Movin' On Up

After two years of living with practically no water pressure in the kitchen, a large bump in the living room wall, and horribly, expensively cold winters, the Husband and I decided that it was time to move. I've talked before about the difficulties of renting a dog-friendly apartment in a college town, so I won't rehash this year's adventures in slumminess. Suffice it to say that photos can lie and that slumlords with memorable phone numbers can trick you into visiting their rentals by using a second phone line.

Let's focus on the positive, though, shall we? We are moving to a Lustron home. In case you're not in a link-following mood, I'll summarize. These were houses thought up after WWII as a way of taking advantage of all the surplus steel. They are made of steel, inside and out. Even the walls are steel. We are basically moving into a filing cabinet. But it's a cute little filing cabinet! It's got all these little built-in (steel) shelves and a big backyard and, best of all, a functioning kitchen sink. It's carpeted, which is kind of a downer after years of living with hardwood floors, but the carpeting is new. It is within walking distance of the farmer's market and the library and a park that rents out garden plots.

All of that is why we start moving tomorrow. Our current lease ends at the end of the month. The Husband kept saying how great it would be if we could move in a week early, but then decided not to bother our current landlord about it. But then the current landlord called us, and asked if we'd be willing or able to move out early. At that point, we had already arranged to have all of our utilities transferred and made a reservation on a van, not to mention the fact that I had arranged to visit Melinda for this weekend. But, oh my lord, the water. The slow-dripping water from our kitchen tap, it drives us mad. And moving early would save us money. So we agreed. We get our keys and move a few boxes tomorrow, and the big move is Saturday. And despite the fact that I spent nearly an hour on the phone with AT&T changing our move date - and the fact that rather than holding Melinda's baby and playing with her Wii, I will be crying (literally!) because our couch is really heavy and awkward and we have too much stuff - I am glad that we're moving. Because I am tired of living in a moldy house and would very much like to move into my file cabinet now.

Dear Catastrophe Server

We have friends here who own a food business, one aspect of which is catering. They don't do a lot of large events, so when they were getting ready for a wedding, they asked the Husband and me if we'd be interested in being servers. We agreed, but I was terrified. There is a reason that I was never a waitress. I have no grace or coordination. Waitresses balance large trays of food and drink (much of it hot!), and walk through crowded rooms, and remove the items from the tray one by one, all without spilling anything. I can barely walk through a crowded room empty-handed without hurting myself or those around me. The meal at this wedding was to be served family style, so I would just be carrying out the platters of food and putting them on the table for the people to deal with. That only meant that when I dumped something on someone, it would be a whole platterful. It was official: I was going to ruin a wedding reception.

Fast forward to yesterday, which was the big day. I'll give away the ending here, and say that I did not actually ruin the reception. My height, or lack thereof, worked against me, since it was hard to reach to get the platters to the middle of the table. I had to sort of shove myself between people to get my arms far enough in, but I don't think it bothered anyone too much. I was kind of slow, too, but overall, I did well enough. (The Husband did fine too, but he didn't have any anxieties about it, and he thought I was weird for being worried.)

On the other hand, I learned the actual reason that I was never a waitress: I am a wimp. We were on our feet for nine hours, and except for a few lulls, we were busy the whole time. By the end of the night, my knees and back were throbbing. There was a point while clearing the tables, that the utterly Sisyphean nature of the task occurred to me (so. many. plates.) and I felt close to tears. (Bear in mind that this was late, and I am a fragile flower who is used to five-hour shifts.) There were aspects of it that were a refreshing change from my job. I really liked how the time flew by and the sense that I was constantly doing useful things. Overall, though I am glad to go back to my day job, where there are far more snot-covered children, but where I rarely stay longer than 7 and a half hours.

Really, though, nine hours was nothing. Maybe what I really am is too wimpy to be a caterer. Our friends who own the business had already been at it for a while when we got there - one of them had gotten up at 4am to start the cooking for the day - and they're going back tomorrow to finish clearing out their stuff. That's not even factoring in the fact that they cooked several of the items in advance. Or the fact that they have two young children who have probably been up since 5am today.

So kudos to all of you working in the service industry. May you have supportive shoes and a glass of something comforting to come home to. And may you never be forced to work alongside me.

Strawberry Picking

Have I told you about how the Husband is officially a farmhand? I honestly don't remember if I ever mentioned it last year, and if I go look, I'll spend the rest of the night reading my old posts and marveling at my ability to blithely ignore typos in my own writing despite years of work as a copy editor. At any rate, last summer he worked part-time at a farm in the same town where my library of employ is located. This summer, he started working there before his semester was over, and he's now working upwards of 30 hours a week there.

I'm sure you'd guess this, but it's really hard work. For the past two weeks, he has spent significant portions of time driving metal stakes into the ground so that they can be strung with twine to serve as trellises. This in the kind of heat that renders me a wilted, whiny heap of sweat. He's on his way to being totally ripped, and I've taken to calling him Farm Boy and asking him to fetch me pitchers.

One of the jobs that he totally dreaded by the end of June last year was picking strawberries. He claimed that he would close his eyes at night and see red dots. I totally believed him. Why wouldn't I? I hadn't been strawberry picking since I was about 7 years old, when I basically wandered around complaining about bugs while my mom and grandma did all the work. So I should have been suspicious last week when he was all "Wouldn't it be fun to go strawberry picking on Sunday? We'll pick a ton, and make lots of jam!" He swore that it's only back-breaking for him because he has to do it quickly, and that we would be leisurely, and besides, didn't I end up loving blueberry picking last year?

Strawberries, however, are not like other berries. They don't grow in giant bushes, for one. They grow really near to the ground so that you have to hunch and stoop to reach them. Actually that's pretty much the major difference - other than the fact that, technically speaking, they aren't true berries, but science is for nerds - but that one difference is enough. The Husband wanted to pick through an entire 100-yard row, so as to be helpful to the farm even while picking casually, so we picked for several hours. That's a lot of hunching and stooping

Before we left, I realized that I didn't cover the back of my shoulders well enough with sunscreen and that I had sunburn patches. When we had been home for about an hour, I scratched my back, and realized that I had a fairly bad sunburn on the spot between where my pants had slipped down and my shirt had ridden up while hunching. On the bright side, I can say with certainty that my buttcrack was securely covered, since it was still as pale as, well, a fair-skinned Polish lady's butt. On the downside, in order to keep my buttcrack securely covered, I had to keep putting clothing over my poor, throbbing, lobster skin. Aloe can only do so much.

When we had been home for about two hours, I realized that we should probably do something with 30-plus pints of berries, if only so that we could see the table again. Some we froze. Some were made into jam fairly quickly. Some were reserved to be eaten fresh. Some are still sitting in the refrigerator, where I am half hoping that they will mysteriously disappear in the night.

I know it doesn't sound like it, but I genuinely did have fun. Next time, I may suggest that we not do a picking marathon, or at least I will make sure all my skin is covered and/or slathered in sunscreen. But I don't doubt there will be a next time (though maybe not till next year, since strawberries are peaking early here.)

So why am I sharing this with you? First, I want to share my suspicion that the Husband thought that I thought he was wimpy for complaining about strawberries. If I ever did think that, even for a second, I apologize sincerely. Anyone who picks them for many hours in the hot sun, particularly after putting in some stake-pounding time, is truly mighty. Second, I want to state for the record that the next person I hear at the farmer's market talking about how expensive the strawberries are is going to get smacked upside the head. Possibly with a metal stake.

Hair

My hair and I have not always gotten along with each other. For most of my adult life (and indeed, for most of my childhood too) I have had a hair stylist - someone to serve as mediator between me and my hair. I got my first perm in fourth grade. Eventually (which is to say a decade later) I realized that rather than giving me thick, wavy hair, perms made me look like a poodle. A poodle with fine, thin hair. In college, I switched my focus to hair dye. I wanted to be a red-head. Eventually (which is to say five years later) I realized that red hair dye fades so much that my roots never looked much different from the dyed parts. I was paying more money than I care to think about to dye my shower water. When we moved to the Chicago area, I still had a stylist, because I couldn't quite shake the notion that my hair was unusually bad and needed really expensive attention to make it acceptable. But when that stylist tried to convince me that highlights and lowlights were just what I needed to make my hair seem thicker, I stood firm and refused.

Moving to CollegeTown was the tipping point. We cancelled Netflix, found the cheapest internet plan possible, got rid of our cell phones. We were making all of these changes for financial reasons that turned out not to be that hard to live with. How could I possibly justify a $40 haircut? So I went to Great Clips. And overall, it's been good. Some of my cuts have just been serviceable, but one of my haircuts there ranked among my best haircuts ever.

Which brings me to last Sunday, when the only angst I felt about heading to Great Clips was over the fact that I never have anything to talk about with the 20-year-olds who work there. I dropped in without an appointment, like I always do, and I told the first-available stylist the same thing I always do: "I'd like a bob, about jaw-length. A little bit of layering to add some volume." She asked, "Do you want it to be shorter in the back and get longer as you reach the front?" Other stylists there had done a little bit of that kind of shaping, with no ill effects, so I said, "Maybe a little, but honestly, I just want a bob that I can comb in the morning and not worry about."

By the time I could sense how short she was making the layers in the back, it was too late. I told her one more time, "I really just want a bob," but the damage was done. The back of my head was way, way layered. The front came to two sharp points. Staring in the mirror once I got home (she didn't give me a hand mirror to look at the back the way they usually do), I figured out who it was that she was trying to make me look like:
People, that's Posh Spice. If you've been reading this blog for any length of time, and especially if you've met me in real life, you know that I am not Posh Spice. I am nothing like Posh Spice. The Husband? Nothing like David Beckham. And yes, I do consider that a good thing.

I absolutely couldn't deal with the long pieces by my face, so I cut them. From the front, it looks like I got the plain old bob that I asked for. Looking in the mirror, with pieces of fine, thin, dishwater blonde hair in the sink in front of me, I realized who it is that my hair is actually capable of resembling:
I am self-aware enough to know that in most areas of life, I am way more like Beezus than Ramona. But hair-wise, I'm Ramona all the way. And honestly? In pretty much all areas of life, I'd much rather be a Quimby than a Spice Girl.

How many have you read?

So Betsy Bird, who writes one of the awesomest children's literature blogs on the interwebs, did this insane project wherein she invited everyone who wanted to to contribute their top 10 list of children's novels. She then compiled all the results - assigning each books points so that if a book was #1 on someone's list it got 10 points, #2 got 9 points, etc. - and posted them bit by bit until she had listed the top 100 children's chapter books. This is, of course, already an insane amount of effort, which she compounded by providing an absolutely fascinating amount of quotes and history and book covers for each of the books. (There is still time, by the way, to participate in the poll for top 100 YA novels being compiled by a different blogger with whom I am less familiar, but who is clearly also awesome.)

At any rate, I am not one to waste the prodigious efforts put forth by others. (Nor am I one to be completely creative with their efforts - I "borrowed" this post idea from the blog A Chair, A Fireplace & A Tea Cozy, who in turn copied the list from TeacherNinja.) So here is the full 100. The ones in bold are the ones I've read. I added annotations to the ones about which I felt strongly.

I've read 79. How 'bout you?

100. The Egypt Game - Snyder (1967)

99. The Indian in the Cupboard - Banks (1980)

98. Children of Green Knowe - Boston (1954)

97. The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane - DiCamillo (2006)

96. The Witches - Dahl (1983)

95. Pippi Longstocking - Lindgren (1950)

94. Swallows and Amazons - Ransome (1930)

93. Caddie Woodlawn - Brink (1935)

92. Ella Enchanted - Levine (1997)

91. Sideways Stories from Wayside School - Sachar (1978)

Not only did I read this one and More Sideways Stories, but I also read (and absolutely freaking loved) Sideways Math from Wayside School. I heart logic puzzles. I blame that book for my strange desire to get a math minor to go with my English major.

90. Sarah, Plain and Tall - MacLachlan (1985)

89. Ramona and Her Father - Cleary (1977)

In which Ramona's dad loses his job, and 6(?)-year-old Ramona's awareness of the situation is wonderfully presented. Beverly Cleary is pretty much a genius.
88. The High King - Alexander (1968)

87. The View from Saturday - Konigsburg (1996)

86. Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets - Rowling (1999)

85. On the Banks of Plum Creek - Wilder (1937)
The only thing I remember about this book is the fact that they lived in a house that was dug into the ground. That blew my mind. Still does, in fact.

84. The Little White Horse - Goudge (1946)

83. The Thief - Turner (1997)
Full disclosure: this is one of two books that I read specifically because they appeared on the list.

82. The Book of Three - Alexander (1964)

81. Where the Mountain Meets the Moon - Lin (2009)

80. The Graveyard Book - Gaiman (2008)

79. All-of-a-Kind-Family - Taylor (1951)

78. Johnny Tremain - Forbes (1943)

Had to read in 5th grade. Yuck.
77. The City of Ember - DuPrau (2003)

76. Out of the Dust - Hesse (1997)

75. Love That Dog - Creech (2001)

This book made me weep in the break room of the library where I was working at the time. I am not a public weeper. Definitely worth the humiliation.
74. The Borrowers - Norton (1953)

I had totally forgotten about this book, but I absolutely adored it as a kid.
73. My Side of the Mountain - George (1959)

72. My Father's Dragon - Gannett (1948)

71. The Bad Beginning - Snicket (1999)

70. Betsy-Tacy - Lovelae (1940)

69. The Mysterious Benedict Society - Stewart ( 2007)

I'm not convinced this belongs on this list. Time will tell, I suppose.
68. Walk Two Moons - Creech (1994)

67. Jeremy Thatcher, Dragon Hatcher - Coville (1991)

66. Henry Huggins - Cleary (1950)

I know for a fact that I read this, but I remember none of it.
65. Ballet Shoes - Stratfeild (1936)

64. A Long Way from Chicago - Peck (1998)

63. Gone-Away Lake - Enright (1957)

62. The Secret of the Old Clock - Keene (1959)

The book was included in the list as a representative for the whole Nancy Drew series. I must say that while I read Nancy Drew, if I were going to include a series not for literary merit, but for sentimental impact on one's life, it would totally be the Baby-Sitter's Club. Nancy Drew has the whole longevity thing going for her though.
61. Stargirl - Spinelli (2000)

60. The True Confessions of Charlotte Doyle - Avi (1990)

I bought this book at a Scholastic Book Fair at my school, and tried many times to read it, but never made it very far. Sorry, Avi.
59. Inkheart - Funke (2003)

58. The Wolves of Willoughby Chase - Aiken (1962)

57. Ramona Quimby, Age 8 - Cleary (1981)

56. Number the Stars - Lowry (1989)

55. The Great Gilly Hopkins - Paterson (1978)

54. The BFG - Dahl (1982)

53. Wind in the Willows - Grahame (1908)

52. The Invention of Hugo Cabret - Selznick (2007)

51. The Saturdays - Enright (1941)

50. Island of the Blue Dolphins - O'Dell (1960)

Had to read this in 5th grade. Blech.
49. Frindle - Clements (1996)

48. The Penderwicks - Birdsall (2005)

47. Bud, Not Buddy - Curtis (1999)

46. Where the Red Fern Grows - Rawls (1961)

45. The Golden Compass - Pullman (1995)

44. Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing - Blume (1972)

43. Ramona the Pest - Cleary (1968)

Do you remember that Ramona had a doll named Chevrolet, because she thought it was a beautiful name? Ramona is the best.
42. Little House on the Prairie - Wilder (1935)

41. The Witch of Blackbird Pond - Speare (1958)

40. The Wonderful Wizard of Oz - Baum (1900)

39. When You Reach Me - Stead (2009)

Amazingly high on the list for such a new book. I loved it pretty intensely, but it will be interesting to see whether it remains beloved.
38. HP and the Order of the Phoenix - Rowling (2003)

37. Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry - Taylor (1976)

36. Are You there, God? It's Me, Margaret - Blume (1970)

We must, we must, we must increase our bust! Also, menstruation was way more complicated before they invented the concept of sticky back pads.
35. HP and the Goblet of Fire - Rowling (2000)

34. The Watson's Go to Birmingham - Curtis (1995)

33. James and the Giant Peach - Dahl (1961)

32. Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH - O'Brian (1971)

31. Half Magic - Eager (1954)

This is the other one I read because of this list, and I've got to say that I highly recommend it. I would have adored it even more when I was 9.

30. Winnie-the-Pooh - Milne (1926)
29. The Dark Is Rising - Cooper (1973)

28. A Little Princess - Burnett (1905)

27. Alice I and II - Carroll (1865/72)

26. Hatchet - Paulsen (1989)
25. Little Women - Alcott (1868/9)

24. HP and the Deathly Hallows - Rowling (2007)

23. Little House in the Big Woods - Wilder (1932)

22. The Tale of Despereaux - DiCamillo (2003)

21. The Lightning Thief - Riordan (2005)

20. Tuck Everlasting - Babbitt (1975)

19. Charlie and the Chocolate Factory - Dahl (1964)

18. Matilda - Dahl (1988)
17. Maniac Magee - Spinelli (1990)

16. Harriet the Spy - Fitzhugh (1964)

15. Because of Winn-Dixie - DiCamillo (2000)

14. HP and the Prisoner of Azkaban - Rowling (1999)

13. Bridge to Terabithia - Paterson (1977)

Perhaps the only book that we read in 5th grade that I enjoyed. It made me weep in public, too, though. Then again, the Muppets Take Manhattan made me weep in school as well, so maybe the whole "I'm not a public weeper" is something of a self-deception.
12. The Hobbit - Tolkien (1938)

11. The Westing Game - Raskin (1978)

10. The Phantom Tollbooth - Juster (1961)
The other book that may have contributed to my eventual math major. Word play, number play, excellent plot. Plus, did you know that Norton Juster is an accomplished architect? Kind of makes you feel like a loser, no?

9. Anne of Green Gables - Montgomery (1908)

I loved this book the way Melinda loved Little House on the Prairie. Megan Follows as Anne in the movies was my Half-Pint. I knew who Colleen Dewhurst was because she played Marilla Cuthbert, and I was excited when she guest-starred on Murphy Brown. Yes, I was 8 or 9 at the time. Yes, I was kind of a weird kid.
8. The Secret Garden - Burnett (1911)

7. The Giver -Lowry (1993)

6. Holes - Sachar (1998)

5. From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler - Koningsburg (1967)

Can you believe that at the library where I work, this book hasn't been checked out since 2005? It's in tip-top shape. And yet I refuse to weed it. You just don't weed the Koningsburg.
4. The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe - Lewis (1950)

3. Harry Potter #1 - Rowling (1997)

2. A Wrinkle in Time - L'Engle (1962)

1. Charlotte's Web - White (1952)
I didn't think I was emotionally invested in this list until it was down to the top 5, and I realized that if this didn't top the list, a piece of my soul would die. This is probably my favorite book ever, and so well-written. E.B. White's essays for grown-ups are also amazing.

Looming in the home

Update: If you are looking for more information about the Spears loom, I ended up writing a post that contains a bit more substantive information about the loom.

I first tried weaving when we were still living in the Chicago area. I have knit for 8 years or so now, and I love it and find it soothing, but somehow weaving was different. For whatever reason, I connected with on a deeper level. Maybe it was because I learned how to weave from a woman, in a room full of women, whereas I learned how to knit from the internet. Whatever the reason, I had a sense of doing something that women have been doing for centuries and of being connected to those women. It was all very Womyn Power, in a way that I hadn't ever experienced before.

Fast forward last Thanksgiving weekend, at a gas station in northwest Indiana, where I arranged to meet a woman from Craigslist. For the sweet price of $30, I got a Spears Weaving Loom, Size 4. It's vintage, from the 60's or so, made in England, and it even came with an instruction manual. Here it is:

I'm not going to get into the problems with tension, yarn breakage, and the like that I experienced. ("The like" being a phrase which here means "brief periods of white hot rage and hatred for that stupid loom and stupid yarn and stupid me, followed by longer periods of drinking and crying, followed by moments of joyous self-satisfaction at my genius in problem-solving".) I am just going to say that while I quite like the yarn I picked, it probably wasn't the best for what I wanted. There was at least one point at which I was sure I wasn't going to finish the (damned, stupid, evil, wretched) scarf.

One difference between weaving projects and my other crafty pursuits, though, is put-away-ability. The loom does break down to fit in a box about the size a board game, but not until either the project is finished or I've decide that I'm not going to finish the project. I can stuff a frustrating piece of knitting in the back of my closet for years, but the loom, she taunts me. And since I have more than enough things dwelling in my head to make me feel bad about myself, I decide to prioritize finishing up one of the things dwelling in the physical realm.

All of which is to say, "Ta-da....."


For the record, there will be a next time for the loom and me. With luck, it will involve less cursing than last time.

Music to Keep Your Car on the Road

The husband and I traveled up to our homeland last weekend to take care of some things to do with the Condo That Would Not Die (or Be Sold). Usually, the husband does all of the driving when we travel to Chicagoland. At some point, I entirely lost my stomach for city driving. Even the Indiana side of things makes me nervous, but making the drive on the interstate through the city is downright excruciating for both of us. I spend the ride flinching and deep-breathing, and generally acting like people with normal anxieties do on planes. And while I am totally fine driving back to CollegeTown (nothing scary there but soybeans and corn), the husband usually offers to do it.

The end result of this is that the husband pretty much has free reign on which cds to bring along with us. Which is usually fine, except for those rare occasions when he actually takes me up on my offer to drive us home, and I am stuck with his choices.

The thing about the husband is that he has good musical taste; he just sucks at figuring out what to play when. In the car, he likes music like The Books (quiet atmospheric music with random sound samples), Stereolab (quiet atmospheric electronica) and Fourtet (quiet modern melodic jazz). He has confused his "Music to listen to while driving" list with what should be a "Music to listen to while writing a paper or getting ready for sleep" list.

I should state for the record that he has his reasons. He says that he likes driving music to be like the musical score moving him through his journey. I couldn't agree more; I just don't think we're driving through the same movie. Proper driving music, as I'm sure you clever people know, should be singable or danceable. Not that I dance in the car, or anyone else for that matter - except, of course, in front of large groups of impressionable children (though I doubt the Hokey Pokey counts). Nevertheless, a good car song should make you regret the fact that you are securely buckled, even as you feel grateful that you don't have to do the shoulder-shaking head bop that passes for dance in your sad, repressed, white girl mind. (Or maybe that's just me.)

Anyway, for your edification (or at least for the husband's), here is my list of top musical choices for a long drive. Please note that many of these rely on singing loudly, and thus being in the car alone. Perhaps that's the problem; perhaps the husband totally belts out pop songs in the car when I am not around to hear. Or perhaps the husband is driving to the score of our life's journey, while I am driving to the pop-heavy soundtrack.

1. London Calling, by the Clash. It is something of a tradition for me to play this on the first day nice enough to drive with the windows down. Oh, Joe Strummer, you are gone, but not forgotten.

2. Cabaret (the one with Alan Cumming as the Emcee). Oh, shut up. A girl can be totally punk rock and totally music theater. It just so happens that I am neither. Whatever; I can replicate Natasha Richardson's English accent to perfection when no one is around to hear. This cd caused me to feel a totally imaginary kinship with her, and I was very sad when she died.

3. Anything by Belle and Sebastian and Fountains of Wayne. It is pretty much a scientific fact that hand claps and perfectly crafted pop songs make cars run more fuel-efficiently.

4. Anything that happens to be on the radio and was popular during the second half of the 90s, when I was in high school. There is absolutely nothing wrong with singing all of the lyrics to Oasis's "Wonder Wall", even if the Gallagher brothers are total tools. Absolutely nothing.

5. Anything by Queen or Fiona Apple. Freddie and Fiona both have a much larger vocal range than me. This does not stop me from attempting to sing with them, or from imagining that I could totally rock their songs at karaoke.

Those are my favorites. What are yours?