Shaking my fist

Dear St. Patrick,

I think it's not overstating it to say that our relationship could use some work. You understand, though, that I didn't have a devoted example to follow? Despite green being one of my mom's favorite colors, she wears any other color on the 17th and firmly refuses to capitulate to the inherent physical threat of your Day. Not so for her progeny! Come March 17th, my siblings and I were usually bedecked in years past with the appropriate grassy hue. True, my participation in your "holiday" growing up was slightly half-hearted--I mostly wore green as a measure of self-preservation against some pretty fierce pinching. Wasn't that enough? How much do you expect, really, from someone who rarely even goes outside to look at fireworks on New Year's Eve or Independence Day? Well, who really can even see fireworks in Alaska on the 4th of July anyway? Too light.

But I digress. Our relationship really hit rock-bottom in 2001. A bad year for the country, an unfortunate year for me. I was on a little mini-vacation in Idaho with my friend, Paul, to celebrate his brother coming home from his mission. Catholic, LDS . . . we're all Christian, right? You couldn't have cut me some slack? Yes, I neglected to wear green that year. Yes, I can see that wearing blue is somewhat more insulting than something completely opposite the color wheel than green. It's like I couldn't even get credit for getting it close. You decided you needed a blood sacrifice.

Though I would like to nurse my injury in great detail at your expense, I will opt for brevity and say that--really--flesh, blood and bone are a far cry from a pinch. Ever mindful of that disastrous turn in our relationship (seriously, was amputation NECESSARY?), I have had a spotless, green-wearing record from 2002-on. Never can be too careful, right?

Though I have noted the steady marching forth of the dates this month (I remembered my sister's anniversary yesterday and my friend Shawn's birthday today), I must confess that I wasn't thinking of you when I woke up this morning. However, honoring you (or at least your perverse ego) must have been subliminally a part of my mind this morning as I got dressed. Coincidentally, the only shirt I could find in my car was green. (Stop mocking me--I don't usually use my car as a wardrobe, but I'm housesitting and forgot to bring a batch of fresh clothes to wear and thus was lowered to foraging my car for school attire.) SEE? YOU'VE EVEN AFFECTED MY SUBCONSCIOUS.

I thought I was safe. I thought I'd sacrificed enough. So you can imagine my startled incredulity when my feet flew out from underneath me this morning with morbid enthusiasm and I ended up an ungraceful tangle of limbs in the snow on the icy sidewalk. Head thumped? Check. Knee whacked? Check. Bedecked in fluffy snow in unmentionable parts? Check. Cell phone sunk in clouds of freshly-fallen flakes? Check. At least I still have all my 9 1/3 digits (such as they are)?

Whatever. Next year I'm wearing RED. Consider this a trial separation. Apologize prettily enough and I'll reconsider in 365 days.

Maybe.

Cupcake Arrival!

reply imminent

An example from my inbox

Date: 5/6/09
To: Rahni
From: Curtis
Subject: RE: a precursor to a real email

I am still patiently awaiting a real email from the eloquent Rahni.

On Wed, Apr 8, 2009 at 3:34 PM, Johnson_Rahni johnson_rahni@asdk12.org> wrote:
I got your email--thanks! I've been planning a reply in my head now for days--not ready yet, but didn't want you to think that I was ignoring you. ;o)>>>> Rahni

Dear Curtis/Dawn/Melanie/Heather/Paul/Stephen/Darcy/the entire East High staff waiting to hear what I found out about the history of the Thunderbird mascot/Donia/Sarah/Aunt Yvonne/Eric/Leah/Lindsay/Perri/Corey/Steve/Xitla/Rachael/Emily/Chicago Greg/Pam/Amy/Kick/Joan/Kim/Ijeoma/Nai/Gail/Patrick/Dori/ETCYOUKNOWWHOYOUARE

Just think of how behind I would be in communication if I had to keep up with anything MORE than my cell phone, regular mail, email, texts and blogs. Facebook is really never going to happen, at this rate. Take note of the dearth of blog posts at this site and burrow in for a loooong winter. :o) I apologize for any past, present and future neglect!

Ironically, I only made one New Year's resolution (so far) this year--Be on time! Didn't work. I thought that maybe I'd work on just one quality a month, master it and move on. Shouldn't have put such a hard one first! Being timely in communication, travel, tasks, etc., is NOT MY FORTE. Here's to hoping--there's still one month left in the year.

Humility

I've always had this bizarre (unsubstantiated) notion that I'm a pretty good all-around athlete.
(view from my neighbor's driveway)
This past Labor Day, my ward advertised a Men v. Women softball game.
Sunday morning, sunny skies . . .
"Excellent!" I exclaimed. I well remember my glory days of 4th grade softball with Mr. McConnell. Along with Chandra, we were always among the first picked.
Arms pinwheeling through the air, heels flying . .
As I broadcast my enthusiasm to many about the Monday event, long-dormant doubts begain to creep in.
Neighbor girl, normally laidback, flashes by . . .
After all, 4th grade was long ago. Long long long LONG ago.
A hopeful screech wafts behind, "BAIIIIIIIIILLLEEEEEEY!!" . . .
And, hadn't I had "practice throwing" on my New Year's resolution list for years? My gosh, did they lengthen the distance between the bases? Just how far away was home plate from the outfield? Could a person even be seen out there?
Dog, disinterested, flickers a glance from a fragrant tree. . .
Reviewing my basic deficiencies (pride being foremost among them), I gulped and took the field with my team, to no spectacular results. (Much to the bewilderment of my 4th-grade self still echoing around here in my 33-year-old self.)
Later, wasps hum as they return home . . .
Chastened, I now recognize the signs. Whenever I feel my head begin to swell with errant, grandiose thoughts and foolish pride,
All is well.
I remember this my-word-there's-a-crazy-person-running-down-the-street-again scene and shake my head.
The enemy is vanquished.
Cheeks aflame, head size back to normal--meekness restored.

Sometimes it just takes a memory to cure overactive swelling--no aspirin necessary

(P.S. Really, I'm not sure what I thought my dog would do to help me escape the angry wasps that were stinging me, but reaching out for help (from anyone/thing) seemed the thing to do.)

Faultlines

*When I hear what sounds like a gunshot/car backfire/firecracker, I don't run into danger or investigate at all--I DO meticulously note the time so that if I am asked to testify the next day, I'll be a great back-up to the actual witness who ran towards the danger to help.

*I don't say "Bless you" when people sneeze and would actually prefer that people ignore my own olfactory travails.

*I'm horrible at asking "How are you?" It's actually one of my least favorite questions, mainly because it's so often asked, so infrequently meant. And, actually, if we're strangers, I actually don't have a deep-seated desire to hear about your inner emotional issues, and if we're friends, I trust that you'll tell me.

*When kids/teens/adults talk to me in a baby voice, I don't play along, I call them on it.

*A pile of clothes constantly reform on my bedroom floor because I think, "Oh, I'll hang that right up--it doesn't deserve to go to the laundry yet. Still wearable." Until, ironically, the sweater tried on for 2 seconds in the morning actually does become "worthy" of the laundry machine.

*I really dislike voicemail and rarely get around to listening to messages.

*I watch WAY too much television--TiVo is my enabler.

All Choked Up

A query from my co-worker: "What happens when two collars race?"

I'm bad at jokes. Can't remember them, can't tell them well. And yet I've always loved to read the jokes off of Laffy Taffy wrappers--despite that their answers were often incomprehensible and entirely "un-guessable" because of the 2nd-grade logic applied to them. Why did the chicken cross the road? Because his friend invited him over to play X-Box. ??? Really?

I do have a point to this post, but you haven't met it yet . . . I was about to get on track except I find I have a little more to say on the subject of jokes. I owned two joke books as a kid--one was a peanut joke book, and one was something like 1001 Jokes For Kids. Which explains why the only jokes I can ever bring up on automatic recall deal with the legume family or nuns. I'd really like to add more to my repertoire, if you've got any clean ones handy.

My guess? "It was a neck-and-neck finish."

While Christmas shopping back in December, I added a gift to my own pile and bought myself a scarf--my first! Strangely enough, I've never owned a scarf before. Yes, I live in Alaska. Yes, I can knit and crochet. Yes, I know where the mall is. The day I first wore my new scarf to school was a bit chilly, so I kept it on after shucking my coat off. These are my observations:

1) The scarf kept my neck nice and toasty. It did its job so well, in fact, that the rest of my body felt chilly in comparison. Kind of ironic.

2) I felt strangely vulnerable to being choked. Any random person with a whim to throttle someone would find me easy pickings.

I love scarves now. They can warm you up, dress up an outfit, or introduce you to a new texture. They can be fun, functional, flirty, romantic, disguising, informative, or inspiring. I never knew neckwear could be so necessary and so terrific at the same time.

Real answer? "They ended in a tie."

Hardcore

That's the word for me, my friends. I'm totally hardcore. Why, you naively ask? Because, ladies and gents, I HAVE READ PAGES 281-285 of Aron Ralston's Between a Rock and a Hard Place. Have you?

It's funny how other people can sometimes entertain different opinions of you that clash with your own lofty introspections. My own good name was maligned just the other day--BY MY OWN FAMILY. In devious collusion, Amber and Mom agreed that I was "squeamish". My mom was mentioning that she needed to get her stitches out (having gashed her noggin earlier in the month) when my oft-injured sister declared that basically anyone could remove stitches--no need to make a doctor's appointment. My name was brought up, then discarded, both citing "squeamishness".

All I can say is WHO DO YOU CALL TO PICK UP THE DEAD BIRDS WITH MAGGOTS IN THEIR EMPTY EYE SOCKETS, AMBER? Yeah, that's what I thought.

Though I honestly have no desire to remove people's stitches. I'm glad they didn't ask.

Summer Haze

My alarm clock thinks it's July 7th. I didn't even know that my alarm clock had an opinion on the date, but it's weighing in, anyway. I've had this alarm clock for something like 15 years. I wonder what other nuggets of (mis)information are hiding among its electrical wirings.

Actually . . . wait. I'm getting a glimpse of a vague memory of delight at discovering this feature back in college. Hmmm . . . I wonder what else I've forgotten since those brain-straining years. Not that they were as brain-straining as they ought to have been. APPLY YOURSELVES IN SCHOOLS, KIDS. Back to what all I've let slip--I guess that's kind of a moot thing to spend time thinking about. By definition, I'll never remember what I forgot, as it's long gone by now, right?

Still, though, I'm glad that at least my alarm clock is trying . . . even as I shiver looking at the cold, cold, snow-encrusted landscape outside the window. Looking forward to July 7th, though. I've got a good feeling about that day.

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!

rahniREADS (August '09)

When people ask me what I like to read, I usually shrug and say, simply, "Everything." But I've come to realize that that is not true. I feel no attraction towards books of many genres. Jack Kerouac, Ken Kesey, Laurel K. Hamilton, Thomas Hardy? Not My Style. I'm-Just-Calling-You-Names Current Affairs books, Self Help, New Age, True Crime, most Themed Mysteries (culinary, quilting, etc.), Breathless Bodice Rippers? Not Interested. If you can't express yourself except through prolific clusters of obscenities, I will be skipping your book. I love biographies, but I have no interest in reading about the people who are all, "Look at me and how screwed up I am and how I never try to redeem or improve myself or even think about others, and listen to my dramatic list of all the wrongs done to me and how badly I've been treated in life and each drunken/stoned escapade of my life that I remember, I'm so distracted by staring at my own bellybutton and trying to figure out just what an enigma I am, blah, blah, blah." Forget it. Sometimes I don't realize it's Not To My Taste until too late. I'm already immersed, and can't, can't, can't--CANNOT--abandon yet another book midway through.


Gateway - Frederik Pohl*
~Space angst dissected by computer shrink~
The NPR Commentator and "famous" Seattle librarian, Nancy Pearl, introduced this book to me as an aside during an interview I listened to years ago. Despite that, I will continue to listen to her reviews and continue to delight in her book-recommendation collections, Book Lust and More Book Lust. The story is a SciFi future/space drama, where Earth is on the brink of collapse and humans are looking to colonize new worlds. They've found spaceships built by an unknown alien race that fly pre-programmed routes and--using their extremely limited knowledge--the humans use these ships to help the colonization process. The intriguing thing about this prospect is that they have no idea where the ships with go and, more importantly, how long each flight will last. Sounds like an fascinating read, no? Nope. It wasn't. Beyond that (admittedly) unique and mind-bending idea, the book is stuck in 60's/70's Freudian over-psychoanalyzing, sexual revolution, anti-establishment indignation, etc. Not for me. Stop fighting with your Oedipal urges, computer shrink, disturbingly violent tendencies, and rotating bedmates, Mr. Robinette Broadhead. It's tiresome. And it doesn't make for a compelling story. Thumbs down. (Fiction, Science Fiction>IYLRMO Replay, Kurt Vonnegut)
The Amateur Marriage - Anne Tyler***1/2
~Rash wartime declarations of love wane~
I kept thinking of my sister, Chandra, while reading this book. Not because her marriage at all resembles this book, but because it's a book I'm surprised she hasn't pushed on me. This novel serves as a profile of America through the decades as well as a study of a mismatched marriage. By alternating points of view from chapter to chapter, Ms. Tyler allows us to really dig deeper into these characters lives and perspectives. Though frequently frustrated with this incongruous pair, I quite enjoyed this evening read. (Fiction, Historical (WWII to present)>IYLRMO Before You Know Kindness--Chris Bohjalian, The Scarlet Feather--Maeve Binchy)
Nigger: The Strange Career of a Troublesome Word - Randall Kennedy***
~Sociologist examines, discusses politically-charged word~
"The word is paradigmatically ugly, racist and inflammatory. But is it different when Ice Cube uses it in a song than when, during the O.J. Simpson trial, Mark Fuhrman was accused of saying it? What about when Lenny Bruce uses it to "defang" it by sheer repetition? Or when Mark Twain uses it in The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn to make an antiracist statement? Kennedy, a professor at Harvard Law School and noted legal scholar, has produced an insightful and highly provocative book that raises vital questions about the relationship between language, politics, social norms and how society and culture confront racism."--Publishers Weekly
I started reading this book in August 2009 in a B&N break room. My initial introduction to the work, however, occurred about seven(?) years earlier in the only episode of Boston Public that I've ever watched. A racial incident in the classroom prompted the teacher to assign this particular book as a required read. Like a dutifully interested television viewer, I went out, bought this book and added it to my library shelves. Where it sat. And sat. And sat. For years. Inspired by last month's reading choice successes by selecting from my own bookshelves, I turned again to my overflowing library. Let me just say that this book is awkward to carry around in public. After taking in the skeptical or astonished glances, I'd rush to point out the subtitle and blather about how it's a sociological study . . . and on and on. Walking down a sidewalk one day during my lunch break, I even grew self-conscious enough to bend the cover down so that the slow-moving cars didn't send me indignant glares. I found Kennedy to be contradictory at times, as when he seems to applaud Chris Rock and condemn his grandmother for their same usage of the word. This book turned out to be more of a historical study than a contemporary discussion of today's issues. I think it was an interesting read, even brave of the author to even broach such a politically/racially-charged subject, but I was left unsatisfied by the mere listing of examples instead of probing analysis. He did retain the role of independent observor admirably, but I was hoping for actual opinions and discussion. I wish he would have included essays (or something of the like) reflecting different points of view on the subject. "After a while, one wishes for more of an argument than a laundry listing of the word's history of discord." R. Chaffey, Amazon reviewer. (Nonfiction, Cultural Studies/Current Affairs>IYLRMO Black Like Me--John Howard Griffin, He Talk Like a White Boy--Joseph C. Phillips, Honky--Dalton Conley)
Walk Two Moons - Sharon Creech (Book Club)***1/2
~Girl loses mother, learns to live~
See, it's people like Debbie who remind me that I really need to stop judging books so quickly and give them a chance. Once again, when the book club choice was announced for this month, I found myself thinking, "No, not that one!" Didn't voice it, of course. I had successfully ignored this Newberry Award winner on the shelf for years. The cover turned me off, the title bored me, and I didn't even bother reading the synopsis. Perhaps IF I HAD I would have realized the marvelous potential behind that blah cover! Indeed, the moment I finally deigned to read the synopsis on bn.com, I was immediately hooked. Two quotes for you:
"Did he actually KISS my collarbone? And if he did, why did he do that? Was the kiss supposed to land somewhere else, like on my mouth, for example? That was a chilling thought." (Salamanca, p.49)
"She's unconscious," the intern said. "She won't know whether you're here or not."
"Sonny, I've been by her side for fifty-one years, except for three days when she left me for the egg man. I'm holding on to her hand, see? If you want me to let go, you'll have to chop my hand off." (Gramps, p.256)
(Fiction, Young Reader, Newberry>IYLRMO Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry--Mildred Taylor, Maniac Magee--Jerry Spinelli)
When Jesus Came to Harvard - Harvey Cox*****
~Harvard decides students need Moral Reasoning~
Every six months the employees of Barnes & Noble go on mini-shopping sprees due to the bi-annual employee discount sale (an extra 10% off merchandise). Until about two years ago, I was no exception. As much as I tried to reason with myself that just because the books being 40% off now instead of 30% didn't give me license to go crazy, my list of BIWTR (Books I Want To Read) was more persuasive. Two years ago, however, B&N showed us a figure that represented how much we had saved that year through our own personal use of the discount. "That's how much I spent!" I exclaimed, astounded. "No, that's how much you saved." I was so horrified that my spending has gone down DRAMATICALLY at work. Probably not reaction that they were shooting for. Oh well. Anyhow, this book was on my BIWTR list for several years, strangely enough, but was always bumped for other clamoring titles. Until this past summer. That's right, I bought this little beauty for a mere 30% off--didn't even wait to save that extra $1.50. Enough was enough! About the actual book, however . . . it's great. Seriously. Go out and read it. Back in the early 80's, Harvard decided that they needed to require their students to take a class in Moral Reasoning. Armed with just the scholastic bits, their students weren't always applying their newfound knowledge in the most ethical of ways. Of the many courses offered, Harvey Cox was asked to teach a course based on the teachings of Jesus--how to apply his rabbinical teachings, the historical landscape, stories told by and about him to moral situations in our modern day world. The course quickly became one of the most popular classes on campus. Just as the course is for members of all faiths (or even of no religious faith), so is this book. A fabulous book exploring the world-altering life of Jesus and the application of moral reasoning in the 21st century. (Nonfiction, Religion, Philosophy, Cultural Studies>IYLRMO Between the Testaments, No Man is an Island--Thomas Merton, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance--Robert Pirsig)
April Morning - Howard Fast*****
~Revolutionary war battle through teen's eyes~
I can't for the life of me remember where I heard about this Revolutionary War novel, but I do know that I checked it out from my school library back in February or so. And lost track of it, come the end of school, thus making me one of the patrons we dread--people who don't return our books, thus depleting our collection. Midway through the summer, the slim novel popped up from the depths of my closet and I breathed a sigh of relief, set it aside in an obvious place and thought no more about it until school began. I even went so far as to put it in my car to return, but then thought better of it and decided to actually read the book I had held captive for lo these many months. So glad I did! Rod's reading it right now--I'll get him to weigh in soon. Here are a few passages I enjoyed . . .
"We thank the, O Lord, for the bread we eat, but we are also conscious of seed we have planted, of the hands that guided the plow and the back bent in toil. The ground is dry as dust, and I will take the liberty of asking for a little rain. I know that Thou givest with one hand and Thou takest away with the other, but sometimes it seems to me to go beyond the bounds of reason. Amen!" (Father, p.12)
"I thought [the Reverend's proclaiming to confront the advancing British army with words of reason, not with bullets, yet with weapons in hand] was beautifully put . . . I suppose that Father could have bettered it, being used to throwing in an argument at the drop of the hat, but for a reflective man like the Reverend, it was all one could ask. I even began to look forward to his projected exchange with the British, and to imagine some of the things I might say in his place. Just for the sake of peace, I hoped that his thoughts ran to less colorful language than mine." (Adam, p.92)
"I hate to scold you, I really do."
"It would be interesting to see what it would be like here if you enjoyed scolding me."
"Adam, I don't appreciate sarcasm."
"I'm sorry, Mother." (Adam/Mother, p. 42)
(Fiction, Historical, Revolutionary War>IYLRMO All Quiet on the Western Front, Rifles for Watie, Red Badge of Courage (presumably--haven't read this classic yet!))
A Kiss in Time - Alex Flinn**1/2
~Fluffy jump-through-time Sleeping Beauty spin~
A modern day twist to the Sleeping Beauty fairy tale. Not really much more to say than that. It didn't WOW by any means, nor was it really terribly bad. Just a shrug. A half-hearted shrug.
(Fiction, Teen, Retold Fairy Tale mixed with real world>IYLRMO Summers at Castle Auburn--Sharon Shinn, but not as entertaining)
The Siege of Macindaw (Ranger's Apprentice #6) - John Flanagan**1/2
~Will is older and less entertaining~
Do authors think that we have the memory retention of a goldfish? Some authors are just bound and determined to thrust the same character definitions upon us over and over and over and over and . . . I'm thinking this story should have ended two books ago. I do realize that I am not the intended audience, though, and it's perfectly serviceable for the age group it caters to (6-9th grades). It's just lost a lot of its charm. Oh, well. It was a good run. (Fiction, Young Reader, Fantasy>IYLRMO The Last Apprentice series--Joseph Delaney)


(IYLRMO = If you liked/Reminds me of . . .)
***** READ IT RIGHT NOW!
*** Would definitely pass it on to others--highly recommended
*** Better than most
**1/2 (Shrug) Nothing that sticks with you, but fine afternoon reading
** If you're stuck on a deserted island and cloud-watching isn't your thing
* BURN in a fire if you're stuck on a deserted island (even if it's a hot, tropical island)

The (New) Adventures of Steel Bladder and AmBEAR GRYLL

<Imaginary Editor's Note: We regret to inform you that we must accept your entry for our "The Shortest Short Stories Around: 55 Words" competition. We wish to to reject your submission due to the simple reason that it has WELL EXCEEDED 55 WORDS. We wish to, but we can't. It's true, when inserted into a Word document and employing the word count tool, your submission does indeed show an exact 55 words. For the MAIN BODY. And yes, while there were no specific rules laid out in regards to footnotes, that is merely because we did not foresee the entries taking such a subversive and sneaky avenue. Many have tried to smudge the hard and fast rule of 55 words with the unnatural use of hyphens, illegal compound words, and the like, but never before have we been confronted by footnotes. You understand, I presume, that even while you've included a lot of information in such footnotes, they're really only helpful (and of interest) to your own friends and family? Indeed, they are more suited for a blog than a public contest? While perhaps being a fan of brevity (else, why would you enter such a contest?), your entry shows that your tastes lean much towards the (over)use of adjectives, asides and anecdotes. In short? You ramble. We will be amending our contest rules for next year's contest, should you feel compelled to enter again. P.S. Thank you for not continuing your notes to the letter "z"--we realize it must have been tempting.>

The (New) Adventures of Steel Bladder and AmBEAR GRYLL

Scrambling^a past the sign "Eagle River--26 miles^b", Steely^c struggled to keep an injured^d--yet fast-striding^e--AmBEAR^f in sight^g. Winding^h down the valleyⁱ, through^j (not over) the glacier-fed river^k, past the broken beehive^l, plentiful^m bear scat, manyⁿ sauntering hikers^o, until (10 hours later^p) the intrepid adventurers made a disappointing discovery:
No rootbeer^q at rainbow's end.

^a In case I wasn't sure, it was immediately clear from the first five seconds that this would not be a leisurely stroll through the woods. AmBEAR strode away from the car at a pace that would make greyhounds proud. Uphill. We'd start out together, she'd quickly outdistance me (even though I was often taking quicker steps than she was, I still lagged--curses to my short legs!), draw farther ahead, wait for me to catch up, and we'd plunge into another round of the cycle. I told her I'd just meet her at the pass, but she very magnanimously continued her stutter-stop-go rhythm to keep me within eyesight. Perhaps it was because I carried the bear spray? ;o)
^b Official mileage for the trek from Girdwood to Eagle River via Crow Pass has long been a hotly contested debate. Depending on your source, the distance varies from 23 miles to 27 miles (many miles more, if you're like Chandra and AmBEAR of years ago and take many unplanned side trips due to a brief, but debilitating, bout of being directionally-challenged). But the sign said 26 miles, so that's what I'll go with. If we had successfully purloined Rod's Garmin early that morning, I would know for sure--darn it--but we opted to be gracious and let the Hutchings sleep.
^c Though my own given name has always been (unjustly) suspected to be a nickname, I really have made it through most of my life without any nicknames. Should I feel Lucky or Left Out? The noticeable exceptions being when AmBEAR lovingly refers to me as "Twin #2", or the brief time back in high school when Stephen's younger sister, Emily, couldn't pronounce "Rahni" and thus adorably dubbed me "Brownie". Didn't last, though. So I was rather surprised when AmBEAR turned on the trail (after about 20 miles) and said (with a grin), "How're you holding up there, Steel Bladder?" You could just hear the capital letters in her tone. I kind of wish that this nickname came out of nowhere but, alas, there's a story highlighting my stupidity behind it. Let's just say that I'm not a fan of answering the call of nature IN nature. How can I get around that? I pondered. Aha! I'll purposely dehydrate myself, thus ridding myself of the pesky quandary altogether! As you can tell, I'm no Danielle Boone. That genius idea ended with Chandra holding her puny water bottle in the rushing current of a friendly-looking creek about 16 miles in while I chanted, "Please don't kill us, please don't kill us, we have no way to purify you, please don't kill us." Apparently, some people will remember any little story involving foolishness on my part.
^d Bum knee, blistered feet, possible shoulder fracture? That's nothing to athletes such as my sister. And I thought I'd be the stronger one in this adventure. Nope.
^e For awhile I consoled myself that I'd surely excel at the downhill portion of the route. Well, I immediately jammed my big toe in my enthusiasm to pull ahead, thus ended up limping behind AmBEAR once again. On a constant downhill or constant flat route, I could keep pace, but given any uphills? I was toast. Also, around mud. I hate mud. I'm squeamish and tend to slow wa-ay down around the squishy stuff. I was quietly horrified by AmBEAR's unconcerned approach to mud bogs (straight through) and often had to stop myself from leaning forward and brushing off mud splatters from her legs. I know what you're thinking. Poor AmBEAR, why did she choose Steely for a hiking partner? Well, son, pickings were slim and you got to "dance with the one that brought you." Rather, the one that you brought.
^f A word about the nickname . . . genius, right? Not being a Discovery Channel surfer (or wherever you watch nature programs and such), I'm only familiar with Bear Gryll because he's featured on the front of a book that I often have to reshelve at B&N. But Amber is so the female version of him! As far as I can tell, at least. She takes on each ridge and path as though she's insulted it's in her way. Onward, despite pain, despite weariness, hunger, lagging hiking partners and everything. Awesome, awesome endurance and fortitude. AND cheerful and upbeat the whole time? Is she woman or wo-machine? If it's anything but storming weather outside and she's got a free minute, she wants to be out there in the world, taking on any new adventure within reach. Makes me tired, just thinking about her "recreational" time.
^g Beautiful day--fall colors, warm sun, awesome scenery. No wildlife, though, beyond some dogs, a squirrel (chipmunk?) and an unusual bird.
^h At one point, we turned around to see where we had come from only to discover that we had no exact idea where on earth the trail was behind us. Good thing it wasn't an out-and-back hike.
ⁱ Nothing like hiking for miles through brush higher than your head in bear country to keep you on edge.
^j Blessed with bad luck in that river, I've never once crossed at the suggested crossing zone. Neither has AmBEAR. Or, I believe, Chandra. Perhaps if we stopped trying to take shortcuts alongside the riverbank?
^k You can SEE the glacier that provides the swiftly-flowing frigid water that marks the half-way point to Eagle River. I knew I was in trouble when my several-inches-taller sister struggled through water up to her zipper. Both times now that I've crossed this behemoth, I've been blessed by an undesirably clear insight: This is how people die! If I was to trip in this river, there's no way I'd get out--I'd be paralyzed down to my pinky toes with bone-chilling spasms. That river is by far the coldest thing I've ever experienced in my life. When we got to the other side and collapsed on the bank, both AmBEAR and I had to scream and yell to as an outlet for our pain. There are bridges over almost every other wet spot along the trail. WHY NOT HERE?
^l The last time I hiked this trail, Chandra (walking ahead of me) obliviously whacked a beehive with her trekking pole and the bees (being a little slow to catch on) missed their actual antagonist and targeted innocent me. I got five bee stings. Another case of mistaken identity. It's hard to be a twin, sometimes. This time, I wisely avoided bothering the bees swarming around their broken hive that blocked the path.
^m Early on, I asked AmBEAR to point out bear scat, should she see any. For an Alaskan, I've always been remarkably ignorant of what bear scat looks like. Well, no worries, I'm quite educated now. We saw LOTS. Which was informative and illuminating, if not comforting.
ⁿ Not as many as AmBEAR had hoped, though. She was looking forward to passing crowds of 2-day and 3-day hikers. Apparently, the greater Anchorage area decided to spend Labor day not-laboring elsewhere.
^o In particular, one slow-moving group that we passed petitioned us, "If you see a gold Expedition in the parking lot with a guy named Chris, could you tell him we're coming?" And, indeed, we did meet their genial gentleman driver, 1.7 miles from the parking lot, hiking in to meet them. Nice man.
^p I naively thought that it'd take us around 11-12 hours to do this hike, only to find out that AmBEAR was hoping for 8, but allowed for 9 hours (river crossings, stopping for food, etc.). I didn't learn this until we started up up up the trail. In a complete opposite direction than I am prone to take, AmBEAR showed no irritation when our pace didn't meet her expectations. Amazing, really, her positive outlook. She probably had plans for the evening that she had to re-strategize. Seriously, though, I don't see how we failed to meet the 9 hours. We were STRIDING the whole time. Which is kind of sad, actually, that I kept falling behind not because I was stopping, but because I was just a slower hiker.

^qAmBEAR sparked our hopes with memories of a soda machine at the trail's end. We started waxing philosophical about food in general, and about an ice-cold rootbeer, in particular. I even had some Eagle River-soaked singles in my pocket to bring our dreams to life. When we reached the parking lot, I spared nary a glace to our ride home, but headed straightaway to the Nature Center, only to find that it was closed, due to the holiday. Wouldn't you think that destination places like this would be open on such holidays! Sadness. You'd think I'd have known better. One time, back in high school, I was called upon to pick up a weary and ravenous Patrick and Ryan in that same parking lot and they were absolutely starving. We ended up stopping by a convenience store to take the edge off their hunger, as they couldn't wait for Anchorage's all-night fast-food restaurants. This hike burns some calories, I tell you.

Pucker Up

I startled a co-worker the other day with my whistling. He was not, however, as you may have assumed, overcome with shock in regard to my prodigous talent--he was just shocked about my gender. Hmmm . . . that didn't come out quite right. Before you judge (I feel I may say this without undue bragging: I am quite obviously a girl--no ambiguous squinting necessary), let me explain. Turns out that he grew up on an island off the coast of Brazil, and it was accepted in his culture that only men whistled. He's never even heard a whistle from his own sister. Wait till he hears the rendition of Fur Elise that I've been working on! :)P.S. You know how curling your tongue, attached earlobes, etc., are genetically-granted traits and all that? Is whistling? AmBEAR and I were debating this along our Crow Creek trek last week. If so, then how come I can whistle, but my IDENTICAL TWIN CAN'T? It's a puzzle.

Mister Blister

I like to include pictures in my blog (usually obtained from Google>images)--mostly to apologize for the lack of actual pictures from my life--but let me just warn you now: Do not seek out blister pictures! I'm still shuddering. On the inside. This will just be a text post.

Situation: Blister appears on appendage.
Solution: ???

I'm sure that many people, most people, do not devote nearly as much time, worry, or attention to such trivialities as a small-ish blister on their little toe. It took me a little bit of time to even accept the fact that I even had a blister after my 26-mile trek on Monday. I've got oddly-shaped toes. It's an annoyance that I've come to accept as fact. 19 years later, and I still remember Chandra commenting on how her current flirtation partner said she had short, fat feet. (Thanks, Gordon.) ;o) You know, you aim your comment at one twin . . . sometimes it hits them both. Double home run! Strangely enough, though, I haven't gotten a blister in years and years and years, so my recently acquired blemish caused my brow to furrow and my fingers to dial. I asked for advice from everyone . . . track coaches, co-workers, family, Wikipedia. Only to find, after two days or so of research, that my blister had abated on its own. Drama over. Not really worthy of even a whole post entry, but I think the only way to purge those pictures from my mind is virtual transference from thought to blog. Thanks for being the outlet to my horror.

STRANGErs

You know, there are a lot of people in my life.

--customers at the bookstore (having been there for seven years, quite a few people now recognize me)
--school kids (in a school of 2400 kids--not even counting the continuous rollover of new freshman classes and departing senior classes)
--co-workers (a fluctuating near-80 from B&N, as well as 130 from school)
--church members
--family
--family of family
--friends of family (Why do my nieces collect friends in pairs? Two Ambers, numerous Sarahs, etc., etc.)
--friends of my own collected throughout my 32 years
--random acquaintances from those years
--plus all the people out there who mistake me for my twin and just think that they know me and thus smile and wave at me . . .

WHEW. It's just a LOT of people. And, frankly, I've never been good with names. It's often pretty obvious, despite my not-so-subtle ways of covering my ignorance. In fact, I'm inclined throw a faltering, "Hello! No, no, it's so good to see you!" to anyone with a persistant smile.

Back in July, a STRANGEr approached me at the puzzles rack in Barnes & Noble while I was putting away some stray merchandise. Well, I was also casting an appraising eye over the new batch of bamboozlers for my own personal interests. I was startled from my perusal by a politely inquisitive "Are you Rahni?" in my ear. Straightening guiltily, I answered in the affirmative, expecting that perhaps one of my co-workers had sent him to me so that I might help him with a book query.

STRANGEr: Do you remember me? It's Patrick! From East!
(At least I had a name and starting place, though working at the same high school I attended as a youth caused me to wonder East now or East then?)
FakerRahni: Of course! How's it going?
(The conversation continues as I try to stay to general topics, frantically trying to glean knowledge from his answers, only to lead to this . . .)
STRANGEr(namedPatrick): . . . so then I saw you in the store and I had to say hello! (He pulls a wallet-sized photo out of his shirt pocket) Check it out!
StartledRahni: Oh! My senior photo. How . . . surprising.

(For those of you who are thinking, "Stalker! Who walks around with a senior photo from the 90's in their pocket and happens to run into the very subject of the picture? Chance? I think not." These were not my thoughts. I was merely surprised to be confronted with the least favorite of my painfully self-aware poses, and was still frantically trying to place this mysterious "Patrick". I breathed a sigh of relief when I read the inscription on the back and some memories fell into place--Orchestra, lowerclassman, short and blond. I looked at him now--tall, tanned, great smile, still blond. Good changes, overall.)

PrettyPatrick: Yeah, I'm moving to Wyoming and I have all my earthly belongings packed into my truck out there in the parking lot. I found this picture in my instrument case and just had to come in and say "hi". Just too big a coincidence. *engaging grin*

We said goodbye and good luck, and I made my way back to the receiving room to continue my shift. Always with a story on hand, I did not fail to share this gem. Unfailingly, everyone's first reaction was of eyebrow-raised stalker-esque suspicion. I guess I just didn't tell it right. AND, they didn't see him--the years were nice to young Patrick. Strange coincidence, though.

Facebook sans my face

I'm really not a Facebook-er, or a Tweeter, for that matter. I just don't see the appeal. Which is fortunate, actually, because I have virtually no easy way to maintain an account. I'm really only ever on the computer at school (if I manage to shoot off an email or a quick blog post on my lunch breaks, I'm lucky), and Facebook--as well as its dubious predecessor, MySpace--is blocked through the school district filters. I've been assured that if I spent some time cruising around that virtual community, I'd be hooked. I have no doubt that, given time, I would indeed be one of the most devoted of Facebook devotees. (It would have to be A LOT of time, though--why do I care if someone just took a quiz? In the looking I've done so far, I rarely find out what's actually happening in anybody's life. I much prefer reading a blog or an email, if given only electronic options.) But I am ridiculously easy to reel into new gadgets and hobbies. Just taking an errant walk down the cake decorating aisle at Michael's resulted in my cake decorating stash to multiply from a measly spatula and square cake pan, to a cake leveler, a set of differently-sized cake pans, professional icing, and all sorts of other gadgetry. I used the collection once and moved on. Being well aware of my addictive nature, I try not to even glance towards the Spider Solitaire icon that graces many a computer desktop.

Truthfully, though, I caved a few months ago and made a profile. A fake profile, that is. The reason for the false name? The very day I was driven to Facebook (I decided it was finally time to figure out how to get back in contact with my long-lost 10th cousin/college roommate, Dawn--how crazy is that, huh, that my totally random college roommate and I ended up having a common ancestor born in 1607?), I was approached by three random people who recognized me--one quite enthusiastically--but did I have even a sliver of an idea about who they were? Not a clue. I'm really not seeking out more moments like that in my life. Plus, am I looking for more ways to disappoint people who are already in my life with even more ways to snub them through lack of regular communication? Nope. Though I don't really intend to snub! It's just that I'm a really bad corresponder!! You, know, my advice is to just expect it. Expect me to fail to stay in touch. Doesn't mean I'm not thinking of you! (Eve and I totally have this understanding down. I know she's not offended if months and months go by and vice versa. It's a very relaxing relationship.) Don't lift your hopes up just to see them crashing down later. Isn't that just the worse defense? "Don't blame me, I'll never get better?" Hmmm . . . I'll work on it. Still, though, regard this message as a caveat to knowing me.

It's really quite amazing that I've continued this blog now for a year--minus June, that is. It is, after all, some form of communication, or at least of journalling. Never kept that up for a year, either. Ah . . . it's a brand new world.

P.S. Gail, I don't know if I'm the R.J. you referred to in your Facebook post, but that's what inspired this rambling explanation!