So, after hanging out for the last two years in France, my brother, Riley, has come home from his mission. He arrived home yesterday, and we were getting to think that we might have been forgotten again out here in the hinterlands of the Midwest, until he called us this morning at 7:15 (which, for those of you paying attention to time zone differences, was like 5:15 for him...he said that all the traveling he and my parents had done in the last few days had knocked their sleeping schedules out of whack -- apparently they'd all been awake since 3 or 4 in the morning!).

It was great talking with him! I answered the phone when he called and his voice sounded so different when he said hello that I thought for sure it was my other brother, Tyler, prank calling us pretending to be Riley. (Because Tyler would do something like that.) So when he said, "Hey, Lindsay! It's Riley!" I said, "No it isn't." But then he convinced me that he was really Riley. I swear though -- Tyler, Riley, and Scott all have the deepest voices now! I can't easily tell them apart on the phone anymore! And it's taking some getting used to.

We didn't get to talk too long because we had to get ready for work, but it was great just to hear his voice again. The highlight in the conversation (for me, anyway) was when he asked how we were doing out here in Muncie. Only he didn't know how to pronounce Muncie. He said it more like "Mee-yune-ik-ee," which just about made me die laughing, so it was kind of hard to get myself to tell him that the correct way to pronounce it is "Mun-see." But I did. Because I'm nice like that.

Anyway, so Riley's back. Wow. How fun. I'm sad I won't be able to see him in person for some time. Oh well, I guess. Hey, if any of you are interested in photos of his mission adventures, you can see them here. Most of them are pretty funny. See, the thing about Riley is, he's hilarious. And I'm glad he's back.

So it seems then that today is proving itself to be a good one. I mean, not only did we get to wake up to a phone call from my brother, but I get to leave work early today because this afternoon we're heading down to Columbus, with our friends Sarah and Scott, to go to the temple. I'm looking forward to it. Also good today: it's payday, for me AND Blake; I got an email this morning from my favorite cousin, Julie (and Julie, if you read this, I'm working on writing you an equally fabulous letter in return); and, well, it's Friday, which makes pretty much everyone happy and causes people in your building who you don't know to randomly rejoice with you in that fact by stating how relieved they are that it's the end of the week as they pass you in the hallway. Good times. So until next time, I hope you all have great days as well!

I'm warning you: I'm feeling chatty. Okay, so I don't so much feel "chatty," but a lot of things have suddenly happened all at once that I want to tell you all. Anyway, so now you know.

Sweater Weather
A series of less-than-exciting thunderstorms (everyone was predicting something much worse) brought in a brisk cold front. And everyone knows what that means! Sweater Weather! Today I am wearing a wool turtleneck sweater and am quite comfortable. It’s the first sweater of the season, which, quite frankly, is quite thrilling. Quite. Blake is wearing a sweater today, too: a brown one over a brown striped collared shirt. He looks quite strapping, if I do say so myself. And apparently some random girl on campus agreed with me last spring when he last wore this combination. As she came upon Blake on the sidewalk walking between classes, she stopped and told him that his outfit looked very good. Blake was flattered. Because, you know, I guess it’s nice to receive outfit affirmation from someone other than your significant other sometimes. Or something.

Early Childhood Education
Yesterday afternoon, during a random office conversation, the topic came up that, come next summer, Blake and I have no idea where we’ll be living. We could be traipsing the globe, or sitting comfortably here in this little nook of the Midwest. The following conversation ensued:

Me: Yeah, so, for all I know, we could be down in Indy, or maybe even still here in Muncie.

Lisa: That’d be great! You could keep working here with us!

Me: [thinking] Yeah…riiiight.

Lisa: Or, I guess you could find a teaching job.

Me: That’s true, I could.

Lisa: I bet you could find a good job teaching in a preschool or something. I have a friend who did that and she loved it.

Rose: Oh yes, you’d be great with young children…they need good teachers when they’re very young.

Me: Well, actually…I’m only certified to teach grades 6 to 12, and only in history and English.

Lisa: Well, I’m sure that Ball State has an early childhood education program. You could take classes for free! And you could borrow textbooks for free from the Prison Program [a program offered here at Extended Ed].

Rose: Or you could take classes at Ivy Tech [the community college].

Lisa: But Ball State would be free because she’s an employee. [Looks up the Ball State program online.] It looks like they do have an early childhood education program here…it’s 120 credits.

Rose: Either way, I’m sure a lot of your education credits would transfer.

Me: Well…actually…I don’t think any of them would…I did secondary education. I’m not trained at all for preschool. [Thinking: Nor do I really want to be.]

Rose: Oh, but it wouldn’t take you too long. And you’d be such a good teacher for those kids.

Me: Well…actually…if I did go back to school, I’d probably go for a master’s of library science…you know…be a librarian. Or maybe I’d get a degree in editing or writing…or something [Thinking: Something that’s not preschool teaching.]

But I don’t think they heard me because at this point Lisa’s phone rang and I was able to slip quietly back to my cubicle. If they had stopped to ask me what I was considering for my future (instead of figuring it out themselves), they would have discovered that what I’m hoping for is to be able to pass the Breadwinner title onto Blake once he’s graduated and found a job.

After Waiting 6 Months for Our Tax Return…
…it is finally in the mail. Like good American citizens, we filed our taxes and got them in by the April deadline. Because of our move across the country, we were required to file federally, in Utah, and in Indiana. We were able to use an online program to file the federal and Utah taxes, but because of circumstances out of our control, we had to file in Indiana by hand. Because of this, the Indiana state return was not going to be direct deposited into our account like the federal and Utah returns were. We were fine with this. We figured we could wait a while longer to get our money back from the government. Well, come July we figured it would arrive any day now. Come August we were really wondering. Come September we were able to track down a number for the Indiana Department of Revenue. Blake called them yesterday to ask them, politely, where the heck our return was. He received a rather unusual response: “Well, we didn’t have your address.” Um, yes you did. It was printed on the form…in several different places. Good heavens! Someone must have been having a really bad day when they filed our return in the “lost” drawer.

Bras and Statistics
The other day Blake was sitting in his statistics lab working one on one with his professor. He asked her a question about suppressors in variable multivariate regression analysis (whew, that’s a mouthful!). As he understood it, suppressed variables make the statistic seem higher or bigger than it really is. She responded that yes, that’s one way to look at them. And then she proceeded to give the analogy of Padding Your Bra: a girl stuffing her bra to make her seem more well endowed is comparable to a statistician using suppressed variables to make their analysis seem bigger. Blake thought the analogy a might inappropriate, but he went with it. A few minutes later, his professor came back to make sure he understood what she was talking about. He just about had to cut her off to let her know that, yes, he did get, and please don’t try to explain it in more detail. Blake told me about this little incident over breakfast this morning. All I could think about was the time when Frank Costanza was trying to explain bra sizing to George: “You got your A, your B, your C, and your D – those are the biggest.”

You Should Be Proud of Me
Because I am becoming master of my culinary domain. My friend, Sarah, gave us a brimming bag of fresh orchard apples, and last night I put them to good use. I made more applesauce, and an apple crisp. Both are tasty. (And, don’t tell anyone, but both were very easy, too.)

You should also be proud of me because I am now going to stop writing. Goodbye!

Last night at Book Club we discussed How Green Was My Valley by Richard Llewellyn. I love this book, and was a little disappointed to find that pretty much everyone else who read it didn't like it. To each is own, though, I guess. But the discussion went well, and I think that by the end, the majority of the group were reconfiguring their opinions of it.

What is the book and what it is about? This book is music and singing. It is strong families. It is coal mining. It is stubbornness and pride. It is first love. It is fighting for what you believe. It is characters you love. It is happy times. It is tragedy. It is neighbors with their visits and gossip. It is fresh air and mountain flowers. It is tradition. It is change. It is consequences. It is growing up. It is every day. It is real. It is graceful. It is loving.

Like Welsh music, is this book. There is beautiful, it is. Like singing. I love it.

On a related note, there is beautiful this evening will be indeed. It will be thunderstorms. It will be hours to myself. It will be quilt sewing. It will be apple baking. It will be quiet. It will be pondering.

It will be relaxing.

If you had asked us a few weeks ago how we were planning to spend this last weekend, we would have told you we were heading down to Louisville to go to the temple. But then things got busy and the trip had to be postponed. I was a little sad about this, but now, after watching a few news reports, I’m pretty glad we didn’t. Because, you know, it’s no fun to visit a city that is under water.

And so instead of a report about a trip to Louisville, I will tell you about a trip to Indy to complete an assignment for Blake’s diversity class.


Cool People Met Up With
A Muslim, a Catholic, and a Latter-day Saint walk into a Syrian/Lebanese Orthodox church…. Man, this could make for a great pre-Sacrament meeting talk anecdote! But I’ll spare you. To be brief, we drove down to Indy with Blake’s classmate, Fajran, who is a Muslim from Jakarta, Indonesia. After we’d been at the Festival for about an hour, another of Blake’s classmates, Frank, along with his wife, Laura, joined us. Frank and Laura are both very strong Catholics – straight from Ireland, practically. (I think it was Frank’s father who immigrated, and so quite a bit of his extended family is still in Ireland…in fact, his uncle is a Catholic priest.) This religious combination comes in handy in case you’re wanting to swap points of doctrines in casual conversation. Most interesting.

Parking Lot Attendants Who Took Their Jobs Too Seriously
I am not even joking. The guy in the orange vest waving the flag baton in the direction of the spot he wanted us to park in must have had some sort of dream parking lot in mind when he knocked on the drivers side window and told us (once we’d stopped the car in what seemed like a decently good parking job) to back up about three inches. What the heck?

Music Listened To
It was raining on Saturday, so most of the festivities had to be moved indoors. So when we walked inside, we were greeted with some extra loud Middle Eastern music brought to us by Amin and the Sultans (apparently the #1 ranked Middle Eastern band in the U.S….who knew?). The music was fabulous and I pretty much just wanted to let my toe tapping get the better of me. It also made me realize that I should learn the technical names for Middle Eastern instruments so that I can sound intelligent in conversations such as this one.

Chapels Toured
The festivities were held in the church cafeteria/cultural room. But if you were interested, you could go on a self-guided tour the chapel on the front end of the building. We did so, partly because it was interesting, and partly because Blake needed material to write about for his diversity class assignment. I thought the chapel was beautiful…stained glass windows and an ornate alter. It was a little too relic-y and incense-y for my tastes, but still very pretty. I have posted a few pictures on our picture site (I'd've posted them here, but blogger is being stupid again).

Auctions Not Participated In
If you’re going to invite the public to be involved in parish activities, you might as well try to make a few extra bucks. And so the organizers incorporated a silent auction into the festivities. Most of the items up for bid were a little on the bizarre side (like the giant candy bars and the shampoo), but there were two things leaning more towards the “I’d bid on this if I had money” side: a basketball signed by Larry Bird, and a handcrafted Syrian wooden box (which was so beautiful).

Food Consumed
Oh, the smell when you walked in the door! Heavenly! (Too bad for Fajran that Saturday was the first day of Ramadan.) We ate some lamb shank (which had been marinated in I don’t know what, but it was delicious) with pita bread, and a good helping of Middle Eastern pastries: bassma, which is like a layered, karo syrup-y, caramel-y pistachio brownie, and baklava (both the walnut and the pistachio varieties). So good!

Items Almost Purchased
There was a bazaar set up against one wall where local Middle Eastern vendors and restaurateurs were selling their wares. One guys had a bunch of olive wood nativity sets that were absolutely beautiful. Our favorite was a little on the pricey side, and so was not an option. What we were left with was a bell-shaped nativity tree ornament. In the end, though, we decided that we’d live in the moment buy pastries instead. (But, if our moment had taken place in the Holy Land, we probably would have gone for the nativity.)

Dancing Watched
Oh, the dancing! Talk about hips and alluring hand movements. And one mustn’t forget the finger cymbals and scarves (of which there were plenty). Thanks to the video feature on our camera, and Amyjane who was kind enough to give me instructions (thanks, Amyjane!), I am able to share a part of the Middle Eastern Festival of Indianapolis with you all. Here are three dances we saw: (You’ll have to pardon fact that I am very new with a video camera, and consequently don’t remember that moving my hands moves the camera as well. Also, please excuse the occasional old lady passing in front of me with her walker, or the hungry visitors who had no idea I was getting their lunch on film.)

[埋込みオブジェクト:http://video.google.com/googleplayer.swf?docId=7971886097719587407&hl=en]
[埋込みオブジェクト:http://video.google.com/googleplayer.swf?docId=3662094218248699204&hl=en]
[埋込みオブジェクト:http://video.google.com/googleplayer.swf?docId=4884304088389055971&hl=en]
Don't you just want to go join in? Yeah...I did, too. But I didn't bring my scarf...or my coordination...or my finger cymbals. Too bad.

Provo, Utah and Muncie, Indiana are two very different places, but they also have much in common. After having lived in both places for at least a year (Provo = 20+ years, Muncie 1+ years), I feel that I have the experience necessary to highlight some of these similarities and differences for you.

Note: The study that follows isn't really a study, but rather a collection of observations and biases that I feel like sharing with you today. So put away your homework and let the dishes sit a little while longer while I introduce you into the curiosities, which are, you will soon notice, in no particular order, of two towns.

Driving: While it has been said that Utah drivers are among the worst in the world, I would have to argue that many of these said drivers originated in Muncie. Tailgating in a popular recreational activity in Muncie, as is revving your engines competitively at stop lights. Also, the majority of Muncie-ites feel that use of a turn signal is an option. Provo drivers, on the other hand, are known across the country (or so I'm told) for their inability to grasp the concept of using the left lane to pass. Also, Provonians (or "Provolones," for you cheese lovers) like to drive reallysuperfast.

Crossing Streets: I think it's pretty safe to say that pedestrians in both cities are big fans of jaywalking. However, I've noticed that in Provo, people are more apt to jaywalk cautiously, as in, they stop and look both ways before they bolt out in front of your car. In Muncie, on the other hand, and especially on the Ball State campus, pedestrians don't even bother to look.

Landscape: Provo has rugged mountains and homes built on fault lines; Muncie has flat farmland of corn and soybeans fields.

Religion: Though this may surprise some of the good people in Provo, Muncie is as devout a midwestern town as I've ever seen, though their devoutness is decidedly more diverse. The majority of Provo's citizens are LDS, while those in Muncie attend regularly a variety of Protestant, Catholic, Islamic, etc, etc, churches. I have to say, though, that it's quite a comfort for this little LDS girl to have moved to a city full of people who hold their religious beliefs as dearly as I do mine.

Schools: Brigham Young University is to Provo as Ball State University is to Muncie. Both schools can be viewed as a lifeblood for their respective communities, but I have to say that Muncie is more dependent on BSU than Provo is on BYU. Without Ball State, Muncie would pretty much shrivel up and die. Though in the eyes of a certain pair of observant blog writers (read: Lindsay and Blake), BYU boasts a better education, Ball State is not without its fine points. They are known throughout the country for their outstanding architecture program, just as BYU is often recognized for its Marriott School of Business.

Campus Bell Towers: Both BYU and BSU have bell towers, though I have to say that Ball State has a more aesthically pleasing one. BYU, however, gives regular concerts with theirs where Ball State, so far as I can tell, does not.

Famous Alumni: Since we're still on the subject of the campuses, let's brag about alumni, shall we? Famous BYU alumni include: Ken Jennings, of Jeopardy! fame; Mitt Romney, of MA and 2002 Olympics fame; and Bill Marriott of hotel fame. Famous BSU alumni include: Jim Davis, of Garfield fame, David Letterman, of late night TV fame, and John Schnatter, of Papa John's Pizza fame.

Streets: Where the roads in Provo are extra wide, the roads in Muncie are extra narrow. Also, in Muncie they apparently don't believe in sidewalks or bike lanes, which makes pedestrian/cyclist travel somewhat challenging. Also, where the streets in Provo are aligned along a grid, in Muncie they were placed wherever people darn well felt like it. On the other hand, it's much easier to travel from Muncie to other parts of the state because of the many highways and freeways that are available for use. In Provo, it's pretty much I-15 and State Street, with an occasional shortcut through a canyon.

Politics: While both cities are decidedly quite conservative, I think Provo takes the cake marked "ultra."

What Gets The Students Riled Up: In Provo among college students, the Honor Code is an item which is often at the center of heated discussions. In Muncie, the college crowd likes to get super upset when the liquor stores stop selling kegs of beer.

Industry: Provo is a booming center for technology start-up companies. Muncie is host to dying car parts manufacturing plants. Oh, and farming...lots of farming.

Accents: A large portion of the people of Provo talk like transplanted California valley girls. A large population of Muncie talk like Kentucky hillbillies.

Climate: Provo is in a desert climate, which means it is dry dry dry, and in summer, also hot. Muncie is in the fertile Midwest, which means it is humid, humid, humid, and in summer also hot. Winters in Provo are generally fairly mild with usually enough snow to go around and temperatures mild enough to keep most people happy. Winters in Muncie mean more ice than snow, and temperatures well below zero.

Weekend Getaways: Up for some nearby fun for the weekend? Muncie is within a few hours driving distrance from Indianapolis, Cincinnati, Louisville, St. Louis, Chicago, and Columbus. Provo is fairly close to Salt Lake and Park City and if you're willing to drive farther, St. George or Las Vegas, and any number of national parks.

All right...I think that's enough "study" for one Friday afternoon. You may go back to your homework and dirty dishes now, if you feel so inclined. Thank you for your time. And please come back soon.

So, it turns out that my Activity Days girls were born with thimbles on their fingers. They took to last night's sewing activity like wild fire!

This was our project: We sewed scripture tote bags out of cloth placemats. We did this by folding the placemat in half and sewing up the sides, then we folded triangles out of the corners and sewed across them, then attached ribbons for handles. Very simple. (I mean, heck -- if I can sew it with little problem, then they can sew it piece of cake.)

We had three sewing machines gathered -- one for each placemat/ribbon combination -- and four adults (me, my partner, Sarah, and two parents). It was actually good that there were extra adults present because we ended up having extra girls come (the twins brought a small handful of friends with them, which amounted to a minor crisis because we didn't have enough materials. It turned out okay, though. They were fine just helping to sew the twins' bags). We were able to teach the girls a quick lesson in threading a sewing machine and winding a bobbin, and sew eight bags in an hour and a half. I swear that must be some kind of record.

The girls were great, though. So eager. I'd heard rumors before I was given this calling that the previous Activity Days leader had taught them how to sew on a button and in the weeks after that, everyone in the ward could expect those girls to be out actively advertising their new button-sewing services. They also got way into the cross-stitching we taught them earlier in the summer. So I guess history showed that these girls have a domestic side to them.

The greatest part was when, after it was completely sewed, I told them they could turn it right side out to see how it looked...they were so excited to see that they'd actually used a sewing machine to make something! (After all...sewing machines are only things their moms use!) It also made for a pleasant little boost to my sewing ego to teach these girls how to sew something (usually it's someone else whose hovering over my shoulder teaching me how to sew).

I didn't think to bring my camera, so I don't have any pictures, but if you're ever in Muncie on a Sunday, come to the Muncie 1st ward, and I'll bet you you'll see some cute little girls toting their scriptures around in bags they made themselves.

Blake's thesis is finally turned in!
(Truth be told, I wasn't sure it'd happen.)
In two weeks he'll propose,
So we'll see how that goes.
In the meantime, though, I'll sit and I'll grin.

***

Tonight to the church I'll be going
To teach my eight girls some light sewing.
I'm a little freaked out,
So I am just about
Thinking about not even showing...

Okay, so I'm kidding about that one--
I really do think it'll be fun.
My girls are delightful,
Even if quite a handful,
So I will be relieved when it's done.

***

Enrichment last night caused the defense
In my system to suddenly intense:
A comment was made
That left me dismayed,
Though I've learned that I shouldn't take offence.

Still -- why do people feel they need to tear down
My imperfect, yet pleasant, hometown?
This might sound quite bold,
But it's getting real old
To hear comments of negative renown.

Even at this very moment, my parents are en route to France to pick my brother up from his mission. Yeah, that's right: France. F-R-A-N-C-E. And so I feel it somewhat appropriate to sit back and reflect on the fact that I really (really, really, really) wish that I was en route to France. I mean, it's France!

[Pause for a moment of envious reflection.]

My, what a dreamy place to visit. If I was in France right now, I'd be giddy, and would probably demonstrate that fact to the world by sighing at regular intervals and shrieking spontaneously. I'd be soaking every moment in as I walked around with my neck craned in unnatural positions so I wouldn't miss anything. I'd be pretty much living in my own little world because I'd be completely thrown by the abundance of French being spoken. After all, it's pretty widely known that the seven years I spent studying the French language did absolutely nothing to improve my bi-lingual communication skills. But lack of a talent for tongues aside, I'd probably find my way to an open air Parisian cafe where I would sit and eat bread and cheese and crepes with fresh fruit. While I ate, I would laugh my way through a chapter in the adventures of Petit Nicolas and maybe I'd peruse through a French edition of Madeline. And then, during my scheduled visit of some famous site or other, I'd pull out my sketchbook and watercolors and pretend I actually knew how to paint scenic French landscapes. It would be lovely, n'est-ce pas?

So France: it's the place to be, wouldn't you say? I'd much rather be in France right now than here at work in rainy, chilly Muncie. But if it can't be France, I have a list at the ready of other things I'd rather be doing right now. Here, let me share:

A List of Things I'd Rather Be Doing Since Visiting France Isn't Really An Option At the Moment:

1. Cutting squares of fabric out of my collection of old clothes -- really it's mind numbing work, but I'm anxious to become a quilter.
2. Beginning construction on that other small quilt I have big plans for.
3. Slapping a year and half's worth of photos into our photo album.
4. Printing some digital photos to also slap into the photo album.
5. Reading How Green Was My Valley while I sat curled up under a blanket on my couch.
6. Taking a nap.
7. Framing some pictures -- over the weekend we went frame crazy. We are now the proud owners of 3 small cheap-chic brown frames which will soon house some watercolor pictures Blake brought back from Uruguay, a shadowbox which will soon be home for some antique large letter postcards, and a white floating frame which will soon become the canvas for the glass etching Blake is going to do.
8. Eating cookie dough. (Yum.)

There are also a few things I know Blake would rather be doing right now. Here are a few:

1. Submitting his thesis to his committee -- he'll be doing this tomorrow morning, and in about two weeks he'll formally propose it to his committee.
2. Getting hired for a fabulous post-graduation career job.
3. Flying to France with me -- because really, who wouldn't want that? (I'm talking about France, not me, per say, though I have a feeling Blake would be happy with both. He's a good husband like that.)

So, where would you rather be right now? Discuss.

We have a new computer desk chair. In fact, I'm sitting in it right now. It's very comfortable -- loads more comfy than the old chair, which was really nothing more than a hard-backed extra kitchen chair, and which saw the biscuit yesterday afternoon after Blake toppled over while sitting in it. And, this new chair has lots of really cool features that our old chair simply didn't have:

• It's on wheels so we can roll around it in;
• It goes up and down, so on days when I'm feeling extra tall, I can raise it up, and on those days whem I'm feeling a little on the short side, I can lower it;
• It spins.

It's the spinning feature that I'd like to discuss further. Chairs that spin make for great friendly competitions, as we so fortunately discovered last night after a long day of homework and housekeeping.

Shortly after we each consumed a small bowl of ice cream, I sat in the new chair and started to test its features. When I commented to Blake how cool it was that the chair could spin, he suggested we make things interesting and engage in a spinning contest. All right, I thought.

And so I gave myself a push and starting spinning. And I kept spinning. And spinning. And spinning...until I had gone around 18 times.

Then it was Blake's turn. He gave himself a decent push, but only went around 7 times. He tried again, this time only making it to 10. By the third try, he was obviously losing steam because he only made it around 4 times.

And so it's official: I'm the Queen of Chair Spinning.

Also, I am dizzy. Very, very dizzy.

If you look on your screen to the right, you will notice two new list columns I recently added: Currently reading and Books to put back on the shelf. Today I am going to entice you to read along with me by giving you a 30 second book review of each one I've read since starting this list. So here we go...it's story time!

The Name of the Rose
by Umberto Eco

In a 14th century Italian abbey, two monks -- William of Baskerville and his assistant, Adso of Melk -- work to solve seven mysterious monkish murders, figure out how the heck to get around a forbidden labyrinthine library, and argue with anyone handy about the finer points of Christ's poverty. Definitely a "scholarly novel" -- I think my IQ went up a big just by holding the book. But interesting for sure. The whole thing dragged in the beginning (which would explain why it took me like three months to read), but eventually the intrigue was so intense, I couldn't put the book down.

I Capture the Castle
by Dodie Smith

A coming of age story set in a run-down medieval castle in 1930s England. Told from the point of view of Cassandra as she details her extremely poor, yet fascinatingly eccentric family's adventures in meeting new neighbors and finding true love in her journal. Combine a father suffering from a terrible bout of writer's block, a stepmother who enjoys taking walks naked through the hills near their castle home, an older sister who's quite beautiful but also quite whiny, a servant boy who's really more a member of the family who harbors not-so-secret love for Cassandra, and two very rich Americans who move into the manor next door, and you've got the makings for a truly charming story. I loved it for its freshness, and join with those who recommended to me in recommending to you.

Nothing to Do But Stay: My Pioneer Mother
by Carrie Young

This is a very short non-fiction book written by the daughter of North Dakota homesteaders in the early 20th century. The family -- indeed, the whole homesteading community -- are of Norwegian decent, and this plays a large roll in their daily activities. From her mother's adventures as an unmarried and adventurous homesteader to the necessity of experiencing cold childhood winters living in a snowed in one-room schoolhouse to community get-togethers involving vast amounts of delicious Norwegian home cooking and home-churned ice cream, this book lovingly sums up the hard work and effort it took to raise a family on an isolated North Dakota farm. A quick read, and most enjoyable.

Portuguese Irregular Verbs
by Alexander McCall Smith

The first of three books recounting the hilarious adventures of Professor Dr. Moritz-Maria von Igelfeld of the Institute of Romance Philology, the scholarly German whose great work Portuguese Irregular Verbs has earned him international acclaim. In this book von Igelfeld and his colleagues learn to play tennis, takes two ill-fated trips to Italy, and falls in love with his dentist. Absolutely hilarious...full of intelligent wit. Who knew an otherwise drab German scholar could have so many bizarre adventures?

The Finer Points of Sausage Dogs
by Alexander McCall Smith

The second of the Portuguese Irregular Verbs books. I thought it was even funnier than the first. In this book, von Igelfeld finds himself mistaken for a world-famous veterinarian which results in his practicing veterinary medicine without a license (to disastrous results), telling off the pope, and getting hounded by marriage-minded widows on a lecture cruise. Laugh out loud, I tell you...this book is great! Right now (as you can see from my Currently reading list on the sidebar) I'm reading the last in the series, At the Villa of Reduced Circumstances. I'm only 20 pages in and so far it appears to be quite promising

So if you're looking for something to do this weekend, might I suggest heading down to your local library to pick up one or two of Lindsay's Recommended Books? And if you're having a hard time choosing which to start with, I say go with the Portuguese Irregular Verbs series. I don't know about you, but I can't think of a better way to spend a weekend than with an enchantingly entertaining and intelligently hilarious German scholar named von Igelfeld. I mean, come on!

This morning before work, I got a mole removed from arm. It was very exciting.

Actually, I lie. It wasn't very exciting. More like "standard procedure." But when it comes to a visit to the doctor, boring standard procedure is far better than super-thrilling-roller coaster exciting.

But at least it's gone now, and I can rest easy until early next week when the biopsy results come in and I find out if "further removal work" is needed. Between you and me, I'm hoping that the doctor just calls to tell me I'm a perfectly healthy fabulous person who just happens to every now and again pop in with a suspicious looking mole. Because if he told me that, I wouldn't end up with a ghastly scar on my right arm like the 2-incher on my left arm. In cases like these, symmetry is not desirable.

But enough about moles. They're boring. Standard procedure. Let's shift gears (considerably) and talk about babysitting. Because that's what I did last night. I babysat. And it brought back waterfalls of memories of the days when I was a card-carrying fully-certified neighborhood babysitter.

Babysitting definitely made for a pleasant evening. It was pleasant in large part because the kids, Tessa and Abel, were pretty much happy perfect angel children. First we watched Toy Story 2. Midway through, Abel and I attempted to read stories, after which Abel cried himself to sleep in his crib. Then I helped Tessa fast forward through the "scary" part near the end of Toy Story (you know...the part where Woody and Jessie nearly fall out the bottom of the airplane...kinda scary). And then we watched the bloopers. Twice. Because they're funny. And then Tessa and I shot the breeze for a while, chatting about the usual topics of preschool and borrowed library books. Then she showed me the silliest pictures of her favorite library book, Lilly's Big Day, after which she decided that she'd like me to read her the book as well. (It's a cute book...I give it my stamp of approval.) And then Sarah and Scott came home and, after we shot the breeze for a while, chatting together about the usual topics of how well-behaved their children were and new purses, my evening as a resurrected babysitter ended. Only this time, I got to drive myself home. Because now I'm a babysitter who's old enough to have a license.

See how pleasant that was?

Much better than getting a mole removed.

If I can count a rapid heart beat from an incident on the drive to campus this morning, then consider me well-exercised.

This morning, as we were waiting patiently in the intersection for on-coming traffic to clear, the light turned yellow (as traffic lights are wont to do) and we watched for our cue of on-coming drivers slowing to a stop so we could make our left-hand turn. When we saw that the coast was clear, we proceeded to complete our turn, when who should start buzzing into the intersection but a horribly hurried, chain smoking, red light runner. We slammed on our brakes mid-turn, and she sort of slowed down. But mostly she just sped by as she tried to swerve to miss us. Only that "swerve to miss us" bit was more like an "aim right for us" bit. Because, as luck would have it, we were right in her way.

After a series of false starts and quick stops, we were eventually able to get out of her way enough to finish our turn, but every time we started going, she would start going as well, continuing for no apparent reason to aim right for us. So we kept slamming the brakes, and kept trying her "swerve to miss us" thing.

Throughout the course of this totally unnecessary drama, both Blake and I became fairly panicked (because, you know, who wouldn't?). Blake, who was driving -- very defensively, I might add --, didn't know when it was safe to get the heck out of the intersection, and I watched the cloudy morning get suddenly brighter as my life started flashing before my eyes (the further we got to actually completing our turn, the closer she got to running right into the side of the car where I was sitting).

The whole thing was like this awful cat and mouse game that we found ourselves suddenly thrown into. And it probably happened a lot faster than it seemed at the time. But my goodness! Was this lady, with a fresh cigarette dangling lazily between her fingers as she pushed her luck both with us and the red light further, trying to prove something? Who let's these people on the road? Good grief! It was ridiculous! Horrifically, heart-stoppingly, awfully ridiculous!

Because it seemed like everyone but us had one, and because we want nothing more than to fit in, a few months ago, Blake asked our apartment manager what possibility there was in us getting a storm door installed at our apartment. The manager first went fact-fishing to see if we were planning on renewing our rental agreement for another year. We were, so she said there should be no problem in us getting a storm door. She made a note, probably on a random sticky pad, and promptly forgot about it.

Around the time September rent was due, we got to thinking again about that promised storm door. It had not yet materialized, even though we signed another year-long rental contract in July. So after I made out the rent check, I attached to it a sticky note of my own, politely wondering where the heck our promised storm door was.

And then last Friday afternoon...a little over a week later...we came home to find that voila! We had a storm door! And a brand new one, too...not one with squeaky hinges like our neighbor had.

Our storm door is pretty much the coolest thing ever. (Well, that might be a slight exaggeration...but then again, possibly not...) Now that the humidity has learned to control itself, it's pleasant to be able to leave our door open and be refreshed by passing gentle breezes. Also, leaving our door open makes our itty bitty apartment feel much bigger. Or at least a little bigger. Yesterday evening we decided to leave the door open even though it was raining, mostly because we could. The rain smelled wonderful and the sound of it hitting the pavement as it fell from the low, grey sky and splashed off the gutters was loud and lulling. So, it's true...having a storm door is pretty much the coolest thing ever.

But speaking of rain... On Sunday afternoon we spotted a rather large spider web spun by a rather large spider that extended from the top of our neighbor's fence to the roof of the building. Not only was this spider large, but it was hairy and ugly, and its fat abdomen gave me the chills. It's not exactly the kind of arachnid you want moving in and setting up house next door. Our neighbor did not disturb the web, and it was still there Monday morning when we left for work and Monday afternoon when we got home. But I noticed on my way to the trash can last night after the storm had let up that the rain had washed out the web almost entirely. Immediately I started singing to myself the appropriate strains of "Itsy Bitsy Spider" while I thought, "Wow...what that song is teaching small children really is true!"

Unfortunately, our spider is undaunted. By the time we left for work this morning, he had rebuilt his web. It's been raining all day, but I'm sure that as soon as it lets up, he'll be back, spinning back the pieces of his washed out web. Blech...I wish he'd just give up already and move on. A pleasant neighbor does not a large, hairy spider make. Especially the kind that like to make house calls to the nearby residents.

Because I wasn't religiously keeping a journal 5 years ago, I guess maybe I should let my posterity (as well as all those of you who are not my posterity but who are here reading this blog) in on what September 11, 2001 was like for me.

I was at Ricks College in September 2001. Wait, actually, in September 2001 it was BYU-Idaho (somewhat confusing at times, that transition was). On Tuesday mornings at 9:00 I had a young adult literature class. I'd usually leave my apartment to walk up to class shortly after 8:30. Usually at that time in the morning, everything was still calm and quiet, and September 11th was no exception. But though it was still quiet outside, something felt different. I couldn't quite put my finger on it, but it might have had something to do with the fact that every living room window I passed had the same morning news channel blaring.

I arrived to class early and sat and read my book to kill time. Eventually more students started filing in, as well as did my teacher. Class started and my teacher started passing out copies of some article or other for us to read. It always amazed me to see her pass papers out to us because, you see, she was born with only one complete arm. Her right arm ended in a stubby little useless hand with pea-sized nubs for fingers at about where the elbow should have been. She finished passing out the articles and class was about to really begin when Ryan, the cute balding boy with the tiny glasses, came in late, apologized to us all, but asked if we could turn on the classroom TV because from what he gathered, some rather big news about the World Trade Center was being broadcast. My teacher, who like I said was amazing, agreed, but something wasn't hooked up right and we couldn't get any stations. So we all sat through class wondering what the heck Ryan had been talking about.

After class I walked over to the student center and joined about five thousand other students in front of the big screen TV outside the cafeteria. It was there that I watched the drama all unfold. I had time to kill until the 11:00 devotional, so I stayed for as long as I could stand it, which wasn't too long because I didn't have any Kleenex with me. I wandered away outside and noticed that the flag had been lowered to half-mast and I remember thinking that that seemed so appropriate and I was very glad that someone had thought to do that.

Because it was the first devotional of the year, President Bednar spoke. He acknowledged the sad events that were currently unfolding on the other side of the country by reading a statement from the First Presidency, and then he acknowledged the fact that, while it was indeed appropriate to mourn, we all needed to continue moving forward. And then he gave one of the best devotional talks I'd ever listened to. I walked away from the Hart Auditorium feeling much better than I did walking in.

It took time for me to fully realize the impact the events of that day would have on how I viewed the world. Part of this can be blamed on the fact that there was no TV in my apartment and I couldn't sit glued to CNN. (The same thing happened to me when Hurricane Katrina hit...because NPR was our only source of news at the time, Blake and I both didn't fully grasp the destruction it caused.) But I immediately understood that because of these events, things would somehow be different and frighteningly so. My roommate and I had several conversations in which we acknowledged to each other how fearful we were for the future. Well, I'm indeed pleased to say that, 5 years into that future, I'm not as scared as I was that September. Or maybe I am, only now I'm adjusted. Whichever it is, this is how things are now and the only thing we can do is keep moving forward.

So yesterday was a pivotal moment for me as a blogger: I reached 100 posts. But I was too busy talking about applesauce to notice. So today I will acknowledge the accomplishment by celebrating an even higher number -- 101.

101 is a pretty important number. Here are some things associated with the number 101:

1. Dalmations;
2. Those special "plus 1 centurions" who were born in 1899 and lived to see the year 2000;
3. Verb dictionaries;
4. Beginning college courses;
5. Scenic state roads;
6. And that's all I can think of...can you think of any more?

I think, too, that the number 101 is significant on a symbollic level as well (so bear with me for a few sentences). In a way it demonstrates the fact that my blog posts will still continue to be written -- they won't stop at the grandiose number 100, but will continue on to 101, 102, 103... And in a larger sense, it demonstrates that the world continues to turn and that life continues to roll forward. And maybe I'm stretching things here, but on a day like today -- September 11, 2006 -- this symbol of continuing on seems especially fitting and appropriate. Today our nation celebrates 5 years of continuously moving beyond and rising above an event that rocked us all. If September 11, 2001 was, in a symbollic sense, the number 100, then by now we've surely reached a number much higher.

Anyway, thanks to all of you who have been closely following my adventures -- you give me the motivation to keep writing. And thanks, too, to those of you who have just popped in by accident -- international visitors make things exciting. And thanks especially to those of you who have left comments -- you make me feel loved.

I'd like to give something back to my readers, and more specifically to my commenters. I've decided that since you've given much to me by reading, I should give something back to you by publicly acknowledging your comments. And so I will from here on out do my best to respond to all those of you who comment. (Goodness, I'm feeling generous for a cloudy-impending stormy-sleepy Monday!)

*This post brought to you by the number 101 and the good people who read this blog. Cheers!

Until yesterday I had a decent-sized collection of softening apples in the bottom drawer of my refrigerator. I didn’t want to throw them away because that would be wasteful, but I also didn’t want to eat them whole because of their growing mushiness. So I, apparently because I am becoming more and more domestic every day, did what any aspiring domestic goddess would do: I consulted Betty Crocker.

I think Ms. Crocker must have been a thoughtful genius because she included in her collection a recipe for applesauce that was incredibly easy. She told me that all I needed to do was combine all of the necessary ingredients and throw them in a crockpot, which is what I did.

Here is the recipe she so generously shared with me:

Applesauce

4 medium cooking apples, peeled and cut into fourths (I
used 3 medium and 4 small apples and it turned out fine)
¼ cup water
¼ cup packed brown sugar or 3 to 4 tablespoons granulated sugar
¼ teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/8 teaspoon ground nutmeg

Mix all ingredients in 3 ½ to 6-quart slow cooker. Cover and cook on high for 1 hour 30 minutes to 2 hours or until apples are tender. Stir.

I followed her simple instructions and after about 2 hours the apples were sufficiently soft, so I pulled out my handy electric mixer to mash them up, then stored them in the fridge to cool. And voila! This morning we had applesauce with breakfast and it was delicious!

So, what with the zucchini bread and chocolate zucchini cake last week, applesauce yesterday, and the homemade pizza I’ve put on the menu for dinner tonight, I’m becoming a regular Kitchen Queen! I feel so strangely powerful.

On another slightly related note, I’ve decided that, if it hasn’t been done already, someone needs to put together a cookbook based on ingredients. (And if it has been done already, why, I’d love to be told about it.) For example, I’ve got almost a whole quart of buttermilk of which I used only a ½ cup last week for the zucchini cake, and I don’t know what else I can do with it (besides buttermilk pancakes or buttermilk biscuits). It’d be nice to have a cookbook where I can look up the ingredients to find recipes to make based on items I’ve already got in my kitchen. Anyway, the buttermilk expires on Wednesday, so if any of you have any ideas of what I can do with it, feel free to share them.

I think Strongbad explained it nicely when he had this to say about garage sales:

“Lemme tell you a thing or two about garage sales: Ya ever get the feeling that
the people just got lazy taking the trash out, so they stopped right there on
the driveway and started putting price tags on things? I mean, isn’t it just a
little suspicious that there’s only a one-letter difference between “garage
sale” and “garbage sale”? Except, don’t ever say “garbahge” like that. That’s,
like, the only joke mom’s have and they can keep it for all I
care.”
—Strongbad email Garage Sale, www.homestarrunner.com

Today was a fine day for garage sales here in Indiana (or maybe I should say garbage sales). The sun has been out, it’s been a breezy 80ish degrees, and the corn and soybean fields have ripened to a golden yellow. The summer is ending, harvest time is approaching, and houses that have been filled with a lifetime of clutter are ready to be cleaned out. But what’s the fun in just taking out the trash when you can throw it all on your front lawn and sell it to people?

An interesting phenomena occurs in our favorite little town of Matthews, Indiana every September. It’s called the Covered Bridge Festival. Now, there’s really nothing too interesting about a festival celebrating a covered bridge because I’ve heard they happen frequently in these parts wherever a usable covered bridge happens to be still standing. But the Matthews Covered Bridge Festival tends to bring out a certain thrifty side of its small-town residents.

The road we take from Muncie to get to Matthews is called Wheeling Pike. It’s a narrow country road surrounded by corn and soybean fields with the occasional sprinkling of farmhouses. As we drove this morning to the Covered Bridge Festival, we passed an exorbitant amount of rummage sales (a.k.a. garage sales, for you westerners), and their number only increased the closer we got to Matthews. You see, the Covered Bridge Festival is the optimal time to pull out your clutter and stick it on the lawn, especially for those who are more economically minded, because heck – if you’re going to invite all of East Central Indiana to your covered bridge festival, you might as well try to unload your junk and make a little profit while you’re at it!

Almost every resident of Matthews has a rummage sale in their front yard on the Saturday of the Festival. The more eager folks actually rent tent space on the main drag, Massachusetts Street, to set up shop. Those who spend their day shopping and sifting among the rummage of others instead of manning their own sales like to drive around town on golf carts and 4-wheelers, slowing in front of the potentially better sales and speeding up past the dinky ones. (It’s amazing how fast a little golf cart can actually drive. And it’s even more amazing that so many inhabitants of a golf-course-less community own golf carts.) And then there are the few old men who hook up their tractors to make-shift flatbed wagons to give visitors tours of the rummage sales.

Blake and I stopped at a few of the larger sales on Massachusetts Street. At one booth we were given the opportunity to purchase a home dental kit, which consisted of the actual tools used by dentists all rubberbanded together in one convenient clump. In that same booth, we could have bought rusted drill bits and barbers shears as well. At another stop a few doors down, one particularly determined salesman tried to interest us in an antique sewing machine (circa 1916) that still worked and came the original and complete set of accessories. It was a pretty cool sewing machine, and if I had the space to keep it and 125ドル to readily dole out, I might have bought it. As it is, though, we only came away from the booths with six little gourds that cost a dollar altogether. (They are now sitting nicely on our bookshelf, heralding in the autumn.)

I learned a few things today at the rummage sales. First, and probably foremost, I learned that I am not a good rummage saler. The closer I inspect another man’s treasure, the more I question its history, which is probably very likely quite disgusting. I also learned, and rather quickly, that shopping at rummage sales wears me out. Oh well. It’s not like I need someone else’s clutter living in my house.

I've not had too many successful attempts at sewing in my life. For example, that skirt I was making for my brother's wedding earlier this summer...still not finished. The body of the skirt is all assembled, but I got stuck at the part where I'm supposed to attach the waistband to the body (every way I try looks backwards). And let's not even start talking about the overwhelming feelings of anxiousness I have when I think about attaching the zipper. (And it doesn't help that everyone I ask for help openly admits that zippers -- or sewing in general -- is their one downfall.)

But I am undeterred! Me and my mad sewing skills will prevail and conquer! -- They will, that is, once I develop them to a recognizable level. And sew (get it -- sew..so..ha!) I'm practicing. Again.

I have a box on the floor of my bathroom closet which is full of flawed clothing. Every article in there either doesn't fit because it's too tight or too stretched out, has a hole in it, or has bleach stain spots on it (blast those laundry accidents!). And some of the clothes are just, well...old, and my good fashion sense won't be caught dead wearing worn, out-dated clothing. This collection has been growing for many months now and is getting to be pretty good-sized. So what do you get when a desire to practice sewing and a large box of old clothes collide? I'll tell you what...Free Fabric!

I hate to see perfectly good (or mostly good, anyway) fabric go to waste. Not that donating to the Goodwill is a waste. But I want to practice sewing. So I've pulled out my old cutting mat and used a 40% off coupon to invest in a rotary cutter and for the last few nights I've been cutting 6-inch squares out these old clothes. And now I have a growing stack of perfectly usable fabric waiting to be introduced to the sewing machine. I'm thinking that I might be able to turn these squares, along with some matching supplemental (and discounted) fabric into a practice patchwork quilt. You know...to prep me for the real one I'm also scheming to make.

Sew (again...ha!) we'll see how it goes. Or at least how long it lasts. Of course, a real incentive to master quilt-making are these blasted cold winters Indiana gets. You know...I'm really not looking forward to another winter here. Autumn is already threatening and before you know it the chilly misty fogs we wake up to in the mornings now will turn into frosts which will then turn into snow, and then we'll be spending our time all cold and huddled in our apartment as we sit and watch ice form on the insides of the windows. That's why I need to learn how to make quilts. So at least I can watch the ice crystals form from inside of a warm, homemade blanket.

I work with a girl who is a relatively recent transplant from Thailand. She works in our office as an economic research analyst and is really quite intelligent. English, however, sometimes throws her through a loop (as well it should, crazy language!).

A little bit ago, she asked Rose and Lisa if there was a word in English like annual or biennial that meant “every five years.” Neither Rose or Lisa could come up with anything, so she turned to me:

“English Major,” she called me. Even though I wasn’t a technical English major, I sometimes think I might as well have been. At least, I’ve somehow gained the reputation here at work of being the One Who Understands The Finer Intricacies of English Language and Grammar. “Do you know of a word that means ‘every five years,’ like annual?”

“Ummmm,” I stalled. “There probably is…and if there isn’t, I can probably slap something together for you.”

I immediately thought of how quintuplets make headlines because it’s amazingly freaky that there could be five babies at once. So I started to mentally cut and paste: was there such a word as quintennial?

I consulted the dictionary. L-M-N-O-P—Q. And suddenly there it was: quinquennial. Occurring every five years.

So now you know. And I know. And my Thai co-worker knows. And the next time one of us needs to explain to someone of our love of visiting the Giant Shoe Museum every five years, we can tell them that it’s a quinquennial tradition.

Unless, of course, we only go every fifteen years, in which case it is a quindecennial tradition.

A: You crack it up.

Ha ha ha! Get it? You crack it up? ...Okay, I'm done now.

For one semester when we were still single, Blake and I were in the same Family Home Evening group. One activity early in the semester that was sponsored by my roommates and I consisted of writing our own Laffy Taffy jokes.

It was Heather's idea; she was very excited about it, and her excitement was really quite contagious. If I recall correctly, she had long wanted to write a joke of her own and ultimately see it in print on a Laffy Taffy wrapper.

In case you've never tried it, writing a Laffy Taffy joke is no easy task, as stupid as many of them are. Maybe they're difficult to write because the goal is to rise above the lameness, thus creating a real challenge. I don't know, but on that Monday night we all struggled. The creative, silly juices just weren't flowing.

Recently Blake and I inherited a small sum of Laffy Taffy candies. The unwritten rule when either of us eats one is that we must share the jokes on the wrappers, even if they're awful. The other day at lunch, I read Blake the following joke:

He thought about it for a while and then replied, "What are you obtuse?"

This was not the answer provided by Michael S. of Jackson, MS*, but it was indeed quite clever. Do you get it? "What are you obtuse?" Up to -- obtuse -- get it? Ha! Ha! ...Well, I thought it was pretty good, anyway.

But do you realize what this means? It means that the creative, silly juices have finally started to flow! We are one step closer to fulfilling Heather's dream of Laffy Taffy joke publication. Does anyone know where to submit a Laffy Taffy joke?

If you need a bit of silly spice to help you through your day, here are a few other Laffy Taffy jokes for you to enjoy:



*Michael's answer was "Let's get together and square dance." But just between you and me, I thought Blake's was better.

So, I mentioned briefly yesterday that come graduation next spring I will no longer be the wife of a graduate student, but rather, if things work out as we are hoping they will, I will be the wife of a career-holding analyst or consultant.

There is too much to explain to start at the beginning, and if I started at the end, I think you’d all be confused. So I’m going to plant myself in some nice middle ground and try to bloom from there.

Blake, as many of you are aware, is currently pursuing a masters degree in cognitive psychology and up until recently, he has been determined to continue his education as non-stop as possible through to a Ph.D. in cognitive science (an area of study which combines psychology with philosophy, his one true favorite subject).

Over the summer, however, he developed an interest in foregoing the immediate Ph.D in favor of beginning a career upon his graduation from Ball State. (Which isn’t to say, it should here be noted, that he’s considering abandonment of a doctorate altogether, but rather a postponement.) He was thinking of something along the lines of a career as an analyst, either in a political or a business setting. A career upon receipt of his master’s degree was incredibly appealing. One, it was a job – with an income; and two, it would mean more open career doors for him for him to pursue. Acquiring a doctorate immediately would limit Blake’s options considerably, and we didn’t want that. But he also didn’t want to put all of his eggs in one basket, and so decided to apply both to Ph.D programs as well as jobs.

It didn’t take too long, though, to realize that trying to pursue both would stretch him (well, actually both of us) too thin. Pursuing a career and pursuing a doctorate are both incredibly time-consuming, not to mention when these are added to an already busy masters student research-filled schedule. It began to seem risky to try for both half-heartedly as opposed to just one whole-heartedly.

And so we needed to pick one. Which was really hard to do, and which consumed the whole of our Fast Sunday this last weekend. I mean, how do you pick between too very good choices? Answer: You think about it a lot and you fast and pray about it. And so we did. And we received an answer. And now Blake’s working to polish up and reformat his resume and research jobs both with management consulting companies as well as with the government.

And how does this all feel? Well, I’ll tell you that whoa nelly—this is scary! But it’s also very exciting…a new adventure. And we here at Adventures With Lindsay are always in the market for a new thrill (or something like that). It’s nice, though, to know. It’s nice to be decided. As adventurous as it is, it’s also comfortingly settling.

So stay tuned…maybe in a few months we’ll know where this next adventure will take us.

A Little Zucchini Goes a Long Way
It is zucchini season and after passing them up several times in the produce section, last week I bought three small zucchinis. I bought them with the intention to make zucchini bread – something I have been craving since, well, last fall. Blake was craving chocolate zucchini cake. And so with our three zucchinis and a free Monday, I baked. Turns out that three relatively little zucchinis go a long, long way. We now have two loaves of zucchini bread and half of a chocolate zucchini cake (we were able to shove the other half down the throats of some friends last night over a very long game of Uno).

Someday, if I become the sort of housewife who plants zucchini in my garden, I will only plant one, maybe two starters. My love for zucchini can only extend so far, after all.

Our Microwave Sold Its Soul To the Devil
Or else it is suffering from a minor electrical short. Sometimes it decides to start on its own. And sometimes, after many hours of empty non-use, it will tell me that whatever was cooking inside is done now. And sometimes, to really liven things up, it likes to pretend it is a fire alarm.

Our microwave was free (lovingly donated to our newlywed cause by my parents who got a better one), and it generally works great. At least, it heats food up just fine, which is all I can really ask for. But we’re thinking maybe that now we’ve replaced the glued together pile of plastic posing as a working vacuum to get a real working vacuum, we might have to start saving for a new microwave. Unless, of course, the devil is willing to sell it back to us.

How to Buy a 100ドル Cordless Phone for 23ドル.28
Go to Circuit City. Decide you want the super-hi-tech Motorola phone that’s on clearance. Ask an eager employee if there are any more in the back because you can’t find any on the floor. Wait for him to tell you they’re out. Ask him to sell you the display model for a discount. Wait for him to say yes. Buy it. Quick. And then maybe do a jig.

This phone is pretty much the coolest phone I’ve ever used. And learning how to operate it seems to be good practice for the day when we become cell phone users.

Shoe Organizers Are a Good Investment
Like most people, we own shoes. And it was painfully obvious that we did because our separate piles of them were more often than not spilling menacingly past their defined closet boundaries. And so yesterday we bought shoe organizers. They’re the kind that hang from the closet rod; we each have our own. They work great, so long as we both keep our shoe collection within 10 pairs. But it’s nice to be able to see our closet floor again.

The Ball Brothers Lived in Large Houses
Because we’re nice people, we thought we’d tour a bit of Muncie and share it with you. Yesterday, with digital camera in hand, we walked the grounds of Minnetrista, the property on which the five Ball brothers settled and built their respective mansions.You can see the pictures on our photo page here. Before we leave Muncie, we’d like to fork over the hefty admission price to tour the inside of the homes. Maybe at Christmas…I’ve heard it’s pretty neat at Christmastime. If they let us take pictures then, we’ll be sure to share them with you. (Because after all, we’re nice like that.)

But really…who knew their could be such a fortune in canning jars?

Life Altering Decisions Really Are Easier to Make on Fast Sundays
Come graduation this spring, I will no longer be the wife of a graduate student. Instead, if all goes according to the current plan, I will be the wife of a career-holding analyst or consultant.

This deserves its own post, and I’ll probably write more about it later this week.

Now how’s that for an educating 3-day weekend!

In our time together, Blake and I have been the guardians of four betta fish: Louis, Maurice, Edmund, and Friedrich. Each of them came pre-packaged with their own unique personalities. Maybe because I never had dogs or cats growing up and never saw first-hand the wonders of pet personalities, or maybe because 'til now I just hadn't used my gift of common sense in this regard, but until I started caring for fish, I didn't realize that animals actually had personalities. Anyway, let me introduce you to the distinct dispositions of our four betta fish.

Louis
Louis entered into my life before I even met Blake. He was purchased by my roommates to replace our dead goldfish, Rover 1, in the summer of 2003. (I feel the need to insert here that Rover 1 got one heck of a swell funeral, complete with a reading of the 23rd Psalm, a procession up the stairs, and ceremonious flushing; my roommate, Linda, put a paper headstone on the underside of the toilet seat to remember him by.) Anyway, though...back to Louis. He was named for the Disney TV character, Louis Stevens, of Even Stevens fame. This was, by far, my roommate's favorite show. They were dedicated viewers and demonstrated that they were by naming the lovely blue-green betta fish after him.

When we all moved on to different apartments at the end of the summer, Louis went with me (he was, after all, living in my fish bowl). Once I moved across town, his personality started becoming more apparent. In fact, he started doing tricks, my favorite of which was his trick to play dead. He'd do so by floating ever-so-still in an odd vertical position (nose down among the rocks, tail hanging limply to one side). The first few times he did this, I'd shake the bowl, fearing the worst, but after a few good shakes, he'd come to. On one occasion, a roommate or visitor (I can't remember which) noticed him playing dead and said to me, "Uh, I think your fish is dead," to which I replied, "No, he's just pretending."

One day in February 2005, Louis stopped pretending. He lived a long life, which was as fulfilling as a life within a small fish bowl can be. And though we loved him, we had no graveside services.

Maurice
Maurice was the first betta fish Blake and I purchased together. We bought him in February 2005, to fill the void Louis left. He was a beautiful red fish, and Blake named him for his favorite philosopher of the time, Maurice Merleau-Ponty, thus beginning a tradition that has continued since of naming our fish after philosophers. As pretty as he was, though, Maurice was kind of pathetic. He died after only one week. We gave up on betta fish for a while after that.

Ed
Ed's entrance into our lives marked the happy occasion of me finally finding a job. For a couple months before we bought him, Blake would beg (and plead, and beg some more) for a betta fish. It got to be dangerous to take him with me to Walmart because walking past the fish aisle would make him start to whimper. But I told him that as soon as I was able to find a job, we could get a fish. And so, in September 2005, on the very day I was offered my current job, we went to Petsmart and bought a fish. Like Louis, Ed was a beautiful blue-green betta. In continuing with the new tradition, Blake named him Edmund Fish, in honor of philosopher Edmund Husserl. We called him Ed for short. Blake took this fish under his wing, always making sure he was fed and his bowl was clean, heralding the new and very happy tradition of Blake's responsibility to clean the fish bowl.

We noticed Ed's personality from the start. He was an extremely narcissistic fish, always playing with and admiring his beautiful reflection. He was not, like many bettas are, an angry fish who desires to fight his own reflection, and we very rarely saw him flare up. He was also a slow, uninterested eater, which made dinnertime a little disappointing. As he got older, he grew less self-loving and took instead to sleeping buried underneath the rocks at the bottom of the bowl.

Ed died, I'm assuming of natural causes, in July 2006. We were sad...he'd become a member of the household and it was surprisingly difficult to let him go. We buried him in the edge of the lawn, near some bushes. His grave is unmarked.

Friedrich
Friedrich is our newest fish. We bought him, I think, the same day Ed died (Blake was adamant and quite possibly a little fish-lonely). Friedrich is a lovely deep red betta fish, much like Maurice was, only so far Friedrich is still alive. Again, Blake named this fish. His full name is Friedrich Uberfish Anderspawn, after Friedrich Nietzsche and his Uberman theory.

Friedrich is a spunky, playful fish. He is quite different from Ed. For one, he anxiously looks forward to mealtime, and he attacks his food whenever we feed him. He likes to stare at us from his spot on the shelf while we eat breakfast as if to ask, "Hey, no fair...you're eating...why can't I?" And then he'll swish his fins like a puppy happily wagging his tail. It works every time. He eats loads more than Ed ever did and if we're not careful, he'll end up getting fat.

So that's it for the fish we've had so far. Blake, though, likes to spend his free time thinking about names for future fish. For the next male betta, he'll want to name him Ludwig ("because you can cover so many people with just one name...Beethoven, Wittgenstein...everyone else."), and he's decided that if we ever get a female betta, he'll name her Ayn Rand-erson (haha! I think this one is hilarious). Blake's thesis advisor wondered once when Blake would start naming his fish after psychologists instead of philosophers, but you see, the thing about Blake is that he's a philosopher, no matter what his master's degree is in. Anyway, Friedrich's keeping us happily occupied at the present, so I don't expect we'll be announcing a new fish anytime soon, but we'll keep you posted. Until then, so long and thanks for all the fish!

***
Okay, so I know that this post is already miles long, but I just wanted to say for the three of you who may be interested in knowing, that our car is back from the doctor's -- I mean, the repair shop. We picked it up yesterday afternoon and things so far seem to be running fine (as Blake said this morning when the car started without stalling: "It started so normally...I didn't even know anything was wrong!"). Turns out, the problem wasn't the o2 sensor...back when the o2 sensor was broken, it caused other surrounding parts to be improperly overworked causing the area to get very dirty. He cleaned it well, and now things are better. I guess it just goes to show that it's a good idea to regularly bathe...or something to that effect. But if it ever does start acting up again, we might follow the advice of Blake's thesis advisor and call up Car Talk. That could be entertaining.