Speed Dating, Spoolstra Style (for Liz)

The lighting was low, meant to be intimate—but in reality, the room was just dim. Looking at the row of small booths, she felt her gut twist with apprehension. Bad idea. I knew this was a bad idea. Two or three people mingled near the registration table. The man sitting behind it saw her, and smiled with hearty shallowness, like a car salesman. She squared her shoulders. You’re here, and you’re going to do it. Buck up and be brave. She smiled back, albeit less intensely, and took the last half-dozen steps to reach the table. If her hand shook with adrenaline, it was subtle enough that she was able to hold the marker steady as she filled out her nametag.
A few minutes later, she took her seat as directed in one of the small booths, feeling as if the small lamp on the table only lit her to the chin. I probably look like I have old lady jowls. The absurd thought startled her into a genuine smile. Around her, the other women also took their places. The men were shadowy figures spread across the dim room, and at the chime of a bell, each picked a table and sat down. Four minutes, and then the bell would ring again, prompting them to shift down the line of women. How anyone thought that such a shallow game would ever germinate a meaningful relationship, she surely didn’t know. You’re just here to practice conversation. No pressure. She reminded herself.

The first man took his seat at her table without introducing himself first. Strike one, she thought, most uncharitably. He was tall, but slight, and the false blonde highlights in his hair stood out even in the crummy lighting.

“Hi,” he said, a little too loudly.

Be nice; he’s probably just nervous, she scolded herself.

“Hi,” she answered.

“I’m Steve,” he said, shifting on the vinyl seat.

“Lindsey,” she answered.

One too many buttons on his oxford shirt was unfastened, and the collar had been popped. Lord, save me. The next four minutes will be an eternity.

And something in her…blossomed to life. And with it came an idea that she could not resist. Instead of shaking the hand he awkwardly offered, she propped her elbow on the table and lifted her hand in a clear invitation to arm wrestle.

“Let’s cut to the chase, ey?” she said. “If I beat you, you’re gone.”

“What?”

She felt a mischievous grin stretch across her face.

“Arm wrestle,” she said. “Let’s go.” She waggled her fingers.

He laughed nervously.

“That’s pretty funny.” He shifted on the seat again, and made no move to grasp her hand. “Is that your ice breaker? It’s a good one.”

“No, I’m pretty sure I’m serious, Steve.”

She beat him.

The next guy refused to take her up on her challenge.

The third guy almost beat her, but she still had three or four inches to fall when the bell rang, so they declared it a draw.

She beat the fourth guy. She beat the fifth guy—left handed, to give her arm a break. The sixth guy also refused to wrestle, and spent three of his minutes texting on his cell phone. That was fine with her; she felt the first beads of sweat trickling down her body, and used the break to drink some water and cool down.

The seventh guy grinned and beat her within thirty seconds. He had a beard she did not like. To pass the remaining time, she went best of seven, and held him off from total victory long enough for the bell to ring.

She went left-handed on the eighth, to rest her arm again. She beat the ninth, but it was a tough match. The last man looked strong, and she almost abandoned the game, but she couldn’t make it this far and quit. When she offered the challenge he took it. He held her off for a long time; she realized he could beat her, and was simply waiting. She did not like that, and told him so. He looked surprised—the pressure on her hand eased, just for a moment. Quickly, instinctively, she slammed his hand down. He laughed, and shook out his fingers.

And then the speed dating nightmare was over. Everyone else gathered around the bar to mingle and enjoy a complimentary drink. She wanted to leave, but she was also quite thirsty. She stayed in her seat and drained her water glass, and contemplated refilling it at the bar. Before she could decide, a waiter appeared with a carafe and offered a refill. She accepted gratefully.

“By the way,” he said, as he filled her glass. “I just won fifty bucks. Thanks, lady.”

“What? How—”

“I bet on you,” he said.

She laughed, loud and freely.

“Didn’t realize I had an audience,” she said, when she could speak. “Glad I could entertain.”

He smiled, and faded away into the shadows. She finished her water and left, quietly. No one else accosted her, and in five minutes she was outside, breathing in the free air.

pictured rocks!

And...I'm back from my lovely week-long backpacking stint up at the delightful Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore with the awesome Christ Church youth group.

This was our sunset on Tuesday night...the first one we noticed. Monday night might have had a sunset, I think...but pretty sure I was in bed. Or close to it. We started our hike on Monday afternoon in the rain...which fortunately let up after about an hour. We did about seven miles that afternoon, and were all pooped. Tuesday, I was sore but in good spirits. And on Wednesday, I finally got my pack dialed in to the "perfect" fit. I do believe I danced a little jig. With pack on.

And this was our Wednesday campsite... 

 

(sigh of delight) And our Wednesday beach....

Lovely! I actually didn't bring my camera (gasp) but I wasn't worried. Everyone else did. Check my fb for the complete albums taken by some of the kids on the trip. I just hiked and enjoyed the scenery, and they gave me pics like this...

And this....

And finally, here's a pic of us frolicking at our last swim in Lake Superior.

more kitchen

Well, for anyone who was wondering if I ever got the outlet covers put up in my kitchen...

Yes, yes I did. Of course, you may note, it was not as simple as it "should" have been. First I had to remedy my design flaw (gasp! a mistake! surely not!) and knock out some of the little glass tiles and replace with bits of subway tile, so that the covers could lie flush. Some of it was fun--I do like to tile. But I do not like recutting the same piece three times. Oh, well. It's done.

Here's some action footage. On this outlet I just had to lay a new piece on the top edge. It was pretty simple. Except it broke when we were tightening the outlets back up, so I had to do it again. Sigh. The second time, I slid little bits of tile under the bottom "ears" as well, which helped a lot. Then I had to mix up an absurdly small amount of grout. Hence the use of the baked bean can. Which I thought was awesome.

ever wonder?

You can tell a lot about someone just by studying their hands.
At least, I think so. Ok, so perhaps it's not entirely accurate--no one can change how big their hands are, for example. But otherwise...well, it's interesting to think about.
As it just so happens, I have a pair to study. Mine. (Of course, the sample size is a bit low, and biased, but cut me some slack. I'm ruminating, here.)
I have big, strong hands--for a girl. A dairy farmer would quickly put me to shame, but mine are good enough to open 89% of all jars on the face of the earth and that's something.
My nails are short but not ragged or gnawed, and my cuticles are the victims of benign neglect. They've never seen a manicure and would probably laugh at the very idea. Several of my nail beds have clearly been jammed in at one time or another, which you can see if you compare left to right.
Small scars from nicks, and cuts--all minor--and one pale streak on the back of my left pointer finger from my first experience with a chisel. Most of the women I know have smoother (and smaller, but that's beside the point) hands than I do. A little beat up, a little used. As they should be. What are hands for, if not use?
However, you can tell I'm not that tough from my lack of real calluses. My most pronounced callus is from writing. But it's on my ring finger because I'm weird like that.
So, what does all this say? I can draw conclusions because I know the answers. I know I work in an office and write a lot and...well, what else? You tell me.
Are these hands of mine special? Unique? Or all too ordinary? Yes to all of the above?

On a tangent: thinking about hands makes me think about handshakes. I got nothing but respect for my male counterparts...but I've shaken hands with a few "scholarly type" guys with hands like silk, and I just can't trust man hands like that. When I'm afraid I've hurt the guy with a healthy handshake...there are issues. Sure, you work at a desk...but does that mean you never, ever wield a shovel? A canoe paddle? Anything?
Hmm. That's a whole 'nother ball of wax. I won't go into that today.
And if you are a smooth-handed man, don't fret. We can still be friends. But...you may want to apply some sandpaper or something before asking me out on a date. I'm just sayin'.

the name game

Finally, after months of talking about it, I have committed myself to... (drumroll)

Opening my own store on Etsy!  (insert cheering here)

Yep, that's right. We're taking the crazy fun online. But I need YOUR help to do it. Really. I need help coming up with a name for my store. Who doesn't like to name things? C'mon, jump on in with a suggestion!
I'll be starting with a small inventory, until I can see how things go, focusing mainly on items made from repurposed fabrics. Namely, awesome purses made from vintage tablecloths and scraps of old upholstery fabric, and even more awesome necktie skirts.

Name ideas I've had so far:
Cherry and Dill: Peace, Love, and Repurposed Fabric (getting a little groovy, baby)
The Button Box (who doesn't like alliteration? but this might be too cutesy)
Spools! (if it ain't broke, don't fix it, right? but I'm kinda bored with it)
[blank] Salvage Co. (this one I like...if I could find a word or two to fill the blank)
Good Morning, Glory (does this scream 'grandma'?)
The Old Bag (makes me laugh, but not sure if everyone would get it)

Please, jump on in with an idea! I'd love to hear your thoughts.

a thoughtful thursday

You know that feeling, when you’re just trucking along through life and then something…crumbles. And just like that, things fall apart. Not everything. Just something—enough to make you feel off balance and aware of your terrible fragility. A bad news story. A relationship gone awry. An accident. A death.


I hate that feeling. I wish it never happened—or at least, only happened every once in awhile, like during an F-5 tornado. No one would feel wrong for falling apart after a friggin’ F-5 tornado. It’s simply what happens. And it’s not your fault—seriously, blame the giant life-sucking whirlwind of doom, man. There would be something wrong with you if you didn’t lose it.

But…that’s not how it works. We’re crumbling at the corners nearly every day. From things both small and large. I am beyond wishing never to crumble. Sure, it sounds good, but sister, that just ain’t gonna happen. I’m human. Everyone around me is human, too. Perfectly wonderful (wink) though I am…I’m a disaster area. Just like everyone else.

And here’s the rub for me, as a Christian. Logically, I know that I’m supposed to be ok with falling apart. I know that I can’t hold myself together, and I know that I’m really not supposed to, even. Broken is supposed to be ok. I’m supposed to live all messy and let things hang out and trust in the grace and mercy of God—that he’s got me in hand, and all will be well. Whole in my brokenness, saved by the paradox of Christ. Right?

And when trouble comes, and I feel part of my heart crumble like a stale cookie, I wish…I wish…

I wish that I truly could be ok with it. I wish that I could really let go. I wish that I could stumble through life not caring in the slightest if I have all my crap together.

Is that so strange? Am I wrong for thinking this?

the bedside notebook

The blank page beckons,
waiting to be filled with everything
I couldn't say,
all the half-formed phrases
tearing at my heart.

All the fluid, semi-shapeless dreams
and desires--
ambition without legs, genius without arms.
A mind without its own melody.

     And once again,
     I stood beside you
     and could not speak.

My heart is bleeding.
Patch it with paper;
stitch it with pen.
Rock it to sleep with this lullaby of looping, curving
letters and words and lines and