the refrigerator manifesto

There are two words that can send an icy stab of horror into the most dauntless heart:
community refrigerator.
Ahhhh!

Sorry about that. I lost control for a moment there.
But having just spent waaay too long rummaging through the industrial-sized company refrigerator for my (very brightly colored and distinct) lunch bag only to find it astronomically removed from its previous location, I'm a little...out of patience. It's time to do something. Something...drastic. And somehow, this feeling is...familiar. It's time for the return--the return of...

The Kitchen Nazi!

Not since the hazy golden days of Stryker Cottage '03 has this fearsome creature truly been beheld, standing proudly--sword in one hand and spatula in the other--with her iron-fisted policies of cleanliness and order clearly posted on the wall behind her!
But it might just be time for her return. At the very least, time for her to write a few new rules for the company refrigerator. Harsh? Perhaps. But effective. As always.

The Refrigerator Manifesto

Whereby all personnel who utilize the company refrigerator do so through a wish to keep their food at the appropriate temperature, in sanitary condition, and conveniently accessible:

1. Each individual must use a designated food container to hold all of their items. This container may not be generic (as in a plastic Meijer bag), insulated (seriously--those keep your food cold without a fridge), or incapable of being moved about without spilling its contents. Clearly labeling each designated food container with the name of its owner is also strongly suggested.
2. All food must be properly contained. No open packaging. Not even in your designated food container. If you periodically cannot eat the whole fruit cup in one sitting, keep a ziploc bag in your food container to tuck the cup into until your next nibbling. And get a bigger stomach, for the love of all that's holy.
3. No loose items such as pieces of fruit, tubs of margarine, or bottles of salad dressing will be tolerated. All items must be fully contained in each individual's designated food container.*
     *The only exception to this rule is large items such as two-liters of soda and large cartons of milk or other beverages. These may be left on the bottom shelf--provided they are clearly labeled and unexpired.
4. Large, appropriately sealed, and clearly labeled takeout containers will be tolerated temporarily--provided they are not fish, and are removed within six hours of their arrival to the community refrigerator. If they are fish, and left for more than two days--God help you.
5. If it becomes necessary to move another individual's designated food container, it is expected that the mover will do their best to return the container to its original placement. If this cannot be done, a grid system will be initiated, with each individual's designated food container receiving a number that corresponds to a section of the shelving. "Parking tickets" will be issued to all who cannot respect the grid system.
6. "Community" does not mean "communal." Whether an item is labeled or not, if you eat or drink it without explicit permission, you are stealing.* If you are stealing, you're a jerk. If you're a jerk, we get to lock you in the supply closet overnight.
     *I can't believe this one even has to be listed, honestly. 
7. The community refrigerator will be scrubbed down once a week. All legitimate items will be returned to the shelves; all illegitimate items will piled up in the parking lot, doused with gasoline, and lit on fire. Or thrown away. Whatever.


And remember: if the Kitchen Nazi ain't happy, ain't no one happy. But if she is happy--she bakes! It's a win-win. Sort of.

the day of birth...once again again

I remembered blogging about my birthday last year. I wondered if I had managed to do it every year since I began this beast...and the answer is yes. Wow.
Even stranger--my first birthday post was my 26th birthday. Geesh.
I'm 29 now. I've been writing this blog since 2007. Holy wa. I'm in my fourth year of blogging. Granted, sometimes I go weeks between posts, but...
Back up the truck. I'm 29. How did that happen? Objectively, I know how...but...dang. All of a sudden, that number seems a lot bigger than 28. I liked 28. It was divisible by 7. 29 is...not. Freakin' prime number.
Then again, what's wrong with being prime? I mean, think Optimus Prime. Yeah. Awesome.
I feel better now.
No, really. It's been a good year. I've owned my house for about 14 months (not that I'm counting) and I really enjoy it. I like having projects.
I've pushed a little harder at some of my weak places, like my social life, and I think I've been decently brave in getting out there and hanging out with new people. Go me.
And this past summer, I've had the best bruises from softball and frisbee. Ever. I have to say--and if you know me, then you know I always have bruises somewhere--that these were groundbreaking. I actually went to bed once with an ice pack strapped to my shin.
And I gloat about this? Well, yeah. Because it means that I'm not holding back or half-assing my way through. (Sure, "half-ass" can be a verb. I just did it. So there. It's set as a gerund, actually, for those who care.)
Sometimes it feels like the older I get, the more childish I am free to be. Ha.
Paradoxically, I think it's a sign of maturity. I'm no longer feeling so compelled to act like an adult--emphasis on act. I am an adult. Period. And a lady.
Remember that, ok, the next time you see me covered in grass stains.
And that's enough deep thought for today.

pressure? what pressure?

Somehow, I’ve been working on a little more young adult/teen material than usual this week, and you know what that does? It make me think about my own spent youth—who I was, who I am, where I’m going—how my life and personality have been shaped. Things I’ve done—and things I haven’t done. Things I have barely been tempted to do, that seem to drive so much teen trouble.


Case in point: fitting in. Being a vital part of the group. Any group. Identifying myself with a particular clique versus another clique.

Not my thing. (Even in junior high, when I wandered about basically friendless and nose-deep in books. Throw in a couple tree forts, lots of grass stains, and still-developing physical coordination, and you get the idea.)

Perhaps that’s noble. Or would be—if I’d done it intentionally.

But I seem to be lacking that thing—whatever that thing is—the thing that prompts people to try super hard to “fit in.”

Not that I wouldn’t do it. (Like I said—I’m not quite noble.) Sometimes it sounds nice, though it’s less vital now that I’m all big and grown-up. (Ish.) I just don’t seem to know how to go about it. So I really don’t. Not deeply, anyway. I maintain socially acceptable behavior, no worries, but that’s not the same thing. You dig? Or am I off my rocker?

Well, it wouldn’t be the first time.

And I do have friends, I promise. I like people. Some more than others, natch, but I like people. (Quit laughing. I do. Most of the time.) I like to hang out and laugh and dance and play.

But trying to be popular? Nope. Not me.

The same with peer pressure. I can’t really say I’ve ever felt pushed to be a certain way, to adopt a certain personality. I’m sure it has affected me—I’m human—but perhaps the effects have been more subtle, below the radar.

Let’s put it this way: you say “peer pressure,” and I look up and go, “What? Huh? Oh, look—something shiny.”

Either I’m socially maladjusted or I’m way ahead of the curve. Eh. Who knows?

Perhaps I should join the “I don’t quite fit in” club.

Sorry, couldn’t resist. I love the irony.

words I like that start with C

charred chemistry
competent
caress
circumnavigation
culottes
cherry
capability
cinema
catawampus
cracker
chivvy
culpable
cardamom
calendula
cork
creosote

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Paradise Blue Lace (yes, it’s as awesome as it sounds)

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Custom requests welcome.
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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.