a superstar, down to my toes

This might surprise you, but growing up with the likes of Encyclopedia Brown and the Boxcar Children, I am often drawn to look at my day through the lens of some character I used to know. It's not like I sit in a corner and say, "what would Jane Moncure have done today?" (kind of a born-out-of-my-decade WWJM?), or how would Encyclopedia get out of this one? I realize there are people like that, who vicariously and sympathetically (emphasis on pathetically) live in someone else's world, but I live with my feet firmly on the ground. My experiences are my own. I simply happen to make observations like, "Well, I remember the time when Alexander was having his horrible, no good, really bad day, and he ended up calling Amelia Bedilia to draw him some curtains and bake a pie. Frankly my thumb is in a plum on this one."

Which brings me to the event that happened yesterday in my kitchen. It was curiously representative of my childhood sister Ramona Quimby, who was the adorable character in Beverly Cleary's novels about children who frequently ask more questions than their parents can possibly answer. One such novel (which was later made famous when it became a library-only movie) had a classic chapter entitled "Ramona's Bad Day." Now I'll spare the details for those of you currently reading the book (don't want to blow the ending), but in the chapter, Ramona has to deal with the fact that she has egg yoke in her hair, and the other kids in school are making fun of her. She, in turn, has to go to the nurse (who seems to be the standard catch-all receptacle for children in need of things other than medical attention), whose job then it is to tell Ramona that egg is actually very good for your hair, and that celebrities and movie stars use it all the time to bring out the shine.

Now I say all this, because these are the things that were running through my mind yesterday while preparing to eat a tuna-on-wheat sandwich. I had poured the tuna into a bowl, chopped pickles, and was mixing in a generous portion of Miracle Whip. And I stirred, and everything was looking wonderful, and I went over to the sink to throw in my dirty spoon, when I felt something cold and unnaturally gooey on my bare foot. (Yes, I was cooking in shorts and had no shoes or socks on. What can you say, it's Barbados!)

I look down, and to my horror, there sits the largest blob of thick salad dressing I've ever seen. And my foot is right in the middle of it. And I pick it up and the whole blob comes with me. And I grab a paper towel to wipe it off. And the grease and the shine just cling to my skin. And I think, "yucky. that's sick. what am I going to do now?"

And so I do what any other vicariously opposed yet sympathically inclined follower of youthfully inquisitive literature about girls with egg in their hair would do: I said, "well, at least my feet will be shiny."

a night in the Middle East

This is my friend Andrew, the fastest man I know ever to be discouraged from running track. He and I went to college together in Minnesota, and I was a leader on his dorm floor. He came all the way to Barbados this week for what is perhaps the easiest intern assignment in all of school: 5 days. He is doing some research with his congressional Barbadoan tribal leader, and in the span of 5 days he is earning two college credits. Man, my internship was 10 months.

Tonight we decided to try Lebanese food for his special visit, and I believe he had a difficult time shifting cultures. He just sat at the table for the first 10 minutes, reading and re-reading the menu, trying to find something in English that he recognized and was willing to try. It was funny. He looked so lost. In the end, I ordered salmon meshwi and makdous, which is advertised as "spicy baby eggplant filled with the chef's own creation of crushed pine nuts, garlic, herbs, lemon, olive oil, and pomegranate seeds." Andrew chose the shifa, which was described as "open pie topped with ground beef and lamb mixed with pine nuts, onions and herbs, served with yogurt sauce." It looked like a pizza.

Our conversation ran the gamut of masculinity: cars, women, football, pink suit jackets, building construction, politics, flirting, entertainment systems that are way too expensive yet still somehow enticing, earning respect, the Civil War, old men who bypass the traditional "sir" for the greeting "saint," higher education, Jumanji, our life calling, etc. It was a solid chat.

Everyone needs a friend they can talk to, especially people who are disconnected from our situations (so we don't have to worry about what they think). I'm thankful that God has blessed me with restaurants that serve salmon meshwi and solid guys who I can connect with whatever the day.

dixie, and other things people whistle

I had the most bizzare dream last night:

When I was younger, I used to referee soccer and basketball games through a local rec center. I did this for years, and it gave me some extra money while I was going to school.

Last night I dreamt that I was walking into the old rec center, and they were getting ready to have a basketball tournament. A game was just getting underway, and they needed an official to run up and down the floor. They picked me to go into the game, but I (for some strange reason) was wearing these large brown hiking boots, and couldn't run very well. So, to improvise, they found me some zebra-striped flip flops which were apparently standard issue for referees. Then I ran out onto the floor, and the game was underway.

The only problem was that I didn't have a whistle. If a ref needs anything, he needs a whistle. How can you keep the game under control if no one can hear you? So I was running up and down the court, trying to remember my hand motions from all those years ago, and trying to think of how I could whistle if I needed to. Well, it happened. A player ran out of bounds and I had to make some kind of noise, so I whistled. I puckered my lips into position and I blew loudly. Surprisingly, everyone stopped. They looked at me, and the game went on as normal.

Now I am not usually a loud sleeper. I don't snore and I don't really move a lot. But I have no doubt that I was whistling out loud last night for all the world to hear. I've been told in the past that I talk and even sing while sleeping, and I'm sure this time that something unwanted came out. I was trying too hard to whistle in my sleep to not have broken the dead of night with a piercing tone.

I sincerely apologize to all who were bothered by this disturbance.

finding my face in this world

Courtney found a cool website and shared it with me. It's called MyHeritage.com and it gives you a list of famous celebrities who you look like. You upload a picture, it scans your face, then gives you results. To try it for yourself, click here.

Here are my results (all of these were at least 55%):

I look most like . . . .

from sand in the hourglass to mud on the basin

Why does it seem that I'm so reluctant to go into public restrooms to wash my hands? Could it be that there is a strong possibility they won't come out any cleaner, regardless of how dirty they currently are?

Why did God give us a part of ourselves that we find so repulsive and unmentionable? How does an Arby's in Fair Oaks have the same level of concern for my personal toiletic well-being as an all-night gas station in West Philadelphia?

quiet on the home front

Returned from Kentucky late on Tuesday. Man, this cold just won't go away. I think I'm getting sicker. Ugggghhhhhh . . . . Here is a picture of my bacteria.

Had a great time on our trip though. There's so much momentum in XA right now. I'm happy to be a part. They're actually asking me what I think and how I would make XA better, which is pretty cool, seeing as I'm 15-20 years younger than most of the influencers. I'm not in there to be a revolutionary, just a voice. Call me Blake the Baptist, a voice from the wilderness of Northern Virginia. A man who lives on wildebeast droppings and dragonfly toes, who dresses in corduroy and clover, and shaves with flint. Not the way, not the life, just a voice.

Didn't see any Lewis & Clark statues on the way there, or any Ernest P. Worrell cartoons on the way home, but we did manage to see FOUR distilleries in between Lexington and Louisville (growing up in Wyoming, whoever heard of the Bourbon Trail?), and the gas stations had piles of tobacco products right out on a table in front of the counter. I did meet some people from Kentucky who definitely fit the stereotype, and others who rebelliously didn't. Who knew red-haired people from eastern Kentucky could be so educated?

I was on people overload for most of the trip. Couldn't believe how many old friends made the trek to this conference. I counted no less than 10 people I went to college with in Minnesota, seven of whom I had no idea were going to be there. It was amazing.

Here are some pictures.