Of the Not Christian persuasion

I went to a lecture given by a survivor of the Holocaust, one of the so-called "Schlinder's Jews".  I say so-called, because quite honestly, he would vastly be preferred to be known as a renowned Cantor than a Holocaust survivor.  As he explained to us, he lost everyone - - - uncles, cousins, his mother, his sister, ev-ry-one - - - during those horrible years, and it is painful enough to live with his own memories, he neither needs nor wants pity from the rest of us.

Ever since someone gave me a copy of Anne Frank's Diary when I was 11 or 12, I have been a voracious reader of everything I could get my hands on about the Holocaust.  I studied German in college for a few varied reasons; it was the closest thing to Swedish my Uni offered, it was taught by someone I admired....but also in the hope that I would someday be able to read historical documents of the time in the original German.

I'm also a complete language geek, but y'all knew that already.

Due in part to that language geekiness, I even know a few words of Yiddish.  He peppered his lecture with the occasional Yiddish word, and is it wrong that I felt exceedingly smug for knowing what the words meant without a translation?  Probably.

At the end of his remarks, he took questions from the audience, and they were interested in many things about his journey; but a dominant theme, asked several times and in several different ways, was this: how had he survived?  What gave him hope?  What made him able to get through each day, through the thousands of indignities foisted on them, great and small?

Perhaps not surprising, considering that he is a world-renowned Cantor, his answer was that his faith had sustained him.  His spirituality.  Or maybe that is surprising, because you might think that music would have helped him significantly.  After the war, he came to the US and studied at Julliard, and in that, I envy him.  There was a time when I would have killed for that honor.  But he said no, that he had not discovered his musical talents until after the war.

I waited until almost the end of the question-and-answer session to ask my question.  Since he had talked a whole lot about his work as a Cantor, (although he's retired now) and he made a point of telling us how he'd rather be known for his singing than for his survival, I wanted to hear him sing.  So I asked: "Do you still sing, and would you sing for us?"

"I'm retired!" was his immediate response; several people in varied places in the crowd called out (hilariously, completely in chorus) "We don't mind!"  He looked at me and said, "Young woman, you put me on the spot!"  I smiled, completely unrepentant, and apologized.  I was really surprised, though, when the crowd began to urge him along, and began to applaud.

So he did.  I had thought to ask him to sing something joyful, as a counterpoint to the tragedy and horror he spoke of, but decided at the last second that just might have been pushing it, a specific request.  

He sang of faith, how those of the faith never walk alone.  

It was, in a word, glorious.  

I'm always surprised when people's singing voices differ greatly from their speaking voices; I think I sound the same no matter if I'm speaking or singing.  His singing voice was deeper and richer than his speaking voice, and almost without accent.  While when he was speaking, his accent was thick and obvious.

In addition to my language geek issues, I'm also a music geek, so I appreciated what he sang for the sheer musicality of it.  Singing a capella, with no warm-up, no advance warning, on pitch and on key?  Damn near impossible.  And therefore, impressive.  Extremely so.  Moving, too, there was barely a dry eye in the house when he finished.

Mostly due to my sheltered upbringing, I've never run into anyone who was as fervent about their faith as evangelical Christians are.  While I know that there are plenty of people who are as zealous about their non-Christian faiths as the evangelicals, I'd never met one before.

I feel much the same way about his deep faith as I do about the Christians I know; I can admire their faith without sharing it.  It was a beautiful thing to see.

After the lecture, several people thanked me (!!!) for asking him to sing, saying they'd wanted to ask but weren't brave enough.  I waited in line to speak to him, and apologized again for putting him on the spot.  In the most Continental fashion, he winked at me, kissed my hand (which was incredibly cute) and told me he hadn't minded.  I thanked him for indulging me, and told him I felt very lucky to have had the chance to hear him sing.

I left the lecture feeling as if I'd had an epiphany; how about that?  There are other faiths that feel as strongly about their religions.  Who knew?

Tearin' it up

Tuesday passed without me getting a chance to write my usual Tuesday post this week. Sorry about that. I've actually written about 8 posts in the last three days and not a one has made it to the Publish button. Mostly because they're still in my head, but there is a draft or two on my dashboard that just aren't ready.

Therefore, I declare today that this post of Wednesday May 7th is really a Tuesday Brain Dump.

I like to write letters. Long, handwritten missives, on real stationery. I buy stationery whenever the urge strikes me, and there are boxes of them stored with all of my letter-writing supplies. I also own several sets of personalized stationery, that I use for formal occasions; some of which, when written out, are going to sound beyond bizarre, but I already know that I'm strange.

I use the formal stationery for thank-you letters to potential employers after a job interview, something that few people bother to do, but you should do that for EVERY. SINGLE. JOB. INTERVIEW. YOU. HAVE.

(Uh-oh, wait a tic while I shove the manners queen back in her box.)

I also have used my formal stationery to write letters to people I have met at a few events; once, when working for the non-profit, I met a man who owns not one, but two race car teams, and his philanthropy of choice was literacy and education. He spoke to the entire assemblage; but before he got up and spoke, he had been sitting next to me, and we'd had a congenial chat. I had no idea who he was, and when they announced him, he was shuffling papers and his briefcase like he was going to leave before the speaker started. Imagine my surprise when instead he walked to the microphone and took over. His ideas about the ways that the educational system in this country should be fixed made a big impression on me. Before he left, he handed me one of his business cards, and after the event, I wrote him a letter to tell him how much I enjoyed his speech, and to ask for clarification on how he would fund some of his ideas. He sent me back a book, a nice letter, and a scholarly journal about education. Not a bad contact to have, y'know?

Another time, around Veteran's Day, I heard a speech given by a man who is the director of a veteran's organization. Another speech I enjoyed, and when I spoke to him after the event was over, he handed me a business card too. I wrote him a letter because I'd love to work for him someday, and believe me, that one took me a while to figure out what to say other than, "Hey, buddy, gimme a job!" He's based in Washington DC, so heaven only knows if I'll ever see him again here in my little bit of suburbia, but I bet that if I do run into him again, he will remember me.

The formal stationery is a heavy white paper, smaller than a sheet of paper you use in your printer. I believe the paper size is called 'executive.' My full name is spelled out at the top in a curly cursive, in a dark blue ink. The envelopes are half the size of the paper, so a sheet is folded in half only once to fit inside the envelopes, which are lined with gold foil. I ordered it the year DH and I got married, and have used it sparingly and when the time calls for it in the nearly eight years since.

I'd been running low on the formal stuff; not to worry, for thank-you notes of other varieties (gifts, hostess thank-yous, whatev) I have lots of other stationery I could use. Last week, though, after another job interview, I used the last two pieces of the paper that were usable in the box. Accordingly, I took myself off to the same store where I'd purchased it in the first place, along with the last sheet in the box. That last sheet is creased oddly, and has a few marks on it from Goddess only knows what, and thus could never be used for a potential employer thank-you note.


Being the obsessive that I am, I wanted something similar to what I had previously. The last go-round with stationery ordering, I'd only wanted my name on it, and not my address. Because we were living in an apartment that was supposed to be temporary. It turned out to be a temporary of the FOUR FREAKING YEARS variety. This time, I want the address. Dammed to the consequences if we end up moving.

I puzzled over font styles (in the end, choosing one that looks a hellava lot like the one I had before) and worried about what color ink (a subtle, subdued grey that shimmers a bit when the light hits it right was the final decision, soy-based, of course) and debated about how many pages of "second sheets" I should order. I hadn't had second sheets last time around, because I foolishly didn't think that I'd ever need to use the formals for any letters that would be more than one page. Live and learn.

The clerk and I chose a design for the first sheets, with my name gracefully down the left side of the paper, and the address scrolling across the top of the page in a smaller type. I thought it looked elegant, and signed the order form, after making sure my odd street name was spelled correctly, and that my long first name didn't have the addition of a letter "s" which happens all the time for some reason. I'd blame poor diction, but we all know that it ain't me who's got poor diction!

Order placed and paid for, I waited for the store to call me and let me know it was in.

When they called me yesterday (yes, that would be TUESDAY) I wasted no time in getting there to pick it up. The clerk opened the box, and there was the sprarkly grey ink, the envelopes with the return address, boxed nicely into gold boxes, orderly and neat. Beautiful, until I noticed that DH's last name, which I have taken as the hyphenated part of my last name eg., Smith-Jones, DH's part of the last name was spelled wrong. Missing a letter. The clerk pulled out the order form, and sure enough, there's my signature, and there's DH's last name spelled incorrectly. I never noticed when I proofed the order form.

Essentially, the store said, "Sorry, sweetie. Your fault. You signed it." And that's true. I had, however, handed her the piece of the old stationery, and she copied it from there. The old stationery isn't spelled wrong. They asked me what I wanted to do, by which they meant, "Give us another $90 and we will order you some more and try to not fuck it up this time."

Well, I don't have another $90 to spare right this instant, and I wouldn't have spent the money to order it in the first place if it was not for the fact that I'm trying to find another job, and I like using that formal stationery for the interview thank-yous. My current employer told me that I was the only one of 30+ people they interviewed who sent any acknowledgment of thanks for the interview.

I say all the time, you can teach manners, but you can't teach style and class. I think those notes make the proper impression. "Need," of course, is a relative term. I don't 'need' that paper to continue job hunting. I don't 'need' that paper to get another job. I certainly didn't 'need' to spend $90 when one of the reasons I'm job-hunting is that I'm not making enough money.

I wanted to scream and rage and cry in the store. But I couldn't. Didn't. I told the clerk I'd take the blank second sheets, and all of the envelopes with the address properly printed on them, but I certainly wasn't going to use stationery with my name spelled wrong, nor was I taking it with me. I also snidely remarked that I did not have another $90 to spend. The store is a little boutique, they specialize in wedding invitations, sell greeting cards and other tchokes, dust collectors like frames, knick-knacks, figurines. They're used to snooty and snide, I promise. So they bagged up the second sheets and the envelopes and handed them to me, and I stormed out.

I'm angry at myself for not noticing. I'm angry at the store for not caring, and being unwilling to work with me on a solution, like perhaps paying shipping themselves for the new (correct) stuff, instead of charging me. Although, why should they eat the costs for MY mistake? (As they pointed out to me, of course.) There are other stores in the area that carry the line of stationery, and what I will probably end up doing is going to another store, replicating the order minus the second sheets and envelopes. Next time, though, they're sending the old stationery with the new order, along with a copy of my driver's license and anything else I can think of with my freaking name spelled correctly.

Didn't I say a few weeks ago that dumb blonde sorts of things weren't happening to me so much any more? Joke's on me.

Evolving Tastes

Professional sports aren't my thing. They never have been, and that's OK with me. Football? Meh. Baseball? Meh. Basketball? Meh. NASCAR? Meh.

But then there's hockey. I like hockey; that's due to living in Sweden. I challenge anyone to spend any time at all living in Scandinavia and not become a hockey lover. One ex in Sweden took me to several games of a minor-league team in his home city, and he painstakingly explained the rules to me. So unlike football, which makes little sense to me, I know what's going on down on the ice during a hockey game.

I've been at several hockey games lately, and the team has cheerleaders. Which is laughable, really. Can't have a team without cheerleaders, right? Seems to me that's a pretty uniquely American oddity. Anyway, I think it is a requirement that all hockey arenas must play a few particular songs during the match; The Hey Song, Unbelievable (by EMF), Everybody Dance Now (C+C Music Factory), to name a few. Stuff that I forget about until I hear it played again, which brings it back up into the forefront of my thoughts.

When I got in front of the computer after the most recent hockey game, I started searching iTunes for a few 90s dance hits that I liked back in the day, a few things I was reminded of at the games.

Itunes is a ginormous time-suck, have I ever mentioned that? As bad as the web; maybe for a music addict, worse than the web. C+C Music Factory took me to The Hit Crew, which then led to browsing of the entire dance genre on iTunes, and before I knew it, more than two hours had flown by.

Once upon a time, I adored dance, techno, rave, trip-hop, drum & bass. Isn't it funny how our tastes change over time? At one time, all I listened to was electronica. Stuff that to the uneducated ear is repetitive computer-created crap. I remember another ex, who bitched incessantly about the prevalence of techno in the early 90s. He claimed that any three-year-old with a computer could compose any one of the hits that swept through the European dance club circuits back then; I disagreed vehemently, but because I was a shy little pushover in those days, I kept my mouth shut.

When I was living in Europe, I was spellbound by the DJs in the dance clubs. The way that they'd take songs and blend them together, looping back to the original melody, flowing to the next song, I wondered a lot about how difficult that was, and what you needed to accomplish such amazing technological feats. And how much music each of them must have owned; seemed to me like they had every note of music ever recorded.

As I wandered around iTunes, listening to bits of old techno, a trip(hop) down memory lane, I wondered what had ever happened to my copy of The Prodigy's Experience CD, or the CD-Maxi I had of Das Boot, or anything I owned by The Chemical Brothers. I've never been one to toss music, even when I no longer like it. I own an embarrassing lot of music, and when you add DH's collection in to mine, there's quite a bit there that could be cringe-worthy.

Watching that vid of Das Boot over on YouTube brought back a flood of memories. I thought that the video was frightening back in 1992, showing as it did clips of the epynomous movie which is about a German sinking submarine during WWII. I still find it disturbing, but I also find that I can't sit still while the song is playing, it makes me want to hop up and dance. That's disturbing as well, on some level.

A fangirl friend gave me an mp3 file of Blue (Da Ba Dee) by Eiffel 65; another early-90s hit that I can (and do) listen to over and over.

I like dance music for working out. I hate to admit it; there's so much out there that must be better to listen to. But for motivating me to move faster, there's nothing like something that comes in at over 150 bpm.

There was a while that I wouldn't listen to the tech/electronica/dance at all. Other times, I've cringed about the classic rock in my collection, or been embarrassed that I own opera. These days, I shrug and smile if someone harasses me about something on my iPod or on my computer. It is your problem if you don't like it, not mine. I tell people that my music tastes are just eclectic. Besides downloading a remix of Das Boot, I've also recently snagged Eminem's Lose Yourself, (rap) Men in Hat's Safety Dance, (80s) Pink's I'm not dead album, (Pop/Rock/R&B) Lifehouse's new single, (Rock) an older Finger 11 song (Alternative) that I like....and I'm working on getting my entire CD collection digitized. Yeah, eclectic. That's my story, and I'm sticking to it.

Rediscover

My father collects clothes. So much clothing does he own that he has a closet of his own, plus the entirety of a guest room closet and the storage area in their basement also has a rack full of clothes that are his alone.

DH collects movies. At last count, more than 250 films of every genre reside on shelves in our media room. Most on DVD, but some on VHS too. Although opposites attract, and we are opposite in many, many ways (politically, socially...I could go on) but we share some OCD tendencies, and there is an Excel spreadsheet list stored on his laptop and on mine that lists all of the movies. One worksheet has them listed alphabetically by title. The second worksheet lists them by genre.

For me, it is neither clothes nor movies, but music. When I was razzing my father a few weeks ago about the amount of clothing he owns, he took it stoically for a few minutes; then he asked how much music I own. Guilty as charged. The only proper answer to that question is LOTS.

I will listen to almost anything; from hip-hop to opera, alt-country, trip-hop, dance hall, pop, classic rock, folk, bluegrass. About the only thing I don't really like is country, but that's not a hard and fast rule.

I use iTunes to digitally store my music. When I got my new computer, I divided the hard drive, portioning off a section to dedicate to music storage. I keep increasing that section, because it keeps getting too close to being full.

I subscribe to a handful of free podcasts on iTunes, and one that I listen to faithfully is DJ Steveboy's Podrunner. I've written about Steve Boyette before; I discovered him on iTunes by searching for music to run to. Using words like awesome, amazingly talented, and unbelievable don't come close to doing justice to describing him. Subscribing to the podcast on iTunes means that whenever he uploads a new one, I get it automatically whenever I log in to iTunes. And he does these things weekly.

Some of the mixes I like more than others, of course. House and dance hall stuff can be annoying if it isn't your thing. But I have yet to find one that I don't like at all. He categorizes them based on number of beats per minute (bpm) which range from 130 to 170. I tend to use the slower end of the spectrum for my runs, as I'm not a world-class marathoner, but using the high speed ones sometimes kicks up my workout a bit.

I couldn't work out without music. I've been known to leave the gym if I don't have at least headphones with me; most of the cardio machines have headphone jacks so that you can watch TV, and without at least that, I just can't face more than about 3 minutes of cardio. I have forgotten the iPod from time to time, and as long as I can listen to something that is all right, but of course I'd rather have my own music.

I owe DJ Steve a debt of extreme gratitude. (Ooo, he blogs, too.) Without several of his more recent mixes, among them "Radiant Dark," "Beat Cathedral," and "Step Sequencer," I wouldn't have been able to get back in to the groove of running. I skipped about 2 weeks total of the gym as I've settled into the new job, 3 days here, 2 days there. Not going a few times makes it easier to not go at all. But then those numbers on the scale creep up, and I can't stay away from it, no matter how hard it is to drag my ass out of bed to get to the gym in the mornings.

I've claimed throughout this process that I don't like working out. And I don't, really. I don't like to sweat. I don't like being too hot. I don't like my clothes sticking to me when I'm done. I don't like that I think *I* sweat more profusely than other people. I used to say of running, when I was a teenager, "The only good thing about running is when you stop." But I don't really feel that way anymore.

When my time on the elliptical was winding down today, I felt so exhilarated, so energized, that I couldn't believe my time was up. I've been so cautious about running, with the shin splints causing me so much pain. I don't like not being able to run, but neither do I like the idea of stress fractures if I'm not careful. But since I didn't feel "done" today when my time was up on the elliptical, I ran a few times around the track, to the "Beat Cathedral" mix, feeling so strong.

It is so very hard for me to put into words how much 'feeling strong' signifies major change for me. I didn't use to be. Strong, that is. Running a few blocks to catch a bus in NYC would have had me gasping for air like a fish out of water. Carrying baskets of laundry up the stairs in our old apartment building had me heaving and panting. No longer.

In fact, I'm actually considering signing up for several upcoming 5 and 10 K races. I must be out of my mind.

And I pay attention to this stuff.

Without a sense of humor, I doubt that I'd be able to survive. Even when the joke's on me, as long as there's some laughter, that's a good thing. I was doing some surfing, and I'm amused at myself yet again.

When I'm stumped for a blog post, or if I haven't seen/heard any news on a particular day, I'll head to my personalized version of Google, which pulls various wire stories that I've told it I want to see. Among the links to NPR and the New York Times, the BBC and CNN, are two gadgets with celebrity news. As if I don't get enough from the nearly-daily gander I take at sites like Perez and the Superficial.

Looking at Google yesterday, I was surprised to see a quote from Ashton Kutcher, who asserts that men are 'merely accessories.' This reversal of the roles from the stereotypical ornamental female is rare, so of course I clicked the link. I discovered, thanks to People.com, that Kutcher has written an essay which appears in this month's Harpar's Bazaar.

He rates the importance of men as somewhere less than shoes and somewhat more than handbags. Now this is the guy who brought us MTV's Punk'd, so I can't help but wonder if he's having a laugh with this piece. Without having read it in its entirety, I couldn't be sure.

As I sat and wondered about this, I realized how absurd it is that we all pay attention to this kind of stuff. I've often defended myself from critics of my celebrity news-watching with this; MY life seems a lot less fucked up, frankly, when I read about the antics of Brit-Brit, La Lohan, and Paris. After all, *I* haven't shaved my head or flashed anyone lately. Not to mention the fact that I've never been arrested, ever, for anything.

This celebrity news-watching is a completely separate thing from my fangirl silliness, because you don't see J & J in the tabloids, now, do ya? Nope. I wish that more pictures of them were published (of course) and that the mainstream media paid more attention to the show, but mostly I think that if they want their private lives to stay private, then they're pretty smart to stay out of the gossip rags. Besides, I freely admit how completely ridiculous my fangirly-ness is.

Anyway, I read Kutcher's essay and it is howlingly funny. Intentional or not, it doesn't much matter. Who'da thunk it, he's a good writer. Anytime I laugh out loud at the screen more than once whilst reading something, the writer is managing to hold my attention and is doing a good job, in my ever-so-humble.

Bloo-berries

I've always said that if I wasn't working full-time, I'd bake and bake and bake, and end up being 300 pounds. I'm not 300 pounds, but I did spend the day baking. After my usual workout, of course, so I'm not too worried about gaining more than 100 pounds in a few days.

It is blueberry season in Oh-hi-ia. I don't like many, many things about living here, but one thing I do like is the availability in the summer time of strawberries, blueberries, blackberries and raspberries. A friend and I visited a farm market last week, and I bought far more blueberries than I actually needed. I'd eat blueberries morning, noon, and night if they were available all the time. So they were about to be past their prime in my fridge, and today I decided to use them up.

I have an old, old recipe for blueberry muffins, from the matriarch of a big clan that my family has been friends with for a very long time. She was 90 the first time I met her, when I was 12. She lived to be over 100, and was a wise woman. The recipe was taped inside the kitchen cupboard of the cottage we used to visit, and one year, I remembered to copy it down before we left for the summer. Over the years, I've not been satisfied with the results, because the blueberries sink to the bottom. I'd like my blueberries evenly distributed through my muffins, thank-you-very-much. They taste great, but presentation is important to me, and so I've tinkered with the recipe, but until today, have not been able to get the berries to co-operate. A friend suggested sprinkling the berries on top after the muffins were in the oven for a few minutes, and I couldn't resist trying just one more time to get it to work properly.

As I said, this is a very old recipe, and so the format is a bit odd. My alterations to the original recipe appear in italics. But bear with me, it is well worth the trouble. Use a stand mixer, if you have one.

Whole-Wheat Blueberry Banana Muffins

Heat oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit.
Beat 2 eggs until foamy (I beat the eggs until they doubled in volume, which takes about 5-6 minutes at top speed on a stand mixer. It would take for-freaking-ever by hand.)
Add 1 cup sugar, and combine well.
Add one heaping tablespoon shortening, mixing until distributed evenly. (I think softened butter would work well here, but didn't have any to try.)
Add 4 mashed bananas
Mix in 2 cups flour, (whole wheat) alternating between folding in 1 cup milk (skim) with the flour. Finish by adding 3 teaspoons of baking powder.

At this point, if you're using a stand mixer, remove the bowl from the machine and mix by hand. Fold in 1 cup four-dusted blueberries, scraping the bowl down to ensure even mixing. Fill 12 regular sized greased muffin tins 3/4 full. Sprinkle an additional 1/2 cup blueberries (NOT flour-dusted, they'll look moldy) over the filled muffin tins.

Avoid over-mixing because the finished product could be tough if you do. The muffins will need about 20 minutes in the oven and will get huge, because of the amount of baking powder. I checked mine every five minutes after they'd been in the oven for 10 minutes, my oven runs far too hot and does not heat evenly, so constant vigilance is required. I had over 4 cups of blueberries, so I tripled the recipe, and made some regular size and some mini muffins. They're yummy. The banana addition was because I have about 6 pounds of over-ripe bananas in my freezer. I buy them, I eat a few, and before I know it, the rest are nearly black, so in the freezer they go, with plans to use them for banana bread or....something...but they end up staying in the freezer until inspiration like this strikes.

Whole-wheat flour is tricky, sometimes not working at all as I plan for it to. If you don't like it, at least use unbleached, un-bromated flour. I might also try turbinado sugar, because I don't really care for processed white sugar, but I was out.

I'd be remiss if I didn't mention that I've read all of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, which in case you live under a rock was released on Saturday. I plan to write about it tomorrow.

Oh, REALLY, NPR. I expect better.

When I worked for the big ol' bank, I spent more than 10 hours a week in the car, driving from city to city, and I was a hopeless addict of NPR. I still listen to NPR, just not as much as I used to. Yes, they're liberal, yes, they get government funding. I don't care.

Yesterday, I was listening to All Things Considered on the way home from work, as I do most weekdays, and I heard two stories that had me so incredibly annoyed. First, in this story about US-Russia relations, some random Idiot Administration hack said essentially that a strong Russia is OK, as long as that strong Russia promotes things that the US agrees with. Because heaven forbid that someone, somewhere, should have an opinion that differs with the administration.

Part of the story talked about how President Doofus isn't getting along with President Putin these days...gone are the times when he could 'look into Putin's soul'. That was fun. But the tone of the whole report...gah, it bugged me.

And then immediately following that little bit of annoyance was this story, I shit you not, about Orange Juice Diplomacy. Truth being stranger than fiction, I couldn't make this one up if I tried. The report mentions the role that orange juice may play in relations between the US, Iran, and Syria. It was complete fluff, total E! Entertainment Television-level reportage. I was actually shouting at the radio (behaviour that is usually reserved for Fox News) about how incredibly stupid that segment was.

The only time I've ever turned NPR off in frustration was during the week of September 11th, 2001, because at some point during that whole horrible time, I couldn't take it anymore. Not one more second of information about who died, what they thought had happened.

I was pretty close yesterday, though, with that Orange Juice story. Until a friend phoned, and I had to turn it off anyway to hear the phone conversation. Thank goodness.

NPR, I expect so much better of you. I expect thoughtful, reasoned debates; excellent research; stentorian tones. I do not expect pap, fluff, crap, especially when it lasts as long as that piece did, and I also don't expect to hear the words 'orange juice' 15 times in a 35 second time frame.

I would write to them to express my annoyance, but I write to them fairly frequently, and I'm sure I'm on their list of "stalker crazies...delete these immediately".

Gloriously No Longer Stuck

In trying to describe the writing process, and what happens in my head, I'm totally lost on how to explain how I got unstuck. I was stuck for about a week, editing, editing, editing, and staring at the screen, trying to figure out how to move forward. Then I'd jump away from that, visit the forums, and come back to it, to stare blankly again at a point in the story that just couldn't seem to move on. It was very frustrating.

The book, as I have said, is almost all that I think about. How to make it better. How to improve a scene. How to make the reader see the same thing that I'm seeing in my imagination. I've told a bunch of people that I'm writing a book, hell, I've told the whole world, potentially, here. But it isn't all that I talk about, most of the time I don't mention it unless someone else brings it up.

Yesterday, I was on the forums, as usual, with about 6 tabs open on Firefox, and I got a phone call telling me that it was time to go. I gave the book one last look and signed out of all the forums, going downstairs and getting into the car. My mother had come to pick me up, my dad and DH were working on a project at my dad's office. The office is about 15-20 minutes from my home, and as we drove, we talked about the weather and the project the guys are working on, and I was staring out the window, thinking about the book. My mother's been asking to read it, and avidly interested about what it is about; I'm not ready to share it just yet, I've told her over and over. (Sorry! Not yet, either!) Seemingly, though, out of the blue, she asked me how it was going, and I told her about being stuck, and gave her some details, for the very first time, of what it is about. I told her about how I couldn't figure out how to move from where I was to the next plot twist, and as I was telling her about it, I just got a sudden flash of inspiration that if I simply went back and re-wrote from a certain point, changing a few details, the story would move forward naturally.

When I talk about knitting, I often say that my fingers itch to work on something; that I get this urge to have the yarn in my hands. With the writing, I'm feeling something similar, that I have a NEED to get in front of a keyboard and get cracking. Perhaps this is a manifestation of my OCD, I dunno, but when we got to my dad's office, I wanted to run right to a computer to work on it immediately.

The plan, however, was to leave the office and go to dinner. But since the plan is not often what happens, the boys were still working, and my mother and I stood around for a while, waiting for them. When I could see that it wasn't going to just be a few more seconds, (They were working on a car, did I mention that? No? Well, now you know.) I pushed myself up from the bumper of my dad's truck, and I told my mother, "I need to write. Now."

And I ran up the stairs to the office portion of the building, without a further word to anyone. I got about 10 minutes of clacking happily away on the keyboard before they yelled up from the garage that they were ready to go. But I'm unstuck! And I know what to do, where to go!

The Internet is such an amazing thing. I don't know if I've mentioned before that I'm writing the book inside of Google Documents, which means that I can work on it from any computer in the world that is connected to the Internet. So I'm not limited to the desktop at home; I can work on it wirelessly on my laptop at a Starbucks, I can work on it at my dad's office. And I can share it with anyone in the world that has a Google account, when I am ready to do that. Gotta love Google.

Now, if I could only dedicate more time every day to actually working on it, it might be in a bookstore near you soon.




One other thing to share today......

Apparently, I'm not evil enough to be banned in China. I saw this on Aunty Marianne's Blog, Tomato and Basil Sandwiches, and like her, I am much disappointed by the fact that I'm not enough of a rabble-rouser to be banned. Guess I'm less of a punk anarchist than I thought. Bummer.

Bento Box Madness

I bought a bento box like this one on eBay about a week or so ago. It arrived yesterday. I first read about bento boxes on WellFed, when someone, I don't remember who, wrote an article about her Mr. Bento and how it was helping her post-gastric surgery weight loss program. I subsequently developed a minor obsession over bento boxes. (See, I do get obsessive about things other than hot young TV actors. Really.) I read everything I could point my mouse to about them, discovering the Flickr community dedicated to all things Mr. Bento, several great blogs about bento, and then, the hallelujah chorus rang out in my head when I decided to check eBay for a bento box of my own. I had decided that I didn't want a Mr. Bento; I wanted something cute.

And is it ever cute! There's a cute little fork that goes with the set, cute matching chopsticks, with their accompanying case, a little strap to keep the boxes tied together, and a bag to carry it all in. Cute, cute, cute!

DH puts up with me buying things from eBay because I have not yet purchased a car, a house, or major furniture. Some dolls, some books, some yarn, y'know, harmless stuff. He watched me open all the pieces and parts of my new bento box last night with growing incredulity. "What IS that?" He asked, rolling his eyes at yet another needless acquisition.

"A Japanese lunch-box," I responded gleefully. "Isn't it CUTE?"

"How could you possibly fit enough into that for a whole lunch?" He wondered, noting that it is six inches wide, 3.15 inches across, and when all 3 pieces are stacked one on top of the other, no taller than about 4.5 inches. The whole thing fits into a bag no bigger than a 20 ounce bottle of water.

Plenty of room, I assured him. See, two compartments for food! So much fun! He rolled his eyes again and asked how long until dinner was ready. So I made something kind of bento inspired for dinner and brought it with me today for my yummy lunch. The fish dish was inspired by the Fast Fish cookbook and the quiona salad recipe is adapted from Well Fed.

Parchment Wrapped Fish with Quiona Salad

Fish
2 large SQUARE pieces of parchment paper
2 fillets any mild, white fish...I use Basa
2 T soy sauce
1 t your favorite hot sauce (I use Sirachi here)
1 T brown sugar
1/4 c lime juice
Zest of 1 lime
Juice of 2 limes
2 cloves garlic, minced
1/4 c chopped fresh cilantro
1/4 c olive oil

Oven 400F

Combine soy, hot sauce, sugar, juice, zest and garlic. Slowly drizzle oil in, as if you were making a vinaigrette. Marinate the fish in this mixture 15 minutes in the fridge, turning once.

Lie one square of parchment on a flat work surface. Place the fish diagonal across the parchment, and bring up the bottom point of the square. Fold in the left and right sides, then flip the packet over, tucking the top corner into the space left at the bottom. You're making a small envelope full of fishy goodness. Bake on a tinfoil lined cookie sheet in the oven 15 minutes. Cut packets open and slide fish onto plates. Serve hot.

While the fish marinates and bakes, make the quiona salad.

1 c quiona
2 cups water
zest of 1 lime
juice of 2 limes
2 T sesame oil
1/4 c olive oil
1/4 c cilantro, chopped fine
Grape tomatoes...about 1/2 cup
2-3 ribs celery, chopped fine
1 seedless cucumber, peeled, seeded, cut into fourths and diced

Follow package directions for quiona. It is a grain just like rice, it simply bears close watching. When it is done, spread onto another tinfoil lined cookie sheet to speed the cooling process. In a large bowl, combine the zest and the juice, and whisk oils in. Add cilantro, and vegetables, allowing them to soak in the dressing. When the quiona has cooled, add it to salad, toss, and add more olive oil if desired. Serve cold.

Dinner was wonderful, and I didn't eat all of my piece of fish intentionally, saving it for today's lunch. It fit beautifully into the bottom tray of my dragonfly bento, and I filled the top with quiona salad. That left a bit of room in the bottom container, so I added a mini muffin liner and filled it with about a tablespoon of blanched, slivered almonds. I closed both containers, fitted the strap around them, and put it in its cute little bag in my fridge. Brought it with me to work, and had a wonderful lunch. The bento box is microwave safe, but not dishwasher safe, which is the only downfall as far as I am concerned.

Definitely enough food, too. Yum!

Ships, shoes, sealing wax, and dreams

That's what I'm thinking about this week. My friend Amanda M over at We Shall Not Be Moved wrote a post about shoes the other day and I was thinking about all of the really silly shoes I own. I admit it: I have a shoe problem. It is an addiction, I'm seeking treatment, really, right after I get some new summer shoes.

I'm being sarcastic about treatment, and the truth is that I love shoes. Tall shoes, short shoes, heels, flats, sandals, boots....love them all. I own a pair or two that are really stupid shoes. They're extraordinarily painful to walk in. So I wear them on days when I plan to stand around and look cute. But really, why the heck do I do that to myself? I dunno. The easy answer would be that I'm not very smart, but I am smart. And the thing is that I buy stupid shoes because I like them. And I will probably continue to do that until I wise up like Amanda has. :-)

Soundtrack? These Boots are made for Walkin', the Nancy Sinatra version.