The staycation is all the rage these days, but here in the Slowlane we've mixed it up a bit. Instead of staying home and doing all the things you would do on a vacation, we are spending a couple of nights in several beautiful locations, traveling from place to place, all the while going to our jobs. It is kind of the opposite of the staycation. For our purposes we'll call it the workadayroadtrip.
Similarly to a vacation, packing is critical. During our workadayroadtrip we will be staying in four or five guest bedrooms, one hotel room, tent camping, traveling by plane, car, and possibly bus, attend a beach wedding and at least one baby shower (where to stow gifts?), and show up smiling and professional looking for the nearly normal work schedule (iron mysteriously not included).
Try packing for that workadayroadtrip. Before you credit me with super-human packing skills, let me tell you that I trusted summer stupor to keep people from noticing that I wore the same outfit three times this week.
Good preachers will warn you that you can't take your stuff with you when you leave this world.
Dear readers, take it from me: that is good news.
Sunday, July 12
Friday, July 10
Darkness
A teenage friend of mine called me at work the other day, super excited about the new Bible he got in the mail. Of course, it was only the first half of the Bible. That is all that would fit in the shipment: ten thick volumes in Braille. He asked me if he could read to me from it and ever so slowly he read me a verse from Genesis, feeling out the words as only a new reader does.
The old story of God speaking light into the darkness... it matters.
The old story of God speaking light into the darkness... it matters.
Friday, July 3
The Nomad
Do you know how many times I have tried to retire the "Nomad" series on my blog?
But here I am, at it again.
This weekend finds me patriotically packing my things and who knows when I will be able to unpack them?
Of course, I've gained quite a few things since I last packed all of my belongings and headed out to who-knows-where. The list of things I have acquired bears a remarkable resemblance to my wedding registries. Toss in a few miscellaneous items of furniture for good measure, the belongings S.O.S. brought to our marriage, and the MEGA-GRILL that suddenly has become the "make-it or break-it" determining factor in what housing situation will work for us... and you can well understand why I had hoped the word "nomad" would not be required.
But the time has come to say goodbye to our Cataluna house and I'm back to the life of a nomad.
This world is not my home, I'm just a passin' through... but in the mean while, I've got quite the carry-on luggage.
But here I am, at it again.
This weekend finds me patriotically packing my things and who knows when I will be able to unpack them?
Of course, I've gained quite a few things since I last packed all of my belongings and headed out to who-knows-where. The list of things I have acquired bears a remarkable resemblance to my wedding registries. Toss in a few miscellaneous items of furniture for good measure, the belongings S.O.S. brought to our marriage, and the MEGA-GRILL that suddenly has become the "make-it or break-it" determining factor in what housing situation will work for us... and you can well understand why I had hoped the word "nomad" would not be required.
But the time has come to say goodbye to our Cataluna house and I'm back to the life of a nomad.
This world is not my home, I'm just a passin' through... but in the mean while, I've got quite the carry-on luggage.
Sunday, June 7
The grass is always greener...
The Cataluna House, where SOS and I have honeymooned since our return to the mainland from Catalina, has a back lawn.
This lawn, at its widest point, is approximately twice the width of our lawn mower. On the other side of our back fence is a golf course which stretches for acres. The first Saturday that I pulled out the mower to make two back and forth passes over the lawn, I fantasized about picking up the green postage stamp masquerading as a back yard, and throw it over the fence so the custodial staff at the golf course would cut it as they dreamily drove on their riding mowers.
Surely they wouldn't even notice such a small addition, and I'd pull the lawn back over to my side of the fence before they even woke up.
But in Southern California, a patch of green grass, no matter how small, is a precious priority, and so SOS and I have carefully mowed, and weeded, and watered... anticipating that day when we are told to move out and must leave a showplace of Southern California dreaming behind us.
Enter the field mice.
The bottom portion of the fence which separates our postage stamp from the greens of golfing bliss is a brick wall. In this brick wall are two cracks not wide enough to stick my thumb into. And out of these cracks come an entire family of field mice who dart in and out, somehow squeezing their round little bodies through, and steal pieces of our grass taking them to the other side and leaving bare dirt trails behind.
If they would stand still long enough, I might just get down on eye level with them and tell them the same story the prophet Nathan told King David about a rich man with many sheep stealing the poor man's only lamb to feast on.
What could be so very much better about our grass than the lawns that are paid to be green?
Maybe if I got down on eye level with the mice, they would tell me. Or maybe it is true... the grass is always greener on the other side.
This lawn, at its widest point, is approximately twice the width of our lawn mower. On the other side of our back fence is a golf course which stretches for acres. The first Saturday that I pulled out the mower to make two back and forth passes over the lawn, I fantasized about picking up the green postage stamp masquerading as a back yard, and throw it over the fence so the custodial staff at the golf course would cut it as they dreamily drove on their riding mowers.
Surely they wouldn't even notice such a small addition, and I'd pull the lawn back over to my side of the fence before they even woke up.
But in Southern California, a patch of green grass, no matter how small, is a precious priority, and so SOS and I have carefully mowed, and weeded, and watered... anticipating that day when we are told to move out and must leave a showplace of Southern California dreaming behind us.
Enter the field mice.
The bottom portion of the fence which separates our postage stamp from the greens of golfing bliss is a brick wall. In this brick wall are two cracks not wide enough to stick my thumb into. And out of these cracks come an entire family of field mice who dart in and out, somehow squeezing their round little bodies through, and steal pieces of our grass taking them to the other side and leaving bare dirt trails behind.
If they would stand still long enough, I might just get down on eye level with them and tell them the same story the prophet Nathan told King David about a rich man with many sheep stealing the poor man's only lamb to feast on.
What could be so very much better about our grass than the lawns that are paid to be green?
Maybe if I got down on eye level with the mice, they would tell me. Or maybe it is true... the grass is always greener on the other side.
Monday, May 18
Money Laundering
I'm spoiled.
I haven't had to pay to do my laundry since I graduated from college. (Actually, chances are I didn't do laundry for at least two weeks before I graduated. You know, finals... papers... social obligations...)
Even for the first three weeks of married life, when, for the first time in five years I didn't have a washer and dryer down the hall, I got to do my laundry for free thanks to two hospitable friends.
And if it weren't for the fact that my dear SOS has a uniform for work and it gets smellier than... well, it gets smelly... I think I might still have avoided a trip to the dreaded laundromat. I mean, one of the first things I demanded of my husband was that he buy more underwear. He didn't even have enough to put off doing laundry for more than a week and a half! (And believe me, I didn't want to suggest the eco-friendly option suggested here.)
Not to mention, poor dear, that as soon as we were married I became obsessive about collecting quarters for the eventual Day of Reckoning. I nearly had to hold my own hand to prevent myself from snitching a quarter out of the "take a penny, leave a penny" plate at a tourist trap on our honeymoon. When my purchases at other stores rang up, I would carefully calculate what change I could give that would protect my quarters and maybe even return one or two to me.
Much to my despair, however, my carefully hoarded quarters were exactly enough to start the washer on our first load of paid laundry. Never mind the change machine directly behind me. Using coins to pay for laundry is bad enough... seeing it eat through real cash money is downright terrorizing.
My theory goes something like this: our current laundromat fees and our current rate of dirty-laundry making equates to about $50 a month in quarters. That is a tank and a half of gas plus a box of chocolates. So if SOS and I can just accumulate enough days' worth of outfits to go a month without washing anything, then once a month we could visit different friends (provided they are the type of friends who come with free access to a washer and dryer) near and far, or maybe not quite so far, do our laundry while visiting with them, thank them with a box of chocolates, and still save money.
It would all work so perfectly if it weren't for that smelly work uniform. And the month long supply of outfits. And the difficulty of transporting an entire walk-in closet worth of clothing in a car that get's good enough gas mileage we could travel further than the laundromat without spending more than $50 in gas.
Ah well.
Maybe I'll start checking pay phones and couch cushions for quarters.
I haven't had to pay to do my laundry since I graduated from college. (Actually, chances are I didn't do laundry for at least two weeks before I graduated. You know, finals... papers... social obligations...)
Even for the first three weeks of married life, when, for the first time in five years I didn't have a washer and dryer down the hall, I got to do my laundry for free thanks to two hospitable friends.
And if it weren't for the fact that my dear SOS has a uniform for work and it gets smellier than... well, it gets smelly... I think I might still have avoided a trip to the dreaded laundromat. I mean, one of the first things I demanded of my husband was that he buy more underwear. He didn't even have enough to put off doing laundry for more than a week and a half! (And believe me, I didn't want to suggest the eco-friendly option suggested here.)
Not to mention, poor dear, that as soon as we were married I became obsessive about collecting quarters for the eventual Day of Reckoning. I nearly had to hold my own hand to prevent myself from snitching a quarter out of the "take a penny, leave a penny" plate at a tourist trap on our honeymoon. When my purchases at other stores rang up, I would carefully calculate what change I could give that would protect my quarters and maybe even return one or two to me.
Much to my despair, however, my carefully hoarded quarters were exactly enough to start the washer on our first load of paid laundry. Never mind the change machine directly behind me. Using coins to pay for laundry is bad enough... seeing it eat through real cash money is downright terrorizing.
My theory goes something like this: our current laundromat fees and our current rate of dirty-laundry making equates to about $50 a month in quarters. That is a tank and a half of gas plus a box of chocolates. So if SOS and I can just accumulate enough days' worth of outfits to go a month without washing anything, then once a month we could visit different friends (provided they are the type of friends who come with free access to a washer and dryer) near and far, or maybe not quite so far, do our laundry while visiting with them, thank them with a box of chocolates, and still save money.
It would all work so perfectly if it weren't for that smelly work uniform. And the month long supply of outfits. And the difficulty of transporting an entire walk-in closet worth of clothing in a car that get's good enough gas mileage we could travel further than the laundromat without spending more than $50 in gas.
Ah well.
Maybe I'll start checking pay phones and couch cushions for quarters.
Thursday, May 14
Us
Oh, and yes, we did get married.For anyone who hasn't seen the collection of photos yet, there are hundreds over on our facebook pages.
Breakfast for two
This was our view the next morning: breakfast for two on a private balcony overlooking the harbor.
Catching Up
My post count has been way down in recent months. I thought since pictures are worth a thousand words, if I stuck a few photos in here, I might almost get back to where I should be.
This is the view from our doorway at dusk one of the evenings we were on Catalina.
Three Years
Today I completed three years at my place of employment.
In those same three years many of my peers (and parents, congratulations, Dad!) have worked on adding letters behind their name.
All my letters end with my name... I average maybe 125 letters a month. That amounts to 4500 letters.
Just some random trivia for my readers.
In those same three years many of my peers (and parents, congratulations, Dad!) have worked on adding letters behind their name.
All my letters end with my name... I average maybe 125 letters a month. That amounts to 4500 letters.
Just some random trivia for my readers.
Saturday, April 25
I Scream for Ice Cream
In the frozen food aisle, I was wishing I had thought to measure the dimensions of my freezer before heading out to shop. Like I mentioned before, SOS and I are living in a four bedroom house where the walk-in closet is larger than some rooms I've called home and the master bedroom suite is only slightly smaller than the entire square footage of the condo we hope to buy in the near future.
Needless to say, this house has more space than SOS and I know what to do with.
Everywhere, that is, but the fridge.
We have a mini-fridge, one of those kinds that has an itty-bitty cupboard of a freezer inside. And so that is why I stood with a box of ice cream in my hand, trying to guess whether it was equal or greater than the height of the box.
I succumbed.
I bought it, I brought it home, I opened the fridge door and the freezer flap, and thunk! it didn't fit.
But what sort of home can a house be if it doesn't have ice cream in the freezer?
So I carefully folded the cardboard ridge along the bottom so the box would be smaller, and thunk, thunk, no luck.
There may only be two pieces of furniture in the great big house, but certainly, there must be ice cream in the freezer.
Fortunately, we were given a plastic container that looked to be the perfect size to fit in the freezer, so I got it out, measured it against the freezer shelf, and began to repackage it. The good thing about spending so much time in the store deliberating about buying it was that the ice cream was quite soft and could be squished perfectly into the container (after a generous portion, that is.)
But newlywed containers are those fancy kinds where the lids are sturdy and thick and have special seals... which make it too big to allow the freezer flap to close far enough for the fridge door to seal.
Perhaps I needed to eat an even more generous portion?
But no, the key to problem solving is to try looking at it in another way. Like upside down. Flip the container and voila! Big side down, the flap nearly closes, door seals, and our house is one step closer to being a home.
Needless to say, this house has more space than SOS and I know what to do with.
Everywhere, that is, but the fridge.
We have a mini-fridge, one of those kinds that has an itty-bitty cupboard of a freezer inside. And so that is why I stood with a box of ice cream in my hand, trying to guess whether it was equal or greater than the height of the box.
I succumbed.
I bought it, I brought it home, I opened the fridge door and the freezer flap, and thunk! it didn't fit.
But what sort of home can a house be if it doesn't have ice cream in the freezer?
So I carefully folded the cardboard ridge along the bottom so the box would be smaller, and thunk, thunk, no luck.
There may only be two pieces of furniture in the great big house, but certainly, there must be ice cream in the freezer.
Fortunately, we were given a plastic container that looked to be the perfect size to fit in the freezer, so I got it out, measured it against the freezer shelf, and began to repackage it. The good thing about spending so much time in the store deliberating about buying it was that the ice cream was quite soft and could be squished perfectly into the container (after a generous portion, that is.)
But newlywed containers are those fancy kinds where the lids are sturdy and thick and have special seals... which make it too big to allow the freezer flap to close far enough for the fridge door to seal.
Perhaps I needed to eat an even more generous portion?
But no, the key to problem solving is to try looking at it in another way. Like upside down. Flip the container and voila! Big side down, the flap nearly closes, door seals, and our house is one step closer to being a home.
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