rachel’s blog

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.

Last fall I reconnected with a former college classmate via Facebook. I hadn’t seen Tom since we graduated eight years ago, but I found him through a mutual friend’s Facebook profile and clicked to request him as a friend too. Since we hadn’t been close friends in college, we simply exchanged a few brief messages and that was that.

Yesterday afternoon I glanced out the window and saw two people walking past my house. The tall man and the short woman looked a lot like Tom and his wife, but since they live in New York City, I figured it must be my imagination. Nevertheless, I wrote a message on Tom’s Facebook page, just in case.

This evening as I walked out my front door to head to a meeting, I was surprised to see that Tom and Jessica were indeed walking down the sidewalk. As we stood in the middle of the street talking, I discovered that they left the Big Apple a couple months ago — and they live just three houses down from me on the opposite side of the street! I guess now we get to do quaint things like borrow an egg or a cup of sugar…

The other night I mentioned to someone that I had made bagels for the first time over Easter weekend.

“Soft bagels?” she asked.

Apparently she had pretzels on her mind. Unfortunately, it happened to be a very appropriate question. Bagels are supposed to be soft and chewy, but I managed to bake a not-so-soft batch of the World’s Chewiest Bagels. I wouldn’t exactly call them tough… just ridiculously chewy. They tasted good and the process was fun, but the overall outcome left a bit to be desired.

Ever since writing “make bagels” on my list of 101 Things in 1001 Days, I’ve been hoping to find someone who has made them before who could give me some tips. No luck. People think it’s a great idea, and they’ve all said that if I learn how to make bagels, they want my recipe and advice.

(This feels like a weird, inverse version of the Little Red Hen. Nobody said, “I’d love to help you eat the disappointing results of your bagel experiments,” but everyone wants to enjoy the final results of my quest to master the art of bagel-making.)

Lacking a bagel tutor and finding exactly zero recipes for bagels in my cookbook collection, I headed to the internet. As expected, my Google search yielded too many bagel recipes. I didn’t have a clue which recipe would lead to the perfect bagel, so I just looked through a few recipes and picked one.

In spite of the variations in recipes, the basic process is pretty standard. You create a batch of dough, knead it, and let it rise. Next you shape it into round balls, poke your thumb through the middle, and try to get it to look like a bagel.

How did I do? That’s what they looked like after letting them rise again. Next you cook them in a pot of boiling water for a few minutes. It’s kind of like making donuts, except that donuts are boiled in oil — a.k.a. deep fat fried. Different bagel recipes indicate different lengths of time for the boiling, so I’ll have to experiment with that.

Next you brush the bagels with egg yolk (to make them shiny), add seasonings if desired, and bake them. The recipe I used said to bake the bagels for 35-40 minutes. I checked them after 25 minutes and they were already overbaked.

Looks can be deceiving. They’re beautifully golden brown, but eating them gives your jaw a workout. Next time I won’t bake them as long! Once I’ve come up with a good basic bagel recipe, I’d like to experiment with different kinds of dough. Eventually I’d like to be able to replicate my favorite bagel from the local bagel shop — a sundried tomato spinach bagel. Mmm.

Every time I donate blood, I feel compelled to blog about it. I’m usually able to resist the temptation, but not always… hence this post. It’s not that I want to give a pint-by-pint account of my blood donation history — it’s just that I think you should donate blood too.

Why? It’s just a good thing to do. It feels good to know that someone in need will benefit from this simple act of generosity. People need blood and I have blood, so it makes sense that I should give them some of mine. It doesn’t even cost me anything to give it to them, except for a little time. If you’re lucky, you’ll get a free t-shirt when you donate. And if you donate a zillion times (OK, just 16), you might get a snazzy lapel pin saying that you’ve donated two gallons. Woo.

I know, a few of you probably have legitimate reasons not to donate. That’s fine — lapel pins aren’t all they’re cracked up to be. And some of you are probably regular donors. Fantastic. But what about the rest of you? What’s your excuse?

Maybe you…

…don’t like needles. Good. If you did, they probably wouldn’t want your blood.

…can’t stand the sight of blood. That’s OK. You don’t have to look at it. (But I think it’s fun to glance back over my shoulder to see how full the bag is getting.)

…had a bad experience donating blood. Me too. I also had some bad experiences in junior high, but I didn’t drop out of school.

…are afraid your blood pressure is too high or your iron level is too low. If in doubt, this is a great way to get a mini health check for free.

…think you’re too old or too young. If you’re reading this blog, you’re probably not.

So if you’re eligible… donate. No more lame excuses!

If I were a guy, my chin would never see the light of day, because there would be a handsome goatee growing there. It’s not that I think facial hair is superior to the clean-shaven look. It’s just that facial hair is the only thing I can think of that might make me look like I’m somewhere in the vicinity of age 28… if I were a guy. But I’m female, of course, and facial hair on women just isn’t cool.

Last weekend I ran into a man I had occasionally interacted with in a former job. I hadn’t seen him in more than three years, and he wasn’t someone I knew very well, but as I chatted with him briefly, it became apparent that he didn’t quite remember who I was. He asked whether I had declared a major yet.

I live in a college town and work at a university, and while I certainly don’t look or act like a teenybopper, my youthful appearance frequently causes people to mistake me for a college student. I don’t like it, but I do realize that I look young, so I can’t blame them.

Last night, however, I reached a new low. A few friends and I went to a local high school for a concert by Lunasa, an amazing Celtic group from Ireland. We found four seats together in the balcony and sat down next to a retired couple. I’m acquainted with the husband and we chatted a little before the performance. At one point his wife leaned forward in her seat, turned to look at me, and said (and I quote), “Are you a student here?”

Wow. I graduated from high school almost twelve years ago. If we were doing the age-appearance limbo, I’d win. How low can YOU go?

On Monday, sunburned students will inevitably ask me, “How was your Spring Break?” What Spring Break? I definitely wasn’t given a week of vacation, nor did I spend any part of the past seven days in a bikini. I spent the majority of my week in meetings, and the only party-like aspect of my work week was a potluck I coordinated today for everyone who works in our building. My Spring Break was more like a Spring Broken.

“Please, can you tear off another page from your calendar? Just one more? Please??”

That was my boss. My dad would have called that wheedling. The past week was so busy that by this afternoon, my Mensa page-a-day calendar still showed the puzzle for Friday, February 29. I tore the page off and my boss and I looked at the March 1 puzzle together. It read:

“A community group has 500 people. At the March 1 dance, new members pay only $14 for tickets whereas longtime members pay $20. As a result, all of the new members attend but only 70% of the longtime members attend. How much ticket revenue is collected?“

I read it again, this time with a furrowed brow. I couldn’t figure it out. I finally concluded that this was one of those trick questions. I expected the answer on the back of the page to say “Gotcha! You weren’t given sufficient information to solve this puzzle.”

But it didn’t. There was a definitive answer. I’m either smarter than Mensa… or I’m totally misinterpreting the question. The first thing that is unclear to me is WHO exactly is in this group of 500 people. Only longtime members? Longtime AND new members? Only the people dancing?!

IF the community group of 500 people consists only of longtime members, you would still need to know how many new members decided to attend the dance in order to calculate total revenue.

IF the group of 500 includes all of the longtime members PLUS all of the new members, you would need to know how the ratio of longtimers to new folks.

IF the group of 500 is comprised of the seventy percent of the longtime members PLUS any new members signing up on the night of the dance, why would the puzzle say “all of the new members attend”?? That would seem redundant… and you still wouldn’t have enough info to answer the question.

The answer was an exact dollar figure, along with a formula supposedly showing how they got the answer. It also said, “Surprisingly, you don’t have to know how many new members there are among the 500 in order to solve this problem.” Surprisingly, indeed.

Am I missing something here? Or am I smarter than the person who created this Mensa puzzle?

Vernon is a long-time professor who is trying to retire. He has a brilliant but terribly dry sense of humor. Dave is my boss who has known Vernon longer than I’ve been alive. Following are the opening lines of a conversation I had with Vernon this afternoon when he stopped by our office…

Vernon: I have a simple question.
Me: I’ll try to have a simple answer.
Vernon: You might need to check with Dave about this. He does simple things.

It didn’t take long for my house to go from cute to ghetto.

March came in like the proverbial lion, and the blustery weather brought me all kinds of garbage from who-knows-where. A plastic Wal-mart bag wrapped itself around the railing on my front porch. Toilet paper got caught in the bushes along the sidewalk. Candy wrappers collected in my flower bed. A milk jug lay next to the hedgerow in the back yard. A large piece of roofing material rested against a tree trunk. BUT… the black garbage bag that had been lodged in one of my trees moved on.

Stay tuned for the first episode of my new home improvement show called “This Ghetto House.”