August 22, 2006
Postcards in Words
There's still a little too much going on to distill into well-crafted, personal life prose. I submit, instead, verbal postcards:
A large, dimly green glass aquarium fed by a dripping pipe and filled with heftily proportioned live frogs
All that and much more in the first of three Asian markets we've explored. The tank below held three large, tube-snouted turtles. Behind us, little Chinese men dipped long-handled nets into tanks full of fish, scooped out a likely victim, and then swung the net over the counter for the customer to examine.
A ziploc bag full of slender syringes with hot pink plastic caps on the needles
No, we haven't become junkies. But Whittier had an unfortunate accident with a falling windowsill and had to be taken to the vet here. The combination of pain and Whittier's uncompromisingly wretched personality necessitated her placement in "The Box" to be temporarily anesthetized. She turned out to be fine -- just a bruised leg -- but we're shooting anti-inflammatories in her mouth for the rest of the week.
A box of mochi ice cream, a pint of passion fruit sorbet, a package of pork and vegetable shumai, a package of frozen edamame, a ziploc of thin, golden brown wonton noodles, and a bag of steamed char siu bau
A vertiable cornucopia of tropical and Asian cuisine sitting cheerfully in my freezer. My stomach has not been this delighted since I was back in Hawaii for Christmas.
My little white MacBook sitting, closed and disenfranchised, on the dining room table, battery by its side
He's waiting for a special box to arrive so that he can take a trip to the magic, shiny white land of Steve Jobs where real geniuses -- rather than the flustered, unhelpful man wearing a genius shirt at the Apple store here -- will replace his stained top case and, more importantly, talk him out of shutting down intermittently but without reproducible cause.
A stack of papers, a manila envelope, and three paperback publications of various sizes, messily gathered in a pile
The Graduate School of Arts and Sciences oriented me today. Now that I know that all the other students are just as confused as I am about taxable fellowships, optional prescription drug plans, and the logic of registering so late in August, I already feel a sense of community. It's a uncertain, fact-hungry, wondering kind of community, but hey. Or maybe that's from the wine they served at the GSAS reception...
A colorful striped card in Noel's wallet that says City Museum member
Possibly life threatening but ridiculously cool warehouse-cum-explorable art. We're members now; come visit us in September and we'll take you for free.
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August 17, 2006
We Re-enter the 21st Century
Internet access has arrived at the new Weichbrodt household. Huzzah.
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August 09, 2006
Nutshells
Sporadic internet connectivity does little to inspire prose. Still, we update.
How We Save the Environment: Noel has begun taking the train to work.
How Elissa Keeps Busy: translating her German book on Paul Klee and painting the edges of the living and dining rooms a lovely "Winter Garden".
Appliances Still Needed: washer and dryer.
Furniture Still Needed: more bookshelves, desk, and chest.
Largest Annoyance in Kitchen: lack of shelves in pantry.
Effects on Diet: without internet access and tired of her cookbooks, Elissa has taken to making things up. She has since reinvented the St. Louis classic, toasted ravioli, and discovered the funny herb tarragon.
Out of Town Visitors (but not House Guests) in the Last Week: 4.
Impending Out of Town Visitors (but not House Guests) in the Coming Week: 7-9.
Covenant Seminary Students in the Church Small Group We Visited on Monday: 0. (!!!)
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August 03, 2006
Elissa in St. Louis: Intentional Daily Excitement
I never considered my life in Chattanooga to be particularly dull. But, St. Louis life thus far -- all six days of it -- has certainly one-upped my former southern home in terms of excitement. Consider:
On Saturday we (with the help of one Zach Wood) unloaded our truck in the middle of a thunderstorm. Also, Whittier, still a little tipsy from her sedatives, slid down the stairs before anyone could grab a camera.
On Sunday we (again with ZW and the sweet-saw-that-belonged-to-his-friend) quite literally cut out the bannister and wooden bars that were encasing our extremely narrow stair case. For Noel, this move was driven primarily by aesthetics. On a purely utilitarian level, the eradication was necessary if we ever wanted to furnish our second story.
On Monday I tried to wreak havoc on the interstate and succeeded at least partially. Events that require too much back story to relate conspired and left me sitting on the shoulder of Highway 40 in a friend's pick up truck that had previously been piled high with plywood. I was unharmed, the truck was fine, and the little green VW that had leapt out irrationally before my barreling mass of steel had disappeared, apparently healthy. The interstate fared least well, littered as it was with wooden beams and boards.
At this point in the week, I started telling Noel that I was trying to "do one exciting thing every day." I have not had to try very hard.
On Tuesday we had our first overnight house guests in the form of two Chattanooga friends who had just arrived, moving truck in tow, in St. Louis but were rendered temporarily homeless by the findings of a housing inspector who essentially deemed their prospective home a whitewashed sepulchure. We squeezed our queen air mattress into the box-filled back bedroom and ate dinner on the living room floor.
Wednesday was designated cordless drill day. I spent a happy afternoon assembling our "audio pier," installing hooks in our closet, and discovering a poorly patched hole the previous owner had hidden with a towel rack. I also used our broiler for the first time, an event of particular note since our previous house's oven -- along with its uncertain temperature issues -- also declined to broil.
On Thursday, while removing paint from the stairs, I tried to blow myself up, but succeeded only in shorting out the brand new heat gun and subsequently setting off the fire alarm with its replacement.
While living a life packed full of excitement is a worthy endeavor, it also leaves little time for unpacking. On the other hand, our lack of in-house internet for two more weeks (thanks to Charter's inexplicable dearth of technicians) does open up some free moments, as yet unoccupied by further death-defying adventures...
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July 25, 2006
Live from STL
Tomorrow, we become home owners.
Due to the (actually serendipitous) misalignment of Noel's start date, the closing date of our house, and our moving date, I am taking a forced, midweek vacation from the whirlwind of packing and cleaning. Good Yoshi and I drove up this morning, and, after taking care of some permit business, he is meeting up with a friend while I people watch from inside a coffee shop on the University City Loop.
I've realized that when I people watch in Chattanooga -- and even more so when I'm back in Hawaii -- I see the passersby as pieces of a narrative. I know the setting well enough to set characters inside the frame, to conjure little stories for them to inhabit. I can recognize a mountain momma, imagine the contents of her Whole Foods grocery bags, and wonder if she is on her way to pick up her kids from horseback riding or mandolin lessons. I can list the eateries where the man with mustard-colored dreds is likely to frequent. I can tell a Covenant freshman from twenty feet away.
But, the people here aren't stories yet. They're sketches -- or sometimes polaroids -- little contextless bits, like the figures I cut out of magazines and layer into impossible collages. I'm realizing again how people and place weave together, changing each other; sitting and watching here will take, and give, more energy and interest.
I would never have planned, or allowed, for myself to quietly sit in my new neighborhood and city. If left to my own devices, I would have been speeding about immediately, figuring out where to go, how to get there, what to do, and how to do so quickly. God was kind to make me still for an afternoon.
I think -- now -- I am eager to learn this place.
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July 21, 2006
Gathering Scatters
The busyness of planning for, packing, and effecting a move leaves little time for cogent reflection. Even when tackling emotional baggage, I've found myself thinking more in questions and lists than sentences or paragraphs.
(Also, apparently, I make more puns. I blame this on my husband, who puns even without stress.)
What will I miss about Chattanooga? The mountains. My brother and sister. Friends (of which this picture is a representation of an idea, not a limited enumeration.) A professor or two. Our church. As yet inexplicable southern pride, weird roadside anomolies, and other assorted cultural events.
Questions range in interest and helpfulness. There are the mundane and unnecessary: Do we have to switch from Chattablogs? How many pounds of books do we own? Have I escaped without an accent? Then, there are the more intriguing and possibly helpful wonderings that still haven't managed enough reflective time at the table: Have I ever had an original academic thought in my life? Why haven't I thought through the cultural implications of my background and current neighborhood situation? What would it take to convince Rachel Watanabe to move to St. Louis?
But, I suppose the three seven hour drives I'll make in the next week could be a means of grace. Distilling could take a while.
---- Edit -----
After rereading this, I think I've inadvertently stumbled upon an extended beer-making metaphor. Nice.
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July 03, 2006
Packing Lessons Learned: 1
Looking online at unattainable home decor objects in between packing boxes of more mundane possessions actually increases thankfulness for said pedestrian articles. Case in point? At least I don't have to pack this:
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Hope Two Years
Not only is July 3 my half birthday, it was something of a milestone two years ago on a beach in Hawaii.
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June 26, 2006
The Other Women
For the last month or so, our lives have been invaded by a peculiar people group: the IT Recruiter. The IT Recruiter works for a consulting firm, trawling the internet to find candidates to fill their client needs. The IT Recruiter is generally a twenty or thirty-something female. She does not have a degree in computer science, but she can wing the technical speak. She tends to fixate on the more minute aspects of position listings. If, for example, there is a job that lists "1.5 years" as the minimum experience needed, she will flatly disregard it; Noel has 2 years of experience. She is cordial, but lacks any sense of humor. She will talk to you for three days straight, then leave you hanging for a week without communication. She promises big jobs and big raises.
Within a week of posting Noel's resume on monster.com and Yahoo HotJobs, I was juggling phone calls and answering e-mails from a half dozen IT recruiters. I would meet Noel for lunch, clutching a post-it note with names like Erica, Vanessa, and Lisa scribbled on it. "Abby called," I would tell him, "and you need to call her back right away. Lonnie wants to know if you know ASP.net, so you should call her too." At times I felt like a pagan queen orchestrating harem visits. "You need to call Erin tonight and then, if you're not too tired, Vanessa should get an e-mail." To the credit of this people group, one lady did get Noel an interview with a St. Louis firm. On the other hand, several other recruiters, for all their aggressive talk, simply faded away. But I diligently took message and ghost wrote e-mails, waiting for these ladies to deliver.
But no more. Oh no. Now, to IT Recruiters, I say:
Oh yes. IT Recruiters had nothing to do with the fabulous position Noel just landed with Northrup Grumman. That was all me. (Well, okay, his experience, credentials, and good interviewing skills played a role too).
And so, fluttering gaggle of IT recruiters, we bid you farewell. You'll be getting a "Dear John" letter from me soon.
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June 20, 2006
Looking Ahead
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June 13, 2006
Physics and Life
At some point in my elementary school education, I learned about this nifty thing called potential energy. Potential energy exists whenever an object which has mass has a position within a force field; in the case of us earthlings, that force is usually gravity. A ball before it's kicked, a rollercoaster car before it descends, and a swing before it's pushed all have potential energy. PE=mgh, baby.
And that, folks, is what Noel and I are full of right now. Which is fine. Potential energy, however, is not as much fun to write about.
(No need to thank me for the lesson in obtuse life metaphors and elementary physics.)
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June 07, 2006
Cancelled
I am a horrible person.
Yesterday I had an awkward conversation with an awkward ministry representative. We've reevaluated our budget, I said, and we need to start giving to some of our friends who are going overseas. We're sorry. No, we did not want to have a "grace period;" we would be giving monthly gifts to these other people.
"Oh, okay, so you're wanting to cancel the child?"
She said it sweetly. Uneasily. Awkwardly. But the words hung there. I was a child canceller.
Crap.
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May 31, 2006
Comcast, Why Must Thee Hate?
There are three pieces of pink paper sitting on our table. Three receipts of service from our friendly Comcast technicians. Further, each slip commemorates the arrival of a new DVR box into our home. Three pink pieces. Three DVR boxes. Did I mention that we collected this trio in just under a week and a half?
Now, let's be honest. Our household has some deep issues with Comcast Cable. In fact, Noel would be eager to point out that he is full of loathing for this telecommunications whale. But, after several months of correct billing cycles, uninterrupted service, and, um, 7 channels, we were ready to trust again. And, let's be honest; we needed the ESPNs for the World Cup.
Our pink paper collection process began:
There was Short Dude. In his thickly heeled boots, he came up to my shoulder, and I had to offer him a chair -- for standing -- so that he could reach our cable box. That was Box #1. We'll call it Frank. Sadly, Frank -- like his namesake -- hated soccer. Instead of politely recording and playing back the Champions League final, Frank was spiteful. Frank stuttered, stalled, and repeatedly died.
We called in the big guns. Hulk Hogan and his back-up, Mr. T came. They gave us a new box, Ted, and then hung out for forty-five minutes while they double checked, tested, and waited for everything to download. Hulk Hogan told me that he ran youth camps in Ukraine. Then, he lowered his voice, and told me, quietly, that his true love was cartooning. I liked him. Mr. T shared his own Comcast-related angst. He was not down with the current restructuring. I liked him too.
The box, Ted, seemed to adjust well to his new home. He worked for a while. He let us watch things. He let us record things. Then came the blue screens with error messages. The unresponsiveness to direct button pushing. The false accusations of having a full memory card.
Taupe Crayon Man came yesterday. Not the brightest crayon in the box. He stared at the blue error screen for a while. "I have no idea what that means," he told me. Further staring ensued, followed by a quick unplug-replug action. "That's the weirest thing I've ever seen," he muttered. (Sheltered life, apparently.) After puttering about for a while, he gave up and decided to give us a new box. Out went Ted, in came Box #3.
I'm not naming this one until he's been here for a month.
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May 30, 2006
Weekender
We're in the middle by the other Asians
It's not every three day weekend that you get to bake bourbon cake, grill out for a friend's birthday, karaoke with rednecks, watch whiskey ferment, worship well, hike your neighborhood ridge, create a "pin the topping on the taco" game, breathe a sigh of relief, buy pants, rob a bank, er, watch a heist movie, and celebrate another friend with peanut butter chocolate brownies.
Props to our social coordinator.
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May 23, 2006
Ranger Rocks Out
If you are a single Scandinavian woman who enjoys whiskey, guns, and hand-piecing quilts, I have got *the* man for you. Ryan "Ranger" Petersen can fix a sink, build a fire, catch a fish, and probably build an entire wilderness settlement with his bare hands in two hours. Also, as evidenced by these pictures, the man can dance.
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May 21, 2006
Roadies
Ah, back in Chatty. If I-24 had a frequent driver club, Noel and I would easily be Platinum Members by this point.
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May 16, 2006
W Hotel
Since the beginning of May, the W hotel motel has served as the primary support location for Transitioners. We are proud to offer one twin bed, one fold down futon, one couch, and one queen size trampoline for your sleeping comfort. Do your laundry in our in-house washer and dryer, kick back and watch some of our limited cable channels, or test your luck with our exotic, ferocious house cat. Breakfast is free and served every morning at your convenience.
But the W is not just for spending the night! Our spacious attic and out-of-the-way back bedroom are prime storage locations for all your Rubbermaid-containered possessions that you can't take home for the summer but will still need once you manage to find permanent housing. Our expansive back porch and yard are the perfect spot to kick back with a pipe and some bourbon or to throw a very large barbecue.
The W managers know what it's like to live on the go -- what with a wedding in Peoria this past weekend and another wedding in St. Louis this coming weekend -- and they do their best to accomodate your transient lifestyle. For reservations, just call. The other beds are taken, but the trampoline is still vacant for this evening.
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May 10, 2006
Thickening Hair
I have a lot of hair. The strands themselves are deceptively fine, but, when marshalled together into a ponytail, the resulting diameter is about the size of a golf ball. And, thanks to my mom, it is also very Asian hair: straight, slippery, and stubborn.
All this makes getting my haircut a surefire adventure. In Hawaii, little grandmothers would scoop my hair off of the salon floor and stuff it into plastic bags, excitedly telling me that they were going to make a lot of pin cushions out of the dark brown piles. The first time I had my hair cut on the mainland, the hair dresser almost had a nervous breakdown; no matter how carefully she pinned and snipped, there was a never-ending, tumbling procession of layers. My best mainland haircut came at a Vietnamese-owned salon in Houston, where the head barber snipped delightedly, the blow-dryer took twenty minutes to dry the heavy thatch, and the floor-sweeper discarded four dust bins full of my tresses.
But unlike Noel's hair, which is immediately intimidating, the dread of my locks develops slowly, building to a frightening peak throughout the duration of the haircut.
I sit down in the swiveling chair and begin a mental countdown. Within three seconds of sweeping my hair up and draping me with the black haircutting cape comes the inevitable: "Well you have quite a bit of hair, dontcha?" The tone is confident, touched with something like bemusement. "Yes," I reply evenly, "I do. I have a lot of hair. It probably needs to be thinned and texturized."
It is my warning.
Ten minutes into the haircut, as the hairdresser resorts to using two clips where one would usually suffice, she remarks again, "You sure have a lot of hair." I smile.
Fifteen minutes into the haircut she is tackling my head with her spray bottle. "That's a lot of hair," she says, spritzing energetically. "It's wet on top but dry on the bottom." And then she laughs a little, but with tension.
Twenty-five minutes in, another hair dresser walks past and stares at the shaggy brown stacks on the salon floor. "She has a lot of hair." "Yes," replies my stylist, "she has a lot of hair."
Thirty minutes. The stylist is warning me that "it's still really heavy." I'm not sure what she means since my head feels significantly lighter after shedding four and a half inches. She clarifies: "I mean, you just have so much hair."
By the forty-five minute mark, the cutting is finished and the stylist is using twice the recommended amount of pomade to coax my hair into some semblance of order. "You have a lot of hair," she kindly tells me, "probably enough for four people."
After I pay her, she hands me her card. "You'll need to get this trimmed regularly if you want it to work," she says. "You just have so much hair."
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May 04, 2006
Grandpa Takes on Chattanooga
My Hawaii grandpa -- a second generation Japanese American and World War II vet -- arrived in Chattanooga today. He walked into my house wearing a jacket and a winter beanie. Cold here, he said.
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May 01, 2006
Family in Tow, Posting will Slow
The fam is here for a week-long vacation, built around Josh's Saturday graduation from Covenant. If you see a pack of giants lumbering about town with a small Japanese woman in tow, that's them. Say "hi."
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April 24, 2006
My Green Onion Was On Steroids
Last year I planted green onions in our back yard. If this sounds impressive...it wasn't. I just let the leftover ends of store-bought green onions soak in some water to kick-start the roots and then shoved the little guys into the ground.
They've always been hearty fellows. I had a continuous supply of green onions all fall and winter long. Then, earlier this spring, I noticed something unusual: one of the plants was getting bigger. Not just growing new, slender shoots, mind you. He was increasing significantly in height and girth.
At first I wondered... steroids? But I couldn't believe that such a fresh, green thing would dabble in something so dangerous. Then, other things started to happen. His face started to swell; if he had a voice it probably would have started squeaking; other bulges developed.
I tried to talk to it. I tried to tell him that it wasn't worth the personal risk just to be the biggest green onion in the garden. "You weren't meant to be this big," I told him. But he ignored me...and kept growing.
Then, the mood swings started. I woke up one morning and he had tipped dangerously low to the right. I tried to straighten him out, as best I could, but he just overcompensated and swung to the left. I told him he needed to think about seeing a counselor.
It was too late.
Last night, we found him, collapsed, broken by his own unnatural size.
So... then we took a lot of pictures, used roughly one-sixteenth of him in an omelet, and plunked the remaining trunk into a waterbottle. Steroids get you nowhere, kids.
September 2005-April 2006.
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April 19, 2006
Matching Game
This is my brother, the stud. You may have also seen him flipping on trampolines, flipping off cliffs into the ocean, or, occasionally, just, uh, flipping. He only wears covered shoes when the temperature dips into the twenties, he once received second degree burns from boiling oatmeal water, and he enjoys eating oranges in the shower. This man is looking for a car to call his own. The first car, in fact, that he will ever call his own.
Better sisters than I might serve this need by asking my reputable readers to let me know if they are selling a good, reliable car. I, however, am far more intrigued by the idea of finding a car that best matches my brother's singular personality and style.
A Camaro Iroc-Z? In electric blue?
An El Camino SS, jacked up and with a Ronald McDonald paint job?
An old school wood-panel station wagon?
Or an amazingly shady baby blue Volvo?
Don't try to explain. Go with your gut. I think at least one of these makes sense.
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April 18, 2006
On the Inextricable Nature of Cultural Easter Expectations (or) Mean Eggs
As I walked towards our front door yesterday, a flash of neon orange caught my eye. I paused, readjusted my head to ensure that all neurons were continuing to fire properly, and peered into the tumble of green stuff that borders our front walk. Yep, bright orange.
And there. Nearby. Was that a trick of the light or really a smooth, neon green...something? I gingerly pushed through the mix of ornamental grass and stubborn, sticky weeds and pulled out two plastic Easter eggs: one orange, one green.
They felt disappointingly light.
I shook them, just to make sure.
Nope, empty.
The resulting contemplations on this mystery ricocheted shamelessly between rationality and pop culture musings. Empty...not from Noel. Not the Easter Bunny...oh, crap, unless it was the Donnie Darko bunny. That would be awesome. Probably not too great for the neighbors' kids, though. Did they put these eggs here? No, they weren't home for Easter. Passing neighbor on a massive egg hunt? Would they walk all the way up the hill to our house? How about Todd Willison dressed as the Easter bunny as in the Catacomb plays of yore, looking eerily like Donnie Darko. Were Easter bunnies scary to me before I saw that movie? I guess even if there was candy in here it wouldn't be the wisest thing to eat it anyway. Do Ukrainians have Easter bunnies?
I went inside and tried to console myself with a slice of paska. What I really wanted, though, was Easter chocolate.
Unhelpful eggs.
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April 10, 2006
Chicago Seen, Heard, and Eaten
Things seen:
And, ironically, given the conference subject:
Oh boy.
(The best sight, though, was seeing our dear friends Dustin and Annie.)
Things heard:
- Father Edward T. Oakes on Balthasar and beauty as the starting point for apologetics
- Jim Fodor on reading Scripture as both a cognitive and aesthetic craft
- Makoto Fujimura on beauty springing from a recognition of what is lost
- Bruce Herman on recognizing the beauty in the still-broken but glorified body of Christ
- Jeremy Begbie playing Bach and Chopin
- Artie Terry on how movies work psychologically and physiologically
- Roy Anker on the capacity of film to display the "sacred spaces wherein God shows up"
- E. John Walford on the art historical perspective of beauty in the transformation of the disfigured
- Justin Borger and myself saying "Neo-Platonic" with alarming regularity
Things eaten:
- Vietnamese-Chinese shrimp broccoli stir fry
- homemade ramen bowls with chicken vegetable shumai
- assorted wonders at an Indian all-you-can-eat buffet
- "Pots o' Gold" at an Irish pub
- bacon, cheese, mushroom, and spinach stuffed crepes with poppyseed dressing
- Earl de la Creme tea
deep dish pizza
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March 30, 2006
Dim
As I've said before, I tend to believe that you can come to terms with anything if you can come to terms with it on an aesthetically formal level.
It might work for the "big decisions about the future," too.
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March 17, 2006
A Strange Tale of Octopi, Mice, and Missing Skeletons
(Disclaimer: according to the dictionary, "octopuses" is the preferred plural for the topic we are about to discuss. I'm sad and rebellious, and I shall persist in using "octopi" as it sounds far cooler for our purposes here.)
A few nights ago, over dinner with some friends, we discussed the wonders of octopi. Perhaps "discussed" is too generous a term. It really was more like a factoid round, with each of us offering what trivia knowledge we possessed on the creature, thus creating a veritable wiki of a conversation. Octopi have "arms," not "tentacles." Octopi can change color. They are edible, even when fresh. They can even kill a shark. But for Tricia, our resident octopus devotee, the octopus's most fantastic quality is its ability to squeeze through spaces no bigger than its eye. That's what you get when you have practically no internal skeleton.
All of this reminded me of another strange but far less enlightening conversation I had a few years ago while I was working as a graphic design intern for the Department of Defense. Our office, although sealed off hermetically from the sun, was apparently still pentrable by rodents. One of my bosses was a "chief" in the Navy, and her office, in particular, was being hit hard by the invasion. "I don't think it's mice," one of other ladies in the office remarked one morning. I thought I saw one run by the other night and it was too big to be a mouse."
"Oh no," Chief replied firmly. "It's mice. I had my office door locked last night and there was still stuff that had been chewed through this morning."
Seeing that no one had quite made the same logical leap, Chief continued, "Mice don't have bones. That's the difference between mice and rats. Rats have bones, mice don't. That's why they can squeeze under doors and through cracks."
Mmm.
That's one of those firmly-held factoids you should just keep to yourself.
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March 09, 2006
The World Comes to Wendy's
When we saw the confused-looking mass of people standing in and out of line at Wendy's, we almost turned around and walked back out. But, our wallets were thin and the lure of the 99 cent menu was strong. We took our place in the back of line. I started counting. There were 14 of them: most were edging out of middle-age, but a couple landed somewhere in the thirty-something range. It was an unexpected group to see at a fast food joint on a Sunday night, particularly with just one man-with-a-credit-card preparing to foot the bill. A reunion of former Wendy employees, perhaps?
And then, we realized. About half of them were not speaking English. Neither of us could quite place the language, but it was unmistakably eastern European. Suddenly, the strange contrast of fashion that had hitherto befuddled me made sense. Half of the company exhibited a typical southern aesthetic: oxfords and khakis for the men, brightly colored twin sets and coordinated earrings for the women. But "Eastern European" explained that lady-in-salmon's lavish embroidery. That woman's fur lined boots, that lady's orange-and-black tweed skirt, and that man's silky burgundy tie and mustard houndstooth jacket found a happy, harmonious place in the grand geographical scheme of international fashion.
Wait... Eastern European?! What brought this eclectic group together? What were they doing here? And, most importantly, what would they think of Wendy's? We began listening in earnest.
Ordering was a painful process. The man-with-the-credit-card tried to be helpful and corral folks towards the register, but those who had already ordered found themselves captivated by the strange and wonderful items requested by those who followed...and tacked on additional requests to the last person in line. Another salad, please? Make that two. What is this "Caesar"? What was that brown thing in the cup? The lady in salmon trotted back up to the register with one final request: "Can they have more potatoes?" she asked. "They like those a lot. Maybe three?"
By the time it was our turn to order, the Wendy's employees were understandably exhausted and their supplies were running low. Among our planned dinner of 99 cent items we asked for a potato. "We're all out," the girl sighed.
We were bemused. The world had come to Wendy's, spent $63.66, and eaten all the baked potatoes. Is this the globalization everyone's been talking about?
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March 07, 2006
Life Slices
We stood, camera in hand, before a battered, abandoned house on the 54th block of Virginia. Three middle-aged men walked by. "What're y'all doin'?" one yelled at us.
"Taking pictures for an art project."
"Art project?!" he exclaimed, incredulously. "In 1967..." He paused for effect. "I drew a Stick. Man. And that was the last art project I did."
A few minutes later we training our lens on the dilapidated "Motown" house on the corner of Virginia and 55th. After observing curiously for a few moments, a little fellow -- wearing a fur-lined parka three sizes too big for his eleven year old frame -- approached us. "Dere's possums in dat house," he offered helpfully.
"Really?" Noel asked.
"Yeah, I've seen 'em."
"Do you like possums?" I asked.
The boy shrugged nochalantly. "Yeah."
"Why? They're ugly."
"Naaaah." He jogged off to meet a friend, shaking his head at our obviously skewed aesthetic.
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March 06, 2006
That's Class
Noel and I went to the Foundry on Friday night for some drinks and jazz. To me, the Foundry is a triumph of bar layout design. The space is flowing but still broken into four sections: the bar scene, the pool and shuffleboard tables, the big tv area, and the jazz band audience. Generally, it's a harmonious blending of worlds, enabling bar-goers with a range of priorities to all do exactly as they please in a single location. This freedom, however, is unfortunately not recognized by every patron.
Noel ordered a bourbon, I took a vodka and tonic, and we settled down at one of the small, candle-lit tables in the "listening" quadrant. The Kevin Roberts Jazz Quartet launched into their set. I could practically feel myself oozing intelligence and sophistication.
Then, they entered. Two girls in their early twenties tottered in on exceptionally lofty heels, each clutching a blue plastic cup -- the 16 oz. party model -- in a hand. It soon became clear that whatever substance filled those cups had already done a thorough job of releasing the ladies from any obligation to normal social courtesies. After trading in their blue cups for red wine, the girls began to listen talk. Very loudly. The blonde fished her cell phone out of her sequined purse and yelled, "Wow, I've missed six calls!" "Really?!" her brunette companion responded with equal volume.
The trumpeter continued on, cruelly ignoring the blonde's attempts to return a call. "I can't hear you, it's so loud in here!" the blonde complained into her phone. "Oh, oh, okay. We'll be there soon!"
"How 'bout right now," Noel muttered bitterly.
Unfortunately, there were some personal matters to handle first. It seemed that Blonde was skeptical of Brunette's relationship with "Steve." Apparently she was quite confident in sharing these reservations, seeing as she announced her concerns at a comfortable volume for all adjacent tables to hear. "I mean, I like Steve a lot," she confided loudly, "I think he's a respectable guy, you know? But it's hard, you know, it's hard to like, you know, like tell and stuff." Having dispensed such meaningful sentiments in such an intimate fashion, Blonde drained her wine glass expertly and Brunette followed suit. A few, merciful minutes later they tottered back out, squealing delightedly as they met some other friends.
Perhaps it was just the vodka and tonic taking effect, but I could have sworn that, as the girls exited, all four musicians hit a particularly triumphant chord.
Continue reading "That's Class"
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March 03, 2006
A New Household Addition
So, we bought a plant...
and named it Tina.
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March 01, 2006
The Ontology of Being Mixed
"So, um, what are you?" asked the pharmacist, handing back my driver's license.
"Excuse me?"
"You know, what are you? Your name is so, um..."
I decided to rescue her before she dug herself deeper. "Oh, that. Well, I'm half-Japanese, which explains my middle name, but I married someone with a German last name."
"Oh. That's pretty confusing, huh?"
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February 27, 2006
Things Are Happening.
Some may recall that I was feeling like this...
...about this place:
Today, I'm feeling more like this...
...or this
Also, I think that this guy...
...would look great at this place...
Still, we'll keep waiting and praying, always trusting that God is kind. My heart is not anxious, and I am thankful.
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February 20, 2006
Locks, Keys, and a (Still) Physical Plant
Upon arriving at work this morning, I tugged ineffectively at the Writing Center door. For one of the first times in its existence as a gateway to superior grammatical and semantic structure, the door was locked. But, I was ready. After all, Physical Plant* had deemed me responsible enough to own a key to this hallowed hall of learning. I jingled my keys importantantly. Unfortunately, the door refused to be impressed; my key did not, by any stretch of the imagination or exertion of personal strength, fit the lock.
[Excursus] The bolder ones among us may have, at this point, marched confidently over to Physical Plant and indignantly demanded a new key. I, however, am strangely insecure in my ability to use keys. I spent much of my girlhood trying to reconcile the fact that I turned the key away from the doorjam to open our house door but towards the doorjam to open the car door. Or something. The whole lock-key-turn-open relationship never standardized itself enough in my psyche. After five minutes of standing at the Writing Center door, however, I decided that a jaunt up to Physical Plant was entirely justified. [/Excursus]
It took some persistence, but once at the Physical Plant office, I convinced the nice man that no matter what the official label declared, my key did not work. After some careful comparison with the almighty key database he agreed that he needed to cut me a new key and ushered me into a nearby workroom. I was expecting an imposing, whirring key cutting monster. Instead, my friendly Physical Plant employee reached into a box and pulled out a metal contraption that stood about as high as an old fashioned typewriter, but with half the width. He tucked a blank key into a slot and then turned a large, numbered dial on the contraption's side and pressed a lever. 9. Punch. 7. Punch. 1. Punch. Tiny golden bits of metal clinked onto the table. 6. Punch. 0. Punch. 6. Punch.
"Now I just need to stamp it," he told me. He retrieved two small, shallow boxes, each containing neat rows of what appeared to be miniature chisels. He picked out the "H" stamp, poised it carefully on the key head, and then knocked its head smartly with a hammer. Each letter and number in the key's identification stamp was similarly imprinted, one by one, with an echoing report. "This should work," he said confidently, handing me my new, shiny key. This one, I'm happy to say, worked flawlessly.
Does your college or employer eschew technological key-cutting advances in favor of personal craftsmanship? Mine does, and I find it strangely delightful. Two points for Physical Plant.
* I know they call themselves "Facilities Management" now, but you can't make clever 1980's pop song puns with that name. "Let's get Physical (Plant)" remains a fond memory.
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February 17, 2006
A Coconut in the House of Representatives
Jason, J. Earle Tyler, Ellis, and Lydia, I dedicate this post to you:
You've likely heard that the House of Representatives recently passed a resolution stating that "no United States assistance should be provided directly to the Palestinian Authority if any representative political party holding a majority of parliamentary seats within the Palestinian Authority maintains a position calling for the destruction of Israel." You've probably also heard that the vote was an overwhelming 418-1, a rare show of unity in a Congress increasingly split on party lines.
All this leaves me with the unusual privilege of telling folks, "Hey, guess what! You know that lone vote against the resolution? Yeah, that was my home state's congressional representative,
Neil Abercrombie." w00t.
Perhaps this will actually help our tourist industry. Folks from across the nation, spurred by intense and peverse curiousity, can fly out to observe the strange and magical place that produced this political anomaly.
I leave, quickly, before the coconut puns start falling... oh dear.
Posted by elissa at 04:47 PM | Comments (7) | TrackBack
February 15, 2006
Love and Irony
I admit it. I wanted to blog something sweet and wifely for Valentine's Day. Glancing at my archives you, gentle reader, can of course see that I did not. It wasn't completely a matter of time management or writer's block, either. You see, in my mind, writing a simple Valentine's profession of love would have broken two of the cardinal rules of hip blogging: 1) never admit to celebrating a holiday that Hallmark also celebrates and 2) never say anything without a touch of irony. Sincerity is rarely hip.
Thankfully, this morning, I realized that, as Jane Tompkins writes in her seminal essay "Sentimental Power: Uncle Tom's Cabin and the Politics of Literary History,":
...twentieth-century critics have taught generations of students to equate popularity with debasement, emotionality with ineffectiveness, religiosity with fakery, domesticity with triviality, and all of these, implicitly, with womanly inferiority.
She argues that sentimental novels actually evidence an underappreciated "intellectual complexity, ambition, and resourcefulness," and can actually function as catalysts for change. In some ways, she argues, they are more effective and valuable than the rational, ironic, modernist discourse we cherish.
So.
Noel, you love me so well that events like Valentine's day become superfluous; I am already sure of how you care for and delight in me.
Hmm. This all didn't come out as unironic as I had hoped...
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February 07, 2006
An Adventure in Real Fruit!
While I was sick a couple of weeks ago, Noel picked up some lemon sorbet for me as a treat. It was not a brand either of us recognized, but the bright blue box declared "Lemon Sorbet" in bold yellow letters so little else mattered. Last night, defying the frigid outdoor temperature, we ripped open the carton.
Hmm. Instead of a smooth expanse of creamy, pale yellow sorbet, we found:
Yeah. That's a real lemon, filled with sorbet and sealed into a plastic pouch.
Apparently, this is some nifty gourmet sorbet, inspired by the Italians but manufactured in Spain and, well, Franklin, Illinois. For some reason, the unexpected opulence of our dessert was somewhat off-putting. All we had asked for was some icy, lemony concoction, and instead we suddenly had a sorbet's mini circle of life in our hands: crystallized fruit shells, lavishly filled with premium, all natural gelato, made from that lemon's own pulp and juice. Besides, you can't really take a lemon with a hat seriously.
We stood there, just gazing at it for a while, wondering if some tanned waiter in white linen would soon appear and offer us an umbrella for our exotic dessert. No one came. We ate it, of course, but a forced luxury is rarely appreciated as much as it should be.
And what was this doing at Bi-Lo anyway?
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February 06, 2006
Faith Gladdened or, Tinkerbell's Very Good Day
When I was growing up, there was a group of cool, twenty-to-thirty-something ladies in my church.
One of those ladies, for reasons far too complicated and rife with inside jokes and explanations of sundry unique personalities, was called "Tinkerbell." In this post-Paris Hilton age, I know that sounds silly and possibly uncomfortable, but just trust me, okay? It was cool. For all common purposes "Tinkerbell" might as well have been her given, Christian name. Once, she was even entered into the church directory under "T."
In practically every Christian book on romance or seeking God's will or "biblical womanhood and manhood" there is a chapter on people who are "called to singleness." Usually, this chapter includes an inspiring description of a single woman who is in her late thirties, unmarried, but has thrown her energies into the church, a choice example for singles everywhere. Those authors probably should have just written about Tink. She has had a perpetual ministry with the girls in our church for about a dozen years. She has mentored a whole troop of us through junior high, high school, and college, and she still has a gaggle of younger ones under her loving, encouraging watch. She had us over for sleepovers, led us on water balloon raids on the boys, took us out for milkshakes at one o'clock in the morning, gently challenged us if we showed up in a skirt a little too short, asked us pointed questions about boys, and always exemplified a tireless servanthood to anyone in the church.
What I appreciated about her most, though, was her bracing honesty about being single. She never hid the fact that she wanted to be married, someday. In the context of her delighted service to us girls, her longing to be a wife was a simply stated fact, not a complaint. As her twenties passed into her thirties and as forty stared her in the face, she modeled a delicate balance of being content with her season without ignoring her natural desire to be someone's wife; she believed both that Christ was sufficient... and that it is not good for man (or woman) to be alone.
I was her first girl to get married. "I always knew you'd beat me," she exclaimed upon hearing news of my engagement. She promptly spent $300 to change a plane ticket so she could be back in Hawaii for my wedding. Once again, she loved well, and without jealousy.
And so my heart danced an ecstatic jig when I received a certain phone call last night: Tinkerbell is engaged. Yes, the Lord is kind.
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January 27, 2006
Grace in the Sink
I have clean dishes.
Before you doubt my homemaking skills, let me assure you that this is not a rare state of affairs. But, I've been recovering from a bug all week -- coming home from work and crashing into bed -- and having clean dishes was among the greatest things I could hope for and the least things that I expected. Yet, at the week's end, I toddle about the house, surveying the inevitable clutter of a week's build-up, but having an empty sink and full cabinets.
Sometimes, it is in the must mundane and unextraordinary ways that we are Christ to those closest to us. Those clean dishes are Noel making grace seen and believed for me.
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January 25, 2006
An Illustrated Timeline
An illustrated timeline of my feelings about applying to graduate school, from October 2005 to the present:
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January 19, 2006
Eschewing Sequins and Other Fashion Pleas
Dear American female shopper,
It is January. You may have noticed that spring and summer collections are beginning to creep onto the shelves and racks of your favorite retailers. You may have seen the glossy fashion magazines next to the check out at Wal-Mart and skimmed through their lists of "New Spring Trends For 2006." This is all good and well. After all, remaining publically clothed is generally considered the wisest course of action, and it is less painful for all involved if said garments do not obscenely scream, "I was very fashionable thirty years ago!"
But, I must admit that I am concerned.
I want you to be careful, dear shopper, when you enter stores this spring. The force of fashion is a powerful one to reckon with. She has a nasty streak, and she is not above proclaiming something to be tasteful when, in fact, history has already proven otherwise. So she keeps, for another season, these inexplicable garments on shelves and runways, hoping to lure you.
Beware of the tiered skirt that falls uncomfortably between knee and ankle. The crinkles, the awkward length, the ungainly fabrics and patterns...all resurrect painful images of being a homeschooler in the early 90's.
Turn your eyes away from the oversized golden handbag. No one is exactly sure what strange substance it is actually made of, plus it commits the further unpardonable sin of festooning itself with tassles and metallic chain.
While you're at it, eschew the Victorian lace-up boots that have again been deemed romantic and feminine. Not only will you waste valuable time each morning roping yourself into this contraption, but you may also feel the need to adopt the accent of a British governess and take tea at 4.
Most crocheted items, too, might be best left in our past. A crocheted shrug is really little more than a creepy embrace from a slinky version of that afghan your grandmother made for you.
Finally, dear shopper, repeat after me: I will not be addicted to sequins. You do not need to look like you are becoming a mermaid, you do not need glowing, glittering shoulders, and you definitely need not feel under compulsion to fashion your purse after a prism.
Now, intrepid shopper, walk into those houses of merchandise informed and equipped. Peer, unmoved, over your aviator glasses, turn smartly away in your ballerina flats, and be free.
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January 13, 2006
It's Trying to Push Right Through My Skin
It stings to see how sin affects even personal grief. It perpetuates a lie of guilt, telling you that you have little right to feel so hurt. What is your loss in comparison to others'? It attempts to downplay the wrongness of death by swallowing the ache of the "already" into the good promises of the "not yet." It insists on noise and busyness, threatening that silence and stillness is simply indulgence.
The juxtapositions of life and loss are especially jolting when you're far away from the rest who are grieving together. Surrounded by those who do not know or who cannot participate in your mourning, the weight of normalcy presses hard. It's hard to keep running when, 5000 miles away, the lives of those dearest to you have been temporarily suspended in order to hurt.
But praise Jesus for freedom, found in grace, to ache while still believing.
Posted by elissa at 05:16 PM | Comments (1) | TrackBack
January 12, 2006
Today My Heart is Big and Sore
Late last night my brother woke me up with the news that my Aunty Gayle -- my mom's sister -- had suddenly collapsed, been rushed to the emergency room, gone into cardiac arrest twice, and was now in the ICU.
Early this morning, my mom called to tell me that Aunty didn't make it.
Aunty Gayle not only allowed, but occasionally enabled and encouraged me to try things that otherwise would have never crossed my conservative, reserved psyche. One of my earliest memories of this influence is also among my fondest. When I was four, Aunty helped me make a necklace as a Christmas present for my mom. After our huge, hand-rolled, clay beads had dried, Aunty brought out the paint. I think I wanted to paint the beads pink and white. After all, my mom wore only the smallest, subtlest jewelry and chose subdued tones for her wardrobe. “No,” Aunty said, squeezing out colors, “let’s do something louder.”
We painted them bright, canary yellow with crimson polka-dots.
It barely seems real, yet. Please pray for my mom, for her dad, for her other sister and brother, and especially for Michael, Aunty Gayle's teenaged son who is now alone. And pray for Josh and myself, too, as we hurt and long to be with our family.
in the shadow of your wings I will take refuge,
till the storms of destruction pass by. . .
God will send out his steadfast love and his faithfulness!
- Psalm 57:1, 3
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January 06, 2006
I Just Got Served...by Owen Wilson
Accompanied by our valuable gift certificate, Noel and I celebrated our first anniversary at Southside Grill last night. Since it was a Thursday night, business was quiet, and much of the dining area had been partitioned off, creating a smaller, intimate space for the sprinkling of customers. We were seated at a back table, near four other couples, all of whom had a good forty or so years on us.
And then, he appeared. "He" being Owen Wilson.
Well, if not Owen himself, then a man who bore a striking resemblance to the actor. Not the splitting image, mind you, but he possessed all salient features, from the small eyes and narrow nose to the lanky frame and wavy blond hair. He said something to us, some pleasantry, some polite inquiry, but I comprehended nothing. He sounded like Owen Wilson as well. The nasal tone, the pauses...it was all there.
It was beyond distracting.
Perhaps the actor Owen Wilson is a sophisticated and polite conversationalist off-screen, but his onscreen persona and the calm, deferential demeanor of this waiter tussled incongruently in my mind. The Southside Owen drifted about the room, materializing silently when needed with a crooked smile. I heard Owen discussing gourmet pizza with a woman enveloped in a salmon-colored shawl. He expounded knowledgably on a wine he was pouring at another table. He had a delightful exchange with the couple seated right next to us:
"I'd like to have this boxed up, please," the older gentlemen requested.
"Of course, sir."
"And the bone too. But in a different box. It's for our neighbor's dog."
Politely laughing, Owen replied, "Oh, you don't have to explain."
"But it's the truth," inserted the older but still sprightly wife. "If he doesn't give that dog a bone, it'll bite!"
Secretly, I was a little disappointed. The real Owen would have said something grossly inappropriate and hugely funny at that moment. I mean, I wanted to chime in, "Cool story, Hansel." Still, this Owen was a real charmer. That same lady was celebrating her birthday, and Owen promised to do something special for it. "Do you think he'll put a sombrero on her head, sing happy birthday, and then spray whip cream in her face?" I asked Noel. He patted my hand gently and told me "no."
He was right. "Special" meant adding a candle to the sorbet. No song. No dance. And yet, when the lady expressed her relief at the lack of hubbabaloo, I thought I detected a hint of regret when Owen replied, "No, they won't let us sing."
Somehow, this made me feel more at peace with the entire situation. We left Owen a nice tip.
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January 05, 2006
Despite What Rolling Stone Says, 2005 Was Not Necessarily the Worst Year Ever
(according to Noel and Elissa)
Best Choice: To get married.
Best Day: December 30, 2004
Greatest Domestic Accomplishment: Elissa assembling our 7' tall bookshelves armed only with a cordless drill.
Greatest Home Improvement Moment: Noel daring to take apart the kitchen sink...and then getting it all back together.
Greatest Feline Feat: Slaying three cockroaches in a single night.
Languages of the Year: German and C#.
Greatest Technological Discovery of the Year: With the right connections, you can download full-length European soccer matches. Whoa.
Greatest Creative Inspiration of the Year: The Professor Series.
Greatest Number of People We've Fed in Our Home at a Single Time: 16.
Average Number of Mouths Fed for Sunday Suppers: 9.
Best Road Trip in the Jetta TDI: Charlottesville, VA
Best Mileage in the Jetta TDI: 52 mpg.
Albums of the Year: (meaning albums that we both liked and sang along to, constantly) Picaresque, by the Decemberists and Drunkard's Prayer, by Over the Rhine
Movie of the Year: Life Aquatic & March of the Penguins
Soccer Game of the Year: UEFA Champions League Final, AC Milan vs. Liverpool
We've had our first year, and we've had it with style.
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January 03, 2006
I Meet the (Horned) Frog of My Dreams
On our way back from Hawaii, we stopped to spend a few days with Noel's family in Ardmore and Houston. Since they're good, mid-western folks, football was in order.
On something of a whim, we went to the Ev1.net Houston Bowl at Reliant Stadium on Saturday. Before the game, we debated the delicate trick of picking a team to call our own. Should we cheer for Texas Christian because they had beaten the Weichbrodt's beloved Sooners, and a win from TCU would make OU look better? Or should we cheer for Iowa State to spite TCU?
In the end, I decided that my lynchpin would be an aesthetic one. If TCU has a sweet horned frog running up and down the sideline, I said, I'll cheer for them.
We arrived at the game and took our seats: field level behind the end zone, the no fan's land. Our neighbors were predominantly clad in purple, but a renegade Iowa fa