rachel’s blog

I just saw this text ad on the web:

I was scammed 37 times
These websites are absolute
scams I will show you the ones
that work

…and then it gave a web address for “Paul’s Scam Review.” Unbelievable. Why would I take advice from someone who was scammed 36 times and STILL allowed himself to fall for the 37th one?

After you click THIS LINK, you will have exactly 10 minutes to remember as many of the 192 United Nations member states as you can. No, not to identify them on a map… to recall them from memory. Just type in the name of the country and if it’s on the list, it will be automatically accepted (without pressing enter) and you can start typing the next one.

Good luck!

I hosted a group of people in my home this evening, and after they left, I discovered a crumpled-up piece of paper that had been left behind. My insatiable curiosity wouldn’t allow me to throw it away without first looking to see what it was. When I opened it up, this is what I saw:

After handing over a $100 bill to pay for lunch at Reggio’s Pizza at O’Hare, this person apparently spent the next two years waiting for just the right moment to throw the receipt away… Be careful what you leave at my house, folks — it just might show up on the internet! :o)

It’s hard to believe that this is what I saw when I opened my fridge today.

No, it’s not green or purple mold… just pickles. The reason this seems strange to me is that I don’t LIKE pickles! I’d like to learn to like them, so I figured the best way to do that is to buy some pickles and start eating them. Eventually I’ll learn to like them, right? That’s what I’m hoping.

When I went to the grocery store, the pickle selection was almost overwhelming, and I had to stand there for a while assessing all of my options before making a decision. I finally opted for a jar of Vlasic bread and butter pickles (no, they haven’t paid me for this advertising), and I’ve managed to eat a few so far. Pickles, not jars of pickles.

I have only eaten these pickles when I’m alone, which is probably good, because my face scrunches into very interesting contortions when I chomp down on one! I imagine that I look like a toddler who has eaten food deemed to be “yucky.” Eventually I’ll work my way up to dills, but bread and butter are all I can handle at this point!

Did you know that if you search for “search engine” on Google, Google is NOT the first search result?!

Oh, and Happy St. Paddy’s Day!

This evening I finished reading through two magazines: The New Yorker and Progressive Farmer. I know it’s a rather odd combination, and I doubt there are many people who subscribe to both. Actually, I don’t subscribe to either one. Progressive Farmer shows up in my mailbox courtesy of the company I used to buy heating oil from, and I pulled The New Yorker from the magazine rack at the local library.

When I received my first copy of Progressive Farmer a couple years ago, I thought it was the funniest thing, since I am so obviously NOT a farmer. I immediately discarded the first few issues, and then started flipping through later copies to see if there were any funky pictures I might want to use for something. There weren’t.

One evening I decided to actually read a little bit of the magazine to see what kinds of articles it included. I ended up reading the whole thing… and I enjoyed it, too! Not only is the magazine a window into a lifestyle different from my own, but I have learned some interesting things along the way. For example, in the most recent issue, I read about photographing wildlife and how to mess up a good tractor, and also learned about view sheds and conservation easements. Oh, and for about two seconds, I considered taking advantage of the “rare opportunity” to purchase 31,000 acres in Indiana. Thirty-one thousand??

The articles in the New Yorker were very different, of course, but I also learned a lot. I read about cooking shows, actress Helen Mirren, the gem industry in Madagascar, physicists’ string theory, war in the South Pacific, admissions policies at elite colleges and universities… and more. It was quite an interesting variety! I also read a fascinating piece of fiction titled “Other People’s Deaths.” Since this was the first issue of The New Yorker I read, I wanted to read it cover to cover. There were a couple pages I had to force myself to read, but overall I thoroughly enjoyed The New Yorker.

One of the magazines I read tonight contained ads for Prada, Ralph Lauren, and The Discovery Channel. The other promoted John Deere, Kubota, and egg cartons (OK, just a tiny ad in the back). But despite the differences between The New Yorker and Progressive Farmer, they hold one thing in common: they both advertise things I don’t plan to buy!

A promotional magnet hanging on my fridge tells me that less than 30% of first-time blood donors will ever donate blood again. Maybe one of the reasons for the low retention rate is that blood drives tend to feel like triage centers… which is an atmosphere people generally try to avoid! Going to a blood donation center is much more pleasant, and donating blood has become both a habit and a hobby for me.

Blood donation is actually becoming a pretty lucrative endeavor. When I donated in January I came home with a long-sleeve t-shirt, and soon after that, I received an email saying that I’m eligible to receive another t-shirt, which should be arriving in the mail. Today I really got lucky — when I checked in to donate, I was given a coupon for a free chicken sandwich from Chick-Fil-A.

If you’re not a regular blood donor, you probably think it’s weird that I enjoy it as much as I do. Not only do I feel like I’m doing something good, but I get a kick out of the banter in the donation center, especially since the donors are usually strangers to each other.

When I climbed into the chair to have my blood drawn this afternoon, the young guy taking blood from the person next to me turned and looked at me. “That isn’t Carolina Blue on your toenails, is it?” It was a gorgeous day, so I was wearing sandals.

“Nope, no worries,” I said. “Actually, the bottle says the color is called Hotrod.”

“Good,” he said. “I just wanted to make sure you weren’t a UNC fan!”

The older gentleman he was working on didn’t say a word. He just continued to read the copy of Reader’s Digest on his lap while the phlebotomist pulled the needle out of his arm.

Jane prepped me, stuck the needle in my left arm, and failed to draw any blood. She poked around a bit more, talked about my tricky little veins, and finally said, “I give up. Next time I ask if I can stick you, tell me NO!” Gayle, who successfully stuck me in January after someone else missed, agreed to try my right arm, and Jane went to take Gayle’s place at the platelet machine.

The anti-UNC guy returned to the gentleman with the Readers Digest. “Shall I wrap you up and get you out of here?” The older man didn’t say anything, so the young guy teased, “No, you want to keep reading your magazine, don’t you?!”

“I’m enriching my word power,” the older guy said without even cracking a smile. The younger guy went ahead and put a bandaid on his arm, but the gentleman continued to sit in his chair with his magazine.

As Gayle prepped and studied my right arm, the platelet donor across the room called out, “Here, let ME come over there and do it. I’ll get it right the FIRST time.” I declined his oh-so-generous offer… and all repeated offers, much to the delight of Jane and Gayle.

“OK, squeeze and hold,” Gayle said. She stuck the needle into my right arm, and soon warm blood was flowing through the line into the bag beside me. After a few minutes, the Readers Digest guy got up, put the magazine in the rack… and walked over to me. Apparently this man of few words finally had something to say.

He leaned towards me and said in a quiet voice, “It’s tough being cute — everyone picks on you.”

I laughed. “Well, THEY sure do!” I gestured towards the others with a quick tilt of my head.

He smiled and added, “But it seems like you’re used to it.” And then he left.

Life amuses me… or at least the people at the Blood Donation Center do.

Deciding what to wear to church this morning was more complicated than usual. I put on a long black skirt, a blue shirt, and a black sweater, followed by black tights and black shoes. Before I walked out the door, I put on my watch and a ring, but not earrings.

On the way to church, I stopped to pick up my friend Cindy. Like me, she was wearing plenty of black, but no earrings. We had both dressed conservatively (by our definition!) out of respect for those with whom we would be worshiping, but our status as outsiders would become obvious the moment we drove onto the church property. Everyone else at the Old Order Mennonite church would be traveling by horse and buggy.

I had called my friend Rebecca’s aunt last evening to get directions to the church, and she kindly offered to meet us at the back of the church before the service this morning. But when Cindy and I pulled onto the grass behind the horse-and-buggy hitching area, there were A LOT of people waiting outside the church! We felt incredibly conspicuous, so we weren’t exactly eager to hop out of the car. Cindy and I are both Mennonite, but this was unlike anything we had experienced before. Within moments, Cindy noticed a woman walking among the black buggies towards our car, and we figured she must be Ruth. We got out of the car, ducked under the hitching post, and introduced ourselves to our new friend.

Ruth was warm and friendly, and she explained the basic outline of the worship service. She told us that they would kneel for prayer a couple times, but we didn’t need to do that if we didn’t want to. Cindy and I both said we would kneel with them.

The men and women waited outside in separate groups until a few minutes before ten o’clock, when we all filed inside — men and boys on the left and women and girls on the right. I was glad that I had decided to wear a black sweater, since all the women that I could see were wearing black sweaters over their flowered dresses. The men all wore black suits, and black hats and bonnets hung on hooks around the room.

People whispered to each other until the two ministers entered and took their positions at the front. Between us and the ministers was a long altar with a large Bible in the middle. The rest of the room was filled with simple, wooden benches — and I was grateful that Ruth had guided us to a bench with a cushion on it. There was no electricity, but the large windows provided plenty of natural light. The setting was both stark and serene.

We sang several songs from a words-only hymnal (the tunes were in the back), listened to a short meditation, and knelt for prayer. I have never seen a group of people get down on their knees so quickly! As soon as the minister said the word, everyone immediately knelt on the wooden floor and faced the bench they had just been sitting on. I have to admit that I wasn’t doing much praying during that silent prayer time; I was too busy anticipating the “Amen,” at which point everyone quickly returned to a sitting position. The second time we knelt, I was ready, but I still felt slow!

Kneeling was the only thing that happened quickly. The four hymns we sang were very slow and very beautiful. The sermon was at least 50 minutes long, during which I stifled a few yawns and became incredibly restless. The whole service lasted an hour and a half, which seemed reasonable to me, but it’s apparently not uncommon for the service to last two hours.

After the worship service, we all filed out again and stood outside talking. (What do they do when it’s cold?) I expected the men and women to mingle at this point, but that didn’t happen. The men stayed in a group outside the left set of doors, and the women did the same outside the right set of doors. As Cindy and I were talking with Ruth, her husband Joe came over and introduced himself. As we continued to talk with him, I was aware of the fact that we were the only women talking with a man. One of the ministers (the bishop, perhaps?) also came over to talk with us, but I didn’t see any other men and women interacting, except when they were getting into their buggies to leave.

A number of the women introduced themselves and chatted with us for a bit. Cindy and I felt very warmly welcomed, especially by the older women. Their conversation was animated, and for some reason I was amused by their discussion about liking the faster horses and enclosed buggies they have nowadays.

Next Sunday I will likely attend a worship service with this same group, although they will be meeting in a different location (I don’t understand those logistics yet). Cindy and I are studying the Old Order Mennonite community for a seminary class project, and we’re hoping that several of our other group members will be able to join us next week. The added bonus: lunch at Joe and Ruth’s. Who could resist?

This afternoon I completed one more task on my “101 Things in 1001 Days” list:

95. Crochet a scarf or hat that I really like.

…and here it is.

I recently saw this banner ad on the web:

Um, if your website isn’t getting the traffic you’RE looking for, perhaps you should hire a proofreader.

Then today I received a junk email telling me I had been selected to receive something.

Ooo, not just a one free ticket, but a two free tickets. I will offer you a two free proofreading lessons.

In the middle of typing this post I checked my email and saw this on my screen:

Someone’s proofreader is a cad.