What a difference two months makes . . .

A photographic illustration of the earth's rotation around the sun:

Intersection at 5:05 PM, December 28, 2006














Intersection at 5:05 PM, February 28, 2007

We're all freak shows

I’m going to a church women’s retreat this weekend.

That sounds bad. I mean, I don’t like church women’s retreats on principle. A bunch of women, listening to a speaker tell them how they can improve their devotions or keep their husbands happy or apply makeup properly or make crafts from household items.

Yuck. Definitely not my thing.

But this is not that kind of retreat. It’s just a bunch of cool women I go to church with hanging out for a day and a half. Very little schedule, and no guest speaker. Just eating and talking . . . and I can handle that.

Past retreats have had NO schedule, but this retreat has a little bit of a schedule, and the plan is to write a 71-word essay to share on a time you “did or didn’t feel odd.” I think this is a fun topic, because I’ve been thinking about it lately.

The thing is, I feel odd most of the time. At work, especially, but in plenty of other social situations. I feel like the weird one, the one that doesn’t fit in. And that’s not unusual, I don’t think. Lots of people feel odd. And I like the reasons I’m odd, for the most part, but it gets tiresome, too. And that’s why feeling not-odd is such a rarity and a pleasure. So I think I should probably write about feeling not-odd, just because it doesn’t happen all that often.

Here’s what I started:

Friends are the people who make you feel “not-odd.” Or at least not-so-odd. Because if there’s two of you who feel the same way, well, then you’re not alone. Maybe that’s how we find our good friends . . . they’re the people who, when we’re with them, don’t make us feel too odd.

I don’t feel odd when I’m talking to Joy about God and church and people we know. She gets it. I don’t feel odd when Mike and I invent a network-marketing cereal company and get all excited about it for ten minutes, or argue about whether a Killer Asteroid or a military coup is more likely in the next 100 years. I don’t feel odd when Tim and I discuss the relative merits of Cat Stevens songs (or any song, for that matter), or if I know an obscure fact when we play trivia. I don’t feel odd when I read something in a blog that could’ve been written by me (like this line from one of Sara’s recent posts: “It's incomprehensible to me now that I could have been upset that a boy I had never met nor talked to didn't meet my gaze and fall in love instantly.” See, I could’ve written that.)

Crap, I’m already at 225 words. I’m going to have to cut that down. Seventy-one words isn’t enough to say anything . . . except maybe to advertise for a network-marketing cereal company.

Light it Up

There are two kinds of dirty.

There's the camping kind. The grubbiness. The greasy hair, the woodsmoke smell. The sweatiness that comes from living outside. The general dirt that comes with swimming in a lake and sleeping in a tent and not showering for several days.

And then the Saturday morning post-bar dirtiness. The hair and the coat that smell like cigarette smoke. The tired skin, with a glaze of day-old makeup. The clothes you've been wearing for 24 hours and slept in, the bad taste in a dry mouth.

(Not that I'm speaking from experience or anything).

A couple of months ago, Mike and I were talking at work about smoking . . . he pointed out that years ago, people probably sat at their desks and smoked cigarettes, while in the office. Which seems ridiculously unhealthy and unfathomable now . . . the idea that the smokers at our office could sit in their cubicles and light up. What?! Ha! Nobody would ever expect that.

So . . . it seems like only a matter of time until no one will be smoking indoors anywhere. When it will seem just as ridiculous to smoke in bar as it does to smoke at work. If my kids go out on Friday nights, they might come home slightly less dirty than I do, and not reeking of cigarette smoke.

And if they do reek, I'll know what they've been up to. Bad future kids.

Friday afternoon . . .

It's 4:30 PM and there is not one manager or boss in the entire building.

And yet, we are all still here.

We are very good employees.

But who's in charge? Anarchy and chaos could break out RIGHT NOW and there would be no one to stop it.

Ashes, ashes

I got my ashes on my hand instead of my forehead tonight. I thought I could see them better there, but the minute I put my hands in my pockets they mostly rubbed off. Except that I have a scratch on my hand, and the ashes stuck to the small scab. Which sort of fits. The dirt and the imperfection.

And now, a poem for Ash Wednesday.

Let Evening Come

Let the light of late afternoon
shine through chinks in the barn, moving
up the bales as the sun moves down.

Let the cricket take up chafing
as a woman takes up her needles
and her yarn.  Let evening come.

Let dew collect on the hoe abandoned
in long grass.  Let the stars appear
and the moon disclose her silver horn.

Let the fox go back to its sandy den.
Let the wind die down.  Let the shed
go black inside.  Let evening come.

To the bottle in the ditch, to the scoop
in the oats, to air in the lung
let evening come.

Let it come, as it will, and don't
be afraid.  God does not leave us
comfortless, so let evening come.

--Jane Kenyon from Let Evening Come (1990)

On the Cutting Edge

These past few weeks have been full of technological advances. I just started an iTunes collection. I’m getting DSL this week (hooray!), and I just got a MySpace.

I was resisting the whole MySpace thing because it seemed like I was too old, but I know enough people who are on there, so I signed up. And it’s like this whole new world inside the computer! I spent most of my snow day last Wednesday looking up people I know and reading their complete profiles, their friends’ profiles, and the comments left for them by others. I found out later that this could be considered being a “MySpace stalker.” Honestly, though, I thought that’s what MySpace was for.

And there are unspoken codes, and all kinds of potential drama . . . who’s in your top friends. Who is your TOP top friend . . . and who has you as a top friend? When do you change your profile from “single” to “in a relationship?” If someone leaves you a comment, are you supposed to reply? Etc, etc.

Not that I would ever worry about these kinds of things. Because I am way too cool for that.

So many choices . . .

I was thinking today about all my email addresses. More specifically, how many I have.

Twelve.

Two or three that I never use. One that is my junk email address, one that is my secret alias email address. My work one, my home one, two on yahoo, two on gmail. My hotmail that is kept specifically for my college friends. It's a little ridiculous, but it spreads out the chaos.

Is this normal? How many email addresses do you have?

------------------------------------------------

I'm ready to be done hearing about Anna Nicole and Britney. These women are train-wrecks. Let's just stop watching and let them do whatever they do. (Or whatever one of them does. The other one is dead.)

I could use another snow day this week.

February made me shiver

On Tuesday I was joking about the GIANT APOCALYPTIC SNOWSTORM, but good grief. The world is a sheet of ice! Or at least all the pavement in Lancaster County.

Yesterday was a snow day (the office actually closed) and today was just sliding and packed snow. The trip through the city was like off-roading, what with the 6-inch snow pack. Tonight I spent my time chipping at the ice pack on my sidewalk. I managed to create an 8-inch-wide path through the drifts by working in fifteen minute increments and dispersing wide swaths of ice melt. I'm going to be sore tomorrow.

Buying milk on Tuesday was not a bad idea.

You know you're from Central PA when . . .

These aren't mine, I stole them from someone else . . . but most are pretty good.

1. Your idea of Chicken Pot Pie has nothing to do with a pie and you can't figure out why people might think it would.
   
2. You know how to cook, but not without butter.
   
3. You know what a Fire Hall Wedding is.
   
4. You've been to a Chicken and Waffle Dinner.
5. You spend at least 30 minutes every summer day complaining about New Jersey drivers.
   
6. You don't understand why people would ever want to see the Amish.
7. You have ever ended a sentence with "a while".
8. You've heard of 7-11 but you've never seen one.
9. You cannot buy beer and wine from the same store.
10. Park City has nothing to do with skiing for you.
11. You pronounce Lancaster in "Burt Lancaster" differently from Lancaster in "Lancaster, PA".
12. Your iced tea is sweeter than Pepsi.
13. You know someone who repairs gasoline-powered lawn mowers, but is forbidden to own one.
14. You think Fasnacht Day and Groundhog Day are national holidays.
15. You know that eggs come in either white or brown - and you have a preference.
16. You think the Mississippi is just a tad wider than the Susquehanna.
17. You know who James Buchanan was.
18. You don't have to be told what Shoo-Fly Pie is.
19. You go to the store when the milk is "all".
20. You think orange traffic cones are the natural foliage surrounding Route 30.
21. The verb "to be" is useless: "Does Fido need out?"
22. You know that "long johns" are something you eat.
23. You know what a Turkey Hill is, and you've ditched school to hang out there.
24. Rush hour is on Saturday afternoon -- in the summer.
25. You reocognize "Twin Kiss" and "Freez and Frizz," knowing that Dairy Queen is a pale imitation.
26. Dutch Wonderland is neither Dutch nor much of a Wonderland.
27. WGAL is the source of all local celebrities and they create quite a stir when they shop in the supermarket.
28. You go out of state just to drive on smooth roads.
29. You've ordered "dippy eggs" for breakfast.
30. You think tourist attractions consist of a pretzel factory, a chocolate factory and an Amish family out for a drive.
31. You live within two miles of a plant that makes potato chips, corn chips, pretzels, candy, ice cream or that packages turkeys, beans, or bologna.
32. You can stop along the road to buy fruit, vegetables or crafts on the "honor system."
33. Your turkey has "filling," not "stuffing" and most certainly NOT "dressing."
34. You know that chicken corn soup from a firehouse is the most perfect food on earth.
35. You consider Pittsburgh to be "out west," and you know the fastest way to Philly is the Turnpike.
36. Words like: gumband, buggie, hoagie, chipped beef, scrapple, actually mean something to you.
37. You've never referred to Philadelphia as anything but "Philly." And New Jersey has always been "Jersey."
38. You refer to Pennsylvania as "PA."
39. "You guys" is a perfectly acceptable reference to a group of men & women.
40. You know how to respond to the question "Djeetyet?" (Didyoueatyet?)
41. You learned to pronounce Bryn Mawr, Wilkes-Barre, Schuylkill, Bala Cynwyd, Duquesne, New Tripoli, Tunkhannock, Punxsutawney, Tamaqua, Susquehanna, Allegheny, and Monongahela.
42. The first day of buck and the first day of doe season are school holidays.
43. At least 5 people on your block have electric "candles" in all or most of their windows all year long.
44. You know several places to purchase or that serve Scrapple, Summer Sausage (Lebanon Bologna), and Hot Bacon Dressing.
45. One of the highlights of your life was a field trip to Penn's Cave and Horseshoe curve.
46. You consider an exotic vacation to be a trip to Ocean City, Virginia Beach, or Myrtle Beach.
47. You know that Blue Ball, Intercourse, Climax, Bird-in-Hand, Virginville, Paradise, Mars, and Slippery Rock are all PA towns.
48. You know that Euchre is a card game and not a form of vomiting.
49. You not only have heard of Birch Beer, but you know that it comes in several colors: Red, Blue, White, Brown, Gold.
50. You consider Pittsburgh to be "out west," and you know the fastest way to Philly is the Turnpike.
51. Know that Yuengling is pronounced "Ying-ling," and that it really is a premium beer
52. You have an uncontrollable urge to buy bread and milk when you hear the word "snow."
53. You only buy your beer and soda by the case.
54. School closings due to snow take the radio stations a half an hour to finish, because just about every town has its own school district.
55. Elect pro-life Democrats and pro-choice Republicans for Governor.

My Shopping List

In preparation for the GIANT APOCALYPTIC SNOWSTORM that we're supposed to get tomorrow:
--milk
--water
--face wash
--soap

Really I just needed all this stuff anyway. But milk was pretty well picked over at 5:30 today. I didn't go in the bread aisle, but I imagine that supplies were pretty slim there, too.

Semi-Pointless Post*

The other night, leaving the Sheetz in Mount Joy, I accidentally got onto an unfamiliar road (because there’s no eastbound 283 entrance at Esbenshade Rd., for those that care), and rather than turn around, I decided to just go with it. I was parallel to 283, so I figured I’d get home eventually, and I had a map in my car.

I like unfamiliar roads when I have a vague idea of where I am, and this was fun. Lots of winding roads that felt old, because they don’t go past any developments, just farms and snowy fields.

The best part, though, was that I’d just read all the stories on this website.

(If you want some stories about the Lancaster of a generation ago, featuring Mennonites I’m distantly related to, go read a couple of these stories. This is the kind of stuff I wish my dad could or would tell me, and I suppose he would, if I asked specifically. If he could even remember. This kind of life is pretty much gone and not coming back).

Anyway, the stories on that website are all set in the area around Landisville . . . Spooky Nook Road, Erisman, Colebrook . . . roads I’d never been on, but suddenly, a day after reading about them, I found all of them by accident. It was kind of like slipping into a time-warp.

Then I got to a crossroads where 72 headed south toward Lancaster, and I realized I’d better turn while I could. So I headed into East Petersburg and back to familiarity.

*this post is semi-pointless because I wrote it with my cousin Tim in mind, and I told him all about yesterday. But hey, go read those stories anyway.

Goodbye to a Friend

"Goodbye to a friend" is the subject line of the emails we get at work whenever they announce that someone is leaving, and it’s the title of the email we got two weeks ago when our boss announced to us that Mike was leaving to take a job in NYC.

I knew about the job and the resignation already, but it was sort of official once it was announced to everyone. And the last few weeks have been a flurry of work activity, finishing things up and passing things over to me. Last week we had his good-bye party, and I've been trying to get used to not having him at work. Tonight he and I hung out for the last time . . . at least the last time for quite awhile. He's leaving PA for good on Friday.

I’ve written here many times about my dislike of changes in general, and it’s sadder when the person leaving is a good friend that you see and work with five days a week. The other day I was sorting my work emails by sender, and I realized I had over 1400 from Mike (runner-up to this is my boss, with a scant 350 or something). Most of emails are just a few lines, asking to check over some copy or exchanging some work gossip or general ridiculousness. And yet not having that anymore is what makes it hardest, I think. The end of the everyday.

Obviously we’ll talk again. I think it’s practically impossible in this world to stay disconnected, what with blogs and email and cell phones and everything. It’s not like he’s going to Siberia . . . quite the opposite. And of course this is an exciting thing. For him, and for his girlfriend, who he’ll actually get to see more than two weekends a month now.

And they both read this blog, so I’ll quit talking about them like they aren’t here.

In other news . . . I cut all my hair off.

Just a fine and fancy ramble

Our office is literally a bit of a zoo. Dogs go galumphing through the cubicles, fish swim in their bowls, and the other day I even saw a gray rabbit in the hallway. Today we had a visit from a bulldog puppy, only eight weeks old and not named yet. I held him cuddled up on my lap for a half-hour and could feel my blood pressure drop like nobody's business. Dog therapy should be required in all offices.


We shall call him . . . Frank.

And last week, Miko discovered my goldfish.



He couldn't take his eyes off that thing. Whining and snuffling. Good thing his owner came around and took him away. I'm not sure how much longer he could've resisted the temptation to climb up on the desk and get that fish.

One more thing about heat . . .

It's freaking freezing.

I've had my heat on for some time now, since it's winter and all. I just pay the stupid gas bill, although my upstairs is still about 60 degrees, and I stay under my covers or leave the house.

But . . . I had a small Super Bowl party at my parents' place tonight. It's a condo, so it's in a building, like an apartment. Temperature (WITH NO HEAT ON AT ALL): 68 degrees. And at the end of the evening, once the place had been full of people and had the oven on, 71.

Why do I even LIVE in my house during the winter?

Trauma-rama

Oh, high school. I spent most of high school not taking risks, and as a result I have very few interesting stories. But here’s one.

I was a very good girl, as has already been stated here. I went to a very tiny high school (my graduating class: 18). And I was the high school newspaper editor. Which was about as tiny as the high school: 8.5x11 paper, printed on the school computer printer, copies run by me. I was really the only one interested in being the “editor,” so I did most of the work.

At our school, we had Senior Wills and Junior Wishes. Seniors could “will” things to the Juniors, and Juniors could “wish” things for or on the Seniors. These were published in the May issue of our newspaper, at least the year that I was editor. I collected them all, typed them up, and then prepared to print them.

Now, a bunch of high schoolers, given free rein, will write some inappropriate stuff. And I knew that some of the wills/wishes were slightly inappropriate, especially for a Christian school. I myself had submitted a slightly inappropriate wish for my brother, veiled in terms only he would understand.

But many of the wills and wishes were not as subtle as mine. And, wishing to be a bit “bad,” I didn’t give the newspaper to my teacher advisor to be edited or proofed. I decided there really wasn’t time, printed the paper, ran the copies, and handed them out.

Then, all hell broke loose. The good thing about this story: I actually have my journal entry from that date. May 24, 1996.

“The bad thing about today was that my uncensored newspaper was distributed, and I was reprimanded by Mr. K---- for that, and then I had to discuss it with Mr. M------ [the principal], but I don’t know what the point of that ways. I started crying, which made me feel stupid and made Mr. M----- and Mrs. F----- feel bad for me. . . . When I saw the newspaper Mr. M----- had, it was all highlighted. I assume that the highlighted parts were the “questionable” parts. He must’ve been reading a lot into it, though, because there weren’t that many questionable parts, although maybe I’m incredibly naïve. That was what bothered me the most—Mr. M------ and Mrs. F----- thought that kids had taken advantage of me—but they hadn’t. Why does that thought bother me so much?”

Two comments. First, I was pretty naïve. My (younger) brother explained all the pot references to me later. Second, it’s sad how much I’m still like this. Apparently even at 17, I could see that I had serious issues with being patronized.

Almost eleven years later, not much has changed.