Category Archives: Travel Musings

Time to Suit Up

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In the wise words of Barney Stinson, it is time to “suit up.”  With February whipping by like a winged cherub shooting arrows of love, our April leave date looms large. Each day, as I sit in ConGen, trying to mentally process the intricacies of non-immigration law practice, my mind often wanders to what needs to be done here and now to get us ready to go. While the front half of my flower and vine covered notebook is filled with refusal codes, ineligibilities and INA references, the back pages are devoted to lists that fall under headings such as “Consumables Shipment,” “Medical Kit”  “Shell Shopping” and “Thad Shopping.”

One of the top priorities falling under the “Thad Shopping” column was suits. Last spring, when he got his invitation to join the 161st A-100 class at FSI, we were only given a few weeks of notice.  We were able to make a quick run to the suit store and get him two full suits, which got him through the summer fine, but he’ll need more now that he is facing the world of business-ware on a daily basis. (Language training is much more casual at FSI, meaning a collared shirt is sufficient.  Unless he has business to conduct in DC, he doesn’t need to wear the full ensemble each day.)

Thad is not a shopper. And when he does shop, he is not a “try-er on-er.” He goes through the pile of shirts, chooses the color that most closely resembles everything else in his closet and buys it. (Or waits on a bench outside the store while I buy it.) This means, suit shopping, that requires not only a visit to the dressing room, but also consultations with the seamstress, is not his idea of a fun Saturday.  But, when Men’s Warehouse is having their “Buy One, Get One Free” sale, there is no getting around it. It is time to go suit shopping.

So Saturday, after a lazy morning around the house, we headed out with nervous glances at a gray sky that seemed to be threatening snow. We had two choices of stores- the one that is just a couple of miles up the road by bus, or the one across the river in the District just a block away from the Metro station. We went with the latter. So did half of northern Virginia.

Men’s Warehouse was a warehouse of men on Saturday afternoon. Their semi-annual suit sale drew in the masses, who like us, feel a little ill at the price tags dangling from the sleeves of name brand suits. Planning ahead, we wrote down the sizes of the suits he already has and we were able to get a good start on suit selection before a salesman made it our way. With a couple outfits in hand that he picked out and a couple more that I really liked, it was off to the back of the store, where the fitting rooms had just a bit of locker room whiff to them.  (Thad says suits aren’t outfits. I am not sure why. It is a full ensemble that matches. That sounds like an outfit to me.)

Once we had narrowed it down to a pretty (now he’ll probably never wear it) gray suit and one with an olive hue to it, it was time for things to get personal with the alterations department. Chalk marks were made, pins stuck in and measurements taken.

With Thad changing back into his preferred t-shirt and jeans, I met with the “stylist.” (This is a real job at Men’s Warehouse!  They have a woman who takes the suits you choose, and then displays them with a variety of shirts and ties to demonstrate which color combinations work best. While I could easily do this on my own, I applaud the company for their ingenious gimmick. I am sure they have sold countless shirts and ties through this process than they would have if they just let men wander the aisles and try to fend for themselves.)  Since we were in the dress shirt and tie market anyway though, the stylist and I worked through several combinations. By the time Thad joined us, I had the selections narrowed down and just needed his approval. (It doesn’t matter how awesome I think it looks. If he hates it, there is no point in bringing it home.)

Two suits,  six dress shirts, two ties and a hefty swipe of the debit card later, we found ourselves back out on the sidewalk, no longer glancing at a gray sky threatening snow, but rather standing in the flakes themselves as they came swirling violently around us.

Monday, when I head into my fourth week of consular training, as I flip from the data-filled pages of the front of my spiral notebook to the list-filled ones at the back, I will be pulling out my lovely purple ballpoint and crossing off the first of many lines in many lists- suits. That’s one “to-do” item checked off!

Next up? I’ve got no idea! Possibility just more additions to the already pending lists.

A Little Super Bowl Halftime Reading

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The big day has arrived. It is Super Bowl Sunday. (Or Super Bowl Monday for our soon-to-be-colleagues in Chengdu. I hear there is a pre-work party with bagels and muffins!) After a crushing season in the Fantasy Football league, losing a playoff spot for Playing in Stilettos by just one game, I am ready to wrap this season up.

The Super Bowl is a fascinating slice of Americana pie. A section of our pop culture is put on display for the world to see, from the massive build-up to a game that never seems to live up to its hype to the obsession over commercials hawking everything from beer and pizza to luxury cars and stock portfolios to the constant complaints about how bad the halftime show is/was/will be. (Who could the league hire that wouldn’t draw endless complaints? I mean really.  When you’ve got half of the American population watching the same concert, how will you ever come up with an artist that satisfies all of them? You won’t!)

I, too, will be watching the match-up between the teams today. (Who are they again? Seriously. That is the level of attention I pay. This may be why the lovely Stilettos didn’t make the playoffs, yet again, this year.) While I don’t follow the NFL closely, I do have a few suggestions for ways to improve this end-of-season party.

My proposal takes the end reward for winning the game and works backwards to reach a better form of entertainment, leading to that prize.  What coveted award is given out to the victorious team? Rings. Big, expensive, diamond-laden, sparkly baubles to adorn the giant sausage-like fingers of the players who propelled their team to the number one spot in the NFL.  We are talking jewelry here people.

I propose, if jewelry is what is at stake, we come up with a contest more fitted to that trophy. Much like the Miss America candidates who vie for a tiara, I think the professional football players should also show us their jewelry-worthy skills.  So, with that in mind, here is what I propose:

Super Bowl Sunday still exists, but rather than settling the dispute with sweaty piles of gigantic dudes fighting over a piece of animal hide, they give us a fashion show.  That’s right. A fashion show.  It is a fitting way to earn their rings.

I suggest the teams go head to head in four categories- home, away, wild card and mascot.  Each round will serve as a quarter, so the Super Bowl maintains its roots in football. The home outfits will be modeled by the offensive players, while the away outfits are donned by the defensive players. (On a personal level, I would suggest teams shy away from the white pants. Something metallic or dark does a much better job of hiding that embarrassing jock-strap line.) Those quarters are pretty easy to picture, and possibly pretty easy on the eye, depending on who the reigning quarterbacks are. The wild card round will be shown on the special teams players. These outfits are determined individually by each team. They could be throw-back uniforms or ones worn during October’s profusion of pink games or they could be something more creative, like futuristic uniforms. Of course, the fourth and final round goes to the mascots. These guys will take to the runway to demonstrate not only their level of team spirit, but also the type of mascot will be judged. (Personally, I am a fan of the weird balloon ones that can jiggle and bounce around, but as I am not an NFL sanctioned referee, I don’t get a vote.)

Obviously, the team which scores the most points overall, after the completion of all four quarters, will be declared the winner and be presented with the coveted Super Bowl rings. They will be bling-tastic, just as they are now. The winning team can still choose an MVP who will announce they are going to Disney World and could be featured not only on the front of the Wheaties box, but his face could also shine on the cover of Glamour.

The rest of the NFL season will stay the same, with kick-offs and run-backs and field goals and sacks and interceptions and all the other football-y stuff that makes up each game. The only change to the league’s procedure would be to the season finale and how those players earn the most sought-after prize in American sports- the Super Bowl ring.

Think about it. We are an hour away from watching dozens of grown men battle one another for a diamond encrusted bit of beautiful glory. Runway show- it could work!

Here Comes the Bride

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Bridal showers. Baby showers. Even rain showers. As I’ve mentioned before, I’m good with them all, as long as games aren’t involved. Throwing a shower for someone is a great way to help them get off to a great start on a new era of her life, whether it is because of impending nuptials or the arrival of a squawking bundle of joy.  This past weekend, I had the opportunity to help plan and throw a wedding shower for two very good friends.- John and Lulu.

John and Lulu met in China while he was a Peace Corps Volunteer. (Shout out to Peace Corps China!) Before he returned to the States in late May to begin the Foreign Service Officers training, in the same class as Thad, he asked Lulu to marry him.  Their engagement had to be a long distance one for the next half a year, as he was here in DC doing his training and preparing to head to Taiwan on his first assignment and she was home in Guizhou province in China. Luckily, John was able to fly to China over Christmas, where they were married, and return with Lulu to start their new lives together.

We not only wanted to help this wonderful couple put together the foundation they will need to establish their own home, but we wanted to welcome Lulu to America with open arms. What is a better way to do that than throw them a traditional wedding shower?

Along with Molly and Jessica, I set about putting together a small gathering for John’s friends and FSI classmates. We were able to reserve the activities room herein Crystal City Oakwood, which was the perfect size to hold the roughly twenty-five people who came to celebrate.  As invitations went out, we not only received an overwhelming number confirming attendance, but also numerous offers to bring food and drink to the party. It was wonderful to see so many people happy and excited for John and Lulu, wanting to contribute to the festivities as a way to honor them and their marriage.

As Saturday rolled around, in true worrywart fashion, I was awake with my mind reeling at 6:30 in the morning, a mere four hours before the commencement of any activity. As I lay in bed, I had these terrible thoughts about what if I didn’t really reserve the room (even though I knew I had, since I had checked with the front desk on several occasions to be sure it was on their calendar), what if no one came (ridiculous, as our RSVP list was extensive) and what if we don’t have enough food and drink for everyone (again, ludicrous since we ended up with enough left over to do it all again!) ?

Needless to say, the morning went off without a hitch. There were balloons and streamers and garland; there were cookies and muffins and salmon mini-sandwiches and cupcakes and veggies trays galore; there was hazelnut coffee and regular coffee and juice and limeade and champagne; there were wrapped gifts and bagged gifts and enveloped gift cards. There were no games.

That, my friends, is the best part. No games. The bride was not embarrassed by having to wear bows on their head, representing the number of kids she would have. There were no wedding dresses or veils made from toilet paper. There were no awkward moments where the groom has to try to remember what color of toothbrush his blushing bride uses.  There just a lot of eating and a lot of chatting and a lot of friends spending time together in recognition of a fabulous new couple.

I am pleased to have been able to be a part of the planning for this occasion.  While a shower isn’t the same as a full-blown wedding, it was a great way for us to all gather and extend our wishes for happiness to John and Lulu. Saturday’s event was a success, thank to everyone who helped plan, who helped provide food and who helped set-up and take down.

Next up? Baby shower for Rory!

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Kids’ Menu, Please

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There are many descriptions that could be listed under the heading “Michelle.”  Bibliophile. Shoe-collector. Nail polish aficionado. List-maker. Obsessive-planner. And the list goes on…But there is one label that I try to hide a bit more than the others, although at some point in my relationships with friend and colleagues it becomes glaringly obvious, regardless of the steps I take to mask it.

Picky-eater.

I eat like a five-year old. My preferred diet consists of cereal, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, chicken nuggets and pizza. Throw a plain (meat and bun) burger in there and I’m still good to go. Try to add condiments or spice it up in any way and I’ll probably just pick at it until I can get home and have a bowl of cereal instead.

Thad, since discovering this trait on about, oh, our third date, has been my stealthy food accomplice. There is no way to tally up the number of times I’ve covertly transferred food from my plate to his in an attempt to make others think I’ve eaten and enjoyed the meal provided.  When we were living in China last time, it was on a fairly regular basis that we were invited to attend banquets, usually hosted by our college.  Whenever they had leaders visiting, it looked good to trot out the foreigners, so off we went to these meals that went on for hours, starting with a series of cold dishes being served, then moving on to a lengthy set of hot dishes, then complimented with either bowls of noodles or rice and finally, bless the heavens, finally, the giant dish of fruit which signified that the feast was coming to a close. These dinners, while a bit tedious in nature, were glorious for Thad. He had his fill of the best and fanciest foods offered in our small Gansu town. Not only did he get to enjoy his share of the goodness, but he got mine was well!  To keep up the appearance of loving every minute of this gigantic meals provided by our college and with important Party folks present, I helped myself to various dishes throughout the evening.  Then, when conversation turned to the next round of drinks or topics that were beyond my grasp on the language (which was quite often), I surreptitiously chopstick-ed my bowl of random food items into Thad’s bowl, where he could enjoy my pickings.

The reason the picky-eating issue comes up is that last night Thad and I went out to dinner.  For Christmas, my best friend Shannon gave us a gift card to Chili’s and we happen to have one just a few blocks up the road from our place, which makes it quite convenient in our car-less existence here in Washington DC. (Not only is the Chili’s just a few blocks away, but on a breezy night like last night, when the wind is cutting right through layers of clothing, the fact that we could get within a couple hundred yards of the restaurant through the underground labyrinth connected to our mo-partment building was a built-in bonus!)

With gift card in hand, off to Chili’s we went.  Upon arrival and perusal of the menu, we decided that the 2 for $20 deal was the way to go. We ordered the chips and corn/guacamole appetizer (I enjoyed the chips. No dip for me, thanks.)  and then I had the six ounce steak with mashed potatoes and rice and Thad had some super sizzling chicken fajitas. We enjoyed a nice dinner in a restaurant that was not only fairly quiet for a Saturday night, but also a decent temperature. (I don’t know why restaurants, summer or winter, keep their thermostats so low. Does cold make people hungrier so they order more food?  All it makes me want to do is eat quickly and get out of there!)

As we were wrapping up dinner, our waiter, an older gentleman named Wayne, came back to collect the dishes. Thad had cleared his plate completely, leaving nothing more than a few stray peppers and fajita juice on his skillet. I, on the other hand, in true fashion, had eaten only part of my steak. (I ate the middle part, which was good. I just don’t like the edges of most foods. I always eat the inner parts of things like steak and pork chops, provided they are boneless. The pointy ends of things like bananas and green beans freak me out and are also avoided whenever possible.  Ends are just weird.)  There was also still a significant portion of the potatoes and rice on my plate when Wayne was clearing off the table.  At first, he offered concern that I hadn’t liked my meal, but when I assured his that I had and that I had eaten what I wanted of it, he gave me a look that had me worried. I seriously thought for a split second that this man was going to go into “mom-mode” and not let me leave the table until I had cleaned my plate!  Thad, across the table, was trying to hold in his laughter and I received a pointed, stern, motherly look from the waiter about my eating habits.

I can’t help that I am a picky-eater, but I do realize that it is an oddity in someone my age.  I do my best to conceal the grape jelly Uncrustable that I eat for lunch eat day at the Foreign Service Institute while my colleagues dine on sushi  and I try not to let my taste buds dictate where we go to dinner with friends. (Hey, almost everywhere has a kids menu with chicken strips that I can order!) Picky-eating is just another part of the world of Michelle.

Now, who wants a bowl of Cheerios for lunch?

I Have Found The Promised Land…In Clarendon!

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While I don’t normally look to the pop charts for deep kernels of truth, Belinda Carlisle was right on the money in 1987 when she eloquently articulated to us all that indeed, “Heaven is a place on Earth.” For some, that heavenly spot may be found along a quiet path in the woods or on a secluded section of white sand beach or even in the frigid climes of the far north.

Saturday, I found my personal heaven on Earth- The Container Store!

I believe I’ve mentioned before my love of all things organization-y. (Yes, it is a word. When I earned my degree in English, along with it I was granted the rights to the language, which allow me to make up new words as needed, as long as I can assign them a part of speech and give an example sentence. It is an adjective and the sample sentence has already been provided.) I love drawers and boxes and crates and files and hangers and bins and baskets and trunks and bags and totes and…the list could go on endlessly. The Container Store is all of this, and more. (The “and more” being the plastic straw glasses that I grabbed off of the “impulse buy” rack near the registers, which I am now wearing, as I write this post. Money well spent.)

When Thad was birthday shopping a few weeks ago, one thing I had on my list was some way to organize my nail polishes. He asked at nearly every store in the mall and came up with nothing,  until one in-the-know clerk suggested he check out The Container Store.  Not having one of these in Idaho, he realized that while it may be the way to go, it would be best to let me experience it myself in all its glory. It is a decision that he came to regret on Saturday afternoon…

With a few nail polishes in my purse as size examples, we headed out on the blue and then orange Metro lines to make a visit, in person, to this land of glory. Walking through the sliding glass doors was a bit like what I imagine walking towards the light will be like one day. I was drawn in by a power greater than myself.

The store was two levels, all of which needed to be explored before any decisions on nail polish holders could be made. After the second complete walk through every aisle, Thad thought it was maybe time to begin to narrow down the options and maybe actually make a purchase before the store closed for the night. (We arrived at 2PM.) The decision was just too hard. I was overwhelmed by the choices of colors, styles and possibilities for either displaying or hiding the polish bottles.  Oh, what is a girl to do? How about one more tour of the store!

Hearing a series of increasingly bored sighs from my dear, patient husband, I settled on a pretty cornflower blue document box, held open with a lovely matching ribbon.  It is the perfect height for nail polish bottles and big enough to store my collection in its entirety. (I was actually surprised when I got home and started the sorting process that I only had fifty-six bottles of polish. I would have guessed closer to the 100 mark. That means my new box is only about 2/3 full, so new polishes are definitely in the near-future plans!)

While I only brought home the one container today, I am sure I will be back for more before our April departure to Chengdu. Much like petty drug dealers who give the first hit for free, The Container Store has made an addict out of me with just one visit. There is no rehab for organizational obsession, so I will have to spend the next three months assuaging my desires through both physical trips to the store itself as well as late-night forays on the website that never closes. In this world we may just be beginning to understand the miracle of living, but baby, I’ve got some containers to help me sort it all out.

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Death by PowerPoint

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1987 saw such spectacular events as President Reagan undergoing prostate surgery, the debut of both Prozac and The Simpsons and the birth of Lil’ Bow-Wow. (Now grown up, he has dropped the diminutive from his name and prefers a more mature, more cultured moniker- Bow-Wow.) As remarkable as these things may be, that fateful year, twenty-five years ago, brought with it something much more life-altering than just the voice that would bring us classics like “Bounce with Me” and “Puppy Love.” (These are either semi-famous rap songs or jingles that belong on the type of CD that soccer moms play on an endless loop in their mini-vans as they shuttle their over-scheduled darlings from one enriching after-school activity to another. While Wikipedia tells me they fall into the first category, I find their titles to be deceptively aimed at young children. I think this may be the right direction for Glee to head in for their next “mash-up” episode.)

1987 brought us a new kind of slow, painful demise- Death by PowerPoint.

Before the late 80’s, office workers sitting at their desks, whiling away the hours until they could punch out  on the company clock and hop in their Pontiac Bonnevilles, could imagine their grisly ends coming through a variety of means. Maybe an assistant paper-pusher miscalculates the space needed when preparing packets for his boss’ meeting and ends up with a rusty staple embedded in his thumb, which without the proper tetanus shots, leads to lockjaw and eventual starvation. Maybe the secretary daydreams while filing endless manila folders in the gray metal cabinet that sits behind her desk and while her focus is elsewhere, she gets a doozy of a paper cut, which over time becomes infected and she dies, ranting like a crazy woman, from a high fever. Or maybe, just maybe, the bacteria built up on the office kitchen plates that everyone uses and rinses quickly, but never really washes well, end the middle management dreams of a bean counter or two.

All of these are plausible, yet uncommon, ways to perish at the office. Since 1987 though, PowerPoint has brought us a much more sinister possibility. Endless slides, often accompanied by a mercenary who reads each and every bullet point, have become a standard way for companies to cull their herds.

With a move to China on the horizon, and a lackluster desire to continue to study such an overwhelming language, I have finally been able to make the move to Con-Gen.  This is a general course given to all diplomats headed out on tours where they will deal with passports and visas.  It goes over policy and law and the realities of the implementation of those edicts. While the information is actually quite interesting, the presentation leaves something to be desired.

Friday, just my second day of the course, I sat through four and half hours of lecture.  In that amount of time, we covered 123 slides.  Now, I was an English teacher and math has never been my strong suit (I got a C in math in the 6th grade, which earned me a grounding and extra math homework every night until the next set of midterms were sent home), but I didn’t even have to bust out my computer’s calculator to determine we were running at about a slide every two minutes. Granted, some slides had cute clipart on them, which definitely helped me make connections between the legalese of government documents and what a rabbit at a visa window would look like, so I can’t complain too much.

PowerPoint is a wonderful application and has been refined significantly since its days of being called “Presenter,” but there are a few rules that all PowerPoint architects should keep in mind:

*Keep fonts and colors to a minimum (No one loves pretty and fluffy and fabulous more than I do, but if the font is so curly that I can’t decide whether or not I somehow ended up back in Chinese class, you should probably pass on it.)

*Avoid animation of most any kind (The gunshot-like lettering was always a favorite of my 8th graders.  Not only is it totally obnoxious to listen to each individual letter shoot its way on to the screen, but there is no way to comprehensibly  talk over it, so the entire audience is inflicted with a mild case of PTSD before you even begin to speak about each and every slide.)

*Keep your bullet points to a minimum (as demonstrated here, three is sufficient) and unless you are presenting to a group of inept third graders (which raises a whole different series of possible issues) there is no need to read the slides. Summarize, summarize, summarize!!

The 80’s were a glorious time. I distinctly remember being the proud owner of a bangin’ neon windbreaker, having an unfulfilled longing for Garbage Pail Kids trading cards (which were deemed a waste of money and “junk” by the keepers of the allowance) and tuning in weekly to watch Alf’s appetite for cats remain on an unwilling crash diet.  American culture is bigger (although not necessarily better) for that bedazzled era, but little from the penultimate decade of the century has endured and spread so pervasively as the PowerPoint program and the invisible scars many of us carry from a quarter century of painful presentations.

 

Not Quite the Rainbow Connection

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During my five months of self-imposed unemployment, I discovered that I don’t do well without a schedule. When I was teaching, I was up by a bit after five in the morning, at school before seven and several nights a week didn’t head home until 5:30. Weekends were something to be looked forward to and treasured.  Sleeping in (which in the world of early birds like myself just means getting up without the squawk of an alarm, even if that is 7:00AM) was a treat to be cherished each and every time it was possible.

Post-cross country move, Thad had a very rigid agenda, while I was free to wander as I pleased.  There were parts of that independence that I loved. Over the summer I was reading a book every day or two (thank goodness for library e-lending!), discovered creative new ways to paint my fingernails and in much less than the seventy-two days it took Kris, discovered that I was just not that in to the Kardashian clan.

As I wiled away my summer days, I began to look for volunteer opportunities in the area.  One evening I took the green line (gasp!) out to Petworth to work with ESL students.  I spent the evening tutoring a Cambodian woman hoping to get her GED.  I enjoyed the time I spent there, but without a car, the commute there and back took as long as I actually spent working with students.  In July I had an opportunity to volunteer at the Martin Luther King, Jr. Memorial opening, which was super, but just a single day project.  With a few other odds and ends chances thrown in throughout the summer, I soon decided that I would like something a little more regular, something with a schedule that I could count on, dates that I could obsessively mark on my calendar.

It was at this point that I was introduced to a program called The Reading Connection.  This is a group founded in 1989 by some teachers who saw the profound effects created by a lack of literary material in the homes of children.  The Reading Connection is a volunteer program that works out of shelters and homes for at-risk students to create literacy-rich environments in which they can grow. As a reading teacher and uber-book lover, this was a great fit for me.

After going through the training process and getting my background check and references in order, it was time to actually begin.  Along with my team of three other members, I go to a local homeless shelter once every four weeks to read with the children.

This has been…well…an experience.  I taught middle school for a decade. I have a pretty good handle on discipline and control when it comes to a group of students.  The gal I go with, Pam, was a middle school teacher (6ht grade, bless her heart!) in Hawaii. She now teaches in the education department at a local university. She is organized and I’m sure was a fabulous teacher. And yet, TRC nights are utter chaos.  The last time we were there, I had to convince a young girl that standing on the table was probably not the best option. Pam had kids hanging on her the moment she walked in the door.  These kids are needy, in many senses of the word.

While it can be frustrating and a long hour attempting to bring books to life for these kids, it is the neediness that creates the need for the program.  These kids need more adults who care. They need more attention. They need more structure.  They need more books.

During the November session, which of course revolved around Thanksgiving.  I hauled in a pile of picture books about turkey feasts and thankfulness and harvesting fields.  For a treat, I put together “turkey baggies” which held all of the fixings for Oreo turkeys. (This is the OCD teacher in me. Rather than just bringing and trying to pass out the various turkey parts at the house, which I knew would be the epitome of bedlam, I pre-packaged the necessary cookies, candy corn, and Whoppers for easy access.)

Volunteering with The Reading Connection has been an eye-opening experience. I am well aware than an hour of reading time each week isn’t going to solve the root problems that create the cycle of poverty in which these kids are being raised.  I do hope that our books and discussions provide a glimmer of what else is available in the world and hopefully even just one child will latch on to that possibility and become something bigger and better than she had previously dreamed!

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Planner Paradise

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A new year is always exciting. It is filled with hope, opportunities and unseen adventures.  I’ve never really been one for New Year’s resolutions, as I’m self-aware enough to realize that I am not going to stick with something just because the calendar says it is January 1. I tend to just do something once I decide that is what I want to do rather than wait for a seemingly arbitrary date to commence the undertaking.  (If we are going to set capricious dates though, we should make every February 29 Outrageous Resolution Day!  Rather than going with the yearly normal like “lose ten pounds” or “go to the gym four times a week” or “volunteer more,” every Leap Year Day can be for crazy, over-the-top resolutions like “I will wear polka-dots and stripes in some combination every day for a month” or “I will only eat blue food until Easter Outrageous Resolutions Day could become an instant hit!) Although I don’t do the resolutions thing, there are other parts of rolling from the old to the new that I do love.

One of my favorite things about saying goodbye to the outgoing year and welcoming the new one is that the turning of the last calendar page means it is time to chuck the calendar I’ve been staring at for the last twelve months and replace it with a fresh, fabulous new one. I love calendars of all types- wall calendars (especially the ones with organizational pockets and stickers), daily desk calendars, and planners.

While I have transferred many of my daily activities to be technologically based (everything from keeping in touch via Skype/Face Time to reading nearly all of my books on my Nook), this organizational tidbit of my life is still firmly in the land of paper/pencil.  I love perusing the stores right after the new year, when everything is 50% off, picking out just the perfect planner to see me through the next twelve months. Color and pattern are at the top of the priority list, but design and construction are not to be forgotten. This year, the winner has a dark brown background on which are embossed pink and orange butterflies surrounded by spring green flowers. Both the elastic band to close the book as well as the font inside are a pretty raspberry pink color. This is the planner that will see me through the fanatical list-making that is sure to happen in the next few months; it will be packed and hauled to just about the opposite side of the Earth; hopefully it will utilized as my close companion in the transition to a new job once we get to Chengdu; and it will serve as a way to keep track of when all of our guests are coming and going from their trips to the Middle Kingdom. (Hint. Hint.)

After getting my colorful, sparkling new planner home, I immediately want to begin organizing life for the upcoming year. This means finding some pretty colored pens and filling the book with relevant birthdays, anniversaries and appointments that have already been set.  As many planners these days are 18-month ones, it also means that January doesn’t fall on the first page, but rather several months in, the booklet having started in July. This means I need to dig through my assortment of color-coordinated school supplies and find a matching butterfly clip (the winner is spring green) to hold the already used pages out of the way, clipping them to the front cover.  (I’ve been doing this for years, but only within the last couple did I realize that this wonderful technique is not one I dreamed up myself.  It took a bit to realize where I got it from, but once I did, I can’t believe I didn’t see it all along. I have vivid memories of sitting, after school, in my dad’s counselor’s office at Jefferson Junior High School.  When it was time to pack up to go home at the end of the day, as he gathered his things to go, one think that always got packed up was his dark blue Lifetouch daily planner.  I can clearly see the giant black and silver butterfly clip holding the used pages to the front of the planner itself.  While my planner and clip are definitely more fashionable than my dad’s ever were, apparently his sense of organization unconsciously rubbed off on my all those years ago!)

My love of calendars stems from two roots: first, my obsessive need to be organized (I call it prepared, Thad calls it bossy) and second, my love of all things fluffy and florally and girly.  There is little that combines those two wonderful concepts like a calendar, fresh out of its plastic wrap and ready to help me put a whole new year in its place!

Eleven Times Three

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While the day is just now arriving, my birthday celebration officially began several weeks ago, on New Year’s Eve, when while home for Christmas break I had the chance to share the festivities with my older sister, Melyssa, and my niece, Audrey, both of whom have end of December birthdays. Being the “big kids” out of the bunch, Melyssa and I deferred to the desires of the sprite-like Audrey, whose wishes included a very pink, very princess birthday party.

In grand fashion, we enjoyed the house swathed in Pepto-pink.  (While I am a total pink girl myself, my tastes run in the direction of raspberry more than cotton candy.) From balloons bedazzled with Disney princesses to a sparkly, pink-pearl embossed cake, it was as if we had fallen into monochromatic land. Colors no longer existed, just shades.

As the big 3-3 has finally arrived (years that are multiples of eleven seem a bit more grand than the others),  in honor of it here are, in a totally random order,  thirty-three things I’ve learned over the last three and a third decades:

  1. There is no appropriate place on a resume to put elementary school perfect attendance awards, but I am sure that the lack of missed days contributed to future job offers is some way, shape or form.
  2.  Not only is it okay, but it is brilliant to buy that cute pair of shoes (or perfect fitting pants or adorable top or cute necklace) in every color offered.
  3. Studying abroad in the Caribbean is definitely a good choice when the options are either northern Utah or Dominican beach in January.  Learning experiences aside, snow-capped mountains always lose to white sandy seashore.
  4. Icy Hot and sunburns should not be mixed. (A small fact I picked up on during the sojourn mentioned in #3.)
  5. Sometimes checking the “no preference” box is the best option. That little box is what landed Thad and me in rural China with Peace Corps for two years and we couldn’t have chosen a better site on our own.
  6. Being a picky eater is fine, as long as you can justify why you don’t eat certain foods.  Reasonable explanations may include “too pointy” (usually in reference to the ends of bananas), “too knobby” (mostly used for chicken strips that are strangely bumpy) and “looks too much like a trashcan” (always for tater tots!).
  7. Just because you already own three copies of a single book does not mean you shouldn’t buy another one when you find it on clearance table for a dollar at a library sale.  You can either shelve it with its compatriots or give it away to someone in need of a great read. There is no such thing as too many books.
  8. 8th graders are the world’s most fascinating species. On one hand, they are still kids, willing to do nearly anything for a sticker, and then on the other hand, in the exact same moment, they are sending texts that would make a madam blush.  (Just don’t combine the two halves or you will face a whole different terrifying predicament!)
  9. Soda pop out of a fountain machine is always the best. I think it has to do with the straw. The fizzy drink hierarchy goes: fountain, bottle, can.
  10. My experience tells me that old people can get away with nearly anything. With little repercussion they can speak their minds (or what is left of them.) They act with near impunity. No one corrects the geezers.  As I inch closer to those grand days myself, I am taking this opportunity to wield the old-folks’ license and do what I want.  No one, myself included, wants to read a list of thirty-three anything, so…enough!

Age has brought wisdom. It may not be not conventional wisdom, and is definitely not street smarts, but an acumen all of its own. The princess party is nothing more than a memory and another year of wisdom has been added to my mental file cabinet. Thirty and three has arrived.

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Wii-ning Advice

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Much like the poultry population of southern China, our Oakwood population is experiencing its own culling process. Friends that we’ve made through Thad’s A-100 training class and language training are beginning to pack-out and leave for their respective assignments.  On one hand, this is great because the commencement of their tours means ours isn’t far behind, but on the other hand, it is a bit odd to not have the same people on the shuttle each morning and evening and to not have the same people chatting around the table at lunch each afternoon.

This week was the last week at FSI for two such people.  Ian and David both just dominated their end of course language tests and are now headed west to visit family before heading far, far east where Ian will begin his assignment in the Guangzhou consulate. Thad and Ian started Chinese classes together last July and have spent a large portion of each day together since then. David and I joined the party a bit later, but have also had our share of time on the fake-coyote ridden campus of FSI.

A bit of an impromptu going-away party convened last night to celebrate their impending departure and to wish them well in their new adventures. While I usually am not up for anything big on a Friday night, riding up the elevator five floors for a get-together is definitely doable! The evening’s docket included pizza, soda, chips and a bit of Wii.

This being my third Wii-experience (Wii-sperience?) in as many months, I have a few tidbits for my fellow players who also lack technological aptitude:

  1. Apparently, calling yourself a “video game player” is not appropriate lingo for those who are serious about their games. If you refer to yourself this way, it is equivalent to donning a sandwich board sign advertising your lack of video game skillz. (Spelling and pronouncing skills with a “z” may lead to a similar assumption, but I’m sticking with it!)
  2. Just because you are a decent driver in real life (no pullovers or tickets for this motor vehicle operator) does not mean those abilities will in any way translate to video game driving abilities. After coming in 11th and 12th consecutively, David jumped in to be my back seat driver.  In addition to giving me hints about upcoming turns and obstacles, his squeals when I careened into various gorges and ravines kept me on my feet. With him riding shotgun, I soon propelled my standing from the bottom of the pack to 2nd place!
  3. Don’t listen to your competitors-ever. Their advice should not be heeded. Towards the end of an intense Mario Party clashing, as I was about to purchase my third star, thereby putting me in the lead, I was debating whether or not it was in my best interest to allow Donkey Kong to shoot me out of his cannon (really, who wouldn’t want a ride in a cannon?!?), I hear something say “Yes!”  Thinking this advice was coming from someone in-the-know, I chose to take the cannon ride, which catapulted me not to the star as I thought it would, but rather to the Never-Neverland of Mario’s prehistoric jungle. There would be no star in my future, at least in that round.

As a thrice-experienced “gamer”(this, I am told, is the correct way to label yourself if you have wasted away hours of time on your sofa, moving your pixilated men and creatures in hopes of achieving virtual success), I feel that my past mistakes can be learning opportunities for those who follow in my technological footsteps.  While these tips may not allow you to be the ultimate winner of Mario Party (which I was last night, by the way!) but they will give you a leg-up on your fellow uninitiated video game players.

The coming months will see many more goodbyes, but mostly great ones, as it means everyone is finally heading out to their multitude of awesome posts, as well as the possibility of a few more virtual game nights. I doubt I will ever be good at goodbyes, but I will continue in my quest to achieve the gaming skills of a six year old!

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