Everyday Life

Yesterday, I got done with my classes and walked to my car, nonchalantly contemplating all that I had to do that evening and thinking about the job interview I’d had that morning–nothing much really.

When I reached my car, I stopped short at the sight of–no it couldn’t be–

But it was. A parking ticket. How on earth? My mind ran through the options. I’d parked there at 3:45 pm, the area was two hour parking between 8 am and 5 pm with no limit after 5. So I only spent 1 hr and 15 minutes there between the regulated hours.

I was considering my options, thinking through the appeal process, when I opened the envelope and discovered the true issue.

“Invalid registration.”

My mind tried processing this new information.

“Let’s see, I bought Lucy last year after the car accident. The car accident was at the end of February. I drove a rental through March. And I bought Lucy in April, right?”

Except that I checked when I dropped off my recycling at the recycling collection place.

No, I must have bought it in March.

Oh, that’s what happened. I’m remembering it now. I bought JACK, my previous car in April–and so I’d paid registration through April on the car that was totalled in the accident. Didn’t they try to arrange something to reimburse me for that extra month or something?

Yeah. That’s right.

Okay, so my car does indeed have invalid registration. My plates expired last month. I’ll accept that.

The question is–why didn’t I get a postcard reminding me that registration was due and telling me what I owed?

I haven’t changed my address. I’m the one who gets the mail, so I doubt it’s a matter of the postcard getting lost on my end.

Hmmm….

Conspiracy theories arise in my mind–and I’ve suddenly got it figured out.

They’re doing some old-fashioned revenue generating. Save $0.28 on the postcard, get $100 from the ticket, and still end up getting the registration in the end. It’s a fantastic racket.

So do the smart thing and check your registration today. Put the expiration on your calendar and don’t get caught by the racketeering state and local government.

to Southern California to see a dear friend married.

I have many hours to fly, to layover, to drive. I have brought grading and books and notebooks. I did not bring a computer (I’m old-fashioned that way–I like my computer to stay put on my desktop!) So there shouldn’t be much activity this weekend–and might not be at the beginning of next week either, since I’ll be busy inputting grades and catching up on all my school/work-ish stuff.

Wish me well on my journey and send a prayer of blessing for Amy and Craig as they begin their married life together!

There’s nothing more beautiful to my eye and my soul than Nebraska springtime after the rain.

I was overwhelmed with thankfulness as I walked into class this morning, beholding the land, breathing in the sweet scent of spring. I’m so thankful to be located on Lincoln’s lovely East Campus, strewn with flowering trees, green grass, and freshly turned fields.

As the agricultural campus of Nebraska’s land grant university, we enjoy a bit of farm life right in the middle of the city. Little plats of experimental fields surround the campus. In summer and fall they are green or brown with corn or soybeans or the like. But in spring, they are the dark black of rich, life-giving earth.

After a rainstorm, the gravel roads that lead to the fields turn muddy, dandelions pop up seemingly overnight, and the grass grows so green it almost hurts to look at it.

This is my favorite part of springtime in Nebraska–the sharp contrast between the rich dark soil and the startlingly brilliant green grass.

I long to take off my shoes, to run in this grass, to squidge my toes into the earth. And sometimes, I do.

Yesterday I was wearing a pair of shoes that were unkind to my feet. I took it as an excuse to slip them off and to walk on the grass beside the walk instead of on the walk itself. Undoubtedly I looked undignified, wending my way through the grass in my stockinged feet and proper skirt set. When I took off my stockings at home, they were ruined–completely grass-stained. But a pair of stockings is a small thing to sacrifice for the delightfulness of walking (nearly) barefoot on Nebraska’s good land–in the grass after the rain.

About a week ago, I mused on Facebook that “the trouble with black jelly beans is that you have to eat the other colors once they’re all gone.”

Then, I discovered that Brach’s sells bags of all-black jelly beans.

I bought two bags–one to eat now, and one to hide somewhere as a nice surprise sometime in the upcoming year (when I have forgotten that I bought and hid it and rediscover it again.)

I’ve been enjoying my black jelly beans, but they’ve had an unintended effect.

My tongue turns blue from the black jelly beans.

And I’ve been experimenting with mirror pictures.