Not as complete a post as I would wish

My duck spree continues, though I figured it was high time to update this blog--just to keep in practice.
Since you last heard from me the boyfriend came to visit, my sister and her roommate got back from college, I got a speeding ticket, and finished Christmas shopping.

Everyday, pleasant things... except for the ticket. It was coming back from Pittsburgh after picking my sister and her roommate up at the airport. There's a section of I-79 that goes down to 55mph for no particular reason, and I wasn't paying attention, and passed a cop while going 70 mph. So he nabbed me. I was polite and I've never been pulled over before, but he was cranky and unimpressed and still gave me a ticket for $110 and told me to be grateful he didn't double it because of the work zone I was approaching that was still a half-mile ahead.
Rawr.
I was annoyed, obviously, but dutifully paid my fine. Then last night I realized I had two letters, dated one day apart, warning me about suspending my license for failing to pay fines. Apparently I still owed the state 0.50. The cop, might I point out, had horrible handwriting, and added up the numbers incorrectly, so they were all a scratched-out black spot on the paper. I wrote my check by remembering the total he'd given me when he snagged me.
So given that the price of an average piece of paper, printed, is 0.15, an envelope, printed, is about 0.13. Now, granted, they probably didn't have to pay postage because it's a government thing, but it's still costing money somewhere. We'll pretend it's not though.
They sent me:
3 papers (two white, one orange)--0.45
2 legal envelopes----0.26
Total: 0.71

So basically, I'm fifty cents poorer, and they're twenty-one cents in the hole because they insisted on taking my fifty cents.

I did, however, include this note with my check for 0.50:

I feel some small sense of victory because of this note. Dad got all angsty, though, about the Feds coming for me. I don't think telling somebody to buy two gumballs constitutes anything like a real threat, though. I mean, what could I have followed it up with? "I hope you chew them until your jaw hurts"?

I had more to write about that wasn't as full of complaints, but it's late and I have work tomorrow, so you will have to wait. You could also read my most recent Duckling Saga update to pass time if you wish: Pascal's Duckling Bildungsroman

I will end with a song to cheer you up. Kate Rusby is one of my all-time favourite artists, and Priscilla, my friend who introduced me to the joys of Ms. Rusby, sent me this today. Make sure to read the lyrics.

Winter comes around,
And he knows he is homeward bound,
His heartbeat is the only sound he's known,

He once lost his way,
He knows now that was yesterday,
He fell down on his knees to pray for home.

We'll sing to the morning,
We'll sing till the bells they sound,
We'll sing till the wandering soul is found.

We'll sing to the morning,
We'll sing till the bells they sound,
We'll sing till the wandering soul is found.

He's found his way at last,
With each turn a new bond was cast,
His friends now hold him steady fast and true.

With peace in his eyes,
The fear now is a pain in the skies,
With friends near he sees only skies of blue

We'll sing to the morning,
We'll sing till the bells they sound,
We'll sing till the wandering soul is found.

We'll sing to the morning,
We'll sing till the bells they sound,
We'll sing till the wandering soul is found.

It's clearer every day,
He knows now he is here to stay,
He cares not why he went away so long.

He's found where he belongs,
He know he's been here all along,
He is smiling as he joins his friends in song.

We'll sing to the morning,
We'll sing till the bells they sound,
We'll sing till the wandering soul is found.

We'll sing to the morning,
We'll sing till the bells they sound,
We'll sing now the wandering soul is found.

On a Duck Spree, Will Return Shortly.

"Hey, you guys; I have a lot of opinions about things!"

Dear Abby...

Back in the day tons of people used to ask me for relationship advice.

Then I acquired a boyfriend and they all stopped. I had enough distracting me that it took me a while to realize nobody wanted me. Once I figured it out I assumed they were under-impressed with the way I handled my own relationship, which was not an unreasonable opinion for them to hold at the time. Recently, though, I realized it was probably more because almost to a man (or woman), they were engaged or married by that time. My work was done, I suppose.
At any rate, my relationship counseling services have been mostly in disuse for the past two years. I've noticed a slight resurgence recently, but I had a jem of a counseling experience today.
I was up far too late (early?) last night and didn't get to bed until 3am. I was woken at 6:35am by a text message from an unknown number that said, cryptically, "Hey." Seeing as I'd only been asleep for three and a half hours I ignored it and went back to bed.
When I woke several hours later I answered it and said "Sorry, who is this?" and signed it "Abby."
I didn't hear anything until I got off work around 4pm when I checked my phone and saw I had a text from the same number. The text informed me that the texter's name was Courtney and she was under the impression that I was Chad.
I am not Chad, and told her so.
She apologized, I graciously told her it was no problem, and left it at that.
A moment later I heard the sound of the Tardis materializing in Mom's office.

http://www.moviesoundclips.net/tv1/drwho/tardis.wav

Yes, this is actually my text alert sound. 

I had another text from the strange number. "How old are yu jw lol" it said.

"Courtney," right...

I attempted to be very nonchalant and said "22." I have no problem telling random people my age and am so worldly-wise that I knew that if my texter next asked for my credit card number, I should probably be suspicious. Instead, this is the reply I received: 

"Ok," she said. "this may seem weird but I just want to get a girl's opinion from someone I don't know. Can I ask you a relationship question? If not that's okay," she hurried to add, "I totally understand."

There was no way I was letting this one escape me. 

"Sure," I said. "Fire away."

She proceeded to tell me a fairly normal story. Boy dates girl for year, she likes him, he's been hanging out with another girl. She wants to know if she should be worried that he's cheating on her.

I told her I didn't think her boyfriend was necessarily cheating on her, or intending to give that impression, but the more time he spends with another girl the more likely at least one of them is going to end up liking the other. "Courtney" was perfectly justified in feeling uneasy, and should tell her boyfriend how she feels. If nothing's going on and he loves her, he'll understand and cut back/out contact with random other floozy. If not, "Courtney" has her answer. 

Courtney responded that she didn't want him to think she doesn't trust him, she's just worried because he's seemed more distant from her recently. That is what's really bothering her about the situation. 

That is indeed cause for concern, I said. I suggested (again) that she sit him down and tell him how she feels about it--that she feels as if he trusts and cares about this other girl more than his own girlfriend because of the time he's been putting into that other relationship, and that upsets her. "Men suck at picking up on these things," I added, usefully. Heaven only knows how many times this wisdom has been uttered by people better and wiser than me. Yet it continually needs to be said. 

"Okay, thanks, girl," she said, including a smiley face to let me know she really was grateful. Then added as an afterthought, "you should be a therapist." 

I thanked her, she apologized again for the randomness, and I told her not to worry about it--it made my day a bit more surreal, and therefore improved it considerably. 

Thus ends my recounting of my correspondence with Courtney. Good luck to her, and I hope her boyfriend's not a jerk. 

Recently discovered song that is awesome.

Girding up my loins, here.

For all three of you who read this blog but aren't friends with me on Facebook or real life, I'm actually attempting NaNoWriMo. In case you didn't know, that stands for National Novel Writing Month. If you're interested in doing it yourself, go here--> http://www.nanowrimo.org/
Basically the challenge is to write a 50,000 word novel in the month of November.
Unless you're brilliant, nobody's expecting you to have an actually good novel by the end of it. Writing that much in thirty days mostly precludes the possibility that it will be "good." Unless, as stated before, you're brilliant.
What the point actually is, is that normal people who want to write sit their butts down for a month and just get words on paper. At the end of the month hopefully you have something that needs serious editing and plot-hole-mending, but something that has promise that it could be Actually Good and Worth Reading.

I'm putting mine online so maybe some people will actually read it and I'll feel guilty and embarrassed if I don't keep up with it.

http://fearlestifail.blogspot.com/

I'm going to aim for 1,000 words a day. I realize this doesn't actually come out to 50,000 words by the end of the month, but I prefer to make resolutions I might actually have the possibility of keeping.
Today I wrote about 120 words more than the 1,000/day goal, so I'm going to be pleased with myself and go watch Scrubs or something now.

Wherein I mention Canadians and try not to make Canadian jokes

Work today was not lucrative for me.
Business was slow, and I got all the Canadians at my tables. I did get one denizen from Erie who hung out for an hour and a half, sent me on random trips for bread, asked for free bleu cheese crumbles on her salad that doesn't come with bleu cheese, and gave me a $2.38 tip, thereby making even the Canadians seem generous. We did have a nice chat, though.
Actually, in the Canadians' defense, servers in Canada make minimum wage, so many Canadians probably do not realize gratuity isn't included in the check in America, and therefore tip only according to the norm in Canada.

The only thing everybody agrees is cool about Canada. 

The story that makes today semi-worthwhile, though, is a monetary interaction I had with one gentleman from Canada.
This man had a very sweet daughter who seemed slightly embarrassed by her father's lack of gentility throughout the meal and made sure to thank me excessively for things and tell me her meal was very good.
Anyway, I'd given the man his check and went to pick it up while his daughter was in the restroom. He'd given me two twenty dollar bills and, as I realized when I got to the computer, a Canadian dime. Figuring he just hadn't noticed, I went back to the table.

"Excuse me," I said. "I'm sorry; this is a Canadian dime."

The man stared at me for a minute.

"You mean you don't take them?" he said.

"Uh. No," I said, thinking he was joking around--the first sign of good humour I'd yet seen in him.

"What; you don't take Canadian money here?" he asked.

"No," I said. "This isn't Canada."

"Well, I realize that!" he said, and made an exasperated noise. "I've seen Canadian money all over the place here!"

"Probably because the people didn't notice it was Canadian when they took it," I said.

He fished around in his pockets and came up with a quarter. "I hope this is enough." He handed it to me.

"Thanks," I said, and went back to the computer. I returned with his change. He took it without grace and then commented, "the Canadian dollar is worth more than yours, I hope you realize."

"Yes, sir," I said, and left him to deal with himself for the rest of his life.

Inclusion necessary.

For some reason this moment matters

I stood by the restaurant door, leaning against the greeter's desk, and dreamily staring past the decorative retro kitsch and into the recesses of my mind.

The door banged into itself gently, sucked against its frame by a pressure change in the entryway outside. I straightened up and waited for the door to open. It was flung wide to admit an old man on crutches. He handled them well and shifted through the door before it had a chance to close and bang into his heels. 

"Hello!" I said. 

"What's the special today?" he said, smiling and approaching the desk. 

"Soup, booze, or food?" I asked. 

"Hm, food. Prime rib. I've had that before. I think that's what I'll have," he said.

I picked up a menu and specials board, intending to show him to one of my tables down the hall in the larger, main room.

"Got anything handicap accessible?" he asked. "Can I have one of these?" He indicated a booth under a window to my right. 

"Certainly," I said, and led him there. 

Meanwhile another server saw that I'd sat the guest and went to find Megan, whose section our patron had chosen. 

My guest began to talk--of food, family, politics, money, jobs, his daughters, Japan. I watched and listened. His cap said Air Force, his manner hinted at WWII veteran, and I knew he was lonely. He looked me in the eyes, appreciated my company, and didn't patronize me; he didn't tell me that he was there "for a pretty face," and he asked me for directions.

I learned that his wife died last year, his daughters live in Seattle and had just been up to visit him. From what I gathered, they'd just left earlier that day after seeing him through an appointment at UPMC. 

There was finally a lull in the conversation and I invited Megan over--she'd been hanging out by the greeter's desk, waiting for us to be done. She was peeved, but I couldn't have abandoned the man, and Megan could have come and joined us quite easily. I wished the man had been at one of my tables.

A while later I saw he was finishing up and had a bag with two take-home boxes in it. Given the crutches I knew he'd have some difficulty carrying the bag out. It would not be an insurmountable problem, but not particularly easy, either. I was overcome by uncertainty and pity. Have you ever felt like you absolutely must do something--everything is driving you to do it, and it's a good thing--but you're not sure it's appropriate, given your circumstances? That was me, wandering through the dining rooms and kitchen, wringing my hands and dogging my manager's steps. Finally I pulled myself together and asked my manager if I could carry the bag out for the old man--not knowing the policy on employees leaving the restaurant while on their shift. Doug is a very comfortable sort of manager--cheerful and encouraging, laid-back and honest. He is easy to approach.

"Oh, yeah, of course. Definitely do that," he said.

So I did. I walked with my Air Force vet out to his truck, gave him directions, and wished him good day. I watched him drive away, and then walked back into the restaurant. 

Merry October, Justin!

Somehow or other yesterday I discovered that Justin Bieber has a new song.
This wasn't really surprising in and of itself. But I enjoy Justin Bieber for his smooth, girly voice, catchy tunes, and brain-numbingly pleasant overall atmosphere that sometimes also includes wicked awesome fun dances.

Case in point. Just ignore the fact a 25 year old woman felt up his 16-year old self 

in the beginning and it's supposed to be sexy.

I recognize that most of the pleasure I derive from Justin Bieber music is completely guilty. I think I've got some evidence on my side with the dancing thing, but other than that, I apologize for existing. 

Key of Awesome will show me no mercy.

To return to the point, though, Justin Bieber has a new song. I listened to it, and several things occurred to me.

Nice haircut, P.S.

Firstly, this is a Christmas song and it came out on October 18th. I mean, yeah, we always get a freakishly early start on celebrating holidays, but that's for holidays like Valentines and Easter. They come around when we're sick of snow and not having any holidays, so we need more excuses to go buy consumables from the comfort food group and eat them for extended periods of time. 

We've still got Halloween and Thanksgiving between Bieber and Christmas, here, though.

Secondly, this song sounds like something off of my Jason Mraz/Colbie Callait/hipster/ukelele Pandora station. Usher isn't even rapping sweetly in the snowy trees. I like the sound, but it makes the fact Justin's still referring to Selena Gomez (I presume that's her, but don't know) as "Shawty" that much funnier. For the record, I wish I had a "Shawty" so I could call her that. As terms of endearment go, it's one I would adopt both because I am very white, and also because I don't remember where I was going with this. 

Thirdly, ignoring the usual trite "screw the world and normal, healthy social interactions, I've got a Shawty!" message, the video itself bothers me. It's the girl who seems to be guilting Justin into a withdrawl from the world. Granted, he gets to make out with her because of it, and far be it from me to disparage that, but still; he appears to kind of also want to hang with his folks and play in the snow. 

Through the entire video, if Justin's not paying complete attention to her, Shawty looks like she just dropped her soy latte and it's ruined her world. He's not playing in the winter snow, chillin' with his folks, or makin' a list because she'll cry if he does. My main question is why she can't do any of those things with him. Everybody could be happy!

Check out the scene at the outdoor cafe when the blonde comes up to chat with Justin. Granted, the whispering in the ear is a little unsettling for somebody with anything like a jealous disposition (not necessarily the creepy kind of jealous, though that would make it worse), but otherwise it looked like a pretty platonic meeting of old friends. And there's Shawty sulking over her latte, playing the victim, and refusing to join in. 

Blonde shows up a couple more times, but by the end you realize she's just a good-natured girl with another attractive boyfriend who happens to come across as a bit of a flirt with other guys because she's semi-clueless. There is no malicious intent, Shawty, we promise. In fact, your boyfriend has spent the entire 3 minutes and 11 seconds singing about how he wants to chill with you instead of doing anything vaguely related to Christmas with anybody else.

On the other hand, snow at night is perfectly beautiful in that really heart-wrenching way that makes me emo and needy, too. So maybe I shouldn't be so hard on her.

Equine Adventures

I had this past Saturday and Sunday off work and it was glorious weather, so I ended up driving four hours Friday night after work to go back to Marmon Valley for the weekend to work as a trail guide.
It was the best decision I could have made.

I rode through beautiful forest-paths with great friends, like Kate and her Malachi-pony.

And earned money doing it for public riders.

I got to see and ride my Rusty-pony.

 

He got his winter coat while I was gone and I barely recognized him.

This is what I'm used to his colouration being.

We love each other.

As a matter of fact, Saturday morning I walked into the stables where all the horses were milling around and a dark, hairy little guy came up to me and started rubbing his face on me and chewing on my clothes. It took me a moment to realize it was Rusty. He knows me better than I know him!

For those of you who are not horse people, this is all very boring, I know. I'll move on in a moment.

The only negative to my glorious weekend is that, as my brother warned, "feeding an addiction only makes it worse."

This is true.
And as wisdom for those of you with pony-crazed little girls and postage-stamp-sized backyards: the horse-craze might go away, but it might not. If it doesn't go away when they start wanting to paint their nails and get noticed by boys, then it probably never will go away. It'll actually just get worse. Even as they're getting out of training bras, when presented with the choice, a horse will probably hold their interest more than Orlando Bloom will.

Unless it's Orlando Bloom and a horse.

I speak from personal experience, here.

Regarding other things I want in life, I've decided that my goal for myself is to submit one thing to either a magazine, newspaper, blog, or online once a week. It has to be somewhere that somebody else has to accept it for it to be published, so this post doesn't count. 

I have little control over whether or not anything will be accepted, but if I get into the habit of submitting things regularly, that puts me in the habit of writing things regularly and eventually it might pay off. 

Posting here is good practice, but submitting things elsewhere is still a daunting task. 

Here goes.

Guidelines More Than Actual Rules.

I realized I hadn't updated this in a while... or been particularly productive, writing-wise.

I have kept fairly busy, though. Training at work continues slowly and somewhat painfully. I've had two trainers for serving thus far. One of them I meshed very well with--her style of training is exactly what I need. She's laid-back and encouraging, but tells me when I've messed something up. More in a coincidental "oh, for future reference..." kind of way, though. Not a "the world will come crashing down and you'll be fired if you ever greet another table with 'how are you guys doing today?'" kind of way.
Also, she chucked me out and made me take over and wait tables basically by myself (she was usually there if I needed something, but didn't jump in unless I asked for help--sometimes she let me handle them without her there, though). This meant I was forced to self-correct and make mistakes, but realize them, fix them quickly, and develop a rapport with the customers.

Not exactly this kind of rapport, but it looks like fun.

Unfortunately, though, I only trained two days with her. The other lady training me is just as experienced as the first (perhaps more, I can't remember), and knows exactly how everything works. The problem is she has no imagination at all. She's been told the basic "company" way of doing things and can't comprehend that any other way might achieve the exact same results and perhaps even work better. A lot of times companies put out "company policies" of how to deal with certain situations, but they're more guidelines than actual rules. She doesn't see it that way, though. If she's a Christian, she's probably goes to a church that abides by the Regulative Principle (if the Bible doesn't specifically name something and say it's okay, then it's not). It's sort of a "better safe than sorry" approach. I think that sounds good in one way--wanting to obey. But it also doesn't allow for much power to grace.

Who else just read "more of a guideline than an actual rule" in Barbossa's voice?

I've dissected it and my main problem with her teaching style (besides making me want to cry any time I'm working a shift with her) is that she refuses to allow me to make any mistakes on my own. By which I mean, obviously I make mistakes, but she won't let me fix them myself, and straight-up told me that I was not allowed to ever go to a table without her because I don't know all the answers and it is unacceptable for me to tell the customer "I don't know, let me find out."

This is stupid for a variety of reasons:

Firstly, even she doesn't know all the answers. For instance, sometimes somebody wants something prepared specially, and she has to go ask the chef if he can do that, because she doesn't know.
Secondly, a customer would prefer you to say "I don't know, let me find out" than tell them something incorrect because you didn't have the guts to tell the customer you don't know everything ever.

"Oh, yes, I'm sure we can do a side of Gaejang-guk with your fillet mignon; today is bring-your-new-puppy-to-work day at the American Grille."

Inside, a part of that waitress just died with dread, imagining how disappointed that guy on the right is going to be when he doesn't get his ki-balancing dog-stew.

Thirdly, this is possibly the crappiest advice you could ever give someone for life. It's a sure-fire way to create  a cowardly control-freak living in an attic eating nothing but bread and potatoes because it's pointless to try something else unless you know you'll succeed.

Unless your potatoes can look like this, first try, it's ridiculous to make the attempt. 

And believe me, I have my share of the cowardly control-freak myself, fighting its way to supremacy in my life. It sucks.

Anyhow, she knows a lot and is willing to take time to train me, so I'm thankful for that. Newbs can be pretty annoying, so kudos to her.

Sigh.

Wherein I Discuss Fashion and Culture

I was in the midst of the premier episode of Glee's 3rd season when Hulu interrupted my regularly scheduled program to bring me an Old Navy commercial.

Now, for some time I'd mentally associated Old Navy with sometimes quasi-cute and also clever commercials, but it turns out I was probably mixing them up with Gap--attributing their 1998 Khaki Swing video to Old Navy. (Can you tell I don't watch much TV?)

If models do it, we probably should, too. Right?

This video was instrumental in publicizing swing dancing (already experiencing a re-occurrence on college campuses all over the nation in the 90's) and making it more socially acceptable. 

It just so happened, of course, that what Gap was promoting actually rocks the socks off of basically anything else.

Best kind of first dance ever? Yes.

Swing is classy, and our culture could use some more classiness--as will become abundantly clear as this post continues. In general Gap models perhaps should not decide what that looks like, but Classy Boss icons Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers certainly should:

To re-quote ad nauseum: "Ginger Rogers did everything Fred Astaire did, 

but she did it backwards and in high heels."

To return to my point about Old Navy and Glee: the moment I saw there was a commercial I popped off to another tab to do something more fun than a commercial. I was drawn back to it, though, by pure curiosity. Basically, what I heard reminded me of something very painful.

For the record, it hurt me physically to type 

"Old Navy Presents it's new blouse" into Blogger's 

youtube search engine. 

Then I realized I'd missed noticing the "a". Whew.

I have nothing against breezy blouses. As a matter of fact, I personally would go to the actual Old Navy store and spend money for the white--and possibly also the green--one in this video and then wear them both on a regular basis. 

I'm not really going to go into why this is a bad commercial. Except for the part where there's no way that she orders extra whip on her lattes. 

The reason it's a bad video is because the first thing that came to mind when I heard it was this:

Damedesu yo (translation: "she jacked my swag").

There are many amusing things about this video. Some of my favourites are these girls' lack of boobs but total desire to work it on the runway, and that they bring in some black dudes to give a real feel from da hood, except the dudes have blackberries and wear Ralph Lauren polos. 

Basically this video is about a bunch of really rich kids worrying and triumphing over things normal people worry and triumph over: designer jeans.

Oh, wait.

At least I gave you cool dancing videos to watch. Despite the fact Ashley Tisdale jeans exist as a thing, and models pretend to drink lattes with extra whip, and rich kids can spend their days going around making music videos as soon as they get their braces off, there is swing dancing. It is popular, and it is wonderful.

And God made swing and saw that it was good.

Customer Faux Pas

Today I was hostessing at my place of employment. This means I try to look pretty, stand at the desk facing the door, and greet customers who come in. Then I use my incredible hostess powers to safely and fairly navigate the highly-charged political atmosphere of Choosing a Table for Them so each server on the floor gets equal chances at tips.

This is not usually what I look like hostessing, but Google image search thought it should be.

If things are slow, though, the hostess will also help bus tables (clean them off and get them ready for the next set of customers). At one point during the afternoon a couple at a table near the door finished their meal, stood up, and left, taking some mints and replying without ire to my valediction. I hadn't anything else to do, so I went over to help the server by cleaning up the table. As I was gathering up the couple's leftover dishes and napkins, I suddenly realized they had left a one dollar bill. One, one dollar bill. It took a moment for this to register.
They'd been sitting there, taking up a table, for a good half hour, during which time they had eaten an entire meal that probably cost between $40-75.

Now, if they hadn't left any tip at all, perhaps, if one was feeling particularly gracious, one could assume they're from a country that does not practice tipping, and are unaware that we do. That would be unfortunate, but more understandable.
The fact that they left any tip at all, however, means that they know it is customary to tip.
Due to this there are only two possible ways to understand why you would tip only one dollar, and the only explanation for both is that you are a jerk.

This is true in actuality, even if restaurants only really practice it in the case of customers who enjoy groping the servers.

Basically, either you didn't like the service you got, but didn't have the guts to say so to the manager or your server (this makes you one of those passive-aggressive people and also a coward), or you're a stingy git. 

Dear readers, the hourly wage for your server in Pennsylvania is 2.83. There is a reason for this--it's because in America, your server is expected to make his or her money from tips. The standard percentage to tip is 15% of your check total. Also, did you know that (at least where I now work) the bartenders, bussers, and hostesses only make 5.25 an hour--the rest of their pay is taken from the servers' tips and is a percentage based on the servers' sales on that day. Not a percentage of the amount of tips they received, but a percentage of the amount of their sales. So a percentage of how much money you spent is deducted from the tip you gave your server and is used to help pay all the other people who also served you. 

So please, if your server does his or her job well, encourage them the best way you as a customer can; by tipping them! 

Especially if he has a mustache like this. 

You are under no obligation to tip this server.

Be generous, not penurious!

Like this hasn't happened to you

Do you ever have one of those moments when you just want to draw a nice vest suit?

I do.

Do you see what I did there?

Not a Japan post

I'm working on finishing my Japan blog, but haven't yet got photos edited to perfection and my thoughts organized coherently. No fear; it will come.

Dr. Graham asked me yesterday in church if I would be willing to "lead" (quotation marks mine) the adult Sunday school class in a few weeks to talk about my Japan adventures. I think it will be fun to show photos and things, but I'm unsure as to what I should talk about. I suppose I'll give them a play-by-play and then open it up for questions such as "what does octopus and seaweed taste like?" and "what's it like to use a squat pot?" ("Unpleasant," I'll reply).

On today's docket of activities are
1. mailing a package
and
2. Orientation at Iron Bridge Inn, a nice restaurant and pub near the Outlet Mall.

They will own my soul.

The fact that I have a B.A. in English and am about to start a job waiting tables is a little depressing. I only intend it to be temporary--a means of making money while I wait for a few little Perplexities in Life to get figured out. Ashley, who, if she is your friend, is also your biggest fan--the type that goes shirtless to the games in your life on the 20°F days with your initials painted across her chest and a beer in one hand, and bellows at the fellows on the other team--gave me a rousing pep talk on the matter:

This is Ashley when you score a point for existing.

This is Ashley before even that.

"Hey Abby, what are you up to these days?" she said.
"I'm a waitress," I said. Ashley turned around towards a bookcase and contemplated Plutarch for a moment. She turned back towards me.
    "Hey Abby," she said. "What are you up to these days? What's that? You're working on your freelance writing career and have a job on the side to pay the bills and stay out of debt and people-watch and get fodder for your writing? Wow! That's awesome!"
I shrank into myself a bit and looked like a sheep looks when you catch it existing--startled and vaguely apologetic with a grass spear sticking out of one side of the mouth, and the upper lip caught up on dry teeth.
    "Yeah?" I said.
    "YEAH," Ashley said, and crushed the proverbial empty beer can against her forehead.

So I guess that's what I'm up to.
Wish me luck!

Monday

It was back to the dentist’s office for us today. We had only to work on projects that would give it more of a curb-side appeal and hopefully convince the Powers that Be that we mean business and have spent time on this project so it would be really cool if they didn’t tell us we couldn’t use the building.

The guys worked on powerwashing the whole building to get rid of the water line stain, ripping out all the dead and ratty looking little trees along one side, and the girls disinfected the inside, and washed the inside and outside of all the windows. After we were done, it looked so much awesomer that we forgot to take a picture of it.

But there are these pictures:

Thor.

Charlie's Angels

The tsunami washed a house into this neighbourhood that didn't belong here, and set it down on top of somebody's pink car.

Weary but triumphant. Jen, me, Hannah, and Christina.

 But then! Mr. Abe, our old Japanese friend in this saga, invited us all out to sushi. “Any food is on me,” he said. “Any beer is on you.”

On the way to the sushi place we blew two more tires. 

This is a picture of Jen, Hannah, and I waiting apathetically for the outcome of this disaster. 

 There was a good deal of chaos for some period of time after this, but eventually we got the car jacked up, we all piled in our remaining van and the back of Mr. Abe’s little truck (I was one of the lucky few that got this option), and he drove us to the sushi place.

It was a pretty high-class place. You got your own little dining room. The floors were all beautiful green tatami mats. 

Check out those sushi dishes!

 Then we waited for Mr. Abe to return with new tires. We got a little sleepy.

Anna, David, and I

Hannah.

Robert.

Me. I look like I am sucking on a finger here, but I assure you that I was not.

David giving Anna an impromptu Japanese lesson from the menu. I got one when I woke up, too. Then David had Anna and I translate a long joke into Japanese. I don't know where I was going with that...

Anyhow, after this lovely meal we chatted with Mr. Abe outside. It was there he informed us, through Matt's translating, that he had adopted Jen, Christina, Hannah, Anna, and I as his daughters, and if we would come back to Japan for our weddings, he would give us pieces of land. "And also cows and some chickens, too" Matt added. I laughed at this and told Mr. Abe (in Japanese) thank you, and that I like cows. He was very confused by this, and it turns out Matt had made up the cow and chicken thing himself. I totally got chucked under the bus on that one.

Then sleep.

Sunday

Today as we were pulling out of the cabin driveway we punctured a tire. The spare had been as cleverly concealed as possible, to make the hunt invigorating and thorough for us. In impish delight, it then revealed itself to be flat. Disgusted, we piled half of our group in the remaining van to go to a church in Sendai while the rest of us (Anna, Raun, Steve, Matt, and I) walked about ten minutes down the road to meet up with some Samaritan’s Purse people who run their own little service in a chapel that’s built in the woods on another hill.

 It turned out to be the most perfect thing that morning. The Japanese are big on buildings that remind one of nature and seamlessly mesh into whatever natural surrounding they’re set in. This chapel was all wooden, with large, screen-less rectangular windows through which we could see the trees and dappled sunlight, and which admitted the most glorious little breeze.

The meeting wasn’t so much an official church service as it was one guy leading a meditative lesson and Bible study about pride. The essence of it was that we often focus on some sins (sexual sins, usually) and assign them a status of being “worse” than others. Dante’s legacy lives on! Anyhow, Greg—the guy leading the study—was focusing on the sin of pride today. He brought up the point that the Bible says the prideful are the enemies of God. And really, how can you have a real sense of your need for Christ if you’re proud? The whole point of the gospel is that we’re screwed up and need Jesus. If we don’t believe that we’re screwed up, then we can’t appreciate what Christ did for us because deep down we don’t think that we needed him to do anything for us.

After the study we sang some songs. Then we sang some more songs. And just because we could, we sang a few more songs.

It turned out the mayor of our little hill-cabin community, Wendy, was at this service, and she graciously allowed us to borrow her wifi hotspot for the day, which is why you guys got an update last Sunday (though not about Sunday--that's what this is for).

We checked our mail, chatted, and made lunch. Then we sat down to eat and realized we didn’t know where Brian was. This has been a common theme throughout this trip: “where is Brian?” The answer is usually that Brian is off buying us tea, water, pocari sweat, cleaning bathrooms, and doing other quiet, awesome things that make life a bit easier for us. This time it was that he was down changing the tire on the car all by himself. He gets awkward and uncomfortable if we try to tell him seriously how grateful we are, so instead when he made his way back up to the cabin we made fun of his Canadian accent so he’d know how much we all love him.

We have been keeping a “Book of Brian” that is a collection of things he’s said throughout this trip, and it has reached pretty epic proportions. One of my favourite things he talks about, though, is “female ninjitsu.” I was unaware that this is a thing, but apparently it’s this instinctual ability women have to make men do things. The skill is natural, but some women can hone it and become deadly. The last resort, and the most powerful, is the ability to cry. According to Brian, the last thing a man ever wants to realize is that he made a woman, particularly his woman, cry.

“That’s why I don’t approve of women in the army,” he said a couple nights ago. “The enemy just has to snag one of them and pinch her until she cries and all our armies will be helpless—unable to respond rationally to any following attack.”

We had been invited to go to the Cummings’ for lunch again, but due to our car disaster those plans were cancelled. The Cummings, who are very flexible and laid-back people figured the obvious thing to do would be to bring lunch to us. Consequently they showed up with the rest of our group and we had a lovely and delicious curry lunch together.

Everyone spent the afternoon writing blogs, emails, and creating clever Facebook statuses with our super handy and rare wifi access. Brian, Anna, Hannah, and a few other people went hiking and found a small lighthouse on our hill.

Anyhow, Sunday was restful and wonderful—just what we all needed.

Saturday

Note to my readers: the next few posts (including this) were written quite some time ago--I just didn't have access to internet to post them. I hope you enjoy them despite their tardy appearance. Yes, I'm back in the States now, where toilets have fewer buttons, and more germs. 

Today we went to a different town (石巻 Ishinomaki) to work with Samaritan’s Purse to put together a meal for residents from the area that are still around. There are a decent amount of people still living there. The bottom floors of their houses have been ruined by the tsunami surges, but the upstairs are usually livable. Some people actually do need this meal every week (though they would never admit that openly), but many come simply because they enjoy the company. Some of them have told the Samaritan’s Purse people working there that they’ve never had so many friends in all their lives as they do now, in the aftermath of the tsunami. The people in this neighbourhood are all in roughly the same position and have been forced together because of this disaster.

The men were taken to show off their manliness by tearing down drywall and sheet rock, and the women stayed to put together the meal. We put up tents, made pots and pots of coffee, and chatted with everybody who came through. One of the first questions we were always asked was if we had children or were married. Anna was the only one who could answer in any way in the affirmative (she’s married). Other than Anna’s married state, this put the Japanese ladies out of countenance as they tried to think of something else even remotely interesting that we could talk about using simple Japanese.

It was really excellent to be able to sit down and talk to the Japanese people who came through. It was rewarding socially to talk to the people we’re trying to help and hear their stories and listen to them, and also very exciting from a linguistic point of view to try to understand what they were saying, and even more so be able to respond and tell some stories of our own. Very simple stories, granted, but a beginning!

The Samaritan’s Purse people were great to work with, as well: Virginia, Isaac, Lorna and Andy, and Tobie (too-bee) and Annalie (from South Africa and with the accents to match!).  Annalie and I were sort of designated coffee makers and were able to chat off and on for several hours while people came through to get drinks before lunch.

A couple hours in we girls were requested to sing. We put our heads together and came up with several songs—our favourite being “Down by the River to Pray” from the “O Brother, Where Art Thou?” soundtrack. Jen, Anna, Hannah, and I got some awesome gospel and harmonies going and it was a hit.

Then we went to visit Onnagawa. In my picture post I included a picture of some of our group and a few Japanese men who jumped in with us. That was taken at Onnagawa, as was this:

That building with the green sheeting was swept up (with some foundation) from its spot a couple hundred yards away and deposited on its side here. The gull was here of his own volition.

Onnagawa was very badly hit by the tsunami; it was basically leveled and there are very few buildings remaining.
Exhibit A:

 Apparently the waves were high enough that there were cars washed up onto the tops of that building.

We took these pictures from the parking lot of a hospital that is up about 40-50 feet above sea level. That’s the only reason the hospital survived, but even still it sustained some pretty decent damage when the waves came up over that wall and swept cars parked in the lot into the side of the building.

After that trip we returned to our cabins for dinner and an awesome hymnsing and met up with Christina. Her family had been missionaries in Kobe, Japan and as a result of that Christina spent eighteen years in Japan and is fluent with an enviable accent. She has been a great addition to our already solid team. 

About Friday, but not written on Friday

Thursday consisted of moving even more dirt. Friday was the same, except we also moved gravel and sand.

It was a miracle we finished our work on Friday: We cleaned tsunami sludge out of the floors of several more rooms, laid down and cut new plastic over the floors of the entire building, and covered the edges of all the plastic in a sandy gravel-type mixture. Then we realized the rest of our mountain of gravel, which was sitting outside in the street, was quickly becoming cement in the drizzle outside that had begun, so we got a bucket brigade and covered almost the entire floor of that building in the stuff, power washed everything, sanitized everything, and probably also did other useful things that I’m not remembering at this moment.

After this we were all delightfully smelly, sweaty, and filthy. It was the perfect day to take a trip to the ofuro (bathhouse). The Japanese surely have perfected the art of relaxation… once you get used to being naked with a bunch of other people. Surprisingly, you get used to it very quickly.

The Cummings had graciously offered to take us, so we all convened at their house after our work. Edie passed out washcloths and those of us who opted for the ofuro over a nice, private shower at the Cummings’ left. Lucky for the Cummings, the ofuro is only about a five minute walk from their house—quite a draw for Edie.

The bathhouse:

What happens is you go into the bath house and pay your dues then you remove your shoes and store them in a happy little locker made specifically for your shoes that you have just removed in preparation for putting them in the happy little locker made specifically for them.

[Author’s note: The previous sentence was written far too late at night and in a state of stupor. I discovered it the next day, but decided it was too funny to get rid of.]

After that you’re gender segregated. The men disappear through black curtains, the women through pink. I have no idea what the men do in their section, but the women disrobe, put their belongings and attire in more little lockers, and then enter the bathhouse where there are so many naked people. All the naked people, probably.

As a matter of fact, you very quickly get used to it and stop being weirded out by the fact you’re having a conversation in broken English and Japanese with female Japanese strangers who are also all naked.

The baths are all lovely. It’s sort of the equivalent of wandering naked through Longwood Gardens or some really nicely landscaped pond-place but being able to actually play in the pools.

After the baths we dressed, reconvened with the guys, and retired to the Cummings’ house for delicious lasagna, salad, and bread. We were clean, in a house, had internet, and were in good company; it was the most relaxing evening we’ve had so far.

The Cummings are gracious, hospitable, and fun; They simultaneously help one get accustomed to Japan, because they’re rather knowledgeable on the subject, but also provide a bit of an English-speaking retreat from the physical and mental rigors of living in a foreign country with a radically different language and set of social customs and societal norms.

Battery is dying now; more later!