Vince and I went to a Japanese Steak House for dinner the other night. The food was tasty and I had a couple glasses of plum wine since they were included with the meal. (Vince didn’t want his.) Maybe it was just me, but plum wine tastes a little like Kool-Aid. Fortunately, they were served in tiny aperitif glasses, so I didn’t get tipsy on Kool-Aid-tasting wine. My wino friends would be appalled. Oh wait, maybe that should be winer friends? Ah, wait – I’ve got it – wine aficionado friends! (Whew.)
But plum wine isn’t really why I’m writing about this place.
What is interesting to me about these types of restaurants is that, unless you are dining with a large group of family and/or friends, you end up sharing dinner with complete strangers. Since it was a Wednesday night, the place wasn’t exactly packed, and we were seated at a large table around the hot metal cooking surface with only one other couple.
But they were nice folks and Vince immediately struck up a conversation with them. By the end of the evening, we pretty much knew their life story. That’s Vince for you. Maybe he should consider a career change and enter the wonderful world of espionage – I think he could get our enemies to divulge state secrets. They wouldn’t even realize they’d done it until it was too late.
I do appreciate Vince’s outgoing personality because as someone with a basically shy nature, striking up conversations with complete strangers is not my natural inclination. I might make an off-hand goofy comment, and I will probably smile and be pleasant – and I will certainly respond if they start conversing with me, but I don’t get overly involved in asking for details about their lives. I sort of figure that I will never see them again after our evening of sizzling steak, fried rice and veggies, so I don’t need to know their third daughter’s birth date.
Once we finished the business of learning all pertinent information about our dining companions (like their SAT scores, total annual income and social security numbers), we got down to the business of watching our chef prepare our dinner.
Unfortunately, I think maybe he needed a larger audience to appreciate his cooking theatrics, because he gave us only a mediocre cooking show. We sort of knew we weren’t going to be dazzled after he spun the raw egg around the cooking surface a few times, caught it on the spatula…and then it flipped sideways and landed on the floor with a splat. (I know this because it came dangerously close to hitting my shoes. When he asked someone to bring him two more eggs, I thought, uh oh – that’s not a good sign. He’s calling for back-up!
Once he dropped the egg, he seemed to lose his confidence and didn’t do any other tricks with his spatula. Instead, he quietly went to work cooking our dinner, which was okay since we were hungry. I’d done a little retail therapy earlier in the evening and as most educated people know, shopping has been scientifically proven to work up an appetite. “Educated” meaning everyone of the female persuasion. (Hey, we’re talkin’ shopping here. We make up our own scientifically proven facts!)
So, like I said, dinner was tasty and I was able to successfully ignore the rapidly congealing egg on the floor by my feet. We paid the bill, tipped everyone – including the poor kid in the back with the mop who had the fun job of cleaning the floor. We then made final arrangements with our dinner companions to spend our next five vacations together. And then we said our goodbyes.
Will we go back to this particular Japanese Steak House? Sure. I’m confident that the chef has learned from the egg spinning debacle and will never make that mistake again. Besides, we have an opening in our schedule for a vacation in January of 2015 with complete strangers and we need to start the interview process now.
Oh, and by the way, I was kidding about the SAT scores.
Friday, April 9, 2010
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Flowering Trees and Stuff
The other day I was driving back to the office after my lunch break and I have to admit that I was a little distracted. I was thinking about the tasks I needed to accomplish that afternoon and about the busy schedule we had that evening. I think I was also noticing the chipped nail polish on my left thumbnail, which started me thinking about the sorry state of my toes, but that’s another story.
Suddenly, I looked – really looked – at the road ahead of me. And I was knocked out! Not literally, of course, which is a good thing since I was driving.
But the Flowering Pear trees that line the street were bursting with blooms and it was like fluffy white clouds had descended from the sky and landed on the trees. I was awestruck. I say this, because my eyes snapped open just as my lower jaw unhinged and my mouth opened wide. I probably looked like a fish, so I’m thinking that should qualify as “awestruck.”
Right then I wished I had my camera so I could stop in the middle of the road to take a picture. Thank goodness the camera was safely tucked away at home as I’m sure I would’ve at the very least pissed off the drivers behind me who would’ve had to slam on their brakes to avoid the foolish woman taking pictures of the trees from the middle of the road. The very worst would’ve been if the drivers behind me were also distracted enough not to notice the foolish woman standing in the middle of the road snapping pictures of trees.
Anyway.
I’ve worked in German Village for about eight years now and the beauty of the flowering trees and carefully tended gardens around here never cease to amaze me. But it’s like I have this reaction every single year. Wouldn’t you think I’d be used to it by now? Oh well, I guess I’d rather be amazed at the beauty of God’s creation than to be blasé and all world-weary about it.
Okay, and if I am to be completely honest here, I think I especially like that other people are doing all the gardening work and I just get to enjoy it! I’m not a digging in the dirt kinda person. Just think what it does to a good manicure. Or at least that’s an excuse I can come up with off the top of my head. Yeah, I think I’ll stick with that one.
Sometimes I get cranky about German Village. The cool looking brick-lined streets can be a bumpy ride from hell that tortures the shocks and struts on my car. I cannot tell you how many nails have had to be pulled out of the tires over all these years because the spaces between the bricks are perfect hiding places for sharp, pointy objects. And I sometimes have to say a quick prayer and hope for the best as I attempt to cross a street at which the drivers perpendicular to me do not have a stop sign. It’s way too hard to see oncoming traffic down here. Sometimes I think I even close my eyes a little bit. Probably I shouldn’t admit that.
But even with all of those shortcomings and take-your-life-in-your-hands moments, I do appreciate the beauty of this small community. Just don’t ask me to move down here. Parking is another issue altogether.
I hope you enjoy these spring-filled, flowering trees days. They only come once a year.
Oh, and I brought my camera today. Film at 11.
Suddenly, I looked – really looked – at the road ahead of me. And I was knocked out! Not literally, of course, which is a good thing since I was driving.
But the Flowering Pear trees that line the street were bursting with blooms and it was like fluffy white clouds had descended from the sky and landed on the trees. I was awestruck. I say this, because my eyes snapped open just as my lower jaw unhinged and my mouth opened wide. I probably looked like a fish, so I’m thinking that should qualify as “awestruck.”
Right then I wished I had my camera so I could stop in the middle of the road to take a picture. Thank goodness the camera was safely tucked away at home as I’m sure I would’ve at the very least pissed off the drivers behind me who would’ve had to slam on their brakes to avoid the foolish woman taking pictures of the trees from the middle of the road. The very worst would’ve been if the drivers behind me were also distracted enough not to notice the foolish woman standing in the middle of the road snapping pictures of trees.
Anyway.
I’ve worked in German Village for about eight years now and the beauty of the flowering trees and carefully tended gardens around here never cease to amaze me. But it’s like I have this reaction every single year. Wouldn’t you think I’d be used to it by now? Oh well, I guess I’d rather be amazed at the beauty of God’s creation than to be blasé and all world-weary about it.
Okay, and if I am to be completely honest here, I think I especially like that other people are doing all the gardening work and I just get to enjoy it! I’m not a digging in the dirt kinda person. Just think what it does to a good manicure. Or at least that’s an excuse I can come up with off the top of my head. Yeah, I think I’ll stick with that one.
Sometimes I get cranky about German Village. The cool looking brick-lined streets can be a bumpy ride from hell that tortures the shocks and struts on my car. I cannot tell you how many nails have had to be pulled out of the tires over all these years because the spaces between the bricks are perfect hiding places for sharp, pointy objects. And I sometimes have to say a quick prayer and hope for the best as I attempt to cross a street at which the drivers perpendicular to me do not have a stop sign. It’s way too hard to see oncoming traffic down here. Sometimes I think I even close my eyes a little bit. Probably I shouldn’t admit that.
But even with all of those shortcomings and take-your-life-in-your-hands moments, I do appreciate the beauty of this small community. Just don’t ask me to move down here. Parking is another issue altogether.
I hope you enjoy these spring-filled, flowering trees days. They only come once a year.
Oh, and I brought my camera today. Film at 11.
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Disco Fever?
The only reason I listen to the radio on my drive home these days is to hear the traffic report. By the time I usually hear it, however, I’m already on the specific route that is jammed up because of some accident ahead. But at least it confirms for me the reason we’re inching along at about 5MPH.
Once I hear said traffic report, I generally turn off the radio to enjoy a little peace and quiet before arriving home. Not that once I get home it’ll be strife and mayhem – not in the least. But once in a while, I just like a little quiet.
Except for the other day. As soon as the traffic guy finished his report, the song “Brick House” by the Commodores started playing. And, boy, did that take me back wayyyy more years than I’d like to admit. So I turned the radio up – loud – and started bopping my head along to the beat. I even confess to warbling along with Lionel Ritchie, but since I was completely off-key I’ll deny even knowing the words should anyone ask me for my rendition of the song.
“Brick House?” I’ll say. “Oh, I was barely born when that song came out, so I really couldn’t even pretend to know the words!”
Nah. I doubt anyone would buy that story…
Anyway, I thoroughly enjoyed my blast from the past moment. And I thought, isn’t it funny how songs do that – remind you of another time in your life? What’s even more interesting to me is that nostalgia tends to color our perspective. Because, if I were to be completely honest, I don’t think I even liked that song back in 1977!
Don’t get me wrong, I (reluctantly) admit to being a true “Disco Queen” and spent many an evening at the Serene Lounge on the south campus at OSU. I could probably also dredge up the names of a couple other discos in the area – like Charlie Bears on the East side, and…? (Oh, thank goodness, I can’t remember the name of the other place we’d drive to on the west side of Columbus to, um, “boogie down.”)
There were a lot of guy friends who wouldn’t be caught dead in any of those discos, but then we also had a great group of guys who loved to dance as much as we did. And, whether we like to admit it now, or not, we had a great time!
Today when folks hear those songs, even if they were “barely born” back then, they tend to bop their heads along to the beat. And I had to laugh when I watched “Mama Mia” and heard all those ABBA songs (another group I didn’t especially care for back in the 70s). Yet I bopped along in a nostalgic haze to “Take a Chance on Me” and “Dancing Queen.”
So while this was sort of an embarrassing walk down memory lane (disco did that to us!), I take comfort in the knowledge that the music kids are listening to today will also, one day, be a little embarrassing.
Yes, time marches on and someday, somewhere, someone will hear a song on the radio – and they will bop their heads along to the beat and may even warble off-key along with the singer, too. And they’ll think about how much fun they had as a teenager back in 2010.
Once I hear said traffic report, I generally turn off the radio to enjoy a little peace and quiet before arriving home. Not that once I get home it’ll be strife and mayhem – not in the least. But once in a while, I just like a little quiet.
Except for the other day. As soon as the traffic guy finished his report, the song “Brick House” by the Commodores started playing. And, boy, did that take me back wayyyy more years than I’d like to admit. So I turned the radio up – loud – and started bopping my head along to the beat. I even confess to warbling along with Lionel Ritchie, but since I was completely off-key I’ll deny even knowing the words should anyone ask me for my rendition of the song.
“Brick House?” I’ll say. “Oh, I was barely born when that song came out, so I really couldn’t even pretend to know the words!”
Nah. I doubt anyone would buy that story…
Anyway, I thoroughly enjoyed my blast from the past moment. And I thought, isn’t it funny how songs do that – remind you of another time in your life? What’s even more interesting to me is that nostalgia tends to color our perspective. Because, if I were to be completely honest, I don’t think I even liked that song back in 1977!
Don’t get me wrong, I (reluctantly) admit to being a true “Disco Queen” and spent many an evening at the Serene Lounge on the south campus at OSU. I could probably also dredge up the names of a couple other discos in the area – like Charlie Bears on the East side, and…? (Oh, thank goodness, I can’t remember the name of the other place we’d drive to on the west side of Columbus to, um, “boogie down.”)
There were a lot of guy friends who wouldn’t be caught dead in any of those discos, but then we also had a great group of guys who loved to dance as much as we did. And, whether we like to admit it now, or not, we had a great time!
Today when folks hear those songs, even if they were “barely born” back then, they tend to bop their heads along to the beat. And I had to laugh when I watched “Mama Mia” and heard all those ABBA songs (another group I didn’t especially care for back in the 70s). Yet I bopped along in a nostalgic haze to “Take a Chance on Me” and “Dancing Queen.”
So while this was sort of an embarrassing walk down memory lane (disco did that to us!), I take comfort in the knowledge that the music kids are listening to today will also, one day, be a little embarrassing.
Yes, time marches on and someday, somewhere, someone will hear a song on the radio – and they will bop their heads along to the beat and may even warble off-key along with the singer, too. And they’ll think about how much fun they had as a teenager back in 2010.
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
You Want a Drink with Those McNuggets?
My salad today was sort of boring. A little Boston/Bibb/Butter (pick a name!) lettuce, a few sliced black olives, slivered almonds and some garbanzo beans thrown in for good measure. But no meat. Guess we haven’t grilled any chicken at home lately and haven’t had any to add to our daily salads.
Yes, I make salads for our lunches every day. Except for the nights we’re out and get home too late or I’m just plain too tired to make them. Vince might say that happens a lot, but I say the percentages are on my side and we have salads for lunch more days than not.
Anyway, I was bored with a salad without meat, so I went through the McDonald’s drive-thru at lunchtime. I ordered a Diet Coke and a 5-piece order of Chicken McNuggets so I could break them in half and add them to my salad du jour and give it a little extra ‘something.’ (A discussion about the unhealthy aspects of Chicken McNuggets not appearing in this particular blog. Thanks for asking.)
Anyway, I drove on my merry way to the park to enjoy my now chicken-filled salad. There I was sitting on a bench in the sunshine, munching away happily and reading yesterday’s newspaper (I’m a little behind the times, what can I say?!). And then it happened. I took a sip of Diet Coke and discovered it wasn’t Diet Coke at all – but regular Coke. With sugar. Bleh!
I’m one of those people who didn’t drink sugary sodas as a kid and was only introduced to the caffeine aspects of Diet Coke as a freshman at Ohio State. I didn’t like coffee in any form and when I tried regular Coke (now called, what? Coke Classic?) I thought it was way too sweet with a sugary aftertaste I didn’t like. I know it’s sort of backward since many people don’t like the “chemical” taste of Diet Coke. Anyway, I must say that Diet Coke got me through many an all-nighter at OSU.
But I digress. The point – and, yes, there IS one (!), is that I was annoyed because I ordered a Diet Coke. I paid for a Diet Coke. But I received a regular Coke, which I wasn’t remotely interested in drinking. And by this point I didn’t want to take the time to drive all the way back to McDonald’s to complain and get what I’d ordered.
So instead, I whipped out my trusty iPhone and called the store to complain. The manager was very nice and told me to use his name and when I came in the next time I would get a Diet Coke at no charge. Well, that’s nice and all, but I honestly don’t make a habit of frequenting McDonald’s so I can assure you I won’t remember the manager’s name, nor will I remember the date of my last visit. And it’s a pretty good ploy on their part to get customers who were dissatisfied with the service the first time around, to come back in and spend more money.
I guess that’s a good lesson for me. Vince would tell me that, yeah, the lesson is to stop buying Diet Coke! That’s because he’s been trying to wean me off Diet Coke and has been urging me to drink coffee. Only he has to doctor up the coffee so much with sugar-free flavorings and soy milk and whipped cream to get me to drink it, I shudder at the number of calories involved! (Hey, honey, guess how many calories Diet Coke has? ZERO!)
Yes, I could drink water. And I do – believe me. I drink water from the time I come in to work in the morning until I leave at night. Sometimes I even drink a glass of water in the evening, provided the preferred glass of red wine is not on the table. So I have no problem getting in the requisite number of glasses of H2O. Sometimes a person just wants a different taste.
But apparently not Coke with sugar. Bleh.
And, while I’m not exactly sure what we’ll be doing tonight, I sort of suspect it will involve chicken on the grill. But, that’s okay because, hey, I’ll take Vince’s grilled chicken over Chicken McNuggets any ol’ day!
Yes, I make salads for our lunches every day. Except for the nights we’re out and get home too late or I’m just plain too tired to make them. Vince might say that happens a lot, but I say the percentages are on my side and we have salads for lunch more days than not.
Anyway, I was bored with a salad without meat, so I went through the McDonald’s drive-thru at lunchtime. I ordered a Diet Coke and a 5-piece order of Chicken McNuggets so I could break them in half and add them to my salad du jour and give it a little extra ‘something.’ (A discussion about the unhealthy aspects of Chicken McNuggets not appearing in this particular blog. Thanks for asking.)
Anyway, I drove on my merry way to the park to enjoy my now chicken-filled salad. There I was sitting on a bench in the sunshine, munching away happily and reading yesterday’s newspaper (I’m a little behind the times, what can I say?!). And then it happened. I took a sip of Diet Coke and discovered it wasn’t Diet Coke at all – but regular Coke. With sugar. Bleh!
I’m one of those people who didn’t drink sugary sodas as a kid and was only introduced to the caffeine aspects of Diet Coke as a freshman at Ohio State. I didn’t like coffee in any form and when I tried regular Coke (now called, what? Coke Classic?) I thought it was way too sweet with a sugary aftertaste I didn’t like. I know it’s sort of backward since many people don’t like the “chemical” taste of Diet Coke. Anyway, I must say that Diet Coke got me through many an all-nighter at OSU.
But I digress. The point – and, yes, there IS one (!), is that I was annoyed because I ordered a Diet Coke. I paid for a Diet Coke. But I received a regular Coke, which I wasn’t remotely interested in drinking. And by this point I didn’t want to take the time to drive all the way back to McDonald’s to complain and get what I’d ordered.
So instead, I whipped out my trusty iPhone and called the store to complain. The manager was very nice and told me to use his name and when I came in the next time I would get a Diet Coke at no charge. Well, that’s nice and all, but I honestly don’t make a habit of frequenting McDonald’s so I can assure you I won’t remember the manager’s name, nor will I remember the date of my last visit. And it’s a pretty good ploy on their part to get customers who were dissatisfied with the service the first time around, to come back in and spend more money.
I guess that’s a good lesson for me. Vince would tell me that, yeah, the lesson is to stop buying Diet Coke! That’s because he’s been trying to wean me off Diet Coke and has been urging me to drink coffee. Only he has to doctor up the coffee so much with sugar-free flavorings and soy milk and whipped cream to get me to drink it, I shudder at the number of calories involved! (Hey, honey, guess how many calories Diet Coke has? ZERO!)
Yes, I could drink water. And I do – believe me. I drink water from the time I come in to work in the morning until I leave at night. Sometimes I even drink a glass of water in the evening, provided the preferred glass of red wine is not on the table. So I have no problem getting in the requisite number of glasses of H2O. Sometimes a person just wants a different taste.
But apparently not Coke with sugar. Bleh.
And, while I’m not exactly sure what we’ll be doing tonight, I sort of suspect it will involve chicken on the grill. But, that’s okay because, hey, I’ll take Vince’s grilled chicken over Chicken McNuggets any ol’ day!
Monday, April 5, 2010
Swoerij Dowier Hlorper
The other night I was driving home from work and I had a million ideas swirling around in my brain for future blogs (as well as some not-so-fun chores to add to my “to do” list). I was so filled with inspiration that I grabbed the notebook from the passenger seat that I keep there for just such opportunities and I scribbled down all those great ideas for future contemplation. I was mindful of my primary purpose, which was to maneuver a large heavy metal machine through rush hour traffic. And, yes, while I did take my right hand off the wheel temporarily in order to write, I kept my eyes on the road the entire time.
I can prove it, too. How? Well, because I took a look at the notebook last night…and I couldn’t decipher a single thing I wrote. Nope, absolutely no freakin’ idea! Fortunately, I also couldn’t decipher the not-so-fun chores, so it looks like they aren’t gonna get added to my “to do” list anytime soon. Small blessings, eh?
Nevertheless, it’s a little frustrating. I mean, scribbles that look sort of like “hlorper” and “riolding” don’t help much. And I simply can’t remember what I was so inspired about, either. Wouldn’t you think if they were so inspirational, I’d be able to recall at least some part of the concept that might allow me to piece the idea together again?
I don’t think I can blame it on getting older and more forgetful because I’ve been like this for a long time. And, no, it’s not because I’ve been having “blonde moments” my entire life either. Sheesh! (Welllll, okay, so there have been a few moments – but I think I’ll just keep those incidents to myself for the time being...)
No, there have been many nights just before I fall asleep when I’ll come up with the perfect gift for that impossible-to-buy for relative. Or I’ll compose the perfect letter – whether it’s for personal or business. Or I’ll think about some key ingredient I absolutely can’t forget to buy when I hit the grocery store the next day. Then, in the morning, I’ll have completely forgotten what I’d come up with. I’ve kept notebooks on the bedside table, but I have to admit that the results were similar to my note writing experience in the car the other night.
So…c’mon. Help me out here. Haven’t these things happened to you, too? It’s not just me – right? Right?! Haven’t you meant to add “laundry detergent” to the list because you’ve used up the very last drop in the container and have a mountain of laundry still to do? You figure you couldn't possibly forget such an important item. And then you go to the store and the one stinkin’ thing you’ve forgotten is the bottle of Tide?
I think my cell phone has some sort of application that will allow me to record notes, which would be helpful – if I only knew how to operate the application. Besides, it’s not really convenient for those times when I must keep my eyes on the road because I’m maneuvering a large heavy metal machine through rush hour traffic. Hmmm. Maybe in the future I should pull over to the side of the road to record my ideas. Knowing me, though, I’d probably push the wrong button thus losing my perfect idea for eternity.
So…the subject of today’s blog is: “Swoerij Dowier Hlorper.” Hahaha! Isn’t that hysterical??! I think it might be the best thing I’ve ever written!
Yeah, well, anyway. I hope your day is inspired. Happy Riolding…
…or something like that.
I can prove it, too. How? Well, because I took a look at the notebook last night…and I couldn’t decipher a single thing I wrote. Nope, absolutely no freakin’ idea! Fortunately, I also couldn’t decipher the not-so-fun chores, so it looks like they aren’t gonna get added to my “to do” list anytime soon. Small blessings, eh?
Nevertheless, it’s a little frustrating. I mean, scribbles that look sort of like “hlorper” and “riolding” don’t help much. And I simply can’t remember what I was so inspired about, either. Wouldn’t you think if they were so inspirational, I’d be able to recall at least some part of the concept that might allow me to piece the idea together again?
I don’t think I can blame it on getting older and more forgetful because I’ve been like this for a long time. And, no, it’s not because I’ve been having “blonde moments” my entire life either. Sheesh! (Welllll, okay, so there have been a few moments – but I think I’ll just keep those incidents to myself for the time being...)
No, there have been many nights just before I fall asleep when I’ll come up with the perfect gift for that impossible-to-buy for relative. Or I’ll compose the perfect letter – whether it’s for personal or business. Or I’ll think about some key ingredient I absolutely can’t forget to buy when I hit the grocery store the next day. Then, in the morning, I’ll have completely forgotten what I’d come up with. I’ve kept notebooks on the bedside table, but I have to admit that the results were similar to my note writing experience in the car the other night.
So…c’mon. Help me out here. Haven’t these things happened to you, too? It’s not just me – right? Right?! Haven’t you meant to add “laundry detergent” to the list because you’ve used up the very last drop in the container and have a mountain of laundry still to do? You figure you couldn't possibly forget such an important item. And then you go to the store and the one stinkin’ thing you’ve forgotten is the bottle of Tide?
I think my cell phone has some sort of application that will allow me to record notes, which would be helpful – if I only knew how to operate the application. Besides, it’s not really convenient for those times when I must keep my eyes on the road because I’m maneuvering a large heavy metal machine through rush hour traffic. Hmmm. Maybe in the future I should pull over to the side of the road to record my ideas. Knowing me, though, I’d probably push the wrong button thus losing my perfect idea for eternity.
So…the subject of today’s blog is: “Swoerij Dowier Hlorper.” Hahaha! Isn’t that hysterical??! I think it might be the best thing I’ve ever written!
Yeah, well, anyway. I hope your day is inspired. Happy Riolding…
…or something like that.
Friday, April 2, 2010
The Blue Lips Story
My most vivid Easter memory is not, I’m sorry to say, of some stirring sermon I heard in church one Easter Sunday. Nor is it of any particular “Easter Bonnet” I once wore. (And I did, by the way, wear Easter Bonnets once upon a time when females were required to wear headwear in Church.)
No, my most vivid Easter memory is from second grade. My brothers and I woke up at some ungodly hour all giddy with excitement because the Easter Bunny had surely arrived and we could feast on chocolate to our little hearts’ content – at least until Mom and Dad got up and took away our baskets until after dinner when we might be allowed to have a sweet or two.
I was the sage eldest sister at the ripe old age of 7 and my brother Andrew was a cute 5-year-old towhead. That year we were introduced for the first time to those pastel-colored malted milk eggs – you know the ones I’m talking about? We had never had them before and, instead of crunching into them as John and I were doing, Andrew started sucking on them. And, to our horror, his lips turned a vivid shade of blue! We didn’t know what had happened, but we wondered if he was going to be forced to live forever with bright blue lips. Or perhaps he might succumb to some horrible Blue Lip Disease. We simply didn’t know. And, c’mon, you’ve gotta remember – we’d only lived thus far into the single digits. We didn’t have the life experience of, say, a 10-year-old!
Anyway, being the sage eldest sister at the ripe old age of 7 meant that I had a judgment call to make. We could immediately awaken our parents to handle the blue lip situation. Or we could let it go for a short while and see if Andrew keeled over dramatically clutching at his lips, at which time we would, without question, wake up our parents.
Naturally, our oldest brother, John, didn’t want to sound the alarm because our parents would take away our Easter baskets a whole lot sooner than anticipated. But sage eldest sisters also don’t want the responsibility of forcing younger brothers to go through life with bright blue lips.
So, Andrew and I tiptoed into our parent’s bedroom and gently shook my mother’s shoulder. As an RN, we figured she had all the medical knowledge required to handle a situation such as this. And we thought she’d take one look at Andrew and bound out of bed with an immediate solution.
Instead, she sleepily looked at him and then looked at me. I must have had such a look of consternation on my face that she simply laughed! And then she told Andrew to get a washcloth and wipe off the blue dye.
Oh, and then she told us to put away our Easter baskets until after dinner. Bummer.
When we got a little older, my little sister Denise and I would take the pink eggs and smear them over our lips intentionally so we could wear “lipstick.” I don’t really remember, but I suspect Mom probably told us to get a washcloth and wipe the pink dye off our lips.
Anyway, I still remember that particular Easter Sunday and it makes me smile.
I’m not sure which of the priests will be delivering the sermon at St. Andrew’s this Easter Sunday, but I’m sure it’ll be stirring. And it might even replace the blue lips story as my most vivid Easter memory. Maybe.
Whatever your plans, I hope you’ll spend Easter Sunday with family and friends making lasting memories of your own.
No, my most vivid Easter memory is from second grade. My brothers and I woke up at some ungodly hour all giddy with excitement because the Easter Bunny had surely arrived and we could feast on chocolate to our little hearts’ content – at least until Mom and Dad got up and took away our baskets until after dinner when we might be allowed to have a sweet or two.
I was the sage eldest sister at the ripe old age of 7 and my brother Andrew was a cute 5-year-old towhead. That year we were introduced for the first time to those pastel-colored malted milk eggs – you know the ones I’m talking about? We had never had them before and, instead of crunching into them as John and I were doing, Andrew started sucking on them. And, to our horror, his lips turned a vivid shade of blue! We didn’t know what had happened, but we wondered if he was going to be forced to live forever with bright blue lips. Or perhaps he might succumb to some horrible Blue Lip Disease. We simply didn’t know. And, c’mon, you’ve gotta remember – we’d only lived thus far into the single digits. We didn’t have the life experience of, say, a 10-year-old!
Anyway, being the sage eldest sister at the ripe old age of 7 meant that I had a judgment call to make. We could immediately awaken our parents to handle the blue lip situation. Or we could let it go for a short while and see if Andrew keeled over dramatically clutching at his lips, at which time we would, without question, wake up our parents.
Naturally, our oldest brother, John, didn’t want to sound the alarm because our parents would take away our Easter baskets a whole lot sooner than anticipated. But sage eldest sisters also don’t want the responsibility of forcing younger brothers to go through life with bright blue lips.
So, Andrew and I tiptoed into our parent’s bedroom and gently shook my mother’s shoulder. As an RN, we figured she had all the medical knowledge required to handle a situation such as this. And we thought she’d take one look at Andrew and bound out of bed with an immediate solution.
Instead, she sleepily looked at him and then looked at me. I must have had such a look of consternation on my face that she simply laughed! And then she told Andrew to get a washcloth and wipe off the blue dye.
Oh, and then she told us to put away our Easter baskets until after dinner. Bummer.
When we got a little older, my little sister Denise and I would take the pink eggs and smear them over our lips intentionally so we could wear “lipstick.” I don’t really remember, but I suspect Mom probably told us to get a washcloth and wipe the pink dye off our lips.
Anyway, I still remember that particular Easter Sunday and it makes me smile.
I’m not sure which of the priests will be delivering the sermon at St. Andrew’s this Easter Sunday, but I’m sure it’ll be stirring. And it might even replace the blue lips story as my most vivid Easter memory. Maybe.
Whatever your plans, I hope you’ll spend Easter Sunday with family and friends making lasting memories of your own.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Just a Coupla April Fools
Today is April Fool’s Day, and no, I’m not going to try to trick you or anything else. I always thought April Fool’s jokes were, well, a little foolish. Yeah, okay, so that maybe deserves a “Duh, Jane…” (Okay, all together now…!)
The funny thing is that Vince and I had our first date on April 1st two years ago. (Insert joke here.) But it seems like a lifetime ago already, and it feels like we’ve known each other so much longer.
We met online – on MySpace – if you can believe it. I had just created a profile on MySpace and was just dipping my toe, so to speak, in the whole social networking arena. (Yeah, okay, I realize that was a mixed metaphor. Work with me here, people!)
Anyway, one Friday we had a big snowstorm and I was stuck inside all weekend and I wanted to talk to someone else from Columbus who was also stuck inside. Somehow I chose Vince. But, while he may have been stuck inside, he wasn’t manning his computer right then. I wrote a note in my goofy, chatty way and waited for a response so I could enter the Wonderful World of IM-ing. And…nothin’. He finally responded two days later after I had shoveled my way out of my driveway. Timing, eh?
Fortunately, he responded in a non-threatening way, so we started e-mailing each other. I was e-mailing other people, too, because I wasn’t really on a “meet my future husband online” quest. I wasn’t even really interested in dating – just in getting to know what the whole IM-chatting-MySpace-Facebook thing was all about.
And guess what I discovered? Some people on these sites are – gasp! – liars and stuff. Can you believe that?! I heard from scammers and men who were married but pretending they weren’t. Not only that, but then I’d hear from women I didn’t know who wrote to warn me about these scammers and married men. I thought the whole thing seemed a little seedy and sordid and made me question the entire social networking business. If I had truly been interested in actually going out with any of these men, I might have been upset, but I wasn’t exactly emotionally invested in any of these (quote) relationships (end quote).
All I could do was shake my head and wonder what had happened to people. Where, I wondered, had all the good, honest people gone? But, I figured if I was good and honest (relatively speaking, of course!), then I had to assume there were others out there, too.
And, yes, by Vince’s second e-mail he wanted to “close the deal” (as he says) and get me to agree to go on a date with him. Hey, he’s a car guy, that’s how they talk! Anyway, I told him (gently, I hope) that I wasn’t interested in dating. He didn’t seem like one, but I needed to find out if he was a scammer or a married man pretending he wasn’t.
He wasn’t. Just for the record.
Vince also wasn’t easily deterred. Apparently I wrote him an e-mail every day – and one day I didn’t. Guess I was busy that day or somethin’. He wrote me a very nice e-mail that evening saying how he really looked forward to my daily notes and hoped that all was well. So, ego-driven person that I am, I was diggin’ the fact that there was someone out there who enjoyed hearing from me.
Eventually, we moved on to actual IM chatting and then phone calls. And then, as April approached, he tried the ‘let’s go on a date’ thing again. And this time I accepted. Hey, I figured if it didn’t work out, we’d both get a funny “I went out with this joker on April Fool’s Day…” story out of it.
Life can be so unpredictable, can’t it? I mean, I could’ve chosen a dozen different people to write to on MySpace that snowy Friday. Why Vince? You could call it fate. You could call it luck. Whatever. We both call it a gift from God. And we are grateful.
So…Happy April Fool’s Day, everyone. And Happy Anniversary, Vince. I love you!
The funny thing is that Vince and I had our first date on April 1st two years ago. (Insert joke here.) But it seems like a lifetime ago already, and it feels like we’ve known each other so much longer.
We met online – on MySpace – if you can believe it. I had just created a profile on MySpace and was just dipping my toe, so to speak, in the whole social networking arena. (Yeah, okay, I realize that was a mixed metaphor. Work with me here, people!)
Anyway, one Friday we had a big snowstorm and I was stuck inside all weekend and I wanted to talk to someone else from Columbus who was also stuck inside. Somehow I chose Vince. But, while he may have been stuck inside, he wasn’t manning his computer right then. I wrote a note in my goofy, chatty way and waited for a response so I could enter the Wonderful World of IM-ing. And…nothin’. He finally responded two days later after I had shoveled my way out of my driveway. Timing, eh?
Fortunately, he responded in a non-threatening way, so we started e-mailing each other. I was e-mailing other people, too, because I wasn’t really on a “meet my future husband online” quest. I wasn’t even really interested in dating – just in getting to know what the whole IM-chatting-MySpace-Facebook thing was all about.
And guess what I discovered? Some people on these sites are – gasp! – liars and stuff. Can you believe that?! I heard from scammers and men who were married but pretending they weren’t. Not only that, but then I’d hear from women I didn’t know who wrote to warn me about these scammers and married men. I thought the whole thing seemed a little seedy and sordid and made me question the entire social networking business. If I had truly been interested in actually going out with any of these men, I might have been upset, but I wasn’t exactly emotionally invested in any of these (quote) relationships (end quote).
All I could do was shake my head and wonder what had happened to people. Where, I wondered, had all the good, honest people gone? But, I figured if I was good and honest (relatively speaking, of course!), then I had to assume there were others out there, too.
And, yes, by Vince’s second e-mail he wanted to “close the deal” (as he says) and get me to agree to go on a date with him. Hey, he’s a car guy, that’s how they talk! Anyway, I told him (gently, I hope) that I wasn’t interested in dating. He didn’t seem like one, but I needed to find out if he was a scammer or a married man pretending he wasn’t.
He wasn’t. Just for the record.
Vince also wasn’t easily deterred. Apparently I wrote him an e-mail every day – and one day I didn’t. Guess I was busy that day or somethin’. He wrote me a very nice e-mail that evening saying how he really looked forward to my daily notes and hoped that all was well. So, ego-driven person that I am, I was diggin’ the fact that there was someone out there who enjoyed hearing from me.
Eventually, we moved on to actual IM chatting and then phone calls. And then, as April approached, he tried the ‘let’s go on a date’ thing again. And this time I accepted. Hey, I figured if it didn’t work out, we’d both get a funny “I went out with this joker on April Fool’s Day…” story out of it.
Life can be so unpredictable, can’t it? I mean, I could’ve chosen a dozen different people to write to on MySpace that snowy Friday. Why Vince? You could call it fate. You could call it luck. Whatever. We both call it a gift from God. And we are grateful.
So…Happy April Fool’s Day, everyone. And Happy Anniversary, Vince. I love you!
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