Ten...Nine...Eight...

We are in the last 10 minutes of my thirties. I've been up late tonight finishing up a few stray things...straightening up the office closet (the last of the closets to get cleaned), reading one last chapter of Systematic Theology, nailing down the last verse of Galatians 5...

Oh, and finger painting. Somehow I never did the finger painting. So twenty minutes ago I did this:
I'm calling her Tallulah. Because it's a good name. Tallulah my birthday fish.

What a ride it has been. I have LOVED working on this list. It has made this year such an adventure.

Tomorrow, and for the next few weeks, I will be asked whether I finished everything on the list. The answer is no. I changed a few things when I was sure I wouldn't get to them, but I'm not even counting those. If you look at the page where each item is listed and crossed off, you'll note that one item...the very first one...is left uncrossed. I could have dumped it and replaced it with something more doable, but I decided to leave it. It's good for me to leave some things undone. I'm too concerned with perfection anyway. And my life's not over...what I did not accomplish in my thirties I have the rest of my life to work on.

God has done so very much in my heart during this decade. I am more grounded than I was ten years ago, and wiser, and more fit...and happier, I think. Or maybe more joyful. Or maybe both.

Also more tired. It's hard to put sentences together. But I want to stay up for...one more minute.

I'll elaborate on some of these things later. And tomorrow I'll probably wax philosophical about the whole rolling over of the odometer. Right now, though, I am content. I am grateful.

And I am forty. :)

Geocache Me If You Can

Most elements of childhood storybook tales will stay in the realm of the mythological in my life. I am unlikely to meet talking animals, pirates, mermaids, dragons, or princesses here in Piscataway. But it turns out that treasure hunting has been happening all around me for years, and it just took me forever to figure it out and get in on it.

A week ago our friends Alan and Melissa and their kids took us geocaching. For the uninitiated out there, geocaching is a worldwide treasure hunting game that makes use of the web and GPS technology. People hide little containers with treasures in them, go to the internet (see geocaching.com), and post the GPS coordinates of their cache, sometimes with helpful hints or puzzles. Others can find the coordinates and hunt for the treasure. When they find it, they sign the log book in the cache, and they can take one of the treasures inside as long as they replace it with something of equal or greater value. Below, a few of our party investigate the very first cache we found.



Alan and Melissa have found over 60 caches with their four kids, and when Melissa saw my list, she offered their services in helping us navigate this new adventure. I found this prospect exciting, partly because I'm in favor of having help, and partly because I like Alan and Melissa and don't spend enough time with them.

We had a blast. Our kids love their kids, and it was a big, noisy outing. Joy got to hold the GPS thinger, Will got to wrestle with boys his own size, and Jack got to follow other kids around like a shyly over-excited puppy.



We hit three parks, found three caches, and acquired (among other things) a 1" Blue's Clues figurine, a plastic skeleton, and a marble. And it really is gratifying to get to the spot where you're supposed to be and actually find the thing you're looking for.



The kids are in a hurry to try it again, and I have to say I'm with them. If you're reading this, Melissa, thanks for showing us the ropes! I'm not sure I would have tried it without you, and it was a great time.

Have I mentioned that I'm turning 40 the day after tomorrow? Have to run...much to do...

Grownup Party

Three days and counting!!

I had such a really fabulously fun time on Friday night, and I really want to relive the whole thing and meander through it and give you every little detail. But I have three more days, and I want to knock out a couple more items on this list tonight, so I'm going to force myself to be brief. This will be a Herculean effort, and I hope you appreciate it.


On Friday night Mark threw me a birthday party here at the house. We decided to make it a low-key event...just a few friends and some takeout food. I, however, am unable to leave such a thing alone. Therefore, when I say Mark threw me a party, what I mean is that he had the idea, he began the execution of it, and then he graciously didn't fight me when I stuck my nose in and started doing things, but instead worked hard at carrying out my various schemes.

I'm an expert at over-complicating things, but this time I think it actually worked in my favor.

My amazing in-laws agreed to take our kids overnight, so we were child-free. Child-free! I had a grownup party!! Don't get me wrong. I love my kids, and I love to celebrate with them. But I can't tell you how long it's been since I hosted an event without having to think about chicken nuggets or juice boxes or waking up sleeping children.

Free from the need to kid-proof the house, I gathered inexpensive glass containers from thrift stores, popped candles in them, and placed them all over the house. We augmented them with several strands of Christmas lights (white, unblinking...I am unyielding on this point) draped across curtain rods, banisters, and furniture. And a couple of times I actually did a happy little dance because the house looked so glimmery and great.



Note: if you were here on Friday and have better pictures...or any pictures, really...please send them my way. I'm posting literally everything I have here.

"Some takeout food" became "Asian fusion". We ordered from a Chinese place, an Indian place, and a Thai place. EVERYTHING was yummy, which was good, because I honestly didn't know what half of it was going to be when I ordered it. There was too much, especially because my friend Sara, whom I love, brought enough naan (Indian bread) to feed the entire population of Mumbai. We ate a lot of Asian food.

Oh, and there were grownup drinks there! That's a first for us. Kind of funny that we served our very first alcohol at my birthday party, seeing as I don't drink it at all ever. (Not because I have a moral objection to it--just because I stink at moderation, so alcohol seems like a bad idea for me.) But Mark loves Mike's Hard Lemonade and its variants, so we had a little cooler of those. I found their presence sort of satisfying primarily because they were so very not juice boxes.

Then...THEN...came dessert. Common sense would have dictated that I should just enjoy the party and let my husband buy a birthday cake from a local bakery. Common sense, however, is sometimes not a strength of mine. Especially when pitted against recipes like these.

We started with a hot cocoa bar. I used a from-scratch cocoa recipe (substituted vanilla extract for the vanilla bean) that turned out really fabulous...rich and creamy and not over-sweet, which was good considering what came next. There was a little spot in the kitchen stocked with the following things to doctor up your cocoa:

• mini chocolate chips
• butterscotch chips
• chopped dark chocolate
• chopped white chocolate
• chopped dark chocolate with chili peppers
• crushed peppermint candies
• homemade marshmallows (fun, though kind of time-consuming)
• vanilla syrup
• hazelnut syrup
• caramel syrup
• cinnamon
• cayenne pepper (for Mexican hot chocolate)
• cinnamon sticks
• candy canes
• peppermint schnapps
• whipped cream
• homemade cinnamon whipped cream
• sprinkles
• pirouline cookies

I think that's it. People came up with some really outstanding combinations. My own personal concoction was cocoa with crushed peppermints, white chocolate, and vanilla syrup stirred in, topped with whipped cream, which: wow.

To complement the cocoa I made cinnamon vanilla cupcakes (a wedding cupcake recipe filled with cinnamon whipped cream and topped with cinnamon-vanilla frosting). I also tried a recipe I've had bookmarked for a while, called "Knock You Naked Brownies." To my knowledge no one actually disrobed, but the brownies were indeed ridiculous in the best kind of way. I left out the nuts and added a little sea salt on the caramel layer. I'll go easier on the salt next time, but they were still outrageous.


We had about twenty people, I think. (I wish we could have fit more...there are a bunch more I wanted to invite, but our house isn't all that big...) I was worried that people would be bored, as I wasn't really providing anything to DO besides come up with creative ways to ingest calories. But people seemed to really enjoy hanging out and sampling Asian food and combining chocolates and talking and laughing.

I think my mistake was that I didn't take into account how wonderful my friends are. They're smart, funny, engaging people, and when you mix them all together, they enjoy one another. The last guests didn't leave until about 11.

I would have kept going until morning. And not because of the food, the lights, or the sugar rush: those were all wonderful but peripheral. My greatest joy is being with the people I love. So...take twenty of them and put them in my living room for the whole evening? This is like a drug to me.

I will be tucking these memories away someplace secure and special.


"Throw a dinner party" was an item on my list. I don't think I can really count this as a dinner party, seeing as dinner came directly out of plastic take-out containers. But a grownup party is kind of a first for me, and it was a blast and a stretch and all the things the list was meant to encourage. So I'm making the switch and crossing it off.

I didn't do so well at being brief here, but I'm not editing it down. I'm going to try to finish my FlyLady journal tonight and knock out the rest of the Systematic Theology chapters. And I have three verses left in Galatians 5, and the office closet is the last one, and...

Three days.

If I Can Make It There...

Nine days to go! I'm moving at lightning speed now, folks. I'm tearing through the end of this list. Feels pretty good, actually.

So in the absence of a dinner party last Friday night, I ended up going into New York to meet my friend Sarah for the evening. Sarah is awesome. She loves truth and loves Jesus and loves me, and she has a way of seeing right through surface circumstances to the heart of the issues that lie beneath them. Not only that, but she's a woman of both vision and action, and that's a relatively rare combination. She inspires me to dream big, and then she asks me questions like, "What steps could you take in the next six months to help make that happen?" Also, she still loves me when I take none of those steps. :)

I don't get to see Sarah nearly often enough, a fact that was once easily attributed to her living in Orlando. But she's been in New York since January, and until Friday I had yet to visit her. I don't go into the city much. It's expensive. And scary.

In my new spirit of adventure, then, I tossed one of the items on my list that I won't be able to finish (my abdominal muscles aren't going anywhere...they'll be on the next list) and added "Go into New York City by myself."

I wish I had time to go into all the little details...the silly stuff that made me feel grown up and independent and happy...the unexpectedness of feeling SO FREE without little ones to tote around the city...the people-watching and the introspection it inspired...but alas, time is pressing. So here are the basics.

We met at Penn Station and walked down Broadway in the direction of Gramercy Park. It was just about rush hour, and the streets were crowded. Go figure. It's New York. We managed to make our way, though, to a stretch of 23rd Street that had a bunch of vintage clothing stores. (Lightning-fast! Look at me go!) The first one we tried, Vintage Thrift, had closed at dusk, but I'd love to go back in and hit it again sometime. We tried a Salvation Army store, but there was no way I could justify calling any of their stuff vintage, so we moved on.

The next place we went was "A Cause for Paws," a vintage/thrift store benefiting New York City's homeless animals. They had a fabulous beige lace gown that I'm assuming was vintage on a mannequin at the entrance. If it had been a) not $100 and b) made for someone who looked less like the mannequin and more like me, I would own it now. As it was, Sarah and I poked around the racks in the back, and I bought a wacky, gauzy, voluminous, capey blouse and a cool necklace at $8 each. Nice. And...check. Vintage clothing.

Afterwards we found a couple more vintage spots, the most interesting of which was "City Opera Thrift Shop." (Pic at left was lifted from the web...we were there after dark.) I wish I'd had a couple of unhurried hours to check this place out. It was slightly pricey, but their stuff was gorgeous, and some of it had to be opera costumes. Wild. I did see a dress for $35 that I absolutely would have bought if I were about two sizes smaller. I hear their furniture is fantastic, too, but it was getting late and we were hungry, so we tore ourselves away and continued on toward the East Village.

I figured this was my opportunity to finish off my ethnic food journey...if I couldn't find an ethnicity I hadn't tried in New York City, something was wrong. We were heading toward a Venezuelan Arepas Bar, but before we got there we happened across Khyber Pass, an Afghani restaurant that Sarah had been to before. She pointed it out, I was totally game, and in we went.

Khyber Pass had some awesome ambience. It was dark and intimate-feeling, with low ceilings and an air of mystery probably fueled by the lingering scent of hookah. I have zero idea what an Afghani accent sounds like, but all the servers had great, exotic accents, and the whole experience felt ultra-authentic. Sarah asked our server to choose a dish for her and ended up with "Kabuli Palow With Lamb: brown basmati rice topped with raisins, slivered carrots and almonds; served with tender chunks of lamb." The rice was surprising and fragrant and sweet. So nice. I ordered "Fesenjan: sweet and sour pieces of boneless chicken flavored with walnuts and pomegranate juice; served with white rice." It was tender and sweet and savory and I ended up showing no restraint with it at all. If I cared less about appearances I might have licked the bowl. The pics below don't do the food any justice, but the top one is a nice shot of Sarah. The bottom pic makes me think I need to wear more makeup. But I'm posting it anyway. :)
And so...check. That makes Persian, Hungarian, Turkish, Ethiopian, and Afghani. I would never have tried even one had it not been for this list.

All along we'd been having a great conversation. We caught up on things like ministry, family, kids, marriage, and church. We learned about what God has been doing in each of our hearts. We grieved and rejoiced and laughed and gasped with each other. And Sarah spurred me on, as she does, toward not settling for "what if"s.

Leaving Khyber Pass, we walked back through the still-crowded, neon-studded streets toward the train. She showed me some great little spots I'd love to check out in the future, including a restaurant with a chocolate focus and the flagship "Fresh" store, where their sugar-based body scrub left our hands sweetly scented and unbelievably soft. You should look at that link. It's an amazing store.

We did eventually make it back to Penn Station, and we continued our conversation until the moment they posted the track assignment for my train and I made my way through the throngs of people who needed to get back to New Jersey.

It was way, way fun, you guys. I need to do this again sometime.

Bear Hunt

My husband loves football. Between his deep devotion to the Chicago Bears and his zeal for his fantasy football team, it seems that nearly every televised game is crucial for his life in some way.

I, on the other hand, could not possibly care less about football. I am one of those people who, at Super Bowl parties, talks through the game and watches the commercials. Despite the fact that I was in the marching band and went to every one of my high school's football games, I still only have the most basic grasp of how the game is played.

We're used to being different, Mark and I. We're opposites in nearly every other way, too. But when I was writing my list, I thought for a while about how I could move toward him in some of the things he really loves. Football, which consumes so many Sunday afternoons and Monday nights in our house, seemed like a promising choice.

The easiest way to pique my interest in a sporting event is to teach me something personal about the players. So I set out to learn about some of Mark's beloved Chicago Bears. I grilled Mark about them, and here's what I learned from him and from the web.

Jay Cutler, #6, is the quarterback. He's 28 and has been playing for the Bears since 2009, when he was traded to Chicago from Denver amidst some drama. He's also occasionally engaged to reality star Kristin Cavallari, so...more drama. Cutler has diabetes, which he treats with insulin shots, and he has to check his blood sugar levels multiple times during each game. He works with diabetic kids, and the "fan of the week" on his website is often a young Chicago fan living with diabetes. He also volunteers with developmentally disabled youth.

Brian Urlacher, #54. I knew this name already because Mark has a couple of jerseys with "Urlacher" on the back of them. He's a well-respected middle linebacker who pretty much runs the defense. Earlier this fall he left for a few days because he lost his mom, whom he had once referred to as "my heart." When that happened, his teammates were interviewed about him and had nothing but nice things to say..."he's the heart and soul of this team," "he's everybody's friend in the locker room," "one of the greatest guys in this league."

Devin Hester, returner and wide receiver, #23. Another popular number around our house, but not because of Devin Hester. :) Last year Mark spent a lot of time yelling "Go! Go! Go!" at the television thanks to Hester, who had a recurrent habit of returning kicks for touchdowns. Wikipedia tells me he brings a Bible to every game. He turned 29 last week. He's married and has a son, and he feels so passionately about being present in his son's life (after seeing the effects of so many absent fathers in the lives of those around him) that he's started writing a column for Chicago Parent magazine. He had the misfortune of being pantsed during a game a while back, so be careful if you google images of him. I'm just saying.

Julius Peppers, #90, has a fantastic name and should absolutely open a restaurant. He's a defensive end. Mark tells me that he's not only a talented player but is HUGE (he's 6'7" and weighs 287) and therefore occupies more than his fair share of opponents on the field. He seems reluctant to open his life to the world, and one of his former teammates from North Carolina said of him, "The people who think they know him don't. The people who do, don't say." The article called him "an intentional mystery even to those who worked with him daily." Interesting. Great smile, don't you think?

Matt Forte, #22, is a 25 year old running back who is pretty amazing. At the moment he's in the last year of his rookie contract and is mad because the Bears haven't yet offered him another deal, especially because he's proven himself to be worth a lot more than he was as an untested rookie. Mark says he's special because he can run AND catch, which: it sounds odd to me that someone would be good at only one of those and still be in the NFL, but I know that I'm clueless. I did just see another website that called him "one of the finest young backs in the NFL." So there you go. He likes playing shoot-em-up Xbox games, but besides that and some baby-mama-drama from last year, it's hard to find interesting Matt Forte info online due to the copious coverage of the contract thing.

Lovie Smith is the Bears' head coach. Lovie is his real name--he was named after his great aunt Lavana. Awesome. He seems like a pretty terrific guy. He still gives regularly to his home church in TX even though he lives in IL. An ardent supporter of the American Diabetes Association (his mom lost her eyesight to the disease), Lovie donates ten tickets to every game to children suffering from diabetes. Also, he and his wife set up a foundation providing college funds for impoverished kids. He's not shy about using his platform for good, saying, "God put me with a franchise that is visible. And He wants me to be a certain way. There's a message that He's trying to get out through me.''

There are more. A lot more. Football teams are bigger than I realized. I could tell you about Roy Williams, the big-time wide receiver who's recovering from a ball-dropping period. Or about Gabe Carimi, first-round draft pick who got sidelined by injury, like, right away. Or about Earl Bennett, the wide receiver who went to school with Jay Cutler. But I won't. Takes too long, and frankly, my attention span re: football has just about run out. I have to do this in small bites.

I will say this, though. If I were looking for some kind of internet venture, I might set up a centralized site with these kinds of details. I can't be the only non-fan out there who is motivated by personal information. And if I could sit on the couch next to Mark, reading on a laptop about the players on the tv in front of me, I'd definitely be more motivated to pay attention. Who's a nice guy? Who's a jerk? Who's been in highly-publicized trouble? Who's a hero in his small home town? Who's been making the world a better place?

If someone could get on that ASAP, I'd appreciate it. Thank you. Go Bears.

Update: Bright Lights video

So no takers for this Friday night, huh? OK...that's all right. I'll shift gears, and it will become a New York City adventure extraordinaire with my good friend Sarah. Maybe I'll take pictures and subject you to them. :)

Meanwhile, I thought maybe you'd enjoy this link. I've been keeping my eye out for it, and I just found it today. Remember the performance at the Mid-Autumn Festival that I raved about several weeks ago? It was recorded (the whole festival was) by a Chinese TV station, and they posted the video this week.

It's a LONG video, even though it's only the last quarter of the show. They start introducing us at 6 minutes and 40 seconds in, so if you don't want to watch the rest of the show, let it buffer and start it at 6:40.

I have the following things to say about the video first, though.

First of all, the expression on my face (which would not have been discernable to most of the audience) looks a lot more fearful than I remember feeling. I'm not sure which is more accurate: my memory or my expression.

Secondly: I'll be a little vulnerable here. If you're a boy who knows me and who is intimidated by girl junk you might want to skip this section.

They say the camera adds 10 pounds. I hope that's true. In the last few years I've lost a lot of weight. I don't know exactly how much right now. Certainly 80+ pounds. But one weird thing that has happened in the process is that I no longer have an accurate mental image of what I look like. Some days I picture myself exactly like I used to be 80+ pounds ago. Some days I picture myself...I don't know. Slimmer. Maybe slimmer than I'll ever be. I should probably buy a full-length mirror, but I don't know that it would help.

What I do know is that watching this video sort of makes me cringe, and I find myself wondering what in the world made me think that dress was flattering. I have no idea whether the camera is adding poundage or whether this is what I really look like.

I found myself hesitant to post this link for that reason. But that brought out my inner brat ("Take that, society, with your unrealistic body-image standards!") and, thankfully, the voice of reason. (The latter sounds suspiciously like Jesus.) The voice of reason reminds me that my value does not lie in my appearance, that I cannot stake my self-worth in the number on the scale regardless of what that number is, and that my Savior loves me...LOVES me...even with every errant curve I currently possess.

OK, that's the end of the girl junk. Enjoy the song. I'd forgotten that the sound guys had Rick's guitar cranked WAY up at the beginning, but that didn't seem to rattle him at all...see why he makes me calm? And watch Joe's eyebrows during his lovely piano solo--the more he's concentrating, the higher they go. Not to mention our other Joe, who was behind me through the whole song, so until today I didn't get to see him standing there being absolutely solid and unflappable.

So great, these guys. All of them. For serious.

And the music...well, if I start in on that...just watch the video. :)

http://www.icepn.com/tv/channels/events/local-events/2011/10/31/rutgers-2011-mid-autumn-concert-part-4.html

Dinner, anyone?

So I waited too long to pull the trigger on the dinner party I was going to throw at the end of this list-fulfilling process. I had a plan, but it fell through, and I didn't have enough time to regroup and try again. Now I have a date...this Friday, Nov. 4th...and one willing guest with whom I've been dying to spend some time, but that does not a dinner party make.

So it occurred to me that maybe it would be worth throwing it out there to you. You, gentle reader, have been following this saga. At least in theory. Maybe you'd like to be a part of finishing it up.

One caveat: ideally I'm looking for people I've already met in actual, non-digital life. I'm not saying I wouldn't love to make your acquaintance if I don't already know you. I'm sure you're fabulous. But let's pick a more relaxed time and place for that.

Most of you reading this, though, are people whom I already know well. Anyone up for dinner on Friday? You can respond via email (I'll even check my gmail account for a while--it's jocelynruth@gmail.com) or just leave a comment below.

If it doesn't work out, that's ok. I'll shift gears and go hang out with my already-willing guest, who has enough inherent awesomeness to fill a whole evening. (Doesn't that make you want to come?)

Let's see what happens!

Sibling Revelry

I am the oldest of three girls.


Here we are last May, hanging out at my parents' house on a pretty Sunday afternoon. There's a more normal-looking version of this photo, but I like the silly one better.

Christina (Chrissy when we were growing up, now Crick, Cricka, or Kina) is on the left in the coral shirt. At about four years behind me, she's the baby. She's tall--nearly 5'11''--and beautiful and really smart. Chrissy and her husband Paul live with their two seriously cute children in a beautiful old farmhouse in southern New Hampshire. They grow pumpkins and beets and occasionally cow-sit for their neighbors.

Meredith (Meri when we were growing up, now Ditty), in the center, falls squarely between me and Chrissy in age. She has this shiny hair that I've always been a little jealous of: corn-silky like my daughter's but such a pretty shade of dark brown. Meredith and her husband Daniel live just ten minutes from my parents (an hour away from me) with their adorable progeny (three, girl-boy-boy, like ours). Meredith is generous and thoughtful and has impeccable taste. I routinely ask her about decorating decisions I have to make, often argue with her answers, and inevitably take her advice in the end. I always regret it when I don't.

And that's me on the right, sporting the green sweater and the myriad wrinkles that have appeared as my face has deflated.

We fought bitterly when we were little. That fact that brings me some comfort when my own kids are being dreadful to each other, because now my sisters are two of my most precious friends. I don't get to spend nearly enough time with them, and almost none alone with them. That's why an afternoon with each of them made it on the list.

I wish I had time to detail both outings for you, to recount the relaxed, easy conversations and the more intense moments where we dug into our lives in ways that you can't so much do when you're filling sippy cups and refereeing I-had-it-first conflicts. But here are the basics.

Chrissy and I got together mid-morning on a Saturday afternoon. She brought her family down here with her, and Mark and Paul stayed with the kids so we could have some time to ourselves. We went and checked out the farmer's market in nearby Metuchen, which I had never investigated. It was a fun little spot that yielded some mango-macadamia biscotti, some really nice artisan bread, and something else. Peaches, I think.

We then went into New Brunswick to an Ethiopian restaurant called Makeda. I'd never been there, and it knocked one more new variety of ethnic food off my list. (One more to go! Maybe this week...) I'd recommend it, if you're wondering. We sat and lingered over lunch in the mostly-empty restaurant and talked about some of the hard things of life. There was laughing and there was crying, so from a girl-talk perspective that's a pretty clear win. I like her so much.

Meredith and I went out last night. I brought Joy up her house for a sleepover with her cousins, and we left them in the care of Daniel and my mom and went to an upscale mall. We ate at Smashburger, which I'd never been to and my husband is going to love. We also did the lingering thing, and I ate way more than I intended of the sweet potato fries with rosemary, olive oil, and garlic that we were splitting. I will make my way through many green smoothies before I balance out that evening's indulgences.

Afterwards, we walked around the mall, poked around in H&M, looked in a little gift shop, got some free samples from Godiva, and finally landed in Barnes and Noble, where we picked up a stack of home decorating magazines and then did not read them. Instead, we sat on the floor in the most out-of-the-way spot we could find ("No one will come back here unless they're looking for the Harry Potter Knight Bus Lego Set," we said, but of course someone was) and talked about real life, and our own hearts, for a long time. Then we finished up by splitting a Dulce de Leche slice from Cheesecake Factory. Many, many smoothies.

One thing I loved about these outings was that the conversations went so naturally beyond the things we usually end up talking about: the hazards of parenting, the shifting and often amusing dynamics of our family and our families, and the cluttered details of our lives. Instead, we spent the bulk of our time talking about where our hearts are struggling, what God is doing, where He has been active, and where He has been silent.

I left both conversations...well, stuffed to the gills, for starters. But also feeling grateful for them both, and rejoicing with them, and hurting for them. Life is not easy, and walking with Jesus has some formidable challenges. But that is how it goes this side of eternity, and if we have to wade our way through the struggles, I'm genuinely glad to have these two women to wade through them with me.

If I do the list thing again next year, this is going on it again. Once a year is not enough, but it's a start :)

24 days and counting...

Teeny Greens

This one feels a little like cheating.

I'm supposed to "grow something...a plant." As opposed to, you know, mold in the refrigerator or an inner root of bitterness about the infuriating layout of Shop Rite.

This is on the list because, generally speaking, I cannot do it. Ever. I can't keep a plant alive, much less grow one from scratch, or seed, or whatever. I've come to consider small potted plants I get from the grocery store to be the disposable equivalent of cut flowers. They only last a tiny bit longer around here. I know nothing about horticulture, and I'm way too scattered to remember to do things like water vegetation regularly. My children have an advantage over the plants in that they get noisy if they're not fed. The plants just sit quietly and resignedly and starve to death.

So I set out to try. I had a mini-greenhouse thing from a clearance sale at Lowe's several years ago. I was pretty sure the seeds were too old to grow, but I figured since I had the kit, I'd give it a shot.

It included basil, parsley, and dill seeds. Basil I love. Parsley is fine. Dill I really can't stand. Neither can Mark. In college we took a missions trip to Eastern Europe in which we were dilled to death all summer. So I tossed the dill seeds, planted two mini-pots with parsley and four with basil, and waited.

The parsley apparently had despaired of ever seeing soil and given up the ghost. It never appeared. Much to my surprise, however, the basil actually came up!

Here's the thing. I took the above picture on August 31, and the basil still looks pretty much like this today. I'm sure I need to transplant it. I even have a pretty green pot left over from Joy's cabbage plant that I killed. In theory I will move it, soon, into new digs (ha!) where I'm sure it will grow and flourish and make me into one of those people who is always chasing their friends around with big bags of basil saying, "Here! Take this. Make pesto or something." I love those people.

Right now, though, all I have is tiny little stunted seedlings. Still, they weren't there, and then they were, so I'm checking this off.

25 days to go...

Green Smoothies and Caramelly Appleness

We're at T minus 26 days, people. It's going to be a close race to this finish line, let me tell you.

Doing double duty in the quest to complete the list: the green smoothie. It's one of my 40 new recipes (almost done there), and in theory it could help me to finish well in the approaching-a-healthy-weight vein of things.

The green smoothie (also "Shrek smoothie," "Monster smoothie," "Hulk smoothie," and "Eeew-Mommy-what-is-that?") looks a little freaky. I'll give you that. Here's the picture I saw on Pinterest that led me to the recipe:
I'm a sucker for a great photo. Also this shade of green, which you may remember is not far off the color of my living and dining room walls. I read up on the green smoothie phenomenon, and it's supposed to be an easy, filling solution for breakfast, lunch, or a snack...not to mention seriously good for you.

I had one yesterday for breakfast, another this morning, and a third a little while ago for a late lunch. Here's my less-than-gorgeous photo of the first one:
To make it I threw the following into a blender:

1 banana
about 1 cup frozen peach slices
about 1/2 cup frozen pineapple chunks
a little water...maybe 1/2 cup, but I always end up needing to add more
1 big handful baby spinach leaves

My ancient blender didn't enjoy this task. I ended up having to use the handle of a rubber spatula to sort of gingerly push the stuff down into the blades. While it was running. My mother would have been horrified. (Please note: obviously, you should try to avoid sticking things into the whirling blender. I'm sort of an idiot.)

It did eventually do the job, though, and I have to say that the website was right: it's delicious (I genuinely cannot detect a spinach taste), filling, and easy. I'm not sure how to gauge the amount of energy it's giving me, but I do know that I'm getting a WHOLE lot more vitamins and minerals than I otherwise would have.

I'm wondering what might happen if I had these for breakfast and lunch for a week. I don't know what the odds are that I'd be able to pull that off, but I wonder.

All of this uber-healthiness helps to counteract some of the other cooking I've been doing. I've been on an apple-caramel kick for a while, and that yielded caramel apple cheesecake bars, which: ohmygoodness. I didn't take any pictures, but here's a photo from the recipe page.
Yeah.

I brought these to an end-of-summer party at the home of my friend Kathy (who kept me running) and her husband, Piscataway Joe. They met with lots of enthusiasm. The bars, I mean. Though Joe and Kathy are fantastic, too.

Under the same apple-caramel compulsion, I also tried caramel apple cookies. Yum.


I left the nuts off the top. They were really soft--kind of like a cross between a cookie and a muffin--but really nice, especially with the frosting. My kids approved.

During this interval we also tried cinnamon swirl pancakes. Because I apparently cannot pass up an opportunity to cram my children full of sugar.

I put together a cinnamon-sugar-butter syrupy thing (full disclosure: I think I messed with that part of the recipe, but I don't remember how) that I was supposed to put in a squirt bottle. I had no squirt bottle, so I dug out an old baby bottle and snipped off the end. It looks a little disturbing filled with brown liquid...like seeing an infant drinking coffee or Dr. Pepper.
You can follow their pancake recipe or just use your favorite, then swirl the cinnamon syrup over the batter.

The pics I saw on the web had that same brown swirl in the finished pancakes, but when I flipped mine, the butter and sugar melted and crusted up over the whole surface, leaving a swirly pattern where they had been. I am not complaining.


As you may have guessed, these don't really need syrup, though the buttermilk syrup featured in the recipe looks intriguing.

We also tried a couple of snacks. One was an experiment for Rosh Hashanah (or was it Yom Kippur?), when the kids were out of school and it was miserable and rainy out. We tried chocolate chip mug cake:
...topped with ice cream.
These were sort of meh. They're a great idea--mix up a few ingredients in a mug and stick it in a microwave--but they brought me back to the 80's when we were all like, "Look! You can bake in the microwave!" until the novelty wore off and we realized that everything we baked in the microwave was kind of like a dense, sticky sponge.

The ice cream helped, but Joy declared that given the choice between this snack and plain vanilla ice cream, she'd take the plain ice cream. No one finished it. Still, it could scratch an itch for something warm and sweet in a pinch. I'm hanging on to the recipe.

There have been a couple more experiments of late (barbecued baby back ribs, au gratin potatoes, and maybe more), but the only other one for which I have a photo is the soft pretzels. It was an after-school snack and was a huge hit.

I followed the recipe faithfully (it happens once in a while), and these were fabulous and buttery and much like an Auntie Anne's or some such mall pretzel. My only difficulty was that while they were perfect on top and inside, the bottoms burned. My friend Kathy tells me I should bake them on something a little gentler (like a pizza stone or airbake pan, or maybe just some added layers of foil or parchment) to keep that from happening. But I sliced the burned parts off, and what was left was gone very quickly.

There's more to tell. I'm going to try to write less bulk and more often as we're in the home stretch here!

Fast. Ish.

I've been writing this post a sentence or two at a time for about three weeks. Sorry about the delay...I've been offline more than usual, but more about that below. :)

I recently heard an eyewitness account from a man who was near the World Trade Center on 9/11. He struggled to find the words to explain what the sound was like when the tower came down and the debris cloud overtook him, saying something to the effect of, "Did you ever hear something that was so loud that it was silent? Like, there's so much noise that you can't hear anything at all? That's what it was like."

My life feels like that sometimes. This head of mine is a noisy place to live. The barrage of input can feel overwhelming...the rising and falling chaos that is my children, the background buzz of living in a busy part of New Jersey, and the other physical noises provide a backdrop for the rest of the stimuli that come my way. I'm on the internet continually throughout the day, checking email, checking weather, checking Facebook, clicking on interesting news stories, finding the answers to random questions (I'm a curious person), and generally going down cyber bunny trails. I do a great percentage of my shopping online. My kids probably watch too much tv (not CRAZY much, but still...), and the soundtrack of my life often features Blue's Clues, the Fairly OddParents, or Dora "I-scream-everything-I-say" the Explorer. When I have down time, I play Jewel Quest on my non-smart-phone. That's on top of the managing of everyone's schedules and buses and activities and appointments and all the people and information involved in all of those.

Plus I sing, like, all day long. But that's not going to stop anytime soon.

There are times when the noise (literal and figurative) gets so loud and so constant that I stop hearing any of it. I start to shut down, intellectually speaking, and all of it becomes a sort of indistinct blur. It feels numb and sort of brain-sleepy, if that makes any sense.

And so I set out to try a week-long media fast. I wanted to see what would happen if I turned down the volume for a few days.

The goal was to stay away from the computer except for necessary work- or ministry-related tasks. I planned to ask Mark to check my email every couple of days to see if there was anything important in there. No TV, no Wii (which I'm rarely on anyway), no web-surfing, no Facebook, no Twitter, no blogging, no Pinterest, no games on my phone. I figured I'd allow myself to text, since that's mostly task-oriented in my life.

I set out with firm resolve and my customary optimism, and here's what I mainly learned:

I can't do it.

If a successful media fast is defined by seven days during which you make dishearteningly extensive use of media every single day, then my media fast was a raging success.

Here's an overview of what happened.

• Email. This took me about two hours to discover. I cannot disconnect from email. It's too much a part of the networking of my life, and I quickly realized that to detach from it would be pretty rude to those around me who depend on my receiving and sending information that way. I stink at the phone, so those who know me know email is the way to get me. To vanish from that medium would just be obnoxious. So, ok, I'd stay on email. But I'd try to keep it on task, and everything else was still game on.
• My kids. They have needs that involve the web. Joy needed to get on a keyboarding practice site, find the cyber version of her math text, and research artist trading cards. Both she and Will needed book club orders placed online. And I'm supposed to check their teachers' web pages frequently. All right...but just on-task stuff for the kids.
• Vital Information. What's the weather going to be like today? I don't know. Is the gym open on Jewish holidays? I don't know. How much flour goes into the batter? I don't know. When is that road supposed to be open again? I don't know. When is my package getting here? I don't know. Apparently I don't know anything that the internet doesn't tell me. Ok, but just what I really need to know.
• Family bonding. I didn't impose my ban on the rest of my family. I really believe I could easily go a week without tv, but it's hard when it's on anyway. Mark watched a movie one night, and when I went into the living room to ask him a question, I got sucked in and watched the last half. Over the weekend, Joy and Will went to a movie with Daddy, and Jack's consolation prize was to watch a movie at home with me. I think that was it, but that was enough to railroad my success in the TV realm.
• Moderation, or lack thereof. Here's the real kicker. I'm no good at moderation in any area of life, and media is no exception. Even with all of the above concessions, I could have really made a dent in the media madness in my life, but it's really, really hard for me to start doing something and then stop. I'm much better at either stopping cold turkey or...what's the opposite of that? Running rampant? Something. But once I was online looking at the weather, or placing a book order for Will, the odds that I was going to shut it off and walk away were pretty slim. I found myself on websites (Pinterest was a big culprit) that were totally unnecessary.

The experiment was saved from total failure by a couple of redeeming victories:

• Facebook. I did manage to stay off fb completely for the week, I think, except for going on there to retrieve a message Mark told me was waiting for me and needed my attention. And I've been on it almost not at all since, which is both a blessing and a challenge. I'm going to need to figure out how to stay up to date with people in some other way.
  
• Aftermath. I have to say...surprisingly, I have definitely been online less since I finished the fast. Maybe it had a little bit of lasting impact after all. Of course, that also means that I have been working on this post for about 3 weeks. Maybe it's time to end it.

I'm not sure how to sum the whole thing up. I didn't have any life-changing experiences engendered by the quietness of my heart. I don't feel like it was a total waste of time, though...I'm tucking away the knowledge that I am hopelessly attached to the digital world, and maybe Jesus and I will work on that at some point. For now, though, I'm in a race to my Nov. 16 finish line, so I have other things to think about. :)

Bright Lights

I apologize...this is sort of a self-indulgent post. It's long and detailed, and if you're not into music, this may not be your cup of tea. Don't feel obligated. But I wanted to write all of this out simply to preserve the sheer pleasure of the memory it recounts.

I'm sure you're waiting with bated breath to hear how my media fast went, since everyone must be as interested in my life's minutiae as I am. Rest assured, I will subject you to that. But I want to get this down on paper...er, screen...while it's fresh in my mind.

Have I mentioned on this blog that I'm in a band? In the last year or so some friends and I have cobbled together this little group of musicians, and we've gone (in various combinations) to a whole bunch of little venues, including the tea bar, the 4-H fair in Somerset County (twice), and an evening at an awesome little Italian restaurant. It has been a BLAST.

We do have a lousy name. Currently we're known as "Piscataway Joe." There's a story behind that name which is really not worth the retelling. Mostly we just need a new one, but we can't find one we're all excited about. Please feel free to offer ideas.

Last night Piscataway Joe played Nicholas Music Center at Rutgers University. The RCSSA (a group of Chinese international students) was throwing their annual Mid-Autumn Gala, and they invited us to join them again this year.

Nicholas Music Center is an elegant hall (by university standards, at least). The acoustics are fantastic, and there are about 800 plush seats soaring steeply away from the shallow but immaculate stage. The 4-H fair it is not. And the Mid-Autumn Gala is well-attended, so last night hundreds of faces, most of them Chinese students far from their homeland, filled those seats.

We were next to last on the program, so it was about 9:30 by the time we took our turn standing in the near-blackness, waiting for the stage lights to come up. My friends were using the moments of darkness to get their equipment settled. I was using them to try to settle myself in the wake of the adrenaline rush that threatened the steadiness of both my voice and my four-inch heels. I wasn't afraid, per se...just excited. But the adrenaline thing is inconvenient.

I hadn't yet been successful by the time the lights came on, and the next few moments were a blur. The emcee introduced us, I said a few words that I barely heard above the pounding of my heart, and we were ready.

The reason I'm writing this post, really, is that there were a few moments last night that typify moments that are precious to me, and I want to remember them. Forgive me for using this forum to etch them a little further into my memory. But here is moment number one: the endless half-second between when you're ready and when the first note of the introduction begins. It hangs there, brightly lit and full of promise, like the pause at the top of a diver's arc, and it's the moment when you sort of let go (if you can) and allow the experience to unfold in front of you.

Last night I was able to let go...largely, I think, because Rick was playing the intro. Rick is our pastor and our dear friend. If you've been following this blog for a while, you met him when he and his wonderful wife let me change their tire last fall. Besides being an excellent tire-change tutor, he is an extraordinary guitarist with a deep love for music and a deeper love for his Savior. Rick is one of the people in my life whose presence imparts calm and confidence to me. He started playing the lovely opening notes to James Taylor's "Carolina In My Mind," and I felt my heart rate slow as I opened my mouth to sing.

And that's moment number two: the very first note. I am always...every time...surprised by it. Not because it's amazing. Often it's quavery and a little unsure; I am not a phenomenal singer. But that first note, amplified by the sound system and by the adrenaline, and absorbed by the audience in a physics kind of way and in a way less tangible, sounds literally and metaphorically huge. It startles me a little and rockets me into, "Oh. Okay. We're doing this now."

In my mind I'm gone to Carolina. Can't you see the sunshine? Can't you just feel the moon shining?

I wound my way through the first chorus, trying to really see the sunshine and feel the moonlight, knowing that the Mid-Autumn festival (which is all about missing faraway loved ones) is meaningful to this group of expatriates. Rick's skillful accompaniment sort of floated behind me and around me, and the quaver started to smooth out of my voice. We came around the bend out of the first chorus. That's where Joe came in.

My friend Joe (Piscataway Joe himself) has been my partner in crime throughout this entire adventure. He's a tremendous musician, and although these days you'll often find him behind the piano, he seems equally at home holding a guitar, a bass, or drumsticks, among other things. Oh, and he sings. And writes music. Yeah. Joe has extremely high standards when it comes to musical excellence, and high praise from him is hard-earned, but he is easygoing, relaxed, and prone to laughter. He's fun to be with, and he makes me better at this. He came in at the pickup to the first verse with a few quiet notes, then started filling in the chords with the sweet, mellow tones of the beautiful Steinway grand piano. He seasoned the song with his favorite kinds of chords: the ones I don't really understand, with hidden sevenths and seconds and tricks of movement that sound like they're rooted in jazz, but quiet and reflective.

Karen, she's a silver sun; You'd best walk her away and watch it shine...

I will freely admit that I have no idea what that means. But that's the song, and it is gorgeous. Still, there was something tentative left in that first verse. It didn't settle until the second verse, when our other Joe came in.

This Joe is a relative newcomer to our little group. For that reason, I know him the least well, but I made some strides last night by peppering him with questions during our long wait for our rehearsal. What I learned served to confirm what I already thought: he's just a great guy. Joe is young, quiet, unassuming, and extremely modest about his musical ability. He has only been playing the bass for a little while, having volunteered to learn it when our worship team was hurting for bass players last year. When he gets a new piece of music, he looks at it like, "hmmm. Well, we'll see." And then proceeds to play it ably and reliably. Like, every time, as far as I can tell. And that's exactly what he did last night. He filled in the bottom of the sound and gave the song a place to rest and swell.

Ain't no doubt in no one's mind that love's the finest thing around--whisper something soft and kind...

As a side note, for those of you doing the math at home, that makes three remarkable musicians, all of them relaxed, good-natured, and ready and willing to surrender the spotlight to one another. When does that happen? Seriously. I love working with people who love Jesus.

The verses in "Carolina In My Mind" end decisively, reprising the final line of the chorus and sidling comfortably back into the tonic chord. Whatever comes next feels sort of like a new start, and what came next was the second chorus. During the turnaround I took a deep breath, pulled my mic from its stand, and started walking toward the piano as Piscataway Joe leaned in toward his microphone.

And here is moment number three: the moment when the harmony slips into place. When you have a pretty melody line that is suddenly augmented by a spot-on harmony, the beauty of the resulting music is far greater than the sum of its parts. And Joe's harmony was spot-on--clear, precise, and easy--as it generally is, leaving me with a sort of heady exhilaration. It feels sort of like a well-executed dance, with the voices mirroring and circling each other in perfect complement. The one danger is that it tends to make me grin like an idiot. I'm pretty sure that I managed to avoid that last night (though I can't guarantee it), but I'll tell you what...I could have gone on singing that chorus for a long time.

But the song went on, as songs do. We made our way through the third verse, with the tender, beautiful chord progression and bassline that all three of them followed, and through Joe's piano solo, about which he had been nervous but which turned out lovely--lilting and sweet, faithful yet unpredictable.

And that took us to the most poignant of the moments: the bridge, where the song swells and the melody line rises with it and I have to push a little to nail the note. The instruments were at their fullest, and Joe came back in with that spot-on harmony, and it felt just right.

It's with a holy host of others standing 'round me...

By that time I was relaxed and able to fully take in and enjoy the experience: standing there, under the bright lights, in four-inch patent heels and dangly earrings, closing my eyes and leaning in to pour myself out into a microphone in front of hundreds of people, surrounded and joined by dear friends and talented, talented musicians...what did I ever do to deserve this?

God is very good to me.

Someday I won't be able to sing like I do now. And when that day comes I want to have this sweet moment firmly planted in my mind's eye.

I was able to savor that bridge, the final chorus, and the long coda, where I cheated on the A that I was supposed to belt for a while. It was wobbly. I need to learn how to loosen my throat when I'm all worked up. Didn't matter, though, and soon I found myself at the very end, where Joe walked me through the ritard in the quietness of the tag, gently slowing me down where I have a tendency to rush it. He gave me the next-to-last chord and trailed off, leaving me to hold the place in silence for one last moment........until we resolved it and everyone broke into applause.

It wasn't a perfect performance. Certainly not on my end, anyway. And anyone who's actually made it to the end of this post would probably be justified in poking fun at the level of drama I assign to the whole thing. But I can't help it...it just feels full and beautiful and very right, and it fills me with gratitude.

I don't know how long this kind of opportunity will last. Surely I won't be surrounded by these amazing people forever. But for now I will so, so take it. And, I hope, take it with me.

Going dark

OK, I just looked at my calendar, and my one-week media fast (on my list) was supposed to start yesterday. Whoops.

In the past 36 hours I have watched tv, posted to this blog, browsed through facebook, lingered over email, played Mario Kart on the Wii, spent way too much time on Pinterest (which I've only just discovered...where have I been?), Googled dinner party themes and recipes, and played Jewel Quest on my phone. So I apparently have begun my media fast with an unusually media-rich day and a half.

Yeah.

So I guess my media fast is starting right now and running through next Monday at noon. You won't be hearing from me for a week, but that's not really that unusual. :) If you absolutely must contact me to tell me how fabulous my blood-donation post was, you'll have to send me a note by carrier pigeon or something.

Aaaaaaaaaand....go.

Oh, Positive!

It took me almost 40 years to get up my nerve to give blood, apparently. I'm not sure why. Needles don't thrill me, but I'm not terrified of them, either. And people need blood. Mine isn't the magic universal donor O negative type (which I remember because of many episodes of ER: "2 units of O neg! Stat!"), but it's O positive, which is still pretty helpful. It seems like the kind of good-girl thing that would have been right up my alley all along. For whatever reason, though, last week marked my first blood donation.

And it was........no big deal.

As I was lying on the cot, squeezing the little bike-handle-thinger I was supposed to squeeze, I mused for a while about what I had been waiting for. Maybe it was just that since I'd never done it, my tendency to stay away from the unknown had kept me from making that first donation.

So here, for your benefit, gentle reader, I will detail the events of my first blood donation experience in order to remove one more obstacle from your ability to do this particular variety of civic good.

Arrival: I had made an appointment online (through the New York Blood Center, which works in NJ as well) for a blood drive on the other side of town, but I got the sense when I arrived that I could just as easily have walked right in. I'm glad I made the appointment, though, for my own sake. It got my butt off the couch and out the door. On arrival I was directed to a set of tables with cardboard privacy screens and papers to fill out. The paperwork was pretty easy, consisting mostly of questions I know the answers to, such as whether I have ever worked as a prostitute. (I have not, in case you're wondering.)

Screening: I waited, clutching my filled-out triplicate forms, until my name was called for my medical screening. I sat down behind another privacy-screened table with a woman I found absolutely fascinating. She was older, but not old, and seemed really tough. Serious and lean and sinewy, she did her job with a subdued, civil severity that made me wonder about her: what is her backstory? To whom is she precious? What brought her here? I was nervous, and when I'm nervous I babble, so I refrained from asking her any personal questions at all lest I fall immediately into invasiveness. She clarified a couple of answers on my sheet (guessing correctly that the "other people's blood" I'd come in contact with over the last year belonged to my accident-prone children), got some vital statistics, pricked my finger (which hardly hurt at all thanks to the little spring-loaded gizmo she used), took my blood pressure, and sent me back to the waiting area.

Donating: After maybe 10 minutes I was called into the back room to make my deposit. As soon as I walked in, a very pleasant nurse asked me to show her my veins, so I stretched out my arms, knowing what reaction I would get. "Oh, yeah," she said. "You sit right down." That's right, people. I have great veins. Somehow this feels like an accomplishment, and I will admit to feeling a little bit smug about it, as if I had anything at all to do with it.

The nurse seemed like she had probably done this about a billion times, which I found comforting, since before my last c-section my hand served as the guinea pig for a tentative student's very first IV insertion. That was not so fun. This professional, though, had it down cold. She gave me the squeezy thing which looked like it had been lifted from a kid's bike handlebar and warned me that I would feel a little pinch. I told her I'd be looking away, and she was not offended.

And that's what it was: a little pinch. A little bit pinchier, maybe, than when a doctor takes blood to test for whatever, but not by a lot. It made me wince a tiny bit, but then it was over, and I reasoned that the opportunity to help save someone's life was worth the pinch. The rest of the visit didn't hurt at all.

I lay on the cot for about 10 minutes, obediently squeezing the thinger every 10 seconds or so. During this interval the quiet, serious woman who had done my screening, having finished her shift at the privacy-shrouded tables, came in to switch places with someone else. As they spoke I discovered something significant about her.

She was a man.

Oops.

I quickly tried to replay our entire conversation in my head, and I don't think I said anything that would have betrayed my error. PRAISE THE LORD that I didn't give in to the temptation to ask her...sorry, him...any personal questions.

Having dodged that bullet, I soon heard a beeping noise that apparently meant I was done. My friend the nurse removed the needle without causing any pain at all. I held a cotton ball over the spot where it had been, and I assessed my own physical condition: no dizziness, no nausea, nothing. They thanked me cheerfully and walked me out to the snack table, where I was instructed to sit for 15 minutes before going home. I didn't really feel weak, but I don't often get told that I can sit quietly for 15 minutes at a table that has fruit juice, pretzels, and Lorna Doone cookies (!!), so I obliged.

And that was it. Done and done.

In closing, I have the following advice to offer you, fellow first-timer:

1. Eat before you go. They'll ask. They probably didn't need to know that I had a cheese sandwich, an apple, and a banana, but I'm thorough.
2. Don't wear a skirt. I made that mistake, and it didn't bother me in the least, but they had to take extra measures (sheet-like thing) to ensure my modesty when I was getting up and down from the cot.
3. Maybe avoid unnecessary aspirin in the days preceding the donation? The form asked whether I'd had any aspirin in the previous 72 hours. I don't know whether that would have disqualified me, but I remember thinking that would have been a good thing to know ahead of time.
   
4. Don't ask gender-specific questions of your screener. She may be a man.

Other than that, though, you should be good. Go and save a life.

One final note: I've been wanting an iPod touch, and the NY Blood Center has a rewards program where you can earn all manner of nifty stuff including an iPod touch. I've been doing the math, and I figure if I donate every time I'm eligible (every 56 days), I'll totally have an iPod touch by April of 2024. Awesome.

Too Few Books and a Magical Dilemma

I just wanted to report that I've finished my 8 books. It doesn't feel like all that much of an accomplishment, honestly...the goal of 8 feels appallingly low. All my life I've read voraciously. I majored in English and took more than twice as many literature classes in college as I was required to. I taught high school English for five years and loved immersing myself in great literary works. Now? When I have a minute of respite from managing little ones and the endless picking-up-the-house cycle, I tend not to sit down with a book. It's easier to turn off my brain and turn on the tv or lose myself on Facebook.

So I think the value of this one was less in the books themselves and more in the wake-up call it gives me. I don't want to become a person who doesn't really read.

Anyhow, the last one was Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets. Joy's been asking me to read it for months because I won't let her at it until I've finished it. She finally wore me down. I'd read the first chapter, and I finished the rest in one long evening. Joy snatched it up the next morning and had it read before bedtime, I think. Now we've both read the first two, and she's already on me to preview the third.

I realize the Harry Potter debate is SO ten years ago. It's been about a decade since much of the Christian community in America sent up an indignant outcry about these novels and their use of witchcraft and sorcery. But my kid is nine now, so we have to start making a call on this stuff. For those of you who might care, here's my two cents.

They're really good books. They're imaginative and engaging, with fantastic, round characters, gripping plotlines, and a masterfully whimsical narrative voice. Yes, they have magic in them. But so do the Lord of the Rings novels, and the Chronicles of Narnia, and most fairy tales, and just about every Disney movie. If you categorically dismiss any story with magic in it, you may lose more than you bargained for.

I get that the setting of these novels is closer to normal, modern life than most of the tales mentioned above. Your 11-year-old is not likely to take up orc-hunting or try to turn a pumpkin into a coach. But it seems to me that a kid who is able to read and understand a Harry Potter novel is a kid who is old enough to talk about it with you. And if your kid can't grasp the difference between a fictional world where magic can be good or evil, and our world, where God asks us not to seek powers that don't come from Him, then I think you have a bigger problem than Harry Potter. I'm just saying.

I hear that the books get progressively darker as they go on. Certainly the second was darker than the first. I've warned Joy that I'm not going to let her tear through them all right away...she may need to sort of age into them. And if they get crazy dark, then we'll set them aside. But right now, I'm ok with them.

Having said that, I can respect the decision some parents are making to make the books unavailable to their kids. Certainly we all have to figure out where to draw the line, and I understand why many might draw it here. What frustrated me ten years ago was not a measured decision to stay away but the knee-jerk reactions coming from people who hadn't bothered to think it through on their own. That kind of bandwagon-hopping contributes to the depressing reputation that Christians have in this nation. And it makes our task (serving the people around us and seeking to share the really good news of Jesus's love with them) a whole lot harder.

I hadn't planned to write all this stuff, and if I don't quit now I'll reread it a million times and take half of it out. Whether or not that would be a good idea, I don't have time for it now. So for once you get me talking off the top of my head. :)

Hope you're all having a magically wonderful day!

Run Bike Run

I'm officially a duathlete! Today I completed the Vassar Brothers Medical Center Duathlon in Lagrangeville, NY: 1-mile run, 14-mile bike, 3-mile run. I didn't exactly complete it with flying colors, but I finished still breathing and able to walk without assistance, so...score! No photos (if I can find official ones online I'll post them), because I thought I was going to be alone, and what would I do with the camera while I raced?

But as it turned out, I wasn't alone! You guys, my mom came with me! (If you don't get the significance of that, you may need to check my previous post. Don't worry. It's pretty short.) I wouldn't have had the nerve to ask her to get up with me at 4:45 a.m., but she didn't want me doing this on my own, so she volunteered to come along. I can't even tell you how much she calmed my nerves. There is a super-short list of people in my life whose very presence makes me feel like everything is going to be ok. My mom is on that list.

Despite road closures, highways obscured by darkness and low clouds, an impressive swarm of hungry mosquitoes, and an unfamiliar registration and preparation process, I was checked in and ready to go in plenty of time. This left me a little time to make some observations about the rest of the 400+ competitors:

• Performance fabric. Nearly everyone there (literally everyone but me, I think) was wearing some space-age fabric or another, designed to "breathe," wick away moisture, and possibly travel through time. What was I wearing? A Coke t-shirt I bought at Target.
• Impressive stretching regimens. I saw people doing some crazy stuff: some with legs twisted every which way, some bending backward way farther than seemed necessary, some lying on their backs with people pushing on their legs. It got my mom all excited. "Do you need me to push on your legs? I could push on your legs!" I assured her that I was ok.
• Toned glutes. I hope this isn't inappropriate, but it's an observation I couldn't help but make, what with all the spandex around. These runner/biker types have some perky butts. This aspect of my physique would have been enough to betray me as a wannabe had it not been for the Coke t-shirt, which I chose because it is long enough to cover the evidence.

Before long, though, I had to line up with everyone else, quell the butterflies, and start with the weird electronic sound that I'm thankful wasn't a gun or air horn.

The 1-mile run was a little unsettling. I can run a mile without too much difficulty, but I've never attempted a race on my own before, and I had some trouble pacing myself. The adrenaline didn't help. (Am I going too fast I'm going too fast I should slow down Now everyone's passing me I should speed up Am I going too fast...) I forgot to start my watch when I left, so I have no idea how fast I ended up going, but I was maybe third to last.

I found the whole idea of the "transition" intimidating, but my mediocrity in the first run worked to my advantage: nearly all the bikes but mine were already gone. :) I still felt unsettled, but off I went.

The bike portion consisted of two laps on a 7-mile loop. I struggled along at the end of the pack, flustered and stressed, until about halfway through my first loop. At that point some volunteers along the road started cheering for me and asserting that I was "doing awesome." This obvious lie made me laugh, which made them laugh, and just then the fastest competitors began to fly by me on their second lap. I laughed again, reminded myself that I wasn't going to get anywhere CLOSE to winning this thing, and relaxed. I started to enjoy the wind in my face, the feeling of freedom, and the chance to push my comfort zone a little.

I finished the 14 miles in a little more than an hour, racked my bike, took a quick drink, started the three mile run...and almost quit right there. My legs felt like lead. I've never experienced anything like it. I'm sure my already not-picture-perfect gait looked more like a waddle until I loosened up about 1/2 mile later, but it did eventually wear off.

And so, just under two hours after my flustered start, I dragged my sweaty, aching self across the finish line. Everything hurt: my entire rib cage (why?), my neck, my hips...my thighs were pretty seriously done. Almost everyone had finished and headed over to the bagels and protein shakes, and the volunteers had started winding up the bright orange tape marking the course. But there was my mom, jumping up and down and waving her hands over her head, shouting, "Yay, Joci! Go, Joci!"

I love my mom.

I finished ahead of maybe 10 people. Probably they had leg cramps or mechanical issues with their bikes that overpowered the magic of their performance fabrics.

So it's done! I have to tell you...I thought this item on my list wasn't going to happen. It's kind of a thrill. :)

What's next?