guess when the young man came to visit the young lady at her house he would carve spoons while she might play music or something. And if the sound of whittling or music stopped, the parents would get suspicious. In the end, the man would present a "love spoon" to the girl for an engagement present.

And, while I'm on a historic note, today I learned something else in history class today. My teacher said it, so I have no concrete evidence to back it up, but did you know that Queen Elizabeth I was almost killed by smallpox? And not only that, but once she had survived the traumatic disease, she hid the scars on her face by painting it with white lead and vinegar, and then to smather on some color she painted her lips and added red dye and egg white to give her cheeks color. Some make-up! And, oddly enough, it was actually the white lead that eventually killed her. Or at least I think that's what my teacher said. Moral of the story? Don't wear white lead and vinegar!

And now that I'm relieved of my watchman's duties, I can breathe a sigh of relief that at least your blood won't by on my hands if you end up trying it. (but take my advice and don't)

Ha. I guess you tell that I'm the sister of a history teacher.

Goodbye to plus sizes! (or is it hello?)

Hey, check out this article my chemistry teacher shared with us in class today. Bet you never knew this. It's amazing!

 

Soda and Ice Cream Diet

 

            As we all know, it takes 1 calorie to heat 1 gram of water 1 degree Celsius. Translated into meaningful terms, this means that you can eat a very cold dessert (generally consisting of water in large part), and the natural processes that raise the consumed dessert to body temperature during the digestive cycle literally suck the calories out of the only available source: your body fat.

 

 

For example, a dessert served and eaten at nearly 0 degrees C will, in a short time, be raised to the normal body temperature of 37 degrees C. For each gram of dessert eaten, that process takes approximately 37 calories, as stated above. The average dessert portion is 6 oz., or 168 grams. Therefore, by operation of thermodynamic law, 6,216 calories (1 cal./gm/deg. x 37 deg. x 168) are extracted from body fat as the dessert's temperature is normalized.

 

 

Allowing for the 1,200 latent calories in the dessert, the net calorie loss is approximately 5,000 calories.

 

 

Obviously, the more cold dessert you eat, the better off you are and the faster you will lose weight, if that is your goal.

 

 

This process works equally well when drinking very cold soda in frosted glasses. Each ounce of soda contains 16 latent calories, but extracts 1,036 calories (6,216 cal. Per 6 oz. portion) in the temperature-normalizing process. Thus the net calorie loss per ounce of soda is 1,020 calories. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to calculate that 12, 240 calories (12 oz. 1,020 cal./oz.) are extracted from the body in the process of drinking a can of soda.

 

 

Frozen desserts, e.g., ice cream, are even more beneficial, since it takes 83 cal/gm to melt them (i.e., raise them to 0 deg. C) and an additional 37 cal./gm to raise them further to body temperature. The results here are really remarkable, and it beats running hands down.

 

 

Unfortunately, for those who eat pizza as an excuse to drink soda, pizza (loaded with latent calories and served at above body temperature) induces an opposite effect. But, thankfully, as the astute reader should have already reasoned, the obvious solution is to drink a lot of soda with pizza and follow up immediately with large bowls of ice cream.

 

 

We could all be thin if we were to adhere religiously to a pizza, soda, and ice cream diet.

 

 

Happy eating!

 

 

As I listened to my teacher reading this I couldn't keep myself from grinning and grinning. I shoved away the majority of my skepticism as I basked in the revelation of this incredible idea. Why, this is genius! The whole world must have it wrong! And how come I never heard this before? But of course, if you are chemistry-savy like I'm not (that would be why I'm taking chemistry!:), you may have been able to point out the gross error in this theory (besides your common sense telling you that you can't get thin eating icecream and soda) as you read--there's a huge difference between "calorie" and "Calorie."  And those are terms that were kind of blurred in the account above. But hey, it sounded good, right?

 

 

Now I wonder if any of you were as gullible as I was . . . .

Hello August 28! Long time no see . . .

Something dawned on me recently. The fact is, I haven't experienced August 28 for a very long time.

"Guffaw," you say (I can't remember what that sound means exactly but it sounds good for this situation). "A whole year is not that terribly long you cake head!" (Perhaps you haven't heard that "cake head" expression before. That's because I just made it up and it hasn't had time to become a cliche yet. It's a softer rendition of "fat head" since everyone knows how fattening cakes can be.)

Actually I agree with you. A year is not long enough to start missing August 28 by any means, unless that happened to be my birthday. But how about two years?

Yes, ladies and gents, I have not experienced August 28 for two whole years! Okay, well MAYBE I experienced about an hour or two of it in the wee wee hours of the morning, but the fact remains that about this time last year all was nearly normal. I was going along at about one o'clock in the morning on August the 28th, minding my own business . . . la la la la la la la la---when BAM!!!!! It was suddenly one o'clock a.m. August 29. Don't ask me how I did it, time travel isn't a secret I'm about to divulge.

Still, there's something undeniably uncanny about the idea of having a whole day wiped out of the history of your life. Why, for me August 28, 2006, never even existed! While everyone else has something written down in the record of their life for that date (like this: August 28, 2006. Susie spent three hours drooling, one hour laughing, and the rest of the 20 either eating, sleeping, or being incredibly naughty), my life for that page is practically nothing! In fact, my page would probably look something like this: August 28, 2006. Kayla is moving amazingly fast, propelled by extraordinary powers (maybe a UFO?). She is drowsy. No, wait! She's gone! She's missing in action! The rest of her page is blank! She's----page turn. August 29, 2006. Kayla is sleeping . . .

The top side to crossing the International Dateline is that if you come back you make it all up by getting a day twice. Woe to those who cross it toward the Orient, never to return! They will forever be missing a day that they could have enjoyed with everybody else. On the other hand, if you traveled west you could cross the International Dateline going the other way and experience the day twice! Then if you had super time travel you could cross the International Dateline coming from the other way again and again--every day even. In fact, perhaps if you got it to pan out just right you could live every day of the year twice, which would mean your birthday would come only about once every two years and therefore you could remain young for years and years! Or would you just be experiencing the same day over and over? I'm confused . . . . but anyway, yikes I'm practically a genius--I should patent my idea. All you need is super duper traveling speed to go all around the world in an hour or so, then you can cross the International Dateline and spend most of your day in Hawaii. You'd stay young for a very long time . . . though I suppose if everyone did that then the national average age for deaths in the U.S. would probably drop from 76 to 38, and those statistics might throw a bad light on the healthy environment of our country, not to mention how old a 38-year-old would end up looking. I guess I'm not a genius after all (rats, scratch that idea). For the good of the country we should just let ourselves grow old.

However after all that I'm still happy to see August 28 again, and now I shall greet it, "Hello August 28! Long time no see . . . "

p.s. don't mind all the flaws to my far-fetched "staying young" scheme. If you don't understand it then I'm gratified because I'm still confused about it myself, though I keep "almost getting it." But hey, it sounded good, and I bet it made you think, right?

An anniversary

Sunday, August 27, 2006

This is my much looked forward to day. The airport terminal is relatively quiet, excepting the occasional Spanish announcements chattering over the loud speaker. No, this trip is not to Spain or Mexico. As a matter of fact I am sitting in the Los Angeles airport, waiting for my flight to the beloved Australia.

"Oh my," you might be saying, "Israel and Norway would have been enough, don't you think, but you just can't stay put for long and now you're off to Australia, of all random places! And you're only the lucky age of fifteen!" What can I say? Traveling is in my blood, and I'm bound to be doing it whether I expected it or not.

"Okay, Kayla," now you wonder, "the first one was during a war with a bunch of crazy bibleschool students going to march and pray in Israel, then your family wore themselves out driving all over Norway praying; what takes you to Australia, more prayer battle?" Actually no. Although I hope to still believe God in this needy country, my reasons are not purely based on this.

It all started probably when I studied Australia in Geography last May or so. I think it was my favorite chapter of the year, and a little seed of thought was planted, saying, "Huh, I think I would really like to go there someday."

A few weeks later (on Mother's Day, actually), I was talking on the phone with Kendra, who started talking about her previously planned trip to Australia. Curious, I began to ask her questions, and as I was struck with a thought, I said, "Do you mean if God plopped [X number of dollars:] in my lap I could go with you?"

To make a long story short my parents and I thought and prayed a lot about it, and a month and a half later Mom bought my ticket . . .

They're used for WHAT?!?

Oh they're always in the way!

The cows eat them for hay!

They hide the dirt in Daddy's shirt,

They're always in the way!

 

 

What's this song about? Why, Daddy's whiskers of course! Sound familiar? Maybe you weren't blessed with the Wee Sing collection when you were growing up, or more specifically Wee Sing Silly Songs. Which is exactly what this song is from. As I remember it, a couple of the verses go something like this:

 

 

I have a little sister,

Her name is Ellie May,

She climbs up Daddy's whiskers,

And braids them all the way!

 

 

Chorus:

Oh they're always in the way!

The cows eat them for hay!

They hide the dirt in Daddy's shirt,

They're always in the way!

 

 

I have a dear old mother,

She likes the whiskers too,

She uses them for dusting

And cleaning up/out the flue!

 

 

As a kid, this last verse really troubled me. I mean, how many six-year-olds know what a flue is? Naturally I went to my wise, all-knowing brother who was five years my senior and therefore knew everything.

 

 

"What does flue mean?" I put the question to him.

 

 

He gave me a dark look before replying, "It means throw-up."

 

 

Oh my! How horrible! Why, that was almost as bad as when Kendra vacuumed up the stuff late one night after a certain brother of mine had an accident! And thus for years I sincerely thought that the dear mother in the song really did use Daddy's whiskers to clean up such unpleasant messes. It seemed awful but it must be the truth because my big brother said it, and I'm pretty sure he even wanted to know where I heard the word even before he replied to such an awkward question, so he seemed to answer in full knowledge of the context. Therefore it was set in stone.

 

 

Imagine my relief when I stumbled upon the difference between "flu" and "flue." I think a lot of haziness from my childhood was really cleared up right then.

 

 

The sort of long and the sort of short of it

Last Wednesday my brother left for college. Now he's far far away, in a distant land full of buggies and cow-like perfume, and when am I ever going to see him again? Probably never. But life moves on . . .

And I was faced with a decision. My parents were gone to help Clyde move into college so I was home alone, only to see Craig in the evenings when he gets back from work. What was I to do with myself? Should I stay and go mini-golfing with small group? Or should I go over to my cousins for an over-due visit? I really wanted to go mini-golfing (I haven't been for over a year and I haven't been to Twinkle Town for about two years!), but then I very much wanted to see Cara again too. What was I to do? Then the solution came. When in need, pray! So I asked the Holy Spirit to help me, and after a long and painful deliberation, I felt led to go to the cousins. Granted, I was still unsure, but that seemed like the right thing to do.

But Dad and Mom had taken our van, and since I'm still not wholly comfortable with a standard just yet I needed an alternative for transportation. Daddy had arranged it so that I could take the Fairview car, so I prepared to do so. It didn't help that my dad told me not to fill it up with gas because the car is supposed to come off the road at the end of the month. Nor was it exactly encouraging when my mom suggested I take some change for a pay phone in case the car broke down and I needed to be rescued. And the trivial fact remained that not only had I never broken down before but I had also never driven by myself anywhere beyond a dozen miles or less.

But I told my mom not to worry. After all, I had learned what to do if you break down in drivers' ed. If you're by the side of the road and you need help you put the hood up and tie a white flag (red in a snow storm) to the radio antenna or driver's door handle. This supposedly is the universally known signal that you need help, though if it were universally known I'm not sure why I'd never heard of it before. But that's why you take drivers' ed, right? And everyone remembers everything they're supposed to know about other people signaling for help, right? So of course I really had nothing to worry about even if I did break down. Drivers' ed covers it all.

So now that I've made a sort of long and sort of short story sort of long I'm about to make it sort of short again. I drove over to my cousins and back the next day all by my lonesome (an aprox. 1 hour drive one way, now that the bridge is out), with little or no mishap. Nothing really happened in particular, except when I had a guy tailing me. I hate being tailed. I wasn't even going an unreasonable speed! In fact, I was actually going five or maybe even ten (*gulp*) above the speed limit. When I got to going over by about fifteen I decided that this was ridiculous and I was going to go whatever speed I liked (I was also feeling very guilty). So I resumed going five over again. I don't like the idea of triggering road rage in anybody, but there are some things that people just have to deal with. I only hope that the speedometer in the Fairview car was accurate . . . .

And not only that, but I had a fabulous time at Cara's! Plus when I got home I found out that small group decided not to go mini-golfing after all so I was saved from some devastation.

I guess the Holy Spirit might actually know what He's doing. :)

dinner table dialogues

It’s incredible how many opportunities exist for unique conversations at the dinner table. Why, in a setting you’re comfortable in you can talk about pretty much anything, whether intense or hilarious! Provided it’s appropriate for the dinner table. But that point is often debatable.

Anyway, take one dialogue that happened a number of weeks ago at my own family’s dinner table. We were discussing the cows that might be given to Fairwood if only someone around here knew how to, well, cut them up. Somebody mentioned that so-and-so’s father had known how to do it. That’s nice, but I’m afraid it wouldn’t do us much good now because that dear person passed on to heaven some time ago. Anyway:

Clyde: We could have him do it (meaning the man that’s currently in heaven cut up the cow). He said it as a joke, but meaning no offense to him, it was rather a lame one.

I sat there, a reply shuddering on my lips. Did I dare say it? I think very highly of this person . . . but it was just too good to pass up. I yielded to temptation.

Me: Yeah, we could package it up and send it to him. Maybe it would get roasted on the way!

Too bad I couldn’t say it with a straight face.

And, moving on, it’s also interesting how certain things said aloud stimulate unusual thought processes, before you even realize that what you’re thinking is too absurd to be true. Here’s another recent dinner table dialogue:

Clyde: We’ll have to teach the grandkid’s Mom’s angry lemming face.

Craig: What grandkids? (or maybe he said “whose grandkids?”)

My train of thought: Yeah at the rate things are going Clyde is probably going to have grandkids before Mom ever does.

Oh wait.

A momentous occasion

I had my first solo drive today! It was a momentous occasion. It's amazing how it's been a whole month (from today!) that I got my license, but I've had very little reason to drive. It's as if now that I have it there's no need to! But anyway, I had my first solo drive. I was a little excited, a little nervous, and I prayed and talked to myself so that I wouldn't feel lonely. But, amazingly, it actually wasn't a big deal! In fact, after I dropped my mom off, my drive (one way) was probably less than 10 minutes and probably covered no more than 5 miles! Still, I have now officially entered the driving world. As I said, it is a momentous occasion.

A gallery of progress

What I find very interesting is to explore the progress of young artists. Especially at the time of the 12-16 era one can improve quite a bit! For instance, I have drawn the same picture three times, with gaps of time in between. I'm not an incredible artist by any means, but check it out: (these are the originals of my drawings scanned onto the computer)

Here's what I drew at age 12
(I did have to darken some lines by hand though before I scanned it because I drew so lightly it was hard to see)

Here's what I drew almost exactly a year later, at age 13.

And here, between two and two and half years later, is what I drew at age fifteen.

Moral of the story? Encourage those young artists. They may be pathetic now but maybe they'll turn out to be the next Michelangelo!

Even though I'm not. :)