Fresh & Clean

If you're thinking this looks a lot like the remnants of a stash of 10 tithing envelopes forgotten in the pocket of a shirt that found its way into the wash today, you're right -- that's exactly what this is.

The San Antonio Church Tour of '09

The San Antonio Church Tour of '09 is in full swing! In an effort to broaden my religious understanding, I'm visiting various churches in San Antonio and blogging about it. So if you have any interest in reading (admittedly long) posts about my experiences, you can check out the blog at

sachurchtour09.blogspot.com

If you have suggestions of churches or worship areas I should consider, or if you want to come along, let me know!

I'm not as cool as I pretend to be

I butchered a French man's name today. And I mean wholesale slaughtered it.

It wasn't even a strange, unfamiliar name with bizarre French spelling that would have left me totally clueless. It wasn't Jacquot or Apollinaire or Émilien or Amaury or Théophile. THOSE I would have looked up online before even attempting. No, it was Jean-François. Which seems easy enough.

Now, I don't speak French. But I'm not totally ignorant. And I like saying things right, and usually I manage decently enough.

So before I called the guy, I prepped myself. "Jean" like on Les Mis, Jean ValJean. Zhoh(n). Got it. "François," like Froh(n)swa. Piece of cake. It sounded great. Not native, sure, but legit. Educated. Cultured. I felt ready.

Then when the guy picked up, I totally croaked. Totally. Croaked.

"Hello, could I speak with, uh, Zheen, uh, Zhoh... ::mumble, mumble:: Frons..frans...fronswah?"

The reply came kindly in perfect English tinted so attractively with French accent: "This is he." He didn't make a point to say, "Yes, this is Jean-François (you pathetic American)," he just moved on like it was no big deal that I just shredded his name. I would not have been so generous.

He's probably totally used to it, but I not only decimated his name but then I tripped over the pieces! I hang my head in shame.

Where there's a will there's a way

This is what happens if you wrap your dough in only ONE layer of saran wrap and put it in the fridge overnight. It will break through the saran wrap (not just find its way out a loose edge, but actually burst a hole clean through the plastic) and form a crusty goiter-y thing.

But do not despair—that persistent yeast hasn't gotten the best of you yet. You can still make an excellent pizza crust.

Today is a red-letter day...

(you may have to run an ActiveX control to get the above song to play)

















It's been a looong time since I've had this much style.

Large Obnoxious Bureaucratic Entities, Part 2

The fact that the travel experience from San Antonio to Salt Lake City last Wednesday was the most seamless and enjoyable ever—owing to a pre-downloaded episode of Pushing Daisies to pass the airport time, being upgraded to First Class at the last minute as a reward for my charitable nature, and getting paid to work while I flew from the Lone Star to the Beehive state—all this should have tipped me off that the return trip would offer some grief.

I have yet to have a frightening miss- or almost-miss-your-flight event, which, I admit, leads me to be a little cavalier about how much time I allow myself between airport-drop-off and departure time, especially when it comes to morning flights. So when I got to the SLC airport this morning to find the Delta check-in area teeming with passengers overburdened with their Christmas windfall, like something off the “6 o’clock News’ Travel Holiday Horrors Special,” the alarm sounded in my head and I unconsciously switched to Marge in Charge mode. Fortunately, along with my trusty sidekick/chauffeur/bag-boy Mark, I successfully navigated check-in and bag drop-off, avoiding the extra baggage charge with some fast talking, and I made my way up to security with a little under an hour before takeoff.

Like the seasoned traveler I am, I swiftly prepared my carry-ons for the seamless x-ray that airport experts like myself are accustomed to. I removed my slip-on shoes and two of the three jackets I had donned this morning—worn not for warmth, but worn because luggage, unlike bellies, does not miraculously expand over the Christmas break, and as I had failed to leave enough space to accommodate the newly-acquired material evidence of familial love and post-Christmas sales in addition all the items I had originally packed, there was no room in my bags for the sweater, hoodie, and faux-fur–lined coat which now insulated me from the harsh temperatures of a crowded airport security line.

With 45 minutes until takeoff, I passed noiselessly through the metal detector and watched for my shoes and bags to come leisurely down the conveyor belt. First came my shoes, then the hoodie, coat, laptop, and quart-sized Ziploc. Then the personal item, slowly. Then the conveyor belt came to its telltale abrupt stop. Reverse. Forward. Stop. Forward. I watched all this with the knowledge that the bag being scrutinized was mine, but I had no fear because there was nothing questionable in there. But then the flashing light came on and the operator looked around for backup. A finger pointed at the screen as another head nodded. Oh dear.

The nice TSA lady asked me if I happen to have a snow globe in my carry on. Why, yes, in fact, I do! It was a lovely gift from my husband’s dear grandmother, and it plays “Silent Night” when you wind it up—and it’s a pleasant, even endearing rendition of the song, which is an uncommon trait in wind-up decorative items these days.

Unfortunately for me and the little Mary, Joseph, and Baby Jesus in my snow globe, this potentially volatile item contained The Unknown Liquid and must either be checked, deserted, or otherwise disposed of before my carry on was going to leave the hands of the Nice TSA Lady.

Flight departure is T minus 40 minutes. I ran through my options with my friendly neighborhood TSA agent. All of the options that involved keeping possession of my snow globe required going downstairs and coming back through security.

I could go check the bag, which would not only certainly cost valuable time but would also surely incur a cost higher than the value of the snow globe. Or I could find out if the nice, idle people downstairs—who aren’t overworked at all right now—could retrieve one of my checked bags for me so I could rearrange my items, recheck my bag, and come back up through security. Or I could call my personal chauffeur to come back to retrieve this dangerous item. This last option was looking less likely as said chauffeur was not answering his phone.

Nice TSA Lady gestured for Stern West Point TSA Man to come offer his advice. After West Point explained to me that I might be able to leave the snow globe in Lost and Found and have someone (Mark) come pick it up later, and after West Point took the time to detail the TSA Lost and Found Schedule, I indicated that I’d like to take care of it this way. West Point then proceeded to tell me that this was actually not an option, since Unknown Liquids Are Not Even Allowed In This Area. And were I to just casually leave my item lying around the area, no one would take it to Lost and Found—instead, they would throw it away. West Point, who had obviously rendered great service in offering a viable compromise and then negating it mere seconds later, left us rather worse than he found us, and went off to do Liquid Patrol elsewhere.

I invite you for a brief overview of my cranium at this moment, to understand the various emotions at play. This tour involves the following exhibits: (a) my strong feelings about a particular airplane leaving without me on board; (b) my deep-seated aversion to discarding anything remotely in working order, let alone new; (c) my aggravating sentimental attachment to things given to me, especially things given by people over age 75; (d) my frustration at being unable to reach my chauffeur spouse on his cell phone; and (e), the dominating sentiment, which is that I am a problem-solver, and this is a problem I am going to solve.

Enter two superheroes, the first of which was Mark, who finally answered his phone and agreed to turn around and come back to the airport, even though I was not yet sure how I was going to transfer the snow globe in question to his possession and still make my flight. I told Nice TSA Lady that I was going to take it downstairs and figure it out there. I went to retrieve my bag from her, at which point her eyes and body language informed me in no uncertain terms that I was NOT going to touch the Bag Containing The Unknown Liquid until we were safely out of the Unknown Liquid Restriction Zone. She then escorted me and the Bag to the other side of the very secure 10-foot, chain link, barbed-wire fence wide-open security hall and left me there like a rowdy drunkard who just picked a fight inside her bar.

Downstairs I looked around and thought, Where can I stash this so Mark will find it when he shows up in 20 minutes? Whether actually over the PA system or in my head I don’t know, but I heard that sultry recording reminding me again, “Do not transport any item for someone you do not know. Do not leave any baggage unattended. According to the Department of Homeland Security, the current threat level is orange.” And as everyone knows, snow globes are shaped like oranges.

I approached the man at the information desk. Surely he had a lost-and-found box under his desk, and I could leave my item there. No no. Not only was he not allowed to hold items, but dropping something off at Lost and Found involved going to the other terminal, up the stairs and around the corner, getting a background check, taking a 100-question multiple choice test, two-years of security raining, and finally reaching the administrative offices. All in T minus 30 minutes. Right.

Since leaving the snow globe encased in Styrofoam underneath the Coke machine just might work but must just as likely arouse time-consuming suspicion, I went with plan C, which was this: Approach benign-looking older man settled in the alcove by the elevator with his laptop. Ask him how long he’s planning to be there. Desperately explain my situation (making sure to emphasize the elderly nature of the giver of the snow globe). Ask if he will allow me to place the Styrofoam cube on the chair next to him until my husband, 6 feet tall and wearing a blue jacket, comes to pick it up. Hope for a positive response. As the man glanced up at me above his glasses with a look that made me wonder if “crotchety” wouldn’t have been a better adjective than “benign,” his face softened and he said, “Sure.” Thank you, Super Hero #2, for having a healthy disrespect for airport PA system warnings.

With the likelihood now greatly increased that Grandma’s Silent Night Snow Globe would be passed on from generation to generation as a treasured heirloom, I made a mad dash back upstairs to go through security again. At this point my extra warm wardrobe combined with an adrenaline-charged situation and my rapid movement around two levels of the airport had given me pause to wonder about my deodorant choices. At T minus 20 minutes I was kindly ushered through the “clear line,” which usually involves the air-puffer machine, but I was spared that. Unburdened of The Unknown Liquid, I was deemed Safe For Air Travel, stamped for approval, and sped right along to Gate C11, with just enough time to spare to wait in line to use the ladies’ room, a true delight of womanhood. A phone call from Mark confirmed that the eagle had landed, the snow globe was in his hands, and this item would stay in the family for years to come.

This experience underscores my belief that airport security is a farce. If you are under the impression that, well, it’s better safe than sorry and it’s probably better this way, please disabuse yourself of that notion by reading this Atlantic article—which I guarantee will not only entertain but will also raise one if not both of your eyebrows right up to your hairline. So while that gutsy (ha ha) author was smuggling 2+ liters of Unknown Liquid in a fake “Beerbelly” strapped to his torso, highly trained airport security officers were protecting air passengers everywhere from snow globe toting travelers like me. That's security!

The Doghouse

I don't like jewelry, but I'd love a dual-bag or an abcerciser (we've even discussed the hair waxer...and Mark was only half joking). So while this didn't exactly resonate, it suuure entertained.

http://bewareofthedoghouse.com/VideoPage.aspx
(Give it a minute to load; it's about 5 minutes long)

Vigilante parking enforcement

Three days, four voicemails and over 20 unanswered phone calls later, at 7:30 this morning I finally got through to the man who held my parking fate in his hands.

He generously gave me the benefit of the doubt and waived the fee without any ado, for which I am very grateful. He reduced the citation to a "warning" for Mark. (?!)

How did this happen in the first place, you may ask? Apparently someone reported to the parking office that Mark had wantonly deposited the car in visitor parking. And this anonymous tip was given more consideration than my paragraph-long appeal, submitted immediately after receiving the citation (evidence enough that I was the one there, no?)

How to prevent this in the future? Mmm...can't really guarantee that it won't happen again.

Seriously? Seriously. Apparently there are ambitious parking vigilantes watching the visitor lot like hawks just waiting for some imprudent student or employee to park there. And apparently they know each student and employee by sight. And they know which car belongs to which individual. And even if the student/employee isn't actually to be seen anywhere near the car, they just know. And they care so much that they call it in, for justice must be served.

Right.

I don't buy this load of you-know-what, but whatever.

And though the generous captain with whom I spoke this morning was most gracious--for which I am very grateful--and he gave me exactly what I wanted without even arguing, I still think the parking office is ridiculous. Love the individual, despise the entity.

UTHSCSA parkers beware!

This ain't over

It's one thing for a campus parking office to make up rules--asinine as they may be--and then punish you when you don't follow them. After all, that's their job. You can whine about that until the cows come home, but you can't say you weren't warned.

It is totally different to ticket a visitor parked legitimately in visitor parking and give no more reason than "4006 - PARKED WHERE PROHIBITED" and then a month later reject the citation appeal with no more explanation than "DENIED. Pay by Dec 1."

Maybe the parking office should consider a new slogan for 2009:

Soul Music

People, I like a good deal. And boy oh boy did I score one this week. Get this: Mat Kearney's Nothing Left to Lose album was only $8.00 on iTunes for 15 songs. Fifteen AWESOME songs. Every. Single. Song. Rocks. When was the last time you loved an ENTIRE album? Without even skipping one song? And there were 15 songs?! That's like, almost 50 cents a song. And if you were to do the math on

$8.00 ÷ innumerable number of hours of exhilarating music enjoyment = pennies per hour

And that price is shrinking by the day, as I've listened to almost nothing else since Monday and don't foresee my audio entertainment selection changing any time soon.

This guy...this guy is like Coldplay meets Counting Crows meets John Mayer meets Jason Mraz meets nice rap...or something. He's got depth. He's got rhythm. He's got lyrics. He's got guitar. He's got piano. He's got soul-stirring swells. He's got crank-up-the-volume-roll-down-the-windows-I-feel-like-I'm-17-again. And he's got FIFTEEN of these! For cheap! It doesn't get any better than this.

Travelblogue: The Best Part

I invariably get asked what my favorite part was about visiting Italy. (At least I used to get asked that, like 4 months ago, when this topic was still timely.)

And this is invariably my answer:

I liked hanging out with this guy, too:

(Mostly to look at his beard, and see his sweet frisbee moves.)

But Alaina takes the Dani's-favorite-part-of-Italy-ever prize. Some days I just couldn't wait for her to come home from school so we could play. I love this girl so much my heart might explode.

And I'll just top it all off with my two favorite pictures of the trip, in descending order:

Travelblogue: The Italian Experience

I took about 20 pictures of this guy (who was talking animatedly to someone just to the left of the picture) by pretending to shoot St. Peter's Basilica in the background. Hoping to get a picturesque shot, I was going crazy on my cheap little camera as if someone were calling on the side, "Work it, nonno, I love it!" When he finally got up to leave I looked over and there were about 10 tourists waiting to pass by, politely not wanting to impose on my picture. Sheepishly I told them to go right ahead.



This guy redefined "street performer." I guess you had to be there, but if they gave Grammys/Emmys/Tonys/Oscars/Whatevers to Street Performers, he'd sweep in all categories: best costume, best posture, best jawline, best robot (statue?)-like movements, best staying in character, best keeping still between payments, best kiss on the cheek, and best overall entertainment value for a few cents.


Seemingly effortless beauty is EVERYWHERE (naturally I'm referring to me here, not this bench's breathtaking flowering canopy in the middle of nowhereville at a horse boarding stable/riding school)



My fondest Italian wish was to ride a cruiser bike around an Italian town; nothing could be more authentic. This was no secret to the family traveling party, and only time constraints, tired siblings, and financial considerations prevented us from renting bikes in Verona. I knew that our beach trip to touristy Rimini was probably my last chance at finding a rental shop, so I had mapped out a few places where I hoped to be able to rent a picturesque two-wheeled conveyance. Imagine my elation when upon check-in our hostel host indicated there were bikes out back to be borrowed first-come-first-ser­ve by hip, youthful Europhiles like ourselves FOR FREE. It was early to bed and early to rise that night, and despite unrestful sleep (we left the balcony door open on account of lodging on the third floor with no AC, so the train down the block might as well have been rumbling right past our feet all night, and 1:00 a.m. screeching from our backpacking hostelmates had a sleep-piercing effect)—so despite unrestful sleep we were the first (and only) in line to select our vehicles for the next day. The only functioning cruiser bike provided me a more genuine Italian ride than any rental shop could have offered: a wire basket, no gears, both tires slightly flat, one working brake, and every inch of it rusted completely through. So Mark and I went for an early morning cruise around Rimini, dodging cars and bipeds alike, stopping only for the open market, a downtown corner flautist, and the beach. With my family’s (air conditioned) hotel a good 20-minute walk from our hostel, and my dad gone with the car for most of the day, the cycling gods could not have selected a better day to bestow upon us such delightful and affordable transportation.



Speaking of sweet rides, the hour Mark, Alaina, and I spent on this beauty is a top contender for THE Italy Highlight Experience. Mark was in his element as our Rimini quadracycle chauffeur, racing down the streets and sidewalks of the town, careening past innocent beach goers with reckless abandon, and developing an exact science for how to ring the “here we come” bicycle bell (long ring from far away to announce our presence, two short rings from a moderate distance to say “excuse us,” and incessant ringing for “stay put at your own risk!”). A gaggle of Italian nonnas (grannies) walking four abreast along the boardwalk were the recipients of this latter bell call, and one had some choice words for us when they finally noticed us and stepped aside to let us pass. What those choice words were, I don’t know; whether they were a sanction or censure was beyond my limited Italian, so we just smiled and said “Grazie” as we sped away.

Understand your world!

Unless you've been totally isolated from the news for the past months, you have undoubtedly heard of the sub-prime mortgage meltdown, the credit crisis, and more recently, the Wall Street bailout. And even though I average 4 to 5 hours of NPR a day, 5 to 6 days a week (I think I need rehab), I have yet to feel like I really understood what was going on. But today I listened to two This American Life shows that finally made it all click. So if you, like I was, are wondering what the heck this is all about and are aggravated by the fact that you just can't quite seem to wrap your brain around it, I highly recommend these two 1-hour shows. They describe the problem in terms anyone can understand and they're entertaining to boot.

Check out the first one (about the mortgage & credit crisis) here, and the second one (about the bailout) here.

Travelblogue: For Heidi

!!!!!!!!!

Travelblogue: First Impressions & If Only I Had a Sweet Camera

Am I still allowed to post this grossly outdated stuff?

Saw Andrea Bocelli perform live here (for free)--the Piazza del Duomo in Milan:

Where Dr. Seuss got his ideas:

Travelblogue: Preface

August 10, 2008.

Dear Diary,

For exactly two months I have rationed our overseas journey's precious provisions with utmost care. They would have lasted longer if not for a ravenous beast in my midst who consumed a small portion. The beast's subsequent comment that it "preferred the Hershey bar they gave us in Sacrament meeting on Father's Day" disgusted me, and I threw it a Symphony of equal weight in order to appease its inferior appetite.

Today marks a grievous day: only one piece of Swiss chocolate remains. My survival is precarious.

The grind explained

For anyone who's wondering, the small (15 employees) company I work for publishes and distributes newsletters for homeowners' associations, small cities, neighborhoods, etc. I design ads, lay out newsletters, update the website (sort of), offer pranking suggestions, and keep the profanity to a minimum in my general vicinity. I got this job by Google-mapping "publishing" and showing up completely unsolicited with my resume, which is pretty nerve-racking; you should try it. (I did this at several places, and you would think it would get easier each time. Nope: each time I sat in the car thinking, "What am I doing!?") The job they happened to have open in September wasn't for me, but they surprised me by following up in February with an offer I couldn't refuse. So I quit my previous job after being there only three months and I haven't looked back. It was Divine intervention with a capital D.

PS - Scotty, do you note the green garb in the first picture below? That's right--I'm still sporting my Green Gladiators shirt. Green team for life!

The grind part II

My new* job is about as good as 40 hours a week can possibly be.

• I’ve managed to be pretty dang organized. (It helps when you get to start from scratch, and you don’t inherit someone else’s disorganization.)
• Multitasking rocks.
• We can have a heated work discussion involving raised voices and cussing** and then we’re all still friends two minutes later.
• I found out that you can listen to too much NPR.
• Try Pandora.com and love it.
• I went to Italy for a month and still had a job when I got back.
• It takes 10 minutes to drive to work, including dropping Mark off.
• All-expenses paid trip for a conference in L.A. ...what?!
• I can wear jeans.
• Or shorts.
• And T-shirts.
• Chacos every. single. day.
• I pretty much come and go when I please as long as I total 40 hours a week.
• Did I mention I went to Italy for a month? Is that crazy or what!?
• Office politics? The politics around here involve who can talk loudest in the staff meeting.
• Projects, projects, projects. I do projects all day long.
• Can you say Adobe CS3? I’m in love.
• I have zero formal training in what I do, but it’s what I love to do, and I get paid to do it, and every day I learn something new. It's a beautiful cycle.
• Humans are not meant for little windowless offices with buzzing fluorescent lights, but when I’ve got my own music, the ability to shut the door, and no one cares that I never turn on the light anyway, I’ll take it.
• They decided to add fish to my fishbowl:

• Office pranks abound (like the toilet papering, stuffing a couch into the little office, messing with shortcuts on the computer, and an asbestos warning waiting for me when I got back from vacation):

I’m pretty happy here.

*new being newER. Um, 5 months new.
**Though tempting, I never cuss.

Dear...Someone Connected with This Address

This was waiting for us in our stack of mail when we got back from Italy. I enjoyed it so much that I really wanted to keep it, but I'll document it here instead.

It came in this envelope:
(front)
(back)


Here's the meat of it:
[click to enlarge]

Here's the "rug" in question (really a 10x16 piece of paper):


I was supposed to send it back (the next morning) in this:




Also included were some product offers:

...and testimonials:

I think that anything that helps someone to sincerely draw nearer to the Lord is a good thing on some level. But questionable grammar, alarming punctuation, and creative underlining deserve a good ribbing.

Long Sunday Walks

I told Mark I was getting a ride home from church so he could keep the car for his presidency meeting. But he forgot about that and got a ride instead. And he was home for almost 10 minutes before he realized it. "Um, guess where the car is right now..."

Long pause. Cue laughter.

"You're a moron."


By the way, it takes about 40 minutes to walk from our apartment to the church at a moderate pace, which is a lot longer than I had anticipated. But it was a lovely walk!