Everyday Life

I have absolutely no skill for gift wrapping.

My family can testify that this is neither false humility nor misplaced perfectionism.

I am truly awful at it.

Which is why I didn’t even try this year.

The gifts are covered, the names visible. That’s the point of wrapping, right?

And there is something starkly beautiful about all those brown paper packages–so long as you don’t mind lots of wrinkles and large clumps of tape.

I’ve been in Columbus over a year now, and I have yet to find a mechanic in Columbus.

I’ve been blessed that Luci’s a pretty reliable gal. So long as I change her oil and give her some Heet in with her gas in the winter, she serves me well.

But even the best of cars occasionally develops a cough.

Luci just happened to develop her cough last week on her way to Grand Island.

When the steering wheel started wobbling and the car started shaking, my first thought was potholes (and then I thought “What potholes? I haven’t encountered any of those yet.”) My second thought was tires.

I had new tires put on Luci a couple months back while I was in Lincoln for the day–is there some sort of “bolts start getting loose” thing after buying new tires? I know that my bike mechanic told me to get my bicycle all tightened down after I put 50 or a 100 miles on it. Maybe cars are the same.

The maintenance man at work thought that was a reasonable scenario. I should get Luci’s wheels rotated and aligned.

So I did.

Then I drove back in the fog, unsure of whether she’d been fixed since my fog-driving (especially with the people that I had in front of me) was much different than my ordinary-clear-day driving.

Next day, I knew that it had not fixed it. But I didn’t have a mechanic in Columbus, and I was on-call to the degree that I didn’t feel I could just leave my car somewhere. I needed to be able to jump in my car and head to Grand Island at the drop of a hat.

So I didn’t get it fixed right off.

Monday night, it got worse and I decided that I would have to find Luci a mechanic in town whether my schedule liked it or not.

Then I went to Grand Island.

As I pulled into the parking lot, my brakes weren’t as smooth as normal–and I started to smell something burning.

Luci needed the emergency room. No more limping around. She needed a man immediately.

My dietary manager set up the meeting and we dropped Luci off with Kim.

Kim fixed her up right away. He was honest, fast, and affordable. He let me know exactly what the repairs would cost and even showed me the parts he replaced so I could see that he wasn’t just making up the need for replacement.

Luci’s found her man–but, once again, not in Columbus.

Geez–even my car figures she’ll have better luck elsewhere.

:-)

I made my haircut decision almost two weeks ago–but time is something rather hard to find. So Mr. Husband had over a week to “speak now”. He not having spoken, the deed is now down.

My hair before:

Gena brushes my hair out and tells me not to freak out as she suggests where she’ll cut.

She sticks her hand on the spot and I say “Okay”. I’m thinking “Isn’t that how long my hair already is?”

I say this out loud and Gena laughs “No, your hair is down here.” This time, her hand chops into my back below my waistline.

Oh. Okay.

She holds out my hair for the first cut while N. (Gena’s daughter) works to get the right angle. They want to coordinate to get a picture of that snip. I hear the camera auto-focusing, then the flash goes off and the snip is complete.

My hair is now at its finished length. There’s no going back.

Gena takes a picture so I can see the results.

Gena asks me how I feel about layers.

I give her the go-ahead.

We take another picture so I can see what’s happened.

Layers in front? Gena searches online for an example so I can see what she’s thinking.

I tell her to do it, but not too high. A few snips are enough for me.

She shows me myself again and asks if I want more.

This time, I’m ready to be done for the day.

My hair, in its new raw form.

But Gena doesn’t want to leave it raw. Can she curl it for me?

Sure. A few minutes later, I emerge–a totally new me.

My hair may have been longer than I thought–but I definitely recognize that some of it’s missing now. Scratch that–a lot of it’s missing now.

As C. (Gena’s son) said, “It’s short.”

Not actually–but short for me. But it looks nice, and I’m eager to enter into the world of healthy hair. If I can keep it up until it’s long again…

Thanks, Gena, for offering to do my hair and for holding my hand throughout the process.

Apparently, my pastor has something against argyle.

Two weeks ago, he directed parents of teens to sign their children up for the winter’s youth retreat. “Just talk to Mike (Our youth pastor). You can’t miss him-he’s in the ugliest sweater you’ve ever seen.”

The sweater in question turned out to be a rather ordinary black argyle sweater.

Pastor Justin was a bit surprised when 50 or so of his parishioners showed up this morning in argyle sweaters–in solidarity with the oppressed.

Have you ever seen the Six-Word Memoir project? I read a couple of Six-Word volumes…last year? or maybe two years ago? Anyway, I thought of them again recently and started writing some memoirs of my own–except my memory is rather fragile, so I thought they were eight-word memoirs instead of six-word. No wonder it was so easy to do.

Anyhow, here are some of my eight word memoirs (with my edits to six word memoirs in italics following).

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Bekah, cubed: I said my name was Anna

“My name is Anna.”
“No, Bekah(cubed)”

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Threw up in sister’s hair. Didn’t wake up.

Vomited in her hair. Slept on.

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Prayed in Sunday School; Saved by God’s grace.

Prayer didn’t save; God’s grace did.

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Supersonic household hero bawls balls out of trees.

Heroine bawls balls out of trees.

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I almost saw my little brother being born.

I almost saw my brother’s birth.

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Scabbed over in time to see meet baby sister.

Scabbed over in time. Met Grace.

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Stepped on dead possum while eating cheese sandwich.

Stepped on possum while eating sandwich.

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I dreamt they went inside, died. I cried.

They went inside, died. I cried.

Fourteen going on forty year old homeschool Mom.

Fourteen-going-on-forty homeschool Mom.

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Harlequins taught lies, fairy tales told the truth.

Harlequins lied, fairy tales told truth.

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He asked me to give Him my husband.

“Give me your husband,” He said.

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I cried when I saw my PSAT scores.

I cried over my PSAT scores.

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Chancellor knocked on my door. I wasn’t home.

Chancellor rang doorbell. I wasn’t home

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Pride and Prejudice: My fifteen minutes of fame.

Pride and Prejudice: My fifteen minutes.

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Justification: I am not wrong in His eyes.

Justification: He sees me made right.

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Dietetics student ambivalent about weight loss, low BMI.

Dietetics student ambivalent about weight loss.

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Mentored my sis-in-law right into the Menter family.

Mentored sis-in-law into family.

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God’s Sovereignty: Pled for Omaha, Led to Columbus.

Pled for Omaha, Led to Columbus.

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Secret Candy Sneak turned RD. LTC for me.

Secret Candy Sneak turned LTC RD.

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So what do you think? Are the eight-word memoirs better or are the six-word memoirs? Can you think of some eight (or six) word memoirs of your own?

I had just passed a semi and was entering into auto-mode when the car in front of me braked, turned on its blinker, and drove off onto the shoulder.

At first, I thought it was going to turn–on Highway 30, it’s normal for cars to pull off onto the shoulder prior to a turn, allowing those behind them to pass on their way to wherever they’re going.

But as I got closer, I realized that there was no road on which to turn off–and that the vehicle belonged to the Nebraska State Patrol.

Huh, I thought, wonder what he’s doing.

He pulled out behind me and turned on his lights.

It was my turn to pull off.

When he knocked on my window and asked for my driver’s license, registration, and insurance, I took forever to get my insurance. It’d been a long day in Grand Island and my eyes couldn’t focus on the date on the insurance card. I didn’t want to accidentally give the officer an expired insurance card.

But, at last, I determined that it was the current card. I handed it over, wondering if the officer would ever tell me why he’d pulled me over.

At last, he revealed: “I pulled you over for speeding. Speeding while passing is illegal in the state of Nebraska.”

He took my information back to his cruiser. I laid my head back on my headrest and wished for it to all be over.

Passing. I should have known. I always pass fast, eager to get back onto the right side of the road as quickly as possible. I should have known that would be illegal.

He came back at last, his clipboard in hand.

“I’m going to have to give you a ticket,” he said, “because you were going so fast.”

“You slowed down right after passing–I know it wasn’t your intent to speed. I took five miles off the speed I clocked you at–that’ll save you fifty dollars.”

He gave me all the details, had me sign his copy of the ticket, wished me a safe drive.

I put away my license, registration, and insurance card. I laid the ticket on the seat beside me. I started the car and drove off, already starting to tear up.

He had been the first non-institutionalized potentially-single man I’d met in months.

Will it ever get easier, being a single woman in a world with no prospects?