rachel’s blog

Dear birds of the neighborhood,

My car is not a toilet.

Sincerely,
the driver of the red Subaru Outback

This morning at 10:39, the semester suddenly ended.

Last night I had stayed up late to put the finishing touches on my final paper, which was due this evening. Then this morning I received an email saying that this evening’s class was being canceled because the professor was sick. Just like that, another semester of seminary was over. I had been looking forward to the satisfaction of handing my paper to the professor, as well as listening to the final two student presentations, so it was rather anticlimactic.

BUT… I have now completed 40% of my master’s degree!

At church this morning, I found out where I would be having dinner this evening. Yes, “found out.” I knew that someone would arrive at my house to carpool, and I knew that I was supposed to provide fruit for five people, but I didn’t know whose house we would be going to until I checked my mailbox at church this morning. They call this “Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner,” and it’s a fun way to get to know people with whom you don’t typically socialize.

When 4:30 rolled around, my doorbell rang, and I discovered who I was carpooling with. He had also been told to bring fruit for five. Oops. I guess there could be worse mix-ups than two bowls of fruit salad and no dessert. When we arrived at our destination, our hosts were clearly expecting a total of 10 guests, so I guess the coordinators hadn’t been confused after all. A family of four soon arrived… with dessert!

We enjoyed delicious taco soup, bread, and two very different fruit salads for dinner, and topped it all off with chocolate cake and ice cream. The evening was filled with good conversation and plenty of laughter, partially because of the antics of this kid.

If your church has never done a “Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner” event, I’d definitely recommend it. And if you’ve never seen the 1967 Academy Award-winning film by the same title, I’d highly recommend it as well.

When I arrived at a retirement celebration for a colleague this afternoon, the middle-aged woman serving the cake flashed me a smile and greeted me as if she knew me. She looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t think who she was, so I just said a breezy hello. As I waited for the line at the food table to move forward, she leaned towards me and said, “You look really pretty today!”

Um, thanks. Today was one of the rare days that I decided to wear jeans to work, so I was actually dressed down, not up. She must have thought I was someone else — probably a student.

“I’m sorry,” I confessed. “I don’t think I know who you are.”

“I’m Nancy! We met one day in the library and talked for a while!”

Nancy. Aha. Now I realized who she was. We had been briefly introduced to each other at a meeting six weeks ago, but that was the extent of our interaction. We certainly didn’t have a conversation in the library.

“Really?” I said. “I think you must be thinking of someone else.”

“No, it was you — I’m really good at remembering faces.”

That’s interesting. So am I. I started to say something about where we met, but she was too busy reminding me that “we chatted in the library!” I should have introduced myself and explained which department I work in, but it was easier to simply end the conversation and let her think I’m a student.

A pretty student.

Like most bloggers, I love getting comments… especially when they end up on the post for which they were intended. Occasionally, however, a comment attaches itself to the wrong blog entry, and some of you have wondered what you’re doing wrong.

It’s Not Your Fault.

It’s not my fault either… at least not directly. Until last night, I had absolutely no explanation for this bizarre behavior. In digging around the WordPress forums, however, I discovered that this comment quirk is a known bug in the particular theme I had been using for my blog. WordPress hosts this blog for FREE, so I have limited control over the design of my site, and can only select themes from a gallery. Since I want comments to function properly, I had no choice but to switch to a different theme.

Some themes allow custom header images, such as the dominoes you used to see. Today I switched to a new theme (so long, Tarski!) and created a new look. I even chose a title for my blog… finally! Today I like it, but tomorrow I might decide it’s too silly, so if it changes soon, don’t be surprised. My blog, my rules.

During my sophomore year of college, a friend who lived on my hall brought me a get-well gift one day when I was sick with the flu. The gift was a pineapple with a hand-written note that read, “If an apple a day keeps the doctor away, what would a pineapple do?” Thanks, Deb.

Last evening I updated my Facebook status to read:

Rachel needs a sheep. The grass in her front yard is getting tall.

For those of you not familiar with Facebook, a status is simply a frequently-updated tidbit of information about yourself, always written in the third person. I live near the heart of downtown, so my property is obviously not zoned for agriculture, but after struggling to mow my yard this evening, I am fully convinced that buying a sheep would have been easier.

OK. This is how normal people mow grass: they get out the shiny red or green lawnmower, top off the tank with fresh gasoline, yank the pull-cord a few times (or perhaps turn the key), generate a ridiculous amount of noise pollution while cutting the grass, and then go back inside for an ice-cold beer. Maybe if I followed their example, it wouldn’t have taken me so long to mow my yard tonight.

I own a shiny red lawnmower, but I haven’t used it in almost four years. My renters used it while they were living in my house, which was great, but before they moved out and I moved back in, I purchased a push-reel mower at a yard sale. It’s lightweight, quiet, and doesn’t burn fuel, so the shiny red mower has just been sitting in my basement since last June. The push-reel mower works very well when the grass is a nice, reasonable length.

But it wasn’t.

I hadn’t mowed the grass yet this spring, so it was getting quite tall. I decided that it was time to get out the shiny red mower. It wouldn’t start. This is when the idea of lawnmower spirituality began to develop… I went ahead and mowed the back yard with the push-reel mower, but I knew that it wouldn’t like the thick, tall grass in the front yard. So as I listened to the whirr of the mower blades cutting the normal-height grass in the back yard, I prayed a sort of panicked prayer.

When it was time to mow the front yard, I fiddled with the shiny red mower again. No luck. (God, please!) OK, fine. I decided to TRY the front yard with the push-reel mower. To say that it was challenging would be an  understatement. (God, give me strength!) I was tired, I was hungry, and I was frustrated. (God, where is Mr. Right when I need him?)

I was tempted to give up on the whole thing, but I still maintained hope that the shiny red mower would roar to life, so I fiddled with it some more and tried again. (God, pleeeeease let the mower start.) The blasted thing refused to start. My front yard was half mowed and looked terrible, so I had no choice but to persevere with the push-reel mower. (God, please don’t let my neighbors think I’m an idiot.)

Pride is a funny thing. Pride is what kept me going when I was tempted to give up. I was far too proud to quit and admit defeat, and I even started rehearsing how I might turn down a neighbor’s offer to help. At the same time, my pride wanted me to put the stupid push-reel mower away, go inside, and maintain my dignity. I felt like a fool out there.

If you think I’m going to end the story by saying that a Hispanic man named Jesús showed up and mowed my lawn for me, you’re going to be terribly disappointed. Nothing extraordinary happened. I finally finished mowing the yard and vowed that I would never again let it get out of control! You might think this sounds crazy, but now that my yard looks like a neatly manicured golf course (or something like that…), I’m actually thankful that I had to struggle with the push-reel mower.

If the shiny red mower had worked like I wanted it to, I wouldn’t have thought to talk to the Creator of the grass.

I wasn’t planning to cross an item off My List last night, but suddenly there I was… in the tattoo shop. I know what some of you are just dying to ask: did it hurt? It didn’t. I didn’t feel a bit of pain the whole time the guy was doing the tattoo. Maybe that’s because I wasn’t the one getting the tattoo.

Last evening a friend and I went downtown for a biannual celebration of art and music known as the Museum & Gallery Walk. Our last stop was a funky little gallery with a number of etched glass creations. The main room was small and there wasn’t a whole lot to see, but in the next room I heard the buzz of some kind of tool. I thought maybe the artist was working on another etched glass piece, so I poked my head in. To my surprise, I saw a tattoo in progress. (I told you it was a funky gallery!)

I immediately thought of Thing #15 on my list of 101 Things in 1001 Days: “watch someone get a tattoo.” I asked the tattoo artist if I could watch and he said I could, so I walked behind the counter to get a better look. (I probably should have asked the person being tattooed as well, but I didn’t think of that ’til later!) The young woman was sitting on a stool and leaning over the counter while the man with greasy, gray hair tattooed a purple and black butterfly onto her lower back.

I imagined that it would be a slow, painstaking process, but the artist was basically drawing with a vibrating needle (a cluster of needles, actually). He would get a little ink on the needle, “draw” on her skin for a few seconds, wipe the excess ink away, and repeat. The needles can puncture the skin several thousand times a minute, and the artist said that the whole process would take about 45 minutes. I only watched for a few minutes… just long enough to satisfy my curiosity.

This morning I sent my sister Phoebe a short email. It read:

“Rachel slooFlirpA. Kinda has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it? :o)”

She had been duped by my April Fools joke last evening, so I just had to tease her about it a little more. She rolled her eyes… or so she said.

Nobody tried to fool me yesterday, and I hadn’t been feeling very creative either, but as I drove to class last evening, I started mentally composing an April Fools email. I mentioned this to a classmate who suggested that I write, “I’m pregnant!” Nah. A good April Fools joke has to be believable. Phoebe and I were already planning to talk to each other via Skype last evening, so when I got home from class, I sent her the following email. You’ll notice that I’ve censored a few details.

From: [Yours Truly]
To: [Phoebe]
Subject: EEEEEEEK!
Date: Tue, 1 Apr 2008 21:19:58

Eeeeeeek! When I got home from class tonight there was a message on my answering machine. Wanna guess who it was from…?? [CENSORED]!! As in, the guy from [CENSORED]!!!! He said someone told him that I had asked about him, so… he was calling to see whether I’d like to get together for dinner this weekend!!! EEEEEEEEEEK!!! He gave me his number and said that I should call him. Eeek! Should I call him tonight?!?! He also told me his last name, of course, and since it’s pretty unusual (slooFlirpA), I can finally google him. Heehee! :o) Anyhow, hurry up and get home from your potluck (I just typed ‘potcluck’) — and SKYPE ME!!

EEEK!

—- end of email —-

My level of giddiness was so over-the-top that I was sure she’d figure it out. And the slooFlirpA thing? Dead giveaway. But to my delight, she fell for it. Rachel slooFlirpA?!? Oy. I’d rather be a Smith.

Last evening when I got home from work, I changed clothes, put a load of laundry in the washing machine, and sat down at my desk. I opened the bottom drawer of my file cabinet and pulled out a manila folder labeled “2007 Taxes.” Finally! As I began to spread out the documents on my desk, the doorbell rang. Should I answer it? People rarely drop by unannounced; maybe this was something important. Or maybe a friend wanted to do something spontaneous and fun! I would find out soon enough.

On my way to the door I glanced out the window, but didn’t see any of my friends’ cars parked along the curb. I opened the front door and stepped outside, pulling the door behind me. Two young women stood on my porch. They looked like college students. One wore an orange shirt and carried an umbrella, while the other wore a long coat and had a scarf tied in her hair.

I introduced myself and shook their hands while they told me their names. I like college students, and these two seemed especially fun and friendly, so I struck up a conversation with them. After the “where are you from” smalltalk, we moved quickly into conversation (and laughter!) about things ranging from the 75 MPH speed limit in Idaho to the horse-and-buggy transportation still used by some Mennonite groups in this area. We did spend a few minutes chatting about the reason they had stopped by, and they gave me some promotional literature, but soon we were back to discussing random things like illegal immigrants and the fuzzy socks I was wearing.

I considered inviting the girls to join me for dinner, but since the only thing on the menu was leftovers, I decided against it. We probably chatted for half an hour before they finally said they needed to move on.

Oh, and did I mention that these young women were Mormon missionaries? I knew this from the moment I opened the door, of course, but instead of turning them away abruptly, I chose to see who Christ might see — two fun-loving college students who were definitely worth getting to know.