tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4295384781585479962024-03-13T19:21:55.561-05:00North Country MusingA story blog.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01995146118798282592noreply@blogger.comBlogger53125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-429538478158547996.post-47123950423242971952014-03-11T16:25:00.000-05:002014-03-11T16:26:45.708-05:00Moving On from North Country MusingKind readers, I appreciate the support I have received from you in the past two years. I had a hard time keeping up in 2013, but 2014 has brought on new challenges and new goals. With that comes the announcement that North Country Musing will discontinue.<br />
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I have started my own website where the stories will progress. While continuing to tell tales, I will also explore a bit of what makes a story good, what makes a character compelling, and why stories are so important to human history and development. I will also occasionally give hints and updates on the book I am working on.<br />
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I hope you have enjoyed the journey, and I hope you will join me on the next one.<br />
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Please visit again at <a href="http://www.benjaminbrede.com/">www.benjaminbrede.com</a><br />
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Warm regards,<br />
BenjaminAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01995146118798282592noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-429538478158547996.post-79494266325652006432014-03-06T15:08:00.000-06:002014-03-06T15:08:39.251-06:00Carol of the Bell's PalsyI have two of the sweetest grandmas in the world. Maybe that's a characteristic that automatically comes to all grandmothers, but mine take the cake.<br />
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When I was in kindergarten, my mom's mom was sick. We went to visit her. My mom was trying to tell me that Grandma doesn't look like she normally does, but don't be scared. She's still Grandma and she still loves me. I wasn't really paying attention. I got a new coloring book for the 45 minute ride.<br />
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My Grandma had Bell's Palsy. For those who do not know what this is, please refer to the diagram below.<br />
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Half of Grandma's face was broken. For a five-year-old to see his loving Grandma only half-smile at him, things start happening in his head. But Brave Little Benji wasn't scared of Grandma C. Nope! </div>
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I gave her my biggest hug and whispered in her ear, "My teacher says if you cross your eyes and stick your tongue out, your face will stick like that. Didn't anyone tell you?"</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01995146118798282592noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-429538478158547996.post-9986228016856447392014-03-03T15:43:00.002-06:002014-03-03T15:43:38.824-06:00Falling Slowly - To SleepUntil recently I was a phone salesperson. I spent 40 hours per week calling people and selling them things. Some of the things I sold actually existed. The other things that I sold were fictitious in nature. I sold one guy a hat that had fans on the inside to keep him cool during summer. I told him it works with all hair colors and styles as long as he's bald. And thankfully he was.<br />
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The moments leading up to a great sale can be the real killer in phone sales, though. That's because I've just talked to a receptionist (I did business-to-business sales) and now I'm waiting for the decision maker to come on the phone. Cue hold music.<br />
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Hold music was invented by Satan with the aim of keeping someone calm while waiting for his/her call to be answered. In reality it is aggravating and disturbing. It puts on a ruse of being sweet and soft. On the surface, it slows down the mind of the listener to enhance patience; kind of like the music in a department store. It's always slow music jazzed up enough to be interesting, but not fast enough to make the customers race out of the store. But if you're calling people for a living, it just makes the day drag on and on. There's no productivity while on hold. I have heard some wonderful hold music, though.<br />
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Actually no, that was a lie. I have never heard good hold music, and I doubt you have either.<br />
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Sometimes the hold music is a radio station. Ok, that has potential of being interesting as long as they pick the right station, which never happens. I did hear the news while on hold once, but just before they released the names of the victims, the guy answered.<br />
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"AH! What are you doing?! I was just about to find out who got hacked to pieces!"<br />
"I'm sorry? Who is this?"<br />
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But since that's not technically music, I can't really complain about it. And just so you know, that was not the phone call in which I sold the fan hat.<br />
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Another time, the hold music was the song "Falling Slowly" from the Once soundtrack. Beautiful song, right? Gotta love Glen and Marketa. But hark! what's this? Neither the Irishman or the Czech girl were singing sweetly in my ear, but two country stars twanging their way through the song like an elephant stampeding through a quiet meadow. It made my skin crawl. I was nearly in tears by the end. I listened to the entire song mostly because I was following up on a hot lead. I thought, "The gods couldn't possibly let me miss the sale now. Look at my patience! Look at my resilience! They will reward me with great treasures by the time I hang up!"<br />
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But no. The song ended and the decision maker got on the phone with a quick, "Yeah, we're not interested." I may have screamed a little bit.<br />
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Then there's the smooth jazz. I'm not really sure what to say about smooth jazz other than it's confusing. If we're going to listen to Jazz, I want a swing beat or a ballad. Instead I get an awkward mix that leaves me feeling uncomfortable like I ate warm mayo. The person picks up the phone and says, "Hi?"<br />
"Yeah," I respond. "Maybe that's what's wrong."<br />
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There is also the infomercial hold music. There's a little song and dance, and then someone starts talking about the interesting facts on the business I'm calling. I've learned quite a bit of fun facts on some nursing homes this way. There was one home that had treated more colostomy patients than any other nursing home in the nation.<br />
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Fun facts are rarely fun.<br />
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If you do need to call a business and they put you on hold, try to remember this: You have the power to hang up. Unless you're calling to sell them a fake hat.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01995146118798282592noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-429538478158547996.post-40455763762007340202014-02-23T16:27:00.001-06:002014-02-23T16:27:57.709-06:00Bagging Forgiveness Writing is hard. I have learned this the easy way, if that's possible. It's easy to work on a novel only to realize that it takes hard work, diligence and constancy. I am working on a book that will revolutionize the fantacy genre. Ok, maybe not, but it is pretty good.<br />
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Today is not my day, though. I read through my manuscript and I want to build up my characters, but I'd rather just sit at home and watch Dr. Who. Dana kicked me out of the house, though, and said that if nothing happens in an hour, I'm allowed to come home. I just have to try.<br />
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So instead of writing my book, I'm going to tell you, my patient readers, about my embarrassing experience at the grocery store earlier today. At least I'm writing something today, right?<br />
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Grocery shopping is my least favorite thing in the world next to wet socks and genocide. Today we needed a few things, though, and I promised my sweet wife that I would help her navigate the slushy roads. While we were at the store, there was a girl who saw me and asked how I was. Not in a friendly, "Your cart is in my way, please move," kind of way, but in a "Hey! I haven't seen you in ages! How are you?!" kind of way.<br />
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Ever Friendly Benjamin took his cue and responded in a socially appropriate way, but she could tell that I had no idea who she was. I wracked my brains for the remaining time we were at the store trying to figure out how she knew me and if we had been friends at one time. Unfortunately I could not recognize her from any of my files in my mind palace.<br />
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I resolved to let the girl know the next time I encountered her that I couldn't remember her. I was going to tell her that I had had a terrible accident where I couldn't remember my address half the time, and I had begun to refer to Dana as "Mrs. Amundson" because her name is ever so tricky.<br />
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But the chance never came. She completely disappeared. I will never find out who this mysterious woman is who knows me from another life. Dana said she disappeared because she realized I am not who she thought I was and was embarrassed about saying hi to me. I think it's because she realized that I didn't think our friendship was a deep as she thought it was, and is now cursing my existence because I'm such a jerk.<br />
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Friend, if you read this, please forgive my lapse of memory. I'll come up with a better excuse next time I see you in Trader Joe's.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01995146118798282592noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-429538478158547996.post-58937465410164445972013-12-18T09:43:00.000-06:002013-12-18T09:43:01.944-06:00Mangroves and Water Chops - Initial thoughts on IndonesiaGoing from Batam to the local island we were were visiting in Indonesia was an eye-opening experience. The tiny motor boat was quite different than I was expecting, but not unlike my father-in-law's boat in which we fish at White Face.<br />
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The pilot did not take the direct route from Batam to the island, though I cannot confirm this observation. It seemed to me that he was taking the route that had the best views of Indo. He showed us the largest ships, the mountainous islands, the most intricate net structures of fishermen, the delicately detailed roots of the mangroves that kept their trees from touching the ocean. It was a fascinating ride.<br />
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I noticed the many islands springing out of the water like thousands of moles on an otherwise perfect complexion. Moles that were hairy with trees or so grotesquely misshaped that one should really consult one's doctor about the high probability of skin cancer.<br />
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The second thing I noticed was the boater's seamless ability to navigate the waters. In the hour and a half I rode with him, I was splashed once. Maybe twice. He knew just how to ride the choppy waves to make them work for him. He used them to propel us at breakneck speeds down the channels formed by cancer-ridden moles. </div>
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He also drove in tandem with other boaters. Stoney faced, and barely a glance, he would twitch his wrist just enough to avoid catastrophic collisions. The others seemed to hardly notice him, too. It reminded me of a dance. So fluid were the movements - so innately known - that the artists needed no leader. They saw, calculated, adjusted the rudder, and continued the dance. No toe stamping on this dance floor. </div>
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The trees I saw looked like a 17th century lady lifting her skirt and screaming to avoid a mouse running up her dress. The canopy of the tree searched the water wide-eyed, hoping beyond hope that the mouse wouldn't return. There were sometimes clusters of these trees which only enhanced the perception of dainty ladies screeching from fear of nasty little rodents. When they were alone, like the one below, I felt sorry that she didn't have a man to come kill the spider for her, or chase away the rats of the night. I later learned that the mangrove is home to hundreds of species of creepy-crawlies, so my initial assessment was completely erroneous. </div>
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Soon we arrived at the village in question. Our sore backs and jet-lagged eyes could not prepare for the fun that was about to begin. </div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01995146118798282592noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-429538478158547996.post-49986069263872183802013-12-06T15:42:00.000-06:002013-12-06T15:42:04.584-06:00Water<div>
After a conversation with my colleague, Adam, my thoughts turned to sounds.</div>
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Dogs have super sonic hearing. They can respond to frequencies that are too high pitched for the human ear. What kinds of sounds do they experience? </div>
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Perhaps, if we could rein in that hearing energy, magnify it, and convert it into a listenable format for the average human, we would have a brand new territory to explore. A new "last frontier." We could hear plants growing, insects gasping, or water thinking.</div>
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Water has been described as the life-giving element. The sustainer which keeps all living organisms afloat. I have heard people say it is patient, strong - almost like it has a mind of its own. </div>
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If this is the case, does it have similar insecurities as humans? Do poisoned water holes have a bad conscience? Do rain clouds ask each other if they look fat? Could we hear H2O scream in terror (or perhaps exhilaration) as it careens off the side of a waterfall? Niagra would be the worst vacation destination ever. </div>
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What would we hear if we could listen to the life-blood of Earth? </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01995146118798282592noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-429538478158547996.post-54080574153904074612013-08-21T21:51:00.000-05:002013-08-21T21:51:20.026-05:00Rabid Rabbits When I was in high school, I was put on a medication to help with stomach issues I was dealing with. The medicine did nothing for my health, but what it did do was to always give me night terrors involving rabbits. These nightmares began in pastels with beautiful scenery where the Easter Bunny would come up and offer me chocolates. When I would refuse them, the dreams would turn very dark and bad things would happen to me at the hands of the bunny. Very gory. Very unpleasant.<br />
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This began a terrible relationship I hold to this day with rabbits in general. I have an incurable fear of rabbits, and many of my friends know this about me.<br />
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I had a roommate once. Many of you will recognize him as the frontman of <a href="https://www.facebook.com/laulumusic" target="_blank">Laulu</a>, Everett Laulunen. Everett had the bright idea one morning to wake me up from my slumber by taking a 4 foot tall cardboard cutout of an Easter Bunny, crouching beside my bed and saying in a creepy voice, "Benjamin! Wake up! I want to play with you today!"<br />
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I slowly opened my eyes, took one glance at the cardboard rabbit, and punched it square between the eyes. I was not a happy person that morning.<br />
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More recently, my wife and I took a late night walk near our apartment building. As we were walking along, a sliver of light from a nearby streetlamp fell on a furry lump on the edge of the sidewalk. Not seeing it for what it was, I came within inches of stepping on a dead rabbit with nothing more than sandals on my feet to protect me from whatever hell the dead animal would release upon me. I am unashamed to say that I screamed like a little girl having her tangled hair brushed fiercely with a fine-toothed comb. Our walk lasted less than a block from our front door before I retreated to the safety of my apartment.<br />
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As of late, the evils I have known for many years to exist within these seemingly harmless creatures has been noticed by another, much more powerful entity than myself. It is none other than Hollywood. As far back at 1975, with the release of Monte Python and the Holy Grail, we have been made privy to killer rabbits, but I have seen more and more movies being released with the same premise of rabbits.<br />
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Soon after I nearly marred my leg by stepping on the dead rabbit, Dana and I watched the new Lone Ranger movie with her mom. There is a scene with rabbits in it. I will try not to require a spoiler alert for this post, but by the end of the scene, my dear mother-in-law was beside herself with laughter because of the uncanny resemblance of my description of rabbits and the rabbits in said scene.<br />
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A similar experience happened when we watched Despicable Me 2 for Dana's birthday.<br />
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Soon, valued readers, you too will become wise to the true nature of these pesky demons who roam our streets, thinly veiling their attempts of destroying the human race behind fuzzy whiskers and twitchy noses. I just hope that by the time you do, it's not too late.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01995146118798282592noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-429538478158547996.post-54962374512733806332013-06-26T16:37:00.002-05:002013-06-26T16:37:36.987-05:00So You Think You're Alone?Something to remember when you're at a resort: even when you think you're alone, you probably aren't.<br />
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Dana and I were sitting in the hot tub in Jamaica late at night when the heat was turned down enough to enjoy the warmth of the tub. Granted, we were still in Jamaica, so we could only sit in it for a few minutes before we had to stick our feet in the pool to cool off.<br />
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I bought speedos for the trip. Not the tiny kind; they stretched about halfway to my knee. They were tight, though. I was also sitting on concrete. I let out a <i>little</i> fart. Or at least what I thought was going to be a little fart.<br />
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WHOMP!!<br />
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It was loud. It was long. It echoed off the walls of the outdoor pool area. Dana was doubled over in laughter.<br />
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"What? It's not like anyone heard it. There's no one around!"<br />
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"Except that guy on the balcony over there!" she giggled.<br />
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"There's nobody on the balcony." I responded, snark dripping off my lower lip. Then I looked to where she indicated.<br />
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"Whoa, man, ya just let loose, or what?!" called the nonexistent hoser on the balcony.<br />
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"Uh...yep!"<br />
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"I wasn't sure if that was a fart or something else!"<br />
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At which point I felt an urge to refill my drink, leaving my wife at the pool to relish in my embarrassment.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01995146118798282592noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-429538478158547996.post-60870306341139898452013-06-24T13:05:00.000-05:002013-06-24T13:05:03.175-05:00TaxiDana and I went to Jamaica for vacation this spring. While we were there, we decided to go for a walk in Montego Bay. We walked around the bay and watched jumbo jets fly into the nearby airport. We saw the tide come into the beach and seagulls flying around in search of their next meal of seafood. It was hot. The sun was shining and the locals were soaking up their relaxing holiday. It was Labor Day in Jamaica.<br />
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We stopped to get refreshing iced coffee from a street vendor who barely understood our English. As we walked away with our dripping drinks, a man approached us.<br />
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"Hello my friends! Would you like to smoke some Bob Marley with me?"<br />
"No, thank you, we don't smoke."<br />
"How about some brownies?"<br />
"No."<br />
"Blow?"<br />
"No."<br />
"How about a taxi?"<br />
As we walked away, I thought, "Well that escalated quickly!"Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01995146118798282592noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-429538478158547996.post-24840683156161528952013-06-21T13:18:00.001-05:002013-06-21T13:18:12.491-05:00A shot of BrandyI am at a coffee shoppe filled with beautiful people who are engrossed in their work, engrossed in conversation, and engrossed in their coffee.<br />
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I am the one who is engrossed in my work, coffee, and other people's conversations.<br />
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Eavesdropping has such negative connotations. Let me reword it to make it sound like a respectable past time.<br />
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I am a story teller. This is what I do, and this is how many people know me. I recently wrote a story about a small child and her conversation with her grandmother that I overheard in an airport in Charlotte. Now, "creeping" is not what I do. I study my subjects to be able to tell their story - whether or not they know it.<br />
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The ladies next to me were engrossed in their conversation about their loved ones, and I would like to tell you their story.<br />
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Marge and Josie haven't seen each other for about three months because Josie's son just got married. Marge had been waiting very patiently for Josie to return Marge's calls, but understood that weddings are a big deal and take a lot of work.<br />
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Marge just had to see Josie, though, because her own son started dating a woman who Marge could only describe as a scarlet woman. Josie admittedly laughed Marge's choice of words, but then, putting on a brave face, spoke seriously of the weighty matter.<br />
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Marge is a respectable woman, and she has a reputation to uphold. She is in very high standing with her close knit group of church friends, but "Good ***! What will they say to me when they find out?!"<br />
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Josie also had a son who went the wayward way shortly after leaving the home, but he turned out alright. Just love him, Marge, everything will be fine.<br />
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Marge did not argue with Josie's sage advice, but her anxiety did not wane.<br />
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Marge works at her local library and is comfortable in her quiet lifestyle. Her husband rarely makes a fuss at home, and sometimes startles her when he speaks up. She has a nasty habit of forgetting when he's home. He usually works long hours, and her library job is far from full time. She gets to do what she wishes during her alone time.<br />
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Jerry is not nearly as concerned of his son's "predicament" (Marge's word) as his dear doting wife is.<br />
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"Come off it, Margie. He's a grown man. He can take care of himself."<br />
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"But he'll need his mother when this relationship turns south, and I'll be there reminding him of my warnings!"<br />
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"Yes, because that will be exactly what he needs at that time" he gushed, sarcasm dripping from his spoon.<br />
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Josie was much more understanding than Jerry, but she still gently pressed that Marge may be acting a little on the overbearing side. When I heard that statement, I knew without doubt that I was sitting in a <i>Minnesotan </i>coffee shoppe. We can't be too abrasive when we disagree with someone. It wouldn't be "nice."<br />
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The conversation turned to Will and Mary's wedding. It was outdoors, and it rained on them. Other than that, everything went off without a hitch and the ceremony was beautiful. It was the first time Josie had seen her mother-in-law cry. She was far from tears at Josie's wedding, many years ago. She seemed to wear a face of bittersweetness that day. Josie was taking away her youngest son, so the sentiment was almost understandable. It didn't take too long for Martha to accept Josie into the family, thankfully.<br />
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Ok, Josie, but back to my son! What am I to do?!<br />
<br />
"Take two breaths, a shot of brandy, and get to know your son's girlfriend. You may be pleasantly surprised. I need to get back home now. The garden needs watering."Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01995146118798282592noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-429538478158547996.post-41706942822066228772013-01-21T10:20:00.000-06:002013-01-21T10:20:18.713-06:00Winter's BaneI believe there is movie of this title that I've not seen. I know absolutely nothing about it, but because the title deals with winter, I believe I will avoid it until the heat of summer.<br />
<br />
Today is the coldest day in Minnesota for the past four years. That is significant, and it's bloody cold. As I type this, it is ten-below-zero air temperature, and negative thirty-one with wind chill. This is Minneapolis, folks. We have the "Urban Heat Effect" which basically means we have milder temps than the rest of the state, yet it feels like -31 right now.<br />
<br />
Many of you know how much I love the cold. And if you know me at all, you know that I just lied. I can accept 78 degrees, but 95 is where I'm comfortable. That is a 126 degree difference to what the current temperature is.<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>I'm COLD!</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
I have become very good at avoiding the outdoors during the wintertime. I rarely get talked into "playing outside" even for "just a few minutes" because "it's not <i>that</i> cold out!" Because it <i>is</i> that cold out. Believe me.<br />
<br />
I am able to comfort myself a little on days like today by reminding myself that every record breaking cold temperature day I spend in Minnesota, is one frigid day closer to moving to warm weather climates where 80 degrees seems a bit nippy.<br />
<br />
When I was a little boy, fifty below didn't bother me. I just didn't think about it. I would carry five-gallon buckets of warm water across the yard to my dad's goats in temperatures that would cause frostbite in ten minutes. That was life and that was OK. Then I started traveling and I found places where warm weather was the norm and I fell in love with heat. I was ruined for the cold and I didn't care. I started researching what it would take for me to get back to those countries as quickly as possible.<br />
<br />
One of those steps is finishing a bachelor's degree, which will be mine to claim in five short months. I will not make any promises that I will still be living in Minnesota come June.<br />
<br />
During my cold weather days, I know what it takes to keep my spirits up. Living in conditions that are less than prime forces you to know yourself in a way that a comfortable lifestyle cannot offer. It is similar to my diet. I have learned so much about myself by restricting what I take in. In the same way, frigid days force me to find healthy ways to function when I just want to hide under my covers until spring comes knocking on my door.<br />
<br />
The best thing I can do on days like today is leave my one-room apartment and write. Or hang out with my friends. Today I choose writing. Though this is more of a collection of rambled thoughts than a story, I find solace from the harsh cold in writing it. Thank you for hanging in there with me.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01995146118798282592noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-429538478158547996.post-26529805712948140522013-01-10T12:45:00.000-06:002013-01-10T12:46:57.084-06:00MeetingHere's a snippet of a project I'm working on:<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">By Christmas that year, Stephanie had
entered into our lives so thoroughly that it seemed obvious that she would
spend some of the holiday with us. We planned it that she would come over the
day after Graham came home from University. We had our hopes that something would
spark between them, but we refused to let on. Graham was smarter than that,
though.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“I know what you’re thinking, Mom.
You want me to fall in love with your intern just as much as you have.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“Oh sweetheart, you don’t know that.
I just think she’s a sweet girl and you should try to be her friend.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“Dad is grinning. I know what that
grin means. Remember when you wanted me to ‘just be friends’ with the neighbor’s granddaughter? Look how that turned out!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“Oh don’t be so hard on your mother,
Graham. She only has your best interests at heart.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“If by ‘your best interests’ you mean
‘grandchildren,’ then yes, she has my best interests at heart.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Ilsa had to leave the room because
she didn’t want Graham to see her laughing at him. She had always been a bad liar.
I followed her into the kitchen where she confided that she and Stephanie had the
same conversation, nearly verbatim, the day before. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“They would be perfect for each
other! Look how similar they are!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“Similar doesn’t always mean perfect,
darling. They are young. Let’s just see where the cards land after tonight.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">The doorbell rang a little later. I
looked at Ilsa who was just as inquisitive as I was. Stephanie never rang the
doorbell. She usually just came barging through the door hollering to see whether or not we
were in. I went to answer and sure enough, it was her. She
also had two bottles of wine; a deep pinot noir for me and a chardonnay for
Ilsa. She had gotten to know us quite well, I thought, and greeted her with a
hug. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“Ready?” she asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">I winked my response and commenced
the typical hollering that accompanied her arrival. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“Ilsa! Sarah’s here!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“Who?!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“I mean Samantha!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“What?!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“Oh wait, she says her name is
Stephanie!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“Quit being an ass, Anderson, and let
her in!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">I tried not to be blatantly staring
at my son the first time he saw her future wife, but it didn’t matter. He wasn’t
paying any attention to his old man. It was the first time I had seen my son at
a loss for words. One more point for the good guy team, I thought. I threw
another wink towards my wife who was also not paying attention to her old man. Her
face was written with another “I told you so” that she would never voice. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01995146118798282592noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-429538478158547996.post-32380035650288807242013-01-03T17:30:00.000-06:002013-01-03T17:30:00.839-06:00BreatheFor me, to write is to breathe.<br />
<br />
I have taken a semester off of writing this blog so that I could concentrate on school. You will be happy to know that it paid off. I did very well in school this semester.<br />
<br />
I was writing throughout the semester. I had many papers due and one class was strictly a 15 page paper. It was not completely creative, though, and I cannot explain how I've missed writing. Now that I have time to start again, I just can't seem to get back into the groove. Taking so much time off has made me lazy. I have more ideas for excuses to not write than ideas to write about. <br />
<br />
For inspiration, I started reading a few classical authors of the same period. I read F. Scott Fitzgerald's <em>The Great Gatzby</em>. You may claim that I read it in light of the new film that recently hit theaters if you like. That was not the reason, though. I read it because he was an author from St. Paul. I want to know how Mid-Western authors write. The story was, in my opinion, rather drab, though Mr. Fitzgerald's writing style sucked me in. He describes the scenes with such fluency that I could almost taste the setting. <br />
<br />
I recently watched <em>Midnight in Paris </em>with Owen Wilson. He travels back in time to visit with the expatriate authors of Paris in the 20's. Scott Fitzgerald, Ernest Hemingway, Gertrude Stein are all brought to life through the film. Curious about this part of history, I picked up Hemingway's memoire on the subject. <em>A Moveable Feast </em>is a fascinating read. I am only half way through it right now, but I have gained some much needed inspiration from Hemingway. Reading his other works, one would wonder if he liked anything or anyone, but in this book he goes into detail of his relationships with other writers and of his favorite cafes and restaurants. The man was writing the memoire near the end of his life, which was a very dark period for him, but he was able to look back on the time with happy nostalgia. <br />
<br />
He also gives advice to other writers. I don't believe this was on purpose, but he speaks in the second person pulling you into the story. He talks about working (writing at the cafes and at his office) but uses "you." I often think it is me trying to order my second beer and write down the story before the afternoon fades to evening. <br />
<br />
He tells me that I should never run my inkwell dry when writing. As in, if I'm writing a story and I have just a little bit more to add before the end of the day, I should leave it as is and come back to it the next day. I should allow the little bit of ink soak overnight; mulling it over in my sleep so I can write even more when I go back to work. Otherwise, with nothing to chew on, there will be nothing to write in the morning. <br />
<br />
He also suggests that I not think of the story while it is percolating. I should instead pick up a book of the current authors and see what other people are writing about. This will keep my mind occupied so I don't lose my train of thought, and will keep me up to date with my peers. <br />
<br />
This time period was very romantic. Several authors are living cheaply in Paris, reading each other's works and critiquing them. It sounds lovely, though I'm not completely sold. They had hard lives, and everything was not perfect. I guess I would rather have the community they had, without the lifestyle. <br />
<br />
These are some tools I have picked up while on hiatus. I hope they will prove useful and helpful and that you will continue to read my musings. Thank you for your patience. Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01995146118798282592noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-429538478158547996.post-66251866249281159072012-12-02T13:45:00.000-06:002012-12-02T13:45:25.863-06:00Your Regularly Scheduled Blogging will Resume ShortlyFriends, family and valued readers,<br />
<br />
I must apologize for my sudden disappearance from the blog. I abruptly stopped writing so I could continue my education with the hopes of graduating within the school year.<br />
<br />
I am on schedule to receive my bachelor's degree in Communication Studies this coming May. I plan to resume my writing after this semester is over, and more regularly through the coming semester.<br />
<br />
Until then, I simply ask for continued patience. I will be scripting more stories in the near future.<br />
<br />
I would like to share a brief story with you, though, while I have a moments peace from homework:<br />
<br />
Several years ago I was working overnight shifts at a nursing home. My direct supervisor was a charming old lady whose smile was nothing more than less of a frown. She was stingy on generosity and had a lightning fast response to goofing off. Her number one rule was no phones while working the floor.<br />
<br />
It was midnight and I was writing up the menu for the next day's meals. Right next to me, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nurse_Ratched" target="_blank">Nurse Ratched</a> was setting up the medication for her next rounds. Wouldn't you know it, but my cutesy chime sounded a new text message.<br />
<br />
I held my breath as I glanced over at her. Her furrowed brow indicated that the chime did not go unnoticed.<br />
<br />
"Was that you?" she scowled.<br />
<br />
"Um, yeah." I said, without really thinking, "I farted."<br />
<br />
For the first time, I saw a genuine smile grace the face of the nurse. She walked away without another word. She eventually became my favorite nurse to work with.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01995146118798282592noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-429538478158547996.post-84201994022878231922012-08-29T15:27:00.001-05:002012-08-29T15:27:21.246-05:00Birds of the AirWhen I was little, people would ask what I wanted to be when I grew up. A bird. Everytime I was asked, I said I wanted to be a bird. I was convinced if I worked hard enough, I would sprout wings and fly over the trees to make a nest for my family and me.<br />
<br />
That didn't happen. I work in a call center right now. That doesn't mean that the desire has gone away. One of my favorite things in the world is to fly, and I do it every chance I get. Which isn't terribly often.<br />
<br />
As I started understanding more about biology and the way the human body develops, I realized that wings were not on the table for me. I watched a movie, I believe it was called "Fly Away Home", where a girl took a gaggle of geese and taught them how to fly. She had to migrate with them, so her dad built her a small aircraft so she could fly with her children to a warmer climate. At that moment I realized that if I were to fly with birds, I would be required to have a machine to do the flying for me. I was a little disappointed. <br />
<br />
Since then, I haven't really figured out what I want to do with my life. Dana and I have dreams of living overseas and working in community development, or investing in a certain community to love the people there, but what does that look like? I guess we'll figure that out when we get there. Wherever "there" is. <br />
<br />
Sometimes I think it's awful to ask a kid what he or she wants to do with his or her life at a young age. It takes a bit of the fun out of being a kid. What do you want to do when you grow up? I don't know. I don't even know what I want for dinner. I don't even know what toy I want to play with next. Leave me alone and let me be a kid!<br />
<br />
Kids are really good at living in the moment and as adults, we lose sight of that. We're always looking at what we're going to do, rather than what we are doing. We should encourage living in the moment. If they want to become a bird, then we should ask what type of bird rather than shooting them down. <br />
<br />
That doesn't mean we get to avoid planning and being responsible with our time and resources. We do need to be conscious of staying in the present at the same time. <br />
<br />
Today at lunch, I was observing birds. They were swimming around in the Mississippi, then they got out and cleaned themselves. They then propped themselves up on one foot and took a nap. How is this a bad thing? I was very tempted to follow suit until I looked at the murky river and decided I would rather not contract a vile disease. <br />
<br />
I still want to be a bird, though. That desire will probably never leave. I can't decide if I would be a bird of prey with the mountains as my home, or a sparrow that can dart in and out of tiny spaces in a blink of an eye. I'll get back to you on that. Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01995146118798282592noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-429538478158547996.post-63382816131103610722012-08-28T12:55:00.002-05:002012-08-28T12:55:46.080-05:00Time is not on Your SideHow many months of the year have 28 days in them?<br />
<br />
All of them. <br />
<br />
It's interesting how time passes. Some days seem to just drag when you're doing something you find extremely boring, or if you're waiting for a big event like your wedding in 18 days (shout out, Charles and Ruth!). Despite these dragging days, suddenly the summer is over, you're about to graduate college and you've been married over a year (shout out, Dee!). <br />
<br />
I remember in middle school I would go baling with my great aunt. Her baler was broken and didn't push the twine completely out of the way of the oncoming grass. I would have to jump off the tractor after every bale and pull the twine 6 inches to prevent it from tangling in the next bale. <br />
<br />
One of these long baling excursions, I was bored almost to tears. I consoled myself by saying that time isn't actually slowing down, I just think it is. By the next day, I would be doing something infinitely more interesting and soon enough, I would never have to do this again. Here I am, several years later, still very thankful that I'm not standing on that tractor anymore. <br />
<br />
I didn't hate being with my great aunt so much as the fact that my presence was unnecessary. On several occasions, my dad and uncle both offered to fix the glitch, but my aunt liked the company. She refused every time because she didn't want to bale alone. <br />
<br />
When I got too big to sit on the tractor, I would drive behind Harriet in her Rendezvous, in AC, listening to music that I brought with me. My aversion to baling with Harriet quickly diminished. <br />
<br />
Time is interesting in other forms, too. There are seasons in life that seem to take forever to get through. Like college. I thought I'd never obtain my bachelor's degree, but I'm now beginning my final year at university. By May, I will be the proud owner of a diploma stating my eligibility to work. I don't know what type of work I will be eligible for, but I will be eligible to work. <br />
<br />
This summer has been interesting to get through. In June, I wasn't sure I would be able to survive an entire summer sitting in a cubicle, then racing off to a second job afterwards. Three months of 50+ hours of work every week can really get to someone. Granted, I know a lot of people who work a lot more than that, but when it comes to being at work and paying bills, I'm weak. This Friday marks the end of this season, and I am very excited about it. <br />
<br />
I was waiting to go on break this morning. I watched the clock go from 9:58 to 9:59. OK, one more minute and I can clock out. Has anyone ever told you that a watched pot never boils? Well, that's not true. Nor is it true that a watched clock never turns 10:00 am, but I'll be damned if it was only sixty seconds. Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01995146118798282592noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-429538478158547996.post-45102641103423438162012-08-24T13:56:00.002-05:002012-08-24T13:56:36.083-05:00Bobbing in CoffeeMy Grandpa once told me a story about a time he visited the local Dairy Queen. As he was waiting to place his order, a lady came up to the counter to complain about her coffee.<br />
<br />
"Sir," she said to the server, "my coffee is cold. Will you please fix a fresh pot?"<br />
<br />
"Oh no, ma'am, you must be mistaken. We just made this pot a little bit ago. It should still be hot."<br />
<br />
"Yes, I'm sure you did, but the fact remains: my coffee is cold and I would like a new cup."<br />
<br />
"But ma'am, there is no possible way for your cup of coffee to be cold. I made the pot myself, and it wasn't that long ago. I assure you, it's hot." <br />
<br />
Grandpa was watching this conversation between server and customer while waiting for his burger. He was astounded by the young man's persistence, but couldn't help but think that he was as daft as a two bob watch (his words, not mine).<br />
<br />
The next thing Grandpa noticed was that the customer had actually placed her finger directly into the cup of coffee and was on the verge of yelling, "Sir, make me a new cup of coffee. This is cold!"<br />
<br />
I don't know how many times they went around until another worker came to the counter and asked what the altercation was all about. Both of them erupted into their own story about the coffee and how it was hot or cold respectively. <br />
<br />
The other worker looked incredulously at her two-bobbed co-worker, shook her head and made a new pot of coffee, apologizing profusely to the customer for her co-worker's daftness. <br />
<br />
Not long before this scene happened, I had been an employee of the fine establishment. The entire time I worked there, we brewed strictly Folgers coffee. Replacing a cold cup of Folgers with a hot one, in my opinion, doesn't enhance the taste in the least. It seems that the customer was a few bobs short of a watch herself.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01995146118798282592noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-429538478158547996.post-77522209723973690832012-08-22T15:22:00.000-05:002012-08-22T15:22:55.901-05:00The Sound of TriumphYesterday was the first day that I ate at the cafeteria in the bank where I work. I had no idea what I was doing. I had been told that one can purchase two sides of vegetables rather than ordering the entree, but I didn't see where the sides where. I started panicking because it was almost my turn in the queue. There were a lot of people piling up behind me, so I had to make a decision. I couldn't wait anymore. The chef was looking at me. "What'll it be, bub?!" Oh no! "Uh...I'll...I'll have the Rachel sandwich!"<br />
<br />
I said it so fast and loud that the kitchen hushed for a moment. I'm sure my neck turned scarlet. I quickly looked at the floor and ignored everyone until someone tapped my shoulder. <br />
<br />
"Hey, she didn't hear you. What are you ordering?" <br />
<br />
I said it again, quieter this time, and she asked if I wanted cheese. Yeah, sure. <br />
<br />
As I watched her prepare my sandwich, I started thinking about my restrictive diet. I don't eat meat. I don't eat dairy. If it weren't for eggs, I'd be vegan, really. Then I watched her smother my rye bread with 1000 Island dressing. She was getting ready to put the cheese on my sandwich when I realized that I have to be at work for at least another 4 hours. How will I survive if I eat a bunch of food that my body will surely reject?<br />
<br />
"May I retract my request for cheese?"<br />
<br />
"Huh?"<br />
<br />
"No cheese, please."<br />
<br />
"Oh, sure." <br />
<br />
I got my sandwich. It came with fries, which I was not expecting. I love fries. I went to pay for it. Another line of people who knew how to work the system. I noticed they all were paying cash. Interesting. What a different mindset we live in. I can't imagine carrying cash with me when I can just use my card. Oh well. Different strokes, am I right? Here you go, nice cashier lady. You take my card and I'll take my food. <br />
<br />
"We don't accept cards here."<br />
<br />
That explains the different mindset crap. And I thought I was being so philosophical.<br />
<br />
I set my food down and went running to the ATM. I come back and wait in line again. I got my food and finally I made it to the river - my favorite lunch spot. <br />
<br />
I opened my box of food hesitantly. Maybe I shouldn't have ordered this. I don't know how my body will react to it, and I don't want to spend the rest of my shift...shall we say, "indisposed"?<br />
<br />
Well, I had forgotten my lunch that morning, so I needed to eat something. I wasn't able to take my time through the cafeteria, so there I was, sitting next to the river with a sandwich of meat and dairy-based sauce. I dove in head first. <br />
<br />
My first sensation was delicious sauerkraut exploding over my taste buds. Then the thousand island came to mix a gentle harmony climaxing to the victorious arrival of hot grilled turkey. It was intoxicating. I couldn't help noticing my anxiety melt into a small, pitiful form of loss. How have I lived all summer without eating animals and their byproducts? <br />
<br />
I ate fast. I couldn't look up or take my time to savor it. It was too delicious to wait. I could look at the river later; right now Brother Bear is eating! <br />
<br />
As usual, I was reminded why I make the dietary choices I do after eating said lunch. There are things that my stomach and taste buds just will not agree on, and my stomach almost always wins the the battle. Yesterday my taste buds were rewarded for their persistance with the delights of meat and dairy. In nearly no time at all, my stomach lashed back in avengence. <br />
<br />
Sweet, sweet vengence. Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01995146118798282592noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-429538478158547996.post-78931576029555821392012-08-22T10:47:00.002-05:002012-08-22T10:47:42.218-05:00Seg-weighsSegways. I've noted in past posts how much enjoyment I get from making fun of them. <br />
<br />
I have thought in the past that I should probably take a Segway tour before I pick on them, but then I thought about my dignity and decided I should just make fun of them. Most things deserve a benefit of the doubt. Not all. <br />
<br />
The first thing I think of when I see a Segway is GOB from <em>Arrested Developement</em> who is rarely off of his Segway. He conducts himself in such a shameful manner which gives the impression that Segway drivers are conceited, arrogant (redundency empowers the insult) jerks who only come down from their high horse (or wheels) for a free chocolate covered treat from the banana stand - in which there is always money. <br />
<br />
I also cannot help but think of the owner of the Segway company who <a href="http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-1315518/Segway-tycoon-Jimi-Heselden-dies-cliff-plunge-scooters.html" target="_blank">died in a freak accident</a> on one of his own machines. These "scooters" are not here to help the world get from one place to another. They are here to take over the world one multi-millionaire at a time. <br />
<br />
"Help the world get from one place to another"? That's an interesting statement. These wheelie-pods are 6 inches and a heart attack away from walking. Here's a novel idea: bikes. Sometimes you can rest while still moving forward, yet still get some of that much recommended physical activity. <br />
<br />
Dana and I were at a park on Sunday watching not one, but two Segway tours go by us. Both groups had nearly 30 tourists brimming with pride and glee as they sped through the park in a single file line. I shouldn't have stared, but they were just as much a spectacle to ogle at as the Mississippi, Stone Arch Bridge or downtown skyline. <br />
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The faces were rather fun to interpret, too. There was an older woman who looked like whe was having the time of her life. Her discontented husband looked like he'd rather have stayed downtown to find another corn dog to smother in ketchup. It looked as if they had come to a compromise. He must have told her that he would be willing to go on one of those stupid tours she had been talking about for months before the trip to Minneapolis as long as he didn't have to walk. He would be willing to take a bus, train, horse and buggy - anything but walking. But he woke up that morning to his beaming bride holding a brochure and two tickets to a Segway tour. <br />
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"That's not what I meant!" <br />
<br />
"Doesn't matter! You said anything but walking. We're not walking, dear, so get your shoes on. It's starts in an hour!"<br />
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Now that I think about it, her smile may have had a touch of smugness in it.<br />
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There was a small family, too. Two parents, two little girls and an early-high-school-aged boy. A high school boy on a Segway tour with his parents and little sisters. Imagine his face. Moving on. <br />
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The tour guides had smiles plastered on their faces like a row of flight attendants thanking their passengers for flying Segway Air. I could see a hint of stress behind their eyes, though. They knew that the highly-read man wearing an archaeologist's hat was going to continue his barrage of questions until the last of the procession had parked his or her shiny Segway and the tour security had ushered the questioner off the premises. <br />
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"This is what I have to look forward to until the end of the summer. God help us."<br />
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If cleanliness is next to godliness, Segway-ness is next to laziness. It's probably the only time that standing will require a helmet. At least I hope it is. Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01995146118798282592noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-429538478158547996.post-39031053908368198192012-08-17T15:43:00.000-05:002012-08-17T17:45:35.375-05:00Blanket FortOf all the bad habits I should be giving up, sleep is the one that seems to have been successfully kicked. Couple that with the fact that today is Friday, <a href="http://northcountrymusing.blogspot.com/2012/08/week-stomach.html" target="_blank">the golden child of the week</a>, and all I can think about is going home. Since I got to work at 8 this morning, I've been signing off my calls by telling the customers to have a good night. No one has challenged me on it, mostly because I hang up immediately after saying it, and I keep thinking that the day is going to be over in just a little bit. I look at the clock to see it's merely 10:15 am. <br />
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Then I answer questions as I hear them, not as they are asked, confusing these poor people more than they already are. Today I'm more interested in playing Draw Something rather than focusing on the caller at hand. I've been tempted to use my blanket as a pillow and fall asleep at my cube. Then a fulltime staff member asks me what I'll do if I ever get a "real" job. <br />
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Hopefully my mind will be engaged in my "real" job. So maybe I should engage my mind here? Well, I have. This is what I've come up with:<br />
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I'm going to build the coolest blanket fort ever known to the cubicle world. I'm going to bring in piles of blankets from home and build a canopy over my desk. I'm going to bring in strings of lights and lava lamps, because no blanket fort should be without a lava lamp. I'm going to bring in a bean bag and I'm going to put my computer on the floor. I'm going to bring in popcorn and a GameBoy Color, even though I hate popcorn and I've never owned a GameBoy, color or otherwise. <br />
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I'm going to answer phone calls as if I am an airport claims agent from London. " 'Ello, love, Benedict here from British Air. We've got a claim here for a lost bag which I'm quite sure I told you personally to toss in the hatch before we left Heathrow." You'll have to imagine the accent on that one. It's quite convincing in my head. <br />
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Or as if I am an astronaut. "Houston? Are you there? I can't hear you very well from Mars." Click.<br />
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Or maybe like an angry father. "Who are you looking for? Janice isn't home right now. Besides, she doesn't want to speak to the likes of you! Good day, sir! Oh, it's ma'am? Pardon me. Janice will be right with you." Then I'll hang up anyway. It's their own fault for interrupting my game of Zelda.<br />
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I had a friend working here until midway through the summer. His goal for the last week of work was to get fired. It didn't work for him. I'm going to show him how it's done. Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01995146118798282592noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-429538478158547996.post-90817998805227286392012-08-16T13:49:00.001-05:002012-08-16T13:49:25.052-05:00Tear Down This WallWho coined the term "Hit a wall"?<br />
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"Dude. I just hit a wall. I have to go to bed." <br />
<br />
Really? Punching walls does that to you, eh?<br />
<br />
Well folks, I've hit a wall. It's the end of summer and my tiredness is borderline consumptive. I have less than three weeks to work at the bank, then I start school again. Change will be good, but I'm really just trading one form of busyness for another. Does life slow down, or do I just look for new and exciting ways to be busy? <br />
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"I'd love to hang out, but I don't have time! Maybe I will when I'm retired. See you in 40 years!"<br />
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I don't think it's worth it. Hitting one wall after another. Two week vacation here, three day weekend there. To what end? Big house, big truck, big yard, big fence, big headache. <br />
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I don't think there is anything wrong with these things. I think it would be wrong for me to strive for them, because it would be inconsistent with what I want to do with my life. I want to live with poor, broken people who need someone to love them. If that means owning a giant house, ok! Let the people come live with me. If that means a big vehicle, fine. I'll tote people around who don't have a car. <br />
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This type of life is what makes me come alive. While I'm trying to pay bills by sitting in a cubicle, direction can get muddled; purpose goes down the toilet; I start hitting a wall. <br />
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Then I remember that life is full of seasons. I won't always hit a wall. I may just have to break a few more down before I can be done. Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01995146118798282592noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-429538478158547996.post-82203494202706549102012-08-15T13:55:00.000-05:002012-08-15T14:01:04.874-05:00City of MirrorsI spent some time working at a hostel in Berat, Albania. Berat Backpackers is a fantastic little hostel, which I recommend you visit. If not the hostel, <a href="http://beratbackpackers.com/" target="_blank">at least the website</a>. There are some beautiful photos of the city and surrounding areas which will enhance this story for your imaginative pleasure. <br />
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I was volunteering at the hostel. I did some landscaping, cleaning, registering guests and a little shopping for the kitchen. <br />
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It was the end of the season, so the hostel was closing up. We helped board up doors and harvest some veggies from the garden and deplete the left overs from the kitchen. <br />
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The locals would come hang out with us in the evenings. We found some speakers and had dance parties every night. The bar was full at the beginning of the week. We did well at "depleting the leftovers."<br />
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When the week started wrapping up, we went out to celebrate a successful season, though my friends and I had just arrived. We went to a local bar and had dinner. Then we stayed until 5 am drinking delicious wine that stained our teeth purple and dancing to whatever pop music the make-shift DJ put on. <br />
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The next afternoon, my travel companions and I decided to go for a walk through the city. As you can see from the pictures, it's a gorgeous city with a lot of things to see: castles, mosques, orthodox churches, white washed houses with a wall of windows, cobblestone streets that only people and donkeys can pass. <br />
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As we strolled through the city, it was completely silent. It was during the afternoon call to prayer. I could hear it being sung from the speakers on top of the mosque. Our shoes clacked on the cobblestones, reminiscent of an old movie; the ominous clapping of shoes in a large corridor. Suspense.<br />
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But this was not suspenseful. It was peaceful. The birds welcomed us and sang to us. The white walls seemed to warm to us as we approached. The flowers sitting in their pots turned their faces towards us to say, "Hello! So glad you came to visit!"<br />
<br />
It was warm and sunny. The singing from the mosque came to a close, and people started appearing, smiling to us, asking us questions that we couldn't understand. We visited the orthodox church. The doors were open and the sanctuary was empty. The carpet and pews were bright red. There were golden ropes to guide people where to sit and worship. Dried flowers were sprinkled on every ledge giving off the faintest hint of a garden aroma. The ceilings were high and intricately adorned. Mostly in gold.<br />
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We stopped at a cafe for lunch. We had sandwiches and coffee. People came to talk to us. Some left because we couldn't speak Albanian. Others wanted to practice their English with us. Most were friendly. Some were creepy. <br />
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Later that day, I was sitting on the patio at the hostel reading Dostoevsky's <em>The Idiot </em>and smoking a pipe. I was enjoying the scenery that spilled out in front of me. We were on the side of a hill facing a small valley. There was another hill opposing us. The houses crawled up the side of that hill. Every wall was made of large windows. The sun was setting behind me and the windows were singing her beauty. I was getting a little hungry. I leaned back in my chair and picked a pomegranate the size of my head. I cracked it open and thought, "I will never leave Albania." I truly believed, as I still do today, that I had found a magical world not of this planet. Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01995146118798282592noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-429538478158547996.post-76226794068642666722012-08-13T11:40:00.000-05:002012-08-13T15:45:38.745-05:00Week StomachI woke up this morning with a song stuck in my head. <br />
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I stumbled out of bed singing "<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2ez6kxrtiDE" target="_blank">I believe I am fixin' to die</a>." I was singing in the shower. Singing as I drank my coffee. Singing as I put on my shoes and gathered my lunch. <br />
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Then Dana told me that I was not going to die, it's just Monday. <br />
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Fine. I'll go to work then. <br />
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I used to think people who complained about Monday were just whiny. They were stuck in a job they didn't like. If they just tried to find some enjoyment in their job and the people they worked with, Monday would actually be a good day! "Hey! I get to go to work this morning!" I was sure they would sing as they crawled out of bed. <br />
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I don't know if I completely agree with that anymore. I do not hate my job. I actually rather enjoy it. It's painfully boring, but I get to do things while I sit in my cube. I write, read, listen to music. Things that I would be doing at home, but here I get paid for it. <br />
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I'd rather be home, though. I'd rather be sitting on my couch, in my unders, with a bowl of chips. Not every day of the week, but I do on Monday mornings when the thought of getting out of bed makes me sick to my stomach. Like someone who walks past wearing far too much cologne. And not good cologne, either. Something like Bod. That's what it's like Monday morning. Bod cologne. <br />
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Tuesday, though, seems like a completely different story. The days aren't nearly as busy; getting out of bed isn't nearly as difficult, though my wife may disagree with that statement; and I feel as though the weekend is just around the corner. My co-workers don't seem to appreciate it when I say, "The week's almost over!" on a Tuesday. I don't know why...<br />
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I'm not convinced Wednesdays exist. I never remember anything that happens on a Wednesday. My supervisor told me I shouldn't put so much Bailey's in my coffee on those days, either, but I don't think the two statements are related. <br />
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Thursdays are slow. Not painful like a Monday, but it's the day before the day before the weekend. It's the armpit of the week. If Monday through Friday were a set of bathrooms, Thursday would be the dingy outhouse that no one wants to go to because a spider might crawl up his or her nether parts. There's not a lot one can do to spruce up a Thursday. It should probably just be burned. <br />
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Then the glorious Friday. The day that gets far too much credit. The day that is grossly overestimated. The day that holds her power over the other days of the week like an older sister with her first set of car keys. With her first un-shared bedroom. With her cute little sundress that mommy and daddy bought her. Everyone adores her and she knows it. She's a diva. She would be the bathroom with a clawfoot tub in the middle of the room. Just because she can. <br />
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I feed right into Fridays. I love Fridays. I try not to, but I can't help it. I get to go home and veg out for the next two days. Or go out of town. Or whatever I want. How is this a bad thing? And sometimes I get paid on a Friday. Those are the Fridays worth working for.<br />
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But, for every Friday comes a Monday. And these are the mornings that I wake up to face death. Or phone calls. Whichever comes first. I couldn't tell you which would be worse. Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01995146118798282592noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-429538478158547996.post-25126954795956253662012-08-10T11:33:00.001-05:002012-08-10T11:33:33.882-05:00Nectar of the GodsDana and I went to visit a friend in San Diego a couple years ago. It's a 40 hour drive from Minneapolis to San Diego, so we stopped in Iowa to pick up our friend's dad. Val is a great traveling companion.<br />
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We took the drive in two days. We slept for a couple hours in Texas, and drove another 20 hours the next day. It was awful. I will never look at another Nutrigrain bar without feeling a bit nauseous. <br />
<br />
We stayed almost a week with Laura in her SoCal house with her SoCal friends and her SoCal beach. It was pretty great. The last full day we spent with Laura, we went to Balboa Park. <br />
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Lets start at the beginning of that day, though. Laura worked early that morning, so Dana had to prepare the picnic. I probably should have helped, but I didn't wake up early enough to go to the store with her. Then, when I got out of the shower, Val and I started talking about the trip. Dana was making sandwiches and salads. <br />
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I went into the kitchen and said good morning. I gave her a kiss and asked if the coffee was ready. <br />
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Bad idea. <br />
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No, actually, the coffee is not ready because there is no coffee to <em>get</em> ready. And then I saw a side of Dana that I had not yet met. The side of her that probably instigated the nickname Dana-saur. The side that shouldn't be asked if the coffee is ready when there is no more coffee left. <br />
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We walked to the tram silently. Val is a morning person. He loves to chat and tease and enjoy the morning. I was trying to keep up with his chatter, but I also was feeling the effects of driving coffee-less. Dana was scowling. I shouldn't have left her to get us ready like little boys needing to be sent off to school, but I didn't want to chop the peppers! I wanted to hang out with Val!<br />
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We met Laura at Balboa Park. We were a little late, despite Dana's efforts to get us out the door on time. Laura had just finished her shift at the coffee shop and was feeling just as chipper as her dad. <br />
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Dana and I tried to enjoy the park. It was built when the World Fair was hosted by San Diego, so there were a lot of interesting nooks to it. People were allowed to set up little shops inside to sell food, artwork or whatever other craft they set their hands to. It was pretty cool.<br />
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Yet Dana couldn't smile. She was interested, but she didn't join in the conversation or pictures. She just looked royally pissed. <br />
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Val asked, "Dana, can I buy you a cup of coffee?"<br />
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"Oh, it's ok. I don't need coffee, I'll be fine. I can buy my own, too, you don't need to..."<br />
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"Here. And one for you, too, Benj," as he handed us our paper cups. <br />
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It was still too hot for Dana to take a sip, but she took the lid off and smelled the brew. <br />
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Something sparked. I was watching her very closely, because I thought I saw something flash in her eyes. Yes! There it goes again! Something was definitely taking place. Her brow was less furrowed. Her chin seemed a bit more relaxed. And wait... Dear Lord! I think it is! <br />
<br />
She smiled! She laughed! She started bantering with Val and talking with Laura! She held my hand! It truly looked like she had come out of Lazarus' tomb to join the land of the living once again. <br />
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The rest of the day was amazing. Arguably the best day we spent with Laura that week. Never underestimate the power of a cuppa.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01995146118798282592noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-429538478158547996.post-38903184639585407272012-08-09T15:58:00.000-05:002012-08-09T15:58:49.596-05:00Seven Minutes of RushingEvery night I leave my cube and go to the basement garage where my bicycle is parked. There are special doors I have to go through to get to the garage. Only one person can enter or exit at a time. <br />
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Every night, a little after 5pm, I see the same girl running from her car to the door. There are windows. One of us ends up waiting for the other to go through the door first. It has become such a routine, that we've taken to saying hello to each other. She is a cleaning lady coming in for her evening shift. I am a cube rat trying to get home to my wife. We smile and pass each other. Every night. <br />
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Her accent tells me that she's from Africa. I'm not sure where in Africa, of course, but that's not all I've noticed. Every night she is running - literally running - from her car to the doors. And it's never before 5 that I see her. Always six or seven minutes after 5. <br />
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These few details of my new friend have gotten me very curious as to what her story is. I don't believe I will ever hear it, so I decided to write one for her. Meet Adimu (ah-DEE-moo):<br />
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Adimu, which means unique in Swahili, is 22 years old. She comes from a country in east Africa, I think Ethiopia. She grew up going to school at a Catholic mission where she learned English and got a high school education. Her parents didn't have much money, but the priest was very helpful in finding resources for them and their community.<br />
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Adimu has two older brothers, an older sister and a younger sister. They have always been very close. Literally and figuratively. They grew up in a two room hut. Mom and Dad got the second room. They all went to school together. They did everything together. Not only the siblings, but the entire community. <br />
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There was so much love among the neighbors. When one family was hurting, the people came together to mourn with them. When another family was rejoicing, the community was there to party. A little different than the lifestyle we attain to in America. Not better or worse, just different. <br />
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When high school was over, the mission got a grant to send some kids to America for a college education. A few colleges across America were giving scholarships to help these kids get through school and have a little extra for living expenses while here. There was a raffle to see who would be able to go. There was only enough money to send five kids from the village, so all of the eligible students put their names in the drawing. <br />
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As Adimu brought herself to the table to submit her name, her mind was fluttering with fears and excitement. She wanted to go to make a way for herself and perhaps bring her family if she worked hard enough after school. She wanted to stay because the thought of leaving her siblings and community was too much to bear. In the end, she submitted her name because it was the only hope of building a better life for her family. <br />
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Her older brothers were too old to put their names in. Her older sister had already put in her slip of paper. Her younger sister was still in high school. <br />
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And then came the dreaded wait. Adimu joined her family in the audience and waited until the priest came out to address the crowd. He made a speech about how blessed the community was to have this opportunity to send a few of their kids to college. Adimu didn't hear a word of it. Her stomach was in knots. She didn't know what she hoped for. Any outcome would be treacherous. Any outcome would be exactly what she wanted. She just had to wait and let the fates decide. <br />
<br />
Adimu was the second name called. Everyone started cheering. Her family was hugging her. Every eye was damp with tears. She felt ecstatic. She felt like someone had punched her in the stomach. She couldn't talk. She just cried and hugged her mom. "What's going to happen to me?" she thought.<br />
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She prayed that her sister would be called, too, so that she wouldn't be alone, but that didn't happen. After the last person was called, people stuck around to congratulate her and tell her how much they would miss her. She just smiled and nodded. No words came to her mind. Pictures were taken and slowly people filtered out. <br />
<br />
A month later, Adimu and four others from her village were boarding the plane for America. Some were going to New York, one to California and one to Kansas. Adimu was placed in Minnesota. The little she had read about Minnesota was that there was something called snow, which was supposed to be very cold, and that everyone was Lutheran.<br />
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She had the toughest time with the cold part. The Lutherans didn't seem to make themselves known. School was difficult. She had to work to keep herself fed and send some money back home for her family. Everything was so expensive that she had to pick up another job while studying full time. <br />
<br />
She quit sleeping so she could keep eating. The grant money covered most of rent, but not all of it. Transportation and groceries were extra. She worked at the university library, where she could study, and an overnight job cleaning big buildings downtown. There are three sections to a day: school for 8 hours, work for 8 hours and sleep for 8 hours. Adimu had to fudge the numbers a little bit to make ends meet. School kept its 8 hours, but work demanded at least 12. That left about 4 for sleep. Amidu has kept plugging along and this May it will all pay off with a shiny new degree from the University of Minnesota. <br />
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She hasn't seen her family in almost 4 years, but they talk constantly. They are saving some money so her mom can come for the graduation ceremony. <br />
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Adimu is planning on staying in the States for now to pay off the little bit of debt that has accumulated and get some experience in her field. She's thinking about grad school, but wants to spend some time with her family before pursuing another degree. <br />
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For now she will continue to rush into work immediately after finishing at the library. Her manager is very forgiving, even though she shows up 7 minutes late every day.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01995146118798282592noreply@blogger.com1