Book-learning can be bad

My nieces are very inspiring, but sometimes they wrongly motivate me. Back in August, my sister Robin called me in a responsibly-controlled panic. Madison, the sixteen-year-old, was on medicine to counteract the pneumonia that had taken hold of her respiratory system. Which was all very comforting until her family noticed that the whites of her eyes had turned yellow. Apparently, this indicates liver issues--a bad reaction to the drugs. Anyhow, following the doctor's advice, Robin was taking Madison in to the ER, and the daughters at home were kind of stressed--could I come over and hang out with them? Certainly. I formed great plans for our evening--baking goodies, beauty parlor stuff, etc. Nothing went quite as planned.

Strolling the aisles of the grocery store with Kaeli and Chelsea, I laid out our battle plan. First on the list? Procure cinnamon roll-making goods. They were enthused, but had some questions. "Do you mean just baking the premade stuff, or actually making cinnamon rolls?" Little culinary snobs. Yes, I actually had meant to just get the Pillsbury rounds, but was shamed into also getting a hot roll mix that I used to use in my cinnamon-roll-phase in college. Even that was somewhat embarassing--their mother makes everything from absolute scratch. I'm all about "Just add water".

The cinnamon roll fiasco (forgot to add the yeast) was really nothing compared to the evening's main event. I came armed with honey and ripe bananas, ready to deep condition my hair. Sound strange? I thought so too, but hey--I read about it in a book, so it must work, right? "All natural" always sounds so genuinely positive.
Well, a post-ER-Room recovered Madison had quite a job after that of trying to remove banana chunks from my long locks. We debated the relative merits of extrication methods--before or after hair dryer application. We found that it was a process equally suited to wet and dry hair--that is to say that not suited well AT ALL. Banana continued to linger for quite awhile after that. It did really smell good, though. Maybe if the bananas had been puréed . . .

Shukran (thank you)

A teacher passing through the library the other day threw me an undeserved compliment. "It's really cool that you sign your initials in Arabic," he observed. Automatically, I replied, "Thank you." Then the text of his sentence caught up with me. Arabic? I examined my 'r' and 'j'. When penning my initials, I link them in a lowercase cursive clump with which I'm sure graphologists would have a field day. What does lowercase say about my feelings about my standing in the world, the loop in my 'r', where the dot falls for my 'j'. Actually, I really just don't like to write a capital 'R' or 'J' and have always felt somewhat prideful about my lowercase cursive 'r'. Squint as much as you like, but my writing is in no way Arabic. But I take it as a feather in my hypothetical cap--it's as close to calligraphy as I will ever be rightfully accused. Too bad, that. I wish I did have more power over my pen.

40 skirts

I've never been someone who often wears skirts. Not to say it's an unknown part of my wardrobe, what with my weekly church "habit" and all for the past three decades. My passion for fashion has not frequently won out over my passion for slouchy c-o-m-f-o-r-t. But, as she often has in the past, my college roommate, Jenny, nudged me into changing my clothing habits. Before meeting her, the only people I had heard discussing the word "season" in relation to clothing was perhaps when the noon duties would get mad at me and Chandra for not wearing proper seasonal winter gear (hey, we were warm-blooded little tykes who were unfairly banned from the metal playground equipment that populated our school playground with un-startling regularity). I still recall the debate over a forest-green, short-sleeved dress freshman year. The color puts it in fall or winter, but the cut places it in summer. See, this is the problem I encounter every time I'm tempted to buy a yellow sweater. Why do the designers seek to confuse us?

I got to spend time with Jenny this past summer in Washington--fabulous visit, awesome kids, brownie sundaes with movie nights that tempted me to move in, topped off with a generous parting gift--a pile of skirts. Luckily, I had the fortunate timing of arriving after Jenny pruned her closet. I left a few with Chandra in Utah, then added them to my own wardrobe up in the high fashion capital of Anchorage, Alaska. After scrounging for adequate hanger coverage, I got curious and started counting. Turned out I own 40 SKIRTS. Of course, some of them are skirts that mark you immediately as a member of a wedding party, but still! Shocked me. So if you've noticed me showing more leg of late, your observations are spot on. I've averaged perhaps a 5:2--at minimum a 4:3--ratio of skirt- to pants-wearing-days a week since July. Admittedly, the long snap of below-zero weather in November was quite a trial to my newfound habit, though.

I still hate nylons.

A Holiday Tale (in 8 verses)

1 A great stillness filled the air as the holiday travelers watched the front door in great anticipation. The threshhold door opened and Madison issued forth an exclamation of great joy at the arrival of her kinfolk. She had won the wager of how late Rahni would be. And though Madison was happy, Amber was not--having guessed wrong.
2 And it came to pass that Rahni shared the story with those gathered of why she was tardy. Having been armed with the knowledge that comes from many years of holiday dinner experiences, Rahni knew that to arrive at two 'o clock would be foolishness. After much time tarrying outside with her treasured snowblower, she retired to the kitchen to follow the green bean casserole teachings of Bethany and Campbell's Soup. A helping of festively cut red bell pepper was added unto the mix.
3 Though obedient to the directions given, the foodstuff did not appear "hot and bubbly" as the promises foretold. Nevertheless, Rahni persevered in her baking until such a time as seemed worthy to quit the oven.
4 With the tale told, the dinner began and Rahni cast her eyes about for sustenance--for her efforts that day were mighty, and her food intake paltry.
5 And Rahni spotted the rolls, and the rolls were good.
6 And Rahni found the eggnog, and the eggnog was good.
7 And Rahni spied the turkey, and the turkey was pink. And she was sore afraid. Indeed, Rahni then fell into a deep consternation, but nevertheless partook of the host-meat, not knowing until later that another bird had been thus prepared--but to a readier "done-ness". Alas.
8 The talk the tables was flowing at some and stilted at others. Rahni's table was filled with guests foreign to her, excepting her niece, Madison. Whence a friendly stranger enquired of another, "And what brings you to Anchorage?", it brought forth the reply, "I'm getting divorced." And lo and behold, an awkward silence filled the land. And yet the holiday-makers made merry long into the afternoon, both family and neighbor alike. And it was good. Amen.

Shields up!

I was caught with my weapons shields down the day before Thanksgiving. Fred Meyer is a dangerous place, I tell you. Due to an indulgent nap after school, I found myself with running out of time to make it to the bank before it closed. I promised a JV basketball player that if he came back to the library on Wednesday, I'd have cash to buy one of the raffle tickets he was hawking. Besides, I've been carrying around these two checks in my purse forEVER. A cash machine would have worked just as well--had I not misplaced my debit card last week.

A N Y W A Y . . .

After my double-take at the longlonglong line that stretched from the mini-bank, past the restrooms, all the way to the jewelry counter, I cannily snatched a book from the store's shelves to while away my time in line. That pleasant dream was shot down by the chatty woman in line ahead of me. I stifled my desire to page through The Guinea Pig Diaries and made polite conversation with my line-mate instead. Several minutes later, I turned to satisfy my curiosity and check if I was the last person for the bank's services. I was (prematurely) glad to find another individual behind me--who wants to be the last person in a line? Having acknowledged the somewhat skeezy-looking guy behind me, I felt compelled--why? why?--to include him in our conversation. And then my primary line of defense abandoned me. My grandmotherly line-mate took a phone call, leaving me to the charms of the weirdo behind me.

Skeeze: Want to see mine?
ShouldHaveBuriedMyselfInABookRahni: Uh, what? (I get really eloquent when flustered. Obviously.)
Skeeze slips me a look at the check he's despositing--$2,900-something dollars.
UncomfortableRahni: Oh, well, good job.
Skeeze brags about earning his check for about a week's worth of work--my mind has wiped this part of the conversation out of my memory. Something about lucky times of the year, I think?
Skeeze (nodding): I'm a gamer.
BaffledRahni: A gamer? (Normally, I'd have clued into his obvious no-social-skills demeanor and figured out what he meant, but I thought he was talking about how he earned his check and was casting about as to what he could mean. Hunts wild game? We are in Alaska, after all.)

Skeeze proceeds to wax poetic about the awesomeness of online gaming, heaping praise upon the World of Warcraft, in particular . . . blah . . . blah . . . blah . . . (memory wiped again in self-defense). I just don't have any love--or tons of respect--for people who brag about how people yell at them to join the real world and society by putting down the X-Box. MAYBE YOU SHOULD LISTEN. Unfortunately, since my filter was jammed with gamer-gabbing, I was left defenseless to his next inquiry . . .

Skeeze: So, are you single?
AbsentmindedRahni (checking the line progress): Yep.
Skeeze: Can I get your phone number?

I'm sorry, I demurred, I don't have time to date right now/ more excuses / more excuses / etc. I babbled on--as I do--even though I've always heard you should never give more than one excuse--it weakens your defense and comes across as insulting. I usually have a fake boyfriend profile at the ready, but I was caught totally unprepared. The difficult part was that I was stuck in line with this guy for ten more minutes. A guy I just rejected. AWKWARD. In the strained small talk that followed, I almost felt compelled to invite him to Thanksgiving dinner, having learned that he had no family in town. I resisted. Later on, after making it to the seemingly-safe harbor of the teller's booth, I got a tap on the shoulder. Glancing to my left, I was startled anew by my gentleman stalker. He slid a crafty smile towards me along with a note upon which he had thoughtfully penned his contact information, should I feel an inexplicable urge to delight myself with his company. Brave and gutsy, but also extremely hasty and ill-conceived.

Needless to say, though flattered (yet still cringing a little), I won't be calling.

Hearing check

A teacher I know recently taught me an interesting lesson, as teacher tend to do. One day in her classroom, kids were irritated and occasionally calling out, "Turn it off!" The room was silent with (apparently) studiously studying students, though, so she was puzzled. "Turn what off?" Turns out that a student's cell phone was ringing, but she couldn't hear it. That is how I heard about the mosquito ring tone. A ringtone that (most) adults can't hear at that particular frequency, but kids can. 'Course, I can't actually hear it myself, being as ancient and decrepit as I am at 32 years old. It made me feel better that my 16-year-old niece couldn't hear it, either, though. Check it out here--see if you pass the test!